Nothing less, if not more.

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 38; the thirty-eighth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is "The Woman on Platform Number 10"

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Nothing less, if not more.

On such yellow afternoons at the café, she mostly sat on the corner most table with the three legged chair opposite to her, hunching, as always; humming to the poly disks  she made Ted; the waiter play for the entertainment of all; and for pampering her own nostalgia. This particular Sunday she was carrying an old poly disk which surprised her on being found that morning. Mostly her afternoon routine would have her walk into the café, pin point and call Ted to come along her table and take the poly disk of the day to the gramophone, however this particular Sunday… walk into the café, she did. Sat on the corner most table, she did. However the poly disk was not parted with, it sat perfectly round and old in its case, in front of her, while she read  what was written on the centre of the disk with an old marker;

“And I, all I really want is you
You to stick around
I’ll see you everyday
But you’ll have to follow through...” 

It wasn't the first time in the day that she read those few lines. Though every time she did, it felt like the first time and it felt like thirty years back, all over again. His handwriting was as fresh as the 20 year old boy staring at her from her memory, his ‘Y’s were always longish, she smiled. Another similar yellow afternoon stared at her in her mind; an endless road on which they walked while he hid a square case behind his back and walked with her;

“…and why are you hiding that big poly disk which every tree on the road can see?”

“…I was hoping you weren't a tree, but happy birthday, Jolene.”

“What did you record?”

“A song that might remind you of today, of now… of maybe me. And what we are at this moment. And what we could be in the next. Nothing less, if not more.”

“…what’s more?”

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“No music for the café today, Miss Jolene?”, Ted stood next to her looking down at the poly disk. She looked up at Ted, an embarrassed slow red blush creeping into her dusky skin. But she recovered quickly.  Abandoning emotions at the time of need was an old habit of her head strong existence.

“why of course, Teddy. This one just has one song though.”

“Oh, looks like an old gift, is it?”

“Yes. A very… old gift, indeed.”, she smiled in an absent minded way.

“From a friend, was it?”

“He was…more”

“What’s more?”

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As the needle of the grand instrument touched the top of the revolving disk, a much too familiar tune took her back to that old sunny afternoon. The long road ended at the threshold of the old station. Clasping the poly disk case to under her arm, she briskly walked with him to platform number 10.

“So… what’s more?”, she asked impatiently, catching a glimpse of the mouth of the train pulling into the platform.

“What’s more… is perhaps the day you remember today, of now, and of me; of what we are at this moment, and what we could be in the next… and you sing along to the song waiting for you in this disk, on another day, in another moment, for me.”

“What makes you think I’ll sing for you?”

“Oh Jolene, my beautiful. One day a stranger will ask you about us, and you wouldn't know what to say--”

“Because there is nothing to say, there never was, and there will be.”

“ You've always had something to sing, when you've had nothing to say.”, he smiled that crooked smile that peered through her eyes, and leaving just that of him, he went away.

Jolene stood quietly, waiting for the smoke of the train to burn her eyes, just so she could be angry at the engine for making her eyes moist. Strong girl, Jolene. Strong girl. He must go away, you must be free.

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“I asked what’s more, Miss Jolene?”, Ted playfully yelled from the other corner of the café while he turned the music a notch or two higher. The song rang in her ears;

“And I, all I really want is you
You to stick around
I’ll see you everyday
But you’ll have to follow through...”

…and Jolene tried saying something but she was chocked, and so she sang along the chorus;

“You will have to follow through
These reeling emotions they keep me alive
They keep me in tune
Oh look what I’m holding here in my fire,
This is for you….”

Jolene had nothing to say. And so, she sang. She sang for that day, for that moment, for him. She sang for what they were at that moment, and what they could have been in the next.
 She sang while she stared at the empty case of the poly disk that said;

“For the Woman on Platform Number 10,
 It was never less, it was always more, wasn't it?
-Love,
More.”
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The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Introduced By: Random blog surfing, Participation Count: 02

 Awaiting your feed backs!

-Nil. 

Popkinz Poptarts.

