A Summer Night Rhapsody

My obsession with nights and the urge to stay awake till the wee hours of mornings began at a very tender age. Be it studying for the next day’s test or to derive pleasure from reading comics, I liked to do them in the solitude of night. The fact that nights are so serene and beautiful, with a sky full of stars enticed me into doing a lot of things, albeit making me an anti-social human.

I don’t know what kept me hooked on to the night. Maybe it was the joy of creating something at 12 A.M. Maybe it was the first poem that I have written at 2 A.M. Or maybe it was the flow of thoughts that walk with a panache into my head after 11 A.M. Nights have always been perfect.

Summers at my grandparents’ place were quite lively when I was a child. My cousins and I would exchange stories on paranormal activities, and most of the times we made them up. I still remember those nights when we would sit up on the terrace, often jumping on the water tank, and just talk. Those were the nights when even the fireflies participated in our conversations-brightening the dark night time and again. I still cannot fathom why even the most mundane things seemed interesting during those nights, because the entire magic of our conversations would vanish into thin air in the mornings. Now that I think of it, most of my cousins are highly reluctant to stay up late now. Quite funnily, even I find it atrocious to sacrifice my nights over them. But who stays awake in the nights? Apart from musicians trying to compose their best tunes, writers trying to put words on paper, lovers mending their broken hearts, watchmen witnessing stories of their lifetime (or not), burglars, and animals.

I know, that's a lot of people.

Anyway.

Some nights could be quite eventful. Even when they are absolutely simple. It is said that beauty lies in little and the simplest of things. 

Tonight, as I stood in the balcony talking to a friend, it started raining. Instead of running into my room, I stood there, letting my senses soak in the aroma, and closing my eyes for a moment. As I opened my eyes, I saw the dog in my colony cuddle with two cats under one roof; I could see a girl cooking in the kitchen and tasting piping hot food right from the bowl, a child pillion riding and tugging on to her father closely.

It does not matter even if all these things have happened in a flash of a moment, it does not matter if they were just fleeting moments. They reminded me how much I loved and adored the nights, again.

And on days like these, only nights will have their say, making me stand by the window a little longer than the usual.

A Table For One!

It is a common misconception that I am a people person. Maybe I am. Maybe I am not.

But if I am gifted the opportunity of choosing my solitude over the company of people for at least 10 days a month, I would gladly accept it, and quite graciously at that.

Of course, I love people, I love listening to their stories and to their tales on hope and endless possibilities of attaining something totally unattainable. But I also like to sit in peace, and read fascinating stories of the same people in the form of words and metaphors.

I guess I really like to oscillate between the two worlds - the one brimming with people, and the other filled with silence.

I would not call myself a recluse, but, there are moments when I prefer to do things alone - You know, like shopping, traveling, and eating out.

While one can do most of the things alone, the problem occurs only when you are trying to eat out alone.

This happens with me most of the times, and it is quite funny. I walk into a certain restaurant and ask for a table for one, and I find the waiter giving me a really sympathetic look, and much to my horror, I am given a table right in the center of the room.

I don’t know, does the waiter think I am all by myself (Read desperately alone) and hence, I need to sit in the middle of bantering people and chaos?

I am not sure.

Because when I ask for a corner table, the waiter gives me a once-over and asks, “Are you sure, ma’m?” And for reasons I cannot fathom, I earn the wrath of either a bad table or really pesky, overly helpful service.

You have no clue how many times I control my urge to tell them that I am here, only to enjoy good food while I am reading, and to remind them, that nothing is wrong with me.

There are a lot of people who ask if my solitude benefits me, and I tell them that it does in many million ways.

For one thing, it increases my productivity. The fact that I am able to read or write without any human contact, or my mobile phone constantly giving me constant notifications about mundane things is an achievement in its own league, if I might say.

A person who appreciates his solitude would appreciate the company of people even more. His attachment with nature and self increases leaps and bounds.

Okay, that was deep yet stupid stuff.

But let me admit, the whole point of writing this post is, this - dear waiters, let me devour my pasta in peace. No, I do not need sangria to wipe my tears away, and I definitely do not need several helpings of cheese to lead myself to the Prince Charming.

I am pretty complacent with whatever I have, and doing right now.

However, if there is something that I would really love, it is this - a corner table in a coffee shop adorned with fairy lights, a copy of Italo Calvino’s Difficult Loves, the aroma of coffee and a cup of coffee in my hand, good music playing rather faintly in the background, and people sitting in a distance talking about love and literature, and laughing at humourous things that tickle them.

Because that would be the perfect end to a solitary day at my table for one.

YOUR LITTLE EIFFEL TOWER DREAM MATTERS!

“I'm not sentimental--I'm as romantic as you are. The idea, you know,

is that the sentimental person thinks things will last--the romantic

person has a desperate confidence that they won't.” 

― F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise

My one point agenda for today: Write something. Just anything.

I need to get too many things out of my system right now.

So while doing so, I was racking my brains trying to recollect the conversations I had with people over the week, and I figured there was this certain friend who asked me why I write a lot about love.

A. For one thing, I am not drunk in love.

B. But then, I suppose I really do write a lot about it. There have been a lot of people who asked me why I do that, but I guess I never really answered their question even decently well.

Isn't love worth writing about? I am constantly amazed at the fact that it can define or destruct our lives. 

It destructs, but, leads us to the right places.

I cannot stop wondering why love is that one thing that we all think about, but barely talk about.

We all watch great movies, we all read epic love stories, we all admire the couples who make it happen, we hire insanely expensive photographers to shoot our moments of love.

And in cases when love comes with self destruction written all over it, we are so broken that only love heals us again.

But we refuse to talk about it.

We wonder why we have the need to talk about it. I mean, even commercially, love sells.

For instance, you as a reader, refuse to read a book review. However, a post on love receives the highest number of hits for the week.

Love thrives--be it in cinema, or in literature.

People talk about hate, massacres, cruelty, and things that are worse. Things that make you cringe. Things that give you sleepless nights. Things that steal your peace of mind.

Literally. You can take my word for it.

This world needs more people who can talk about love, and spread its good cheer. 

I tell you what? Do not just pack that little Eiffel Tower dream of yours in a box and store it in the back of your head.

While you are here, you might as well have that 'A walk in the rain under the Eiffel Tower' moment with your loved one.

Just make sure that you write and talk about it. 

Because your story could begin someone else's story.