Interlude-2.

Do you have anything new to tell me? About the weather, the sandwich you made this morning or the flowers in your courtyard? I know we've told each other a lot of things - some interesting, some not, some vile, some not, some out of love, and some not. See the thing is, I've heard a lot of things from you and all of them are leading a life of glorified death now. They don't deserve that, you know? The glory, I mean. So, tell me, do you have anything new? Have your words reformed? If no, then please keep them to yourself. I'm not interested. I guess I'll never be interested again.

Tune for the day: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BS0G1KK8H6M

Rooftop.

I sit on this barely lit rooftop, fiddling with my phone, wanting to tell you things, and holding myself back. I can see the city lights, and in that light, people walking in the comfort of their homes, lights being turned on and off in several rooms, men smoking under streetlights, and almost strangers getting drunk on heavy conversations of love and loss. I am here, but I am not here. I am at calm, but I am restless. I am ashore, but my mind is lost in tumultuous waves. Sometimes, struggles feel a lot like a dark tunnel or a dark alley. I'm talking about the ones that have no light at the end, and you don't feel infinite when you're crossing them. Ever wondered why it feels like this? I do, and I know I don't have to make this silly, pointless struggle as one of the central parts of my life's agenda. But this has turned pathological now and it has to go. At the moment, it's as messed up at this roof I'm sitting on, with broken pots, dying plants, old newspapers, and red mud strewed across the sides of the walking path. It's difficult walking here, but the view is worth all of this. Just like the struggle that's worth you.

Tune for the day: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uxTH8GZ4PC4

Afterglow.

We both were used to the clamour of the night clubs. Stuck in a camp amidst hills where even silence refused to reach us, we were forced to make strained conversations. Back in the city, we never found it difficult to speak our guts out, but here, with the endless sky and the shining stars in the night, we were under pressure to make meaningful conversations. Talk about the change of scene and all that!

Despite the change of scene, we still had to follow the custom where I initiated the conversation, and him taking the lead. Small talk wasn't really our forte, but I began with one.

"Don't you think it would have been nicer if the colour of our sleeping bags matched that of our tent?"

"Seriously, is that what's running in your head?"

"I mean it would have at least made for a good Instagram picture. Don't you think so?"

"Of course not! Anyway, should we set up the campfire?"

"What? No!"

"But it's getting colder."

"But we won't see the stars if we have the fire."

"Alright, what do you want to do then?"

"We could talk."

"Yeah, we could."

"What do you want to talk?"

"Anything you like."

"Anything? Great!"

Without continuing the conversation any further, I looked at him. He was struggling to put things in an order. He never liked any mess just the way he didn't know how to make one. His nose flared a bit in the air as he tried to keep the tent unkempt and his cheeks turned red when he realized I was staring at him.

And then, I started again.

"Did you ever love someone so much that it pained each time you looked at them smile?"

"No, why do you ask?"

"Just curious."

"Did you?"

"Yeah, maybe."

"Why?"

"I never really gave it much of a thought, but I guess the ones who aren't born out of love crave love a tad bit more than the others."

"Or it's just that you're crazy."

"That too!"

"No, it's just that."

We ended our conversation with just that. I curled into his arms and fell asleep looking at the stars as he ran his fingers through my hair. Sometimes, silence says a lot more than words. If only we hear them.

Tune for the day: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OnTelUJrDhc

Dream.

Last night, I had a strange dream. You were there and so was I. We were both happily stuck in a strange place. It was dark but the room had a view, the lofty window at the center of the room was just a gateway to our imaginations and fantasies. You held me close to you - so close that I could hear your heartbeat over mine. My mind was delightfully oscillating between your heartbeat and the ticking of your wrist watch. This strange warmth that we were both engulfed in would do more harm than good. I could tell. But I was playing with fire and my heart as always.

From the window, we could see the stars. There was nothing spectacular about that night sky, but the regularity of it assuaged me into believing that everything was normal. And 'normal' is good.

"Do you want to talk about anything?" You break the silence.

"No, I don't want to."

"But you like to talk."

"Not now, though."

"Each time we're at a new place, you find something new to say. Something new to add."

"Yes, but I am getting a buzz out of this solitude, cold breeze, and the stars."

"Do you see the reflection of the Moon in the lake?"

"Yes, I do."

"Seems like the sky is frightfully close to us."

"So close yet so far."

"Of course."

"Of course."

Not So Small Talk.

"Look to my right..."

"Where? I don't see anything."

"What? There are mountains. Look up."

"Nope, still cannot."

"What is the matter with you?"

"Matter with me? Why are we doing this video call in the first place when I can neither see you nor the mountains"

"Hey!"

"Hey."

"You cannot take the slightest joy in anything I do, is it?"

"That's not true. I'm listening."

"No, you're not."

"Okay, why don't I just close my eyes? Describe everything around you and I'll hear you out."

"Listen, I'm not good with words, okay?"

"But you're not bad either. Go on, give it a try."

"Alright. So.."

"Wait, let me get under the blanket and be cozy."

"Bah!"

"Okay, start."

"So I'm sitting on the porch with my feet on the grass. The grass is greener and softer here. And it's always damp, even when it is 2 PM."

"Hmm."

"The sun is shining bright and I feel the rays on my face. But it's not scorching, it's just warm and pleasant.

In the background, somewhere amidst the clouds are the mountains. I know you couldn't see them properly but they're snowcapped, and I wonder how they'd look in Winter."

"They'd look scary."

"Yeah, and maybe majestic too."

"See, how Winter works is.."

"Stop disturbing my flow. Let me do the talking."

"Ugh ok."

"So, last night when I was near the mountains, the sky was insanely clear, it almost felt like it was fearing the formidable mountains."

"That makes no sense."

"Just listen, alright."

"Okay sorry, please continue."

"The air here has a different aroma. It's fresh and chilling, but it also has this strange aroma that reminds me of something that we had years ago."

"Hmm. Tell me more about the night you spent on top."

"How do I put it into words? Umm...okay, the sky full of stars was a beautiful sight. Everything was dark and only the stars shone brightly. We ate our dinner under those stars, and although I couldn't see anything, it was amazing. And then there was the Moon. The Himalayas lit up in the moonlight as if they belonged together."

"Like how your face lights up when I am around."

"I guess so."

"You guess so?"

"I wish you were there with me."

"Why? What would you have done?"

"I would have cried with you."

"Well, I wish I was there too."

Tune for the day: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Eop8BC6N6gQ

Small talk.

The blue sea in front of me was changing its colour to green. My nose a little too red for Summer was still failing to inhale the scent of the warm beach and sand. I stretch my legs and try inhaling a bit harder this time, only to hurt my nose. I look to my right to see him stare at the endless beach, nonchalantly. Where does he get this calm from?

"Do you like Jane Austen?"

He doesn't answer right away. But when he does, I've already forgotten that I've asked something.

"I don't know much about her."

"Have you ever tried reading her?"

Another bout of silence.

"Not really."

"Would you like to read her then?"

This time, he answers right away.

"She was way ahead of her time. Don't you think?"

"Yeah, maybe."

"Maybe."

And so, I went back to cursing my aching nose, and he, to staring at the sea.
Tune for the day: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9MQ5lInYuag

What We Talk About When We Talk About Love: Book Review

“All this, all of this love we're talking about, it would just be a memory. Maybe not even a memory. Am I wrong? Am I way off base? Because I want you to set me straight if you think I'm wrong. I want to know. I mean, I don't know anything, and I'm the first one to admit it.” 

― Raymond Carver

I am really fed up. Fed up of these moronic hundred something fiction books, and the self-proclaimed Mythology books that butcher Mythology in many million ways. 

You might call me a mean person, but I had a tough time rummaging through book stores for decent Literature. (Of course, you always have the Classics and the Austen, but I was craving for a new writer.)

Like a spot of sunshine in dramatic moments, my brother sent me Raymond Carver's What We Talk About When We Talk About Love for my birthday. 

I have always wanted to read Raymond Carver but never got around to reading his books. Now that I have read two of his books, I absolutely love his work. 

What We Talk About When We Talk About Love is a collection of short stories. There is something utterly mysterious about these stories - stories that are poignant yet surreal. This collection is all about people without any education, logic or imagination whose lives revolve around depression, hatred, tender emotions, alcoholism, and love. 

And love is love, isn't it? Educated or not, imaginative or all, we all are intoxicated by that emotion that makes or breaks our world. 

The stories that were stuck in my head after reading are:

1. Everything Stuck to Him: Our parents always have a version of stories of our childhood. In this story, a father tells her young daughter how life was for everyone when she was a child.

2. Popular Mechanics: I could not stop imagining this story in my head. Bits and pieces, shreds and patches, this story left a huge impact on me for a day or two.

A couple has a conflict; the man packs his suitcase to leave; the woman swears and yells at him; and their baby is crying. They both want the baby and enter into a tug-of-war but the story ends with an ambiguity. The couple end up staying together.

It is a beautiful story and as you read it, you can vividly picture every scene in your mind.

But it is the final story that takes the hot cake. What We Talk About When We Talk About Love is the final story that talks about four friends who sit with around a bucket of ice with a bottle of gin inside it. They talk about love, and who doesn't want to know what we talk about when we talk about love?

This story (and the book) ends with these lovely lines that struck a chord with me:

"I could hear my heart beating. I could hear everyone's heart. I could hear the human noise we sat there making, not one of us moving, not even when the room went dark."

It is strange how some books become an integral part of your life, the characters that haunt you, the stories that make you curious about the writer. This book will always remain as one of the best books I have read because I met this book as a dear friend when I was looking for a relief.

You can buy the book here:

• ISBN-10: 0679723056
• ISBN-13: 978-0679723059
• Paperback: 176 pages
• Publisher: Vintage; Vintage Books ed edition (18 June 1989)
• Buy it here: http://www.amazon.in/What-Talk-About-When-Love/dp/0679723056