Tales from a Keralite Aquarius

A Sinking Listeners Tale There exist only a few things, As heavy as a quiet listener’s heart It carries so many stories Some filled with bowls of laughter, And some with jugs of tears All balanced on a fine line Fixed atop the listener’s heart.  Growing taller every minute, Like the dishes piled in a sink At the end of a long, busy day. They’ll clitter and rattle As you try to move them along, To add in a spoon here, And a mug there All to be done,  Without breaking any one.  The listeners heart is much like that Except there really exists no end And there is no bottom or top Just a pile that keeps growing Much like an untrimmed bush Unruly, messy and strong. The burden is heaviest  for the quietest of the listeners It keeps building itself, one atop another There exists no rack beside, To wash and keep the dishes aside, So, all she can do Is put her hand through the mess  and try to make space For another plate here  and another pan there. Through the dirt...

My father is an ardent football lover. It doesn’t matter to him if it’s the Manchester Derby or if Sheffield United is playing West Bromwich. It does not matter if he’s trying to complete pending work on a Saturday afternoon, or half heartedly attempting to listen to my mother talk. His face remains almost stoic as it stays glued to the television; his eyes moving with the ball, as it travels from one end of the pitch to the other. My father is a Liverpool fan. A loyal one- but the word I’ve always preferred is optimistic. He’s supported the club for over two decades and it’s safe to say that he’s seen them through some of their worst times. The Roy Hodgson stint, Gerrard’s slip and the rough couple of years before their resurrection of sorts by Jürgen Klopp. Throughout this entire fiasco- after every humiliating defeat and forgettable match they’ve played, I’ve seen my father shake his head, and then look at us, smile and say- “It’s just one game. We’ll be back.” I’ve often wonder...