Blessed – Roksana Tales

Behind her Sunglasses

She has always loved wearing sunglasses …

As a teenager, she would watch her sisters tilt their faces toward the light, their lashes casting long shadows over eyes that shimmered with beauty. When she looked in the mirror, her own eyes seemed smaller, plainer, framed by short lashes. It stung her heart a little, like a tiny splinter she couldn’t quite pull out …

Over time, she began to reclaim them. She traced deep kajol along her lids, soft & dark, like ink drawing a doorway. Her eyes lookd wider, more alive. People began to say she looked striking, and for the first time, her eyes felt truly hers …

Then life changed. Grief came quietly, like water filling a low space. In her reflection, she noticed it, the sparkle that once danced in her eyes had turned gentler, dimmer, like smoke fading after a flame. Her eyes began to carry stories of long nights and silent endurance. She didn’t always want others to read them …

So she reached for her sunglasses. The cool plastic rested against her temples, the tinted lenses washed the world in sepia. It felt like drawing a curtain over a window. Behind them, she had privacy. No one could see the sadness flicker and ask, “Are you okay?” …

She’s learned something through this little ritual, and that is, sometimes covering up isn’t vanity; it’s survival. The layers we wear, sunglasses, kajol, even a careful smile, are small stitches tht hold us togther until we’re ready to heal …

Sometimes, she still wonders: what would it feel like to step into the light barefaced, to let her eyes tell their truth, and to trust the world not to look away?

#roksanatales

*Her eyes carry stories the world is not*
*yet* ready to read

I♥️

Turona’s Mountain

There was a small village at the foot of a mountain. The village was called Shantipur. In that village lived a little girl named Turona. Every day, Turona would gaze at the big mountain from afar. In the morning, the mountain sparkled in golden sunlight, and by evening, it glowed in a soft reddish hue …

One day, Turona decided she would climb to the top of that mountain. Everyone said, ‘It’s too high, you won’t be able to.’ But Turona smiled and replied, ‘How will I know if I don’t try?’ …

The next morning, she set off with a bottle of water, some fruit, and a notebook. On the way, she grew tired, her feet ached on the stones, yet she didn’t stop. Sometimes she sat down to rest, listening to the sound of the wind and watching the birds fly …

Finally, after noon, she reached the top of the mountain. Looking down, she saw how beautiful her little village was, green fields, tiny houses, and a silver river flowing gently through it …

In her notebook, Turona wrote, ‘The joy of reaching the highest place only comes when you refuse to give up.’ …

Then she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The air smelled of freedom, and inside her heart, there was peace …

She realized that the real mountain wasn’t outside, but within her. And that day, she had conquered both …

#roksanatales

How we used to write short stories when we were young! I remember how every night I’d make up stories to tell my little sisters before they fell asleep. I used to jot down bits of them in my notebook too. Often, I’d go up to our rooftop with that notebook, gazing at the distant sky until my thoughts drifted away. I wanted to write, and sometimes, I did. Other times, I simply got lost in my own imagination!

I’m sure it happened with you too!

Anyways, now tell me,
What is the ‘mountain’ in your own life that you’ve been afraid to climb?
Or tell me,
When was the last time you tried something even though others doubted you?

White Beauty

Winter’s embrace, mountains adorned in white ….

Kashmir (2023)

Melancholy’s Song

The shadow cast
On that starless skies,
Where murmurs linger,
Subdued goodbyes …
A tune of melancholy’s song,
In thy heart where echoes long …

Oh this melancholy,
My silent guest,
A tear-stained story, unspoken, and so blessed
The weight of contemplation
In shades of gray,
In twilight hours, grips its sway …

A canvas painted with dull hues,
A whirlwind of memories, tattered and bruised …
Through hazy veils of nostalgic dreams,
The world in silent sadness gleams …

A poet’s pen on pages bare,
Twisted verses of a sincere prayer …
Thy melancholy’s tender art,
Nothing but a symphony of hurting heart …

Yet, in the depth of still despair,
Belongs a beauty, rare and fair …
A gentle solace for the mind
In the shadow of the ancient find …

So let the tears of misery flow
Like mists on a window’s glow …
For in melancholy’s gentle grace
There lies a balm for life’s embrace …

#roksanatales