Tree

Everyone has a “get away” spot. It is for those moments when you just need to shut your eyes and find peace, even if only for a second or two. The origin of the spot differs from person to person. Some prefer to take the help of their vivid imagination whereas others including myself prefer to rely on our memory. I shut my eyes and I see Nagar. The Narrow winding mountain road taking a bend right in front of the most magnificent stone and wood castle, a fine example of the sheer class of simplistic royalty. Built on the edge of a cliff, the rooms open into a common hanging balcony that faces the breath taking snow clad peaks. As enchanting as the entire experience was, one extraordinary evening just stayed with me.
There is no forgetting the bare tree right in front of the balcony. She was lean but strong, proud of her slim sensuous body. She was not ashamed. Instead, she displayed her nakedness with a sense of liberation only a free spirit can harbour. However, one evening it seemed like she was dressed to kill. She wore the perfect little black dress. She was seductive, the self satisfied air around her adding to her charms. It seemed like she wanted to light a fire with her presence, on that perfect chilly evening. I stood there, soaking in her aura. And then all of a sudden like the final act of a celebrated exotic dancer, her robe came off with a grand gesture; and away flew many beautiful black crows; I simply stood spellbound on the beautiful wooden corridor.

A Letter

Dear Friend (If that is what you are)

This is a letter to you, though it shall never reach you. Words define relationships but sometimes the nature of the relationship does not allow us to say them out loud. I shall never say these words to your face but I must say them nonetheless and hence I chose this medium of secrecy. Friends ask me what I feel for you now. I tell them I don’t know. My response is not entirely untrue but I can’t help but wonder whether it is the lack of knowledge that plagues me or my inability to comprehend what I do know. This is a sort of confusion that creates an uneasiness which though not as devastating as the feeling of helplessness at having lost a loved one, is slightly unnerving. The thought of you; or us, does not make me dizzy with joy as it once did when you were mine neither does it make my head reel in despair like it did when you walked away. It is different. I am not overwhelmed with pleasure or grief. This feeling is not in the least disturbing, instead it is calm. Any interaction with you does not overpower me as it used to. I happen to be experiencing a new found control over myself. It is not half as exciting as having found someone to love or as nerve racking as heartbreak but whatever it is, it’s new and that always leaves room for some confusion. “Is it over then?”, I ask myself but the old heart does not answer in the affirmative. Of course I still love you; how can I not? Every imperfection of yours’ is dear to me. However I find myself no longer bound to you. For the first time since the day I met you I am standing on my side of the street, unwilling to cross over at the slightest instance; my love not seeking to tend to you instead basking in the comfort of how I perceive it should be. Whatever I am, However I intend to be, it is all in the moment. Finally nothing is predetermined; I have no answers to any questions that might arise in the future. Standing at these crossroads I can only wish us well, whether our paths decide to intertwine or go their diverse ways.

Sincerely,
Friend (If that is what I am)

About a Love

“If you press me to say why I loved him, I can say no more than because he was he, and I was I.”- Michel de Montaigne.

I read it somewhere. I did not know who Montaigne was. But he just made sense. Now I know who Montaigne was. And he still makes sense. I wish I could say the same for “him” though. I suppose I know “him” better now. But it makes no sense.

‘Love’ might just as well be another four letter word; but we all know it’s not. Atleast our ancestors could have spared us the trouble and approached it more scientifically than to just hand it over to the brooding artists and the starving poets as their Rumpelstiltskin. Love definitely did weave gold for them but look what it did to us mere mortals. How simple things would be if someone had taken the pain to define it, list in alphabetical order the symptoms, characteristics, preventive measures and cures. But clearly no empirical study was ever conducted. At this point of time I do not know what my ailment is – am I lovesick or am I simply sick of love? But either way, some amount of sickness remains. Since nobody possesses the degree to treat such a condition, and I can hardly trust the quacks on radio stations, televisions and in gypsy tents in the neighbourhood fairs, I have resorted to the next best option - Self medication. It is imperative to mention here that all the advice given by friends, relatives and well wishers have been paid adequate heed to. Nothing has worked so far. The knot in my throat has not loosened, the nausea is still intact and the queasy feeling in my guts is definitely not the result of irritable bowel movement. It is also at this crucial juncture that one falls prey to severe hypochondria and starts to imagine all the excruciatingly painful ways in which this could end. If I could, I would have definitely employed Allie Brosch to draw the images in my head. But the truth is I can’t afford her and I can’t draw; hence the rest must remain untold, left to imagination. Go crazy. You have my permission.

Stupefied you

How did we get here? All the faces around you ask the same question. But seriously, does anyone actually know. You still search for the answer. You are not willing to give up on it yet. A volley of questions hit you in the face. Over and over, same old, same old. You keep telling yourself you need to know; it is vital to know in order to forget. But memory is a wretched curse. It always has been.
You lie, chemically altered and snippets from various trips flash before your eyes. You wonder. You hit a replay button, day my day, moment by moment. What was the turning point; the beginning of the end? Is it still ending or is it a new beginning already? Going through the motions- people say that’s what it’s all about. But what happens when you keep going through someone else’s motions instead of your own? The strange lingering fear of there actually being no motion of your own at all; Just the horrid lull. No you, only a stupefied version of what you used to be.

No password. No truth.

The time is pretty usual, more than half the floor is sleeping. I should be working, but really, that is just an excuse to light another cigarette and stare into the night. This is my time. As always I dwell on the past, think of the possible (or improbable) future. It’s all pretty pointless, except it’s very important. Tonight I can’t help but think of that word document so carefully hidden in that old laptop, locked away in safety. I was prying I know, taking my baby steps towards absolute paranoia. But there it was, an honest disclosure by the one with the magical words; and there was no way of knowing what it actually said. Apart from learning improved ways of data protection, I also got the true taste of desperation. Yes, I was desperate to know. He had told me everything, he said, but then again that was what he told me. There was no reason to disbelieve, I suppose, and I didn’t. It was just that I had to know what he told himself. I did not realize it then, but that night it was not just the prose that I couldn’t read, I couldn’t reach.