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

Holding On.

We’re all holding on to something — something that’s not good for us, something that doesn’t belong to us. To an old memory, people, places, houses we’ve stopped calling homes, homes we’ve left behind, stories that we’re no longer a part of, cities we’ve once lived in, hearts that don’t want to shelter us, cafes that make us feel like a stranger, old loves, broken shards of wine glasses, strangers, and shirts that smell of a person you don’t talk to.

We’re all holding on to something that keeps us awake in the nights, something that reminds us that no matter what, life rises and falls and spirals out of our control. It’s funny how we think we’re holding on to something when all we’re doing is simply breathe.

Tune for the day: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tvHz5Rti0cU

12 AM Thoughts.

1. My feet are sore because of all the running I've done tonight. I guess I went a little overboard with it like I do with a lot of other things.

2. It's funny how I try to fill a void with the most pointless things ever. Are all human beings like this? Do we fill our void with inane things and expect to find meaning in the end?

3. Empty houses and broken hearts have more stories to tell. Distraught minds are often better than distracted minds. Late nights make for more open-hearted conversations while daytime conversations are just guarded.

4. There was a time in my life when I would distinctly remember lines from the books I read. I'd remember the lines that'd stir (or even snap) something deep inside of me or make me weep profusely. Now, I don't. Either I've stopped reading good books or I'm too distraught to remember stories I love. But hey, I can still recall the last lines from 'What We Talk About When We Talk About Love' by Raymond Carver.

5. I've rarely missed a train. Maybe only once, and the memory of it is rather faint. But recently, I had a dream where I was sitting alone on a bench and watched the train I was waiting for leave right in front of my very eyes. I anticipated for its arrival, I watched it as it halted, and then witnessed it move slowly. I had to get on it, but I didn't even move an inch. I let it pass. I let it leave.

Tune for tonight: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Z5s3m9_Lq0

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 If?

I've always wondered what is it that I wanted from you,

the questions were many,

the answers, none,

so what is it that I wanted from you?

did I desire the luxury of first taking your name every morning?

the roundness of your name, the simple joy of pronouncing it, syllable by syllable,

maybe I did want a little more than that,

for instance sitting across you with coffee and newspapers between us,

the mundanity of life that would have seemed better with our quirks,

actually, your quirks,

so what did I really want from you?

not certainty and never a peace of mind,

maybe I pined for the lavish comfort of just looking into your honey-coloured eyes at nightfall,

or count the stars without the worry of the daylight,

see, the problem is,

even after all these years, I'm still unsure and nonplussed about what I'm looking for,

in you,

the person who makes me want to abandon all my whims and caprices,

but then, stop, listen to the silence between us,

it's only growing and sometimes, growling,

are you feeling what I'm feeling?

or is this just a figment of my silly little imagination?

I don't know what tomorrow brings,

but what if it brings me?

maybe that's what, that's really what I want to know.

Language of Heart.

What name do we have for the language of heart?

that no other can decipher but only ourselves,

do we call it love or do we call it a mystery?

do we name it as a certain pining or do we name it with something that words cannot describe alone?

What name do we have for the language of heart?

the one that's truly beautiful,

but embarrassing enough to keep it underneath the show that we grandly put on,

do we name it as a vulnerability or do we call it our safe space?

What name do we have for the language of heart?

the one that's written with our own fingers but has the power to write and rewrite our fates and stories,

do we call it poetry or do we name it as a piece of destruction that we willfully take?

What name do we have for the language of the heart, I often wonder.

You Signed Up for This.

Every time I say you signed up for this,

I wonder if you imagined our togetherness differently,

Because life is built on unfulfilled fantasies and

unchartered territories,

The idea of love as shown in movies is a fable that we are miles away from,

Even if we're grappling in the dark praying to reach the shores of the kind of love we fancied, we might not,

The standards, I guess, were always a fabrication of our silly minds to mock us at what we cannot score,

Maybe I cannot promise you the fantasy,

Maybe I should not,

Because what I can offer you is, a different kind of love,

The one, that's ours, and probably not a figment of imagination,

On days when the sun refuses to shine and you gnaw your own mind, I'll remind you of the person you are,

I won't be the one rescuing you, but I will turn every dark day into a funny poem that you can recall on a day you'll not have me around,

On nights when you find my reason beyond any measure of sanity, I will rather give you a reason, to look beyond the measures,

Because who decides what's sane and what's not?

