Untitled Chapters of Life

Ruchira Biswas blog


December 2016

Colors and People#Series #Red

Let the New Year start with the passionate color, Red. Everything has a story so do the colors only if you care to see through.

So, Red and people!


Stay connected for the others to come!


Colors and People #Series

In all the folds of our lives, we discover new shades of Life. Dyed in new colors. Let the stories befriending these colors be unwrapped!

(Let my readers know about their inputs on this.)


For the Santa…

Only if I had known that my Santa will be gone once I grow up. I would have frozen time. Sealed the hands of the clock and never made it race to that one day when he finally took the carriage. Not promising me to return with gifts. Not leaving a note about the place he is heading to.

I buried my questions when I looked into my mother’s silent eyes and made myself believe that he was too much in a hurry to dress up and leave.  But after that day, every moment when I see his smile stuck against time in photo frames and dust laden glasses I wish winters never come when I again have to adorn fake smiles and look at empty corridors waiting for my Santa to arrive and the bells to ring again through the darkness.

He did not have Red robes, white misty beard or a sleigh. But in my small world where still the fragrance of his clothes have not yet been absorbed  by the smell of those white funeral roses. In that world, he was my Santa. He did not need seasons to come . Nor ways to gift me. Neither songs to lure me.

A hold of his fingers to guide me when I was four. A warm hug when I failed at life. A compassionate pat on the shoulder when the world stood as my stage. In all those enwrapped moments of eighteen years he gifted me every second nourished dearly in care, filled in that treasure box of memories. He weaved magical reflections of himself into my mirror …

And when I look back , only the fire consuming the body, the petals falling off and the cries all going numb beside me, that is what stagnates my mind. All the other paradoxical sweetness of transience seem to fade away like the watercolor paints against the end of a story I do not want to spell. My Santa was too real to be beautiful then.

Christmas lights. Shinning Stars. The cold zephyr of December is passing by with the Summer to come again only when I have to realize for another time that my Grandpa is gone.  Without a Goodbye. Without a note . Into an existence where I want to travel to him as a Santa and bring the indefinite back but I can’t. I just can’t.

Years will go by and what I will be left with is only one question, “ Wasn’t it too early for Santa to go?”

img_0888-modifiedSantas always don’t come in Red Robes, but sometimes leave ensheathed in White.

( Dedicated to my Grand Father.)

The Eyes will Dissolve!



Through the mist of silent darkness

And unheard tales of empty rainbows

The eyes will dissolve

In the blue lonely skies residing in there

The nebula of thoughts will burst

Into a chrome of nameless emotion

And we will fall like stardust,

On the tired masks of anonymity.

As the numb  screams of the Red Kohl subside

The paper town of stories confined within those eyes

For infinities long

Will  finally turn to ashes.

From the sand castle of your dreams

The yellow specks will fall

One by one.

One by one.

Burning the pain through the white sails of your eyes

Endless will be those untamed tears

As  The  eyes  will dissolve again.

Create a free website or blog at

Up ↑