The Taste of Love.

I wondered what love was,

and how it existed in several forms,

I wondered more about it

on nights that I went to bed in tears,

pining for the one I love,

with tears streaming down my face,

dousing my pillow and leaving behind

the marks of my mascara on it

that reminded me every morning of

the previous night’s plight,

What was love?

It was an existential crisis that I wanted to

hold on to,

and I never knew why,

maybe it was because I was curious,

or maybe because it broke me

in ways I couldn’t imagine,

in fact, love never came easily to me,

I had to crawl, fight, and maybe even

ask for it, desperately if I may add so,

but this whole point of love, and the not

having it introduced me to my alter ego,

the vulnerable one, who often needed someone

to tuck a strand of her curl behind her ear,

or someone who could put her to sleep when she couldn’t,

she was needy and easily hurt, unlike the other side of me,

but I loved that side too,

and tended to it with a warmth that a child would need,

and somewhere deep down, I wanted love to do the same,

but when I didn’t receive it, I threw tantrums like a brat,

cried like there was nothing left,

and built stories like ruins and catastrophes in my head,

you see this thing called love was playing silly games in my mind,

it was tricking me into believing everything that didn’t exist,

for I was letting it,

for I wanted it to engulf me,

in its madness,

slowly in the beginning,

and entirely by the end,

I wanted it to consume me

for reasons I couldn’t fathom,

so each time I met love in the corridors of my heart,

I put my mind to rest and

raced along with the frivolities of heart,

but I never really understood what love was,

sure I recognized it,

I knew its touch and exactly knew what its fragrance did to me,

I identified its presence even when I was surrounded by hundreds of individuals who themselves were trying to figure out what love was,

but the real meaning of love, the true essence of it,

of how it held the power of draining out the best parts of me and leave me insipid,

and how it tasted, I found it wholly and solitarily in a

heartbreak.

The Cookie Tin.

Throughout my childhood, we had a cookie tin at home. It was made of steel and was sturdy. My fingers still remember how its nooky edges and torn label made it stand out from the rest of the tins. My mother had a habit of putting all the best cookies in this particular tin, mostly because its lid was tight. Tight enough for me to struggle opening it. I guess I was never into Marie biscuits even at the age when I couldn't spot the visible difference between biscuits and cookies. That, however, did not stop me from reaching out to that cookie jar. Because I knew it held something that I longed for.

As I grew old and joined high school, I was still adamant about eating out of that tin. My mother soon began to store more than just best cookies in that tin, but I still believed that it consisted of the things I was forced to eat in a limit. That tin survived my many maneuvers for several years, it traveled with us every time we moved from one city to another and boy, we did move a lot! It became an integral part of our kitchen and I was warned to steer clear of it.

I don't certainly remember when we lost that tin, but I haven't noticed it for years now. Especially this morning when I was storing cookies in a different tin that bore no resemblance to the lost one. I am beginning to think if life is a lot like this. No, I am serious. Did it ever happen to you? You hold on to something - a plan, a work item, a piece of clothing, a book or what the hell, the idea of doing something amazing in your mind and try your best to gain control over it. Over time, it either comes easily to you after a lot of struggle from your end or becomes a part of your existence that you lose track of it. Did it ever happen to you? That in time, you lose the purpose of the thing (or the idea) you once strongly believed in? It is kind of annoying if you actually perceive it in that fashion. Nevertheless, it does not alter the truth. We lose the purpose of myriad important things in our life. Our dreams, our ambitions, our desperate plans to achieve meaning of life - we lose it all.

Sure, the tin might be replaced with another tin that has no stains or uneven edges, but not everything can turn obsolete.

And it shouldn't. Because life does not offer another cookie tin when we lose sight of a purpose or ambition.

Distances and Proximity.

She lived out of suitcases while he built his home, carefully.

She measured her life with the number of places her feet took her to, and he did his while reading books in the cozy corner of his room.

She traveled to various parts of different countries in the pursuit of finding a meaningful story, as he moved from one page to the other, breathing into the lives of thousand characters.

The lipstick stains on her coffee cups and the little notes on the takeaway boxes made her life a mantel of memories, but to him, collecting memories meant something more tangible.

She sent him little postcards and lovely polaroids from the towns she visited and he sent her long emails about his days, weeks and sometimes, months.

During their rare phone calls, they ran into the wee hours of the night talking about the desserts that troubled her and the writer that made him go weak in the knees, about the coffee she enjoyed at the end of a forgotten lane and about the drawings and poetry he wrote in the margins of his notebook.

She narrated how sunrise looked poles apart in different parts of the world, and he described how sunsets weren’t the same without her.

Every time she moved from one place to the other, the desire to be with her grew deep in him.

Her feet might have taken her to places she called her own and beaches that she felt like home, but her heart? Her heart stayed with him, no matter where her feet traveled.