And on afternoons when time comes to a halt as we sit facing each other at a lunch table, I will  try not to fill the silence with words,

Even when words come easily to me, I will let you be,

For I don't squander love and words,

For when they are uttered, they ruin the possibilities of fathomable probabilities making way for the ineffabilities that my heart isn't made for,

So, take my silence and inability of expressing our bond,

But don't put them in that big brown box with labels, that is due for a return,

Instead, help me in carving them for our wants and needs.

An Unsung Song.

I remember the first time I saw you,

I was younger, and so were you,

The lights, like you, were at a proximity which was morosely faraway.

There was music in my head, which kept me oblivious to everything around,

Maybe even to the music that was played in the coffee shop.

Reticence and silence were lying astray in the air between us,

Like an unsung song whose lyrics I knew, but never the tune.

But even before we realized, we build a fort around awkward hushes and masked emotions,

The secret path to this fort, as someone once said, was not giving in to the urges.

We could have given in to it. Maybe we should have,

Instead, we made a deal with our mystical little minds,

To replace our hearts desires with vague reassurances and unsure answers.

Because in a battle between wants and needs, we were neither,

Maybe we were in-between but never enough to create symphonies.

Going back to the day when we first met, I now realize that,

Love was never our cup of tea,

It never was our humble abode.

The Discomfort of Looking At You.

One...two...three...

She kept counting till hundred to avoid the discomfort of looking at you.

With a daylight of difference between what you both were and what you both aren't,

With months of space between being in love and being broken by love,

And now with just a tiny, largely inconsiderable amount of distance from where you sat,

She found her thoughts fumbling and lips trembling.

The sound of your name and the familiarity of your scent did no good to her fleeting emotions. But she had to avoid the discomfort of looking at you.

So, she looked across the room to shift her focus and the broken heart from your twisting fingers. The girl on your side was having her wine with no little interest and the man beside her was struggling with his shoelace.

She counted 5 chairs, two inflated bean bags, and an unkempt bed sheet. There were bookmarks without any sight of books and a box of vinyl records without labels.

And then there was a flickering bulb and shattered pieces of glass from last night.

She always knew your friends were wild but you, you were different. You were the solace to her calamity and the silence to her chaos.

You never liked mess just the way you never knew how to make one.

Everyone around you knew she was regarding things in the room to avoid the discomfort of looking at you. Maybe you did too, but you chose to ignore it. Even when your eyes met, ephemerally. A lot of unsaid, unsavoury words hung in the air and more importantly, the luscious days of youth you spent together brought back flashes of memories she refused to revisit.

One hundred...One hundred and one...One hundred and two...

She kept counting without a pause to avoid looking at you.

But as she sat in this room with you, living and breathing the same air as you did,

She only hoped that she could rebuild her life on words, and this time, without you in between the lines.

The Beginning, In-between, and Ending.

Page no 319,

there was a forgotten coffee shop in the bylanes of a street that was used only for evening walks,

every evening, it was adorned with lights and its brown bricked walls held paintings of exotic places,

candles were lit on every table,

the visitors were few, but it was a secret getaway for a lot of people.

Most of the evenings, he walked in with her but today was different,

they walked in and out separately.

Page no 14,

there was always a new place in this part of the town,

sometimes a cafe, sometimes a night club,

people bonded over coffee and fell in love with each other over dances and music that'll be remembered for years.

She walked into one such new place, after taking a last look at herself in the mirror,

Dressed in white and blue, he stood on his feet as soon as he saw her.

A lot wasn't spoken on that day, the music was too loud and they were too shy,

the first flush of love, I remember, is always like that.

Page no 249,

happiness isn't the only prominent story of our lives,

melancholy and joy come in equal parts,

unfortunately, we fail to welcome them both in similar fashions.

We question sadness but accept happiness without any iota of doubt,

but together, he and she revelled in joy and got through sadness.

Page no 457,

a room that overlooked gigantic snowy mountains and a sunset that spread its oranges and yellows across the sky,

cups of tea were strewn across the table where they put their feet up,

it was cold but the setting sun's warmth and their intimacy did all that a thick blanket couldn't.

Stuck in a moment of love amidst nature was a dream they dreamt together, many nights ago.

Page no 75,

the drive to the unknown roads between brown hills was long,

but the longing to reach there was stronger than anything.

In between the setting sun and the music they carefully chose for the drive, they stared at the city they left behind,

there was a lot of silence and no words involved,

but there were bits and pieces of everything people new to romance ever wanted.