I work under pressure, I've realized. I have a dance recital in less than a week and I decide to even consider working on it when I get a call from one of the organizers who casually mentioned the dress rehearsal is on 16th. A Hiroshima Nagasaki happened in my brain, considering I didn't even know the name of the second solo I was to work on. So yeah, finally when I figured I was screwed did I manage to finish one part of it, in an hour and a half. Hell yes. And then I turned into an overconfident areshoool, so I left it at that. And well, tomorrow's the dress rehearsal. And. Well, lets just say I don't even know the other song by heart let alone remember and dance to it. So for the next two hours (or more), I plan to work my rear bones off till the choreography stands at a respectable place. And I think I'm going to be a work-o-holic, once I start working. Irrelevant.
Now playing: Forgotten Dreams.

In other news, I won 2nd place in the 27th Blog-a-ton that I participated in! I got a fancy cyber Silver batom and everything =P But thanks you guys, who voted. Awfully kind, I say. I be so thrilled. Free cyber martinis for you guys, as always =)
And to add a tiara, thank you Bumble Bee for the lovely blog award! Much too niceness you are, Bumblezz. =)

My tiny cousins were over last week. Went slightly berserk hitting the TV screen for no apparent reason with the 2 year old while the 8 year old spoke gibberish in the Garfield style into my ear. There was food flying around the house and the voice levels of tiny children were sure underestimated by everybody in general. It was a disturbing surprise. But aah well, cute kids. Slightly apeshit crazy, so I got along just fine.
Ye-p. That be them.

Other than, the weekend was. Well. A mess. Everything sucked monkey balls till yesterday, but Tuesday's been OK so far. Tomorrow's quite a day to reckon with; 16th! (Yess, I know you're reading, saxyface. Haaah, go stuuudy.)
So we'll save the chaos in my head for a rainy day. And for now, I shall take your leave, reader. It's time to give the overconfident douche in me some dance lessons. The next post...might be a photo update. There are a bunch of photographs I've clicked since January. So I was planning on some change from the fiction and my mindless rants.  Anyhoo, that's for later. Later, amigos.

Much amour,
Nil.

Once again.

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 27; the 27th Edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The topic for this month is 'Once Again'.

Once again.

The garden was a much favored and cherished abode; my favorite wonderland in the world. It was a quiet green glass palace that buzzed of insects and moist warmth of sort; resonating green, growth and life. 

Every month or two, the creepers would look slightly more taller; crawling and entangling more intimately around the blue pipes on the walls, as if playing a careless game of sheer tomfoolery.. The moss draped walls accentuated with white (almost polka dotted) bird droppings; the rather regular little visitors that would exodus and entrada as they please, when they please.

I was a little visitor, myself. I was eight, and after the garden being my favorite place in the world came our Gardener, who was my favorite person in the world; in simple words of a petite heart. 

So every afternoon when Joseph watered the plants, I'd sneak in and stand behind the netted door. 

"Little Missus is here" ; he'd declare in a sing-song way to which I'd stick my tongue out at his hunched back. I'd eventually slip into his lap, while his green thumb would work around the pots. 

So it was just an afternoon such when I sat on Joseph's lap while he recited ridiculous and vivid fictions about the dog flowers growing into real big dogs in a month or two and how the garden would echo of barks and smell of dog litter when suddenly I stopped laughing and sat queer still. 

"What happened, Missus?" 

"Joseph...that butterfly is dead!" ; Joseph followed my big round teary eyes to a yellow butterfly that lay dead on of the pots.

"Did the dogs kill it?" ; my lower lip jutted out.

"Yes, Missus. The dogs..killed it."

"Mad mad mad dogs! But it was so pretty!" ; I whined. 

"It was, innit? But no worries, Little Missus. The dogs left behind the baby! We'll have a pretty little butterfly soon!" ; pointed Joseph at a cocoon. 

"Once again?!" ; my eyes widened. 

Joseph smiled ; "Yes Missus. Once again."

............And now, it feels strange. Standing in front of the coffin of the poor gardener who taught me the motley amphitheater of life and death at eight. 

"Once again, Joseph" , I kept the dog flowers on top of the coffin beneath layers of which, lay his heart. 

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The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

-Much love,
Nil :)