Mona Lisa Eyes
Handful of old colours and the heady smell of earth. A thousand stories in her eyes but none of them are loud. A light wood fire beneath her lids. Some smoke float in the white sea. An unknown and strange beauty. Helpless words beg her mercy. Maestros offer her their glorious tunes; some their splash of brush. She pulls her veil, carefully places an inch of that golden cloth in between her teeth so it doesn't slip past her head to reveal too much. Oblivious of her own enigma, she adds another scoopful of absolute normalcy to her life. Price of tomato has gone up, new sugar is not sweet enough, her youngest has a little fever; in the afternoon sun, she wonders when will the monsoon come. Every morning she wears her pride in a circle of red and every night she locks away some more glass pieces of turbulence in her tired eyes. Amidst her golds, her reds,her jingle of bangles and sets of keys; she builds a small world. No questions asked, no hands raised. With each sunset, she adds another block of meaning to her existence. An uncomplicated life, more like a lullaby. In folds of her Saree, her household snoozes safely. Hazy shades of innocent dreams lace her lashes. Some broken, some still alive. But no dream so achingly adamant that hurts the heart. Her pain is enriching unlike the pain that lives in multi-story buildings that leaves you bitter and empty.
A small dot on a huge canvas, would you trade your rainbow for this? May be not. Too plain, too bland, too simple. I agree! But somehow, I wish we had the assurance that lie in those eyes; like someone is in peace with herself and her world.