Dreams...

Her eyes were moving fast as she lay sprawled on her bed dreaming. The linen was soft, columns in olive running up and down, white vines twisted around and lilac blossoms opening here and there. The golden rays of the morning sun were slowly filling the room through the sheer curtained windows. The lights reflected a golden yellow on the big mirror that stood at the opposite end and lit up the room with tender care. The calm reflected off the blue green walls and in the centre of it all lay the figure, asleep yet restless and dreaming.

Ever since Pooja had moved into her new apartment she had been blessed with a slew of dreams. Every morning, she would wake from some crazy dream or the other and she would lay awake wondering what they meant. Though they were always pleasant, she would always end up feeling lonely at the end of them. She had selected the flat for the panoramic view, the peace and calm it promised and the guarantee that she would be able to enjoy it all alone. Work had made her move out of her parents' home five years ago and to her own surprise she adapted to her independent life very soon. Taking care of herself, cooking, bills and laundry gave her the fulfillment and the same reflected in the confidence with which she moved ahead at work. Till date she never had to regret any of her choices and knew well that she had not missed anything that was worth her life. She had never felt lonely in life before and that recurring feeling now disturbed her.

The packing and shifting had been tiring and the dreams were making her feel worse, so she decided to take a break and head home. She hoped that the change would help her relax.

Home had not changed much since she had left, except for her room that looked a little deserted despite being spotless. She had surprised her parents by her sudden arrival, and they were left wondering why she had turned up at their doorstep after having invited them over for a stay at her new flat. They knew her well enough to not point out the obvious and chose to just display the joy of having her at home again.

Home had never appealed to her this much ever before, it surprised her as to how much she had missed it. Slowly she unwound in the magic of her sacred space, her now antique dressing table, her closet still carrying some of her favourite clothes and the little music player with some of the CDs she had left behind. It felt like rewind, somehow that felt strange, strange because she had visited home many times since moving and this was the first time she had felt this desperation to return home.

She could work from home, that was a boon. Her boss and co-workers were some of her closest friends and they would stretch to any limits to accommodate her. With a reduced work load and a lot of free time, all she wanted to do was unwind. She sat out on the balcony and wondered what was so special here. Both were busy cities, Chennai and Bangalore, not very different, maybe Bangalore was more young and hip, she had a lot of company there and could do the very same things she did here, sometimes even more and better. Yet she wondered.

The lazy afternoons dragged her to her closet, she hadn't touched her old stuff since ages and suddenly for lack of anything else felt the curiosity to explore its treasures. The things you could accumulate during your lifetime amused her, well not a lifetime but definitely a lot had been accumulated in the 20 odd years she had spent collecting them. Faded memories resurfaced as she flipped through her college autographs and school group pictures. Some old clippings from papers of her favourite stars, few peacock feathers, old pencils gifted by her grandfather that she had preserved in his memory. Nostalgia flooded over her. Then she shifted her gaze to the letters.

It had seemed to be a fun thing that time, writing letters to yourself. She had written a couple of them before feeling foolish and stashing them away. But reading them now didn't feel that foolish. There was some strange enthusiasm in those letters that she felt were now somewhere lost in her. Obviously there is a difference between being a carefree adolescent and a mature adult. Cutting short her self evaluation she continued her reading, the letters were long, detailing the few major things that had happened, the people who very nice and the ones who had to mend their ways, the few crazy things that she had done and dreams.

Dreams, she recollected, strangely the frequency had reduced since she had come home. Dreams, she read those letters again, there were many. She realised that they were the things she had wanted to do. The little doodles and sketches at the bottom of the letters, she had wanted to be a painter, she had also wanted to be a singer, a poet, a writer and even a dancer. The evidence of her ambitions lay scattered in her now messy treasure box. A little mental rewind helped her remember that she had been fairly good at them, she in fact tried each and every one of them satisfactorily. Feeling a little proud, she collected her artifacts and packed the box again.

That evening she spent her time piecing together the puzzle that had been her favourite all those years back and still continued to engross her as much. Images of her summer holidays with her friends playing hopscotch, hide and seek, snake and ladder, business relayed on her mind. 'Pleasant memories', she recalled. The stroll through her quiet neighbourhood, the long chats with her parents, hot samosas in the evening, her display of culinary expertise, marathon television, a family visit to the temple and all those small things she had been familiar while growing up, filled her days and nights.

Her generous friends were missing her now, her benevolent boss was becoming impatient, work was work. She had known all along that this was only a holiday and cannot be her daily way of life, after all she had chosen her line of work. The holiday had rejuvenated her and she had never realised that she had needed one.

The time had come to return to routine or life as it had been. But then she realised, life had been the same all along, only she had changed. She had forgotten the simple things in life that were a part of her. She had forgotten that 'growing up' is a continuous process and doesn't mean leaving everything and moving on. Rather it is treasuring your experiences inside like in her little treasure box. They would always be with her.

The olive bed welcomed her, and she felt happy to curl up into its warmth. She had missed her soft bed, the sheer curtains, the blue green walls and everything about her new flat. The sun was yet to set, but she was already fast asleep and everything was now filled in peace.

Golden rays filled the room, the figure was still sprawled across in bed, the eyes were moving rapidly, she was dreaming again. This time she looked peaceful, a smile on her lips, a serenity prevailed on her face. She slowly opened her eyes to the yellow rays, he had been talking to her, eye to eye, something sweet, something innocent, something that had her blushing and her heart racing. With dream filled eyes she planted her feet to the ground, she liked this feeling, awaking to the feel of LOVE.

Sick of Romance...

Since I am enjoying a long leave and have a lot of time on hands, i decided to just do some reading. The unending book supply from a nearby library kept feeding my hunger.

I prefer reading the stories that offer a bit of mystery/suspense in them. Not too emotional and not too scary. I enjoy a good mystery. I also enjoy a Love story here and there, but again I don't want something too emotional and too often.

The category of books i avoid are the serious ones, cause i am looking for some entertainment here. And the ones i wished i had avoided were the Romantic Suspense Genre. I agree that the suspense gives me a kick, but the romance?

I had recently picked an author's book and found it contained 4 stories in them. I should have realised it earlier, but it was too late. They were Mills and Boons style. Heavily loaded with romance and lightly sprinkled with suspense. It was not repulsive but plain repetitive. And when i was finished with it, i swore never to read anything like that for a long time, it had been like an overdose.

I had picked a few books of Sandra Brown and Nicholas Sparks, different writing styles. While reading Sandra Brown, the promise for a good thriller suspense is well fulfilled. It contains a healthy dose of romance in it that keeps the story moving. The intelligent and hurt heroine who gets wooed by the perfect brooding stranger of a hero appealed to my senses. Surely i feel like i want to read more of her works.

On the other hand, Mr.Sparks leaves you with a lasting impression that goes beyond the book itself. His style leaves you with the impression that you have just seen a die hard Romantic classic, his narration gives a cinematic experience. My favourite would be "Message in a Bottle". It tugged the strings of my heart and brought tears to my eyes. Definitely worth a read.

As a final note, I had earlier blogged my need to read "Veronika decides to die". I managed to buy the book but could never bring myself to read it. It stayed idle in my shelf for over 8months. Finally when i read it, i realised that I had found it at the most apt moment of my life. It was more than a novel as the words in it had deeper meaning and a lot more to understand from. More about it later.