The cost of being ordinary There is no glory No attention, no remembrance No award kept aside for you Waking hours are punishing, but no one can see the struggle Each day work is considered minimal, even if it is a mountain to you You become a grain of sand, while some become the stars in the sky Clouds shadow and rain on you, and you just take it.
The reward of being ordinary Is that among the various constraints and boundaries of people In the tiny spaces of each day You get to be you.
• Miss Flower tells me of her privilege Showing off her freshly washed and winded leaves. She has grown taller, is more green now. A sign of healthy life among the dead outside. Mumma tried to revive a dry branch by digging it into the same soil as Miss Flower. The drier the branch became, beauty bestowed itself on Miss Flower. . I keep looking at the body of the tree that has fallen. Its branches have been cut into and stolen. I remember the time it stood tall and proud, laughing with me each time I looked at it. Every year, when I went to the Community Pandal during Pujo To pray to a Durga Maa that kept decreasing in size (Economy is shrinking too) This tree would make me happy, and blow me a kiss. An old friend, that the storm took away. . Miss Flower tells me about the million trees who didn’t survive Her empathy is praise-worthy. She is happy doing her bit. She is liking this new sunshine now that the storm has passed. • • ~insight07
This past one week has been awfully difficult. Dealing with the uncertainties of a new job, working from home, and the fear of the pandemic, was not easy in itself. My hometown got exposed to the cyclone of Amphan on 20/05/2020. I have never experienced such a thing. It is a trying time, with the limits of boundaries being tested.