|A lazy, random guy filled with uttermost curiosity.|
Her body was a guitar, an old unused guitar.
His fingers, those long, endless fingers, the plectrum.
Breathing life into her body.
Whispering her melodious existence.
Half a smile from her and he was in his elements again.
Like cherry blossoms in
Like keys of an unused Italian piano under the fingers of a forgotten musician.
When I was younger, when I stayed with my parents, when I frequented College Street to meet an ex lover, when I prepared for my classes and exams by reading physical books sitting in the library or lying flat on my stomach on the terrace under the melting winter sun, I bought books every month. I love the smell of new books and the texture of old, second hand books. Either because some books were indeed rare or because I ran out of my monthly allowance inevitably, I ended up buying a lot of second hand books back in those days.
This book that I am thinking about today was Thomas Hardy's "Far from the Madding Crowd". On the last page of this Hardy, the previous owner had written a love sonnet...
(On behalf of every girl out there who have faced this in some way or the other)
Dear aunty and her lovable friends,
It is as rude to call somebody 'thin' as it is to comment on somebody's bulky figure and wonder if the parents of the said person are feeding them properly. No, you are not allowed to adopt the tone of sympathy and point out aloud at somebody's dark circles, pimples publicly (or privately for that matter). Stop perpetuating your foolish ideas of beauty and perfection. Manners, please!
When the moon glows so gorgeously gold, you can't help but take another look at it.
This kind of unabashed, uninhibited beauty deserves and demands that extra attention.
Autumn love is not like spring and the cherry trees. It's more quiet, shy almost, clandestine. Like a forgotten Mozart touching the keys of an unused piano for the first time, hesitantly.
And then there are nights when you want to lose your way in the darkness, because you want to be found.
There are some people who tell you right on your face that they do not and will not support you. And you think that's crude? Well, wait for more, then. There are some others who will promise you support - it's their volta face that beats every other kind of crudity.
Places which have rejected their names challenge us to memorialize them in other ways. Mostly we fail, imaginatively, sticking maps to our hearts. At one such place I met a man, aging with the hills, his breath fresh cloud cover shying into nothingness with the broadening of the day. He said, "when you learn to travel alone, you realize human relationships are ephemeral." I replied, "you mean human beings are ephemeral?"
I felt at that moment a despotic urge to bundle him up, deliver him at the very centre of the world's clamour and chaos, at the very crossroads of our world's most emphatic civilizations. And to call my efforts, Human Love.
The place and the man left me with no names. And th...
Staying away from home makes you stronger. You face your problems, fight them, hopefully you win or else you continue fighting. There is this armour that you build around yourself as you continue to make your way through the world. But then one day you realise that there are chinks in the armour. No matter how strong and independent you think you are, something will hit you and you'll feel cold and vulnerable. Away from your family, there'll hardly be anyone for you to lean on.
When we cry for a departed soul, do we cry for that departed soul or for our selfish need of that departed soul?
Our sorrows act like fodder to the starving gods,
Our tears quench their thirst.
But there's never enough, never.
They're always hungry,
And then he said - People always think that the most painful thing in life is losing the one you love. The truth is, the most painful thing is losing yourself in the process of loving someone too much, forgetting that you are special too...
Prateek and I were returning home that day. We saw a man on a bike harassing a woman by the side of the road - he pulled her, tugged at her bag, beat her and grabbed her by the waist. We had driven past but we turned the car around and went back. The man initially told Prateek that the woman was his wife and therefore we shouldn't get involved. We got back to the car trying to fathom what we could do to help. Next, I saw the woman sitting on the footpath and the man dragging her towards the bike. I ran to them this time, while Prateek called up 100 for help and reported the vehicle number and the location. I told the woman that we have a car and we'll drop her to wherever she wants to go. She...
She is not your type, he said.
Fall in love, I replied.
Fall in love with someone who's not your type,
And then you'll know why a moth courts a candle.
Her name rolled down his cheek in strange places, at strange times: on the metro where the couples stood holding hands, under the shower when 'kahin toh hogi woh duniya jahan tu mere saath hai' drifted in from the next cubicle, in the classroom while discussing the Neruda's spring and cherry trees. The stubborn, wayward drop of tear, like his stubborn wayward heart, which had no regard for either time and place, refused to be contained.
To love and not be loved in return is embracing fire.
The love burns you bit by bit: scorches your skin, sears your flesh, melts your bones, bit by torturous bit.
And then, imagine burning every night thus in springtime, when the rest of the nature makes fiery love.
Your love moves on. You burry the memories in that grey velvet box in which lie the stubs of the bill of the first meal you had with her and the wrapper of the first chocolate you had shared. Life goes on as usual.
It is cold in here. You shed a customary tear. You've lived through worse. You'll live through this.
4 AM. The engine groans to life as you go behind the wheel after almost a lifetime. It's cold. The wind shamelessly flirts with your hair. You drive to that old place that you had discovered once upon a time. You quietly dedicate the evening to the seven years of your togetherness with that place.
Life is here. Life is right now.
I don't know from you belong, I don't know what language you speak, what color you are. Honestly, none of it matters. It never will.
But there is one thing that I know, "you're amazing, and you're ready to do beautiful things in this world."
Keep smiling and be kind to one another.
In the memory of the Sunday that was.
(the shortest, most poignant, most profound, most tragic elegy that can ever be written.)
And year after year, as the memories of one spring merge into those of another, you begin to realise, with more certainty than ever before, that no one, that nothing lasts forever. Forever is an illusion you want to hold on to. Eternity is indeed a lie.
Year after year after year.
Because love comes in all forms, sizes, shapes, races, colours, cookie jars and cake boxes.
It is spring now. It might be spring tomorrow. It might be spring forever. But some of us will end up inviting winter on ourselves, anyway.
They'll never know the apprehension of giving their "landline" number to a crush; they'll never know the joy of calling up a crush from the phone in the master bedroom, when their parents aren't around; they'll never know the fear of having a crush call up on the "landline"; they'll never know the frustration of calling up a crush and having his/her mother answer the call. Ah, the new generation!
You ask me to change.
You've asked me before.
I know, you'll ask me again.
But if I were not me,
You wouldn't be who you are.
So, think again.
Wow! What a sweet thing to say. I'm blown away by your compliment. Thankyou so very much my friend, you have me smiling. 😊
I hope your day was good. Wishing you a good night.
You too, keep smiling.
That brief moment of secret understanding and suppressed longing, when you look at each other, simultaneously, from the corner of your eyes and hold the gaze for more than just a fleeting moment, the feeling might be momentary, but not the moment - not the moment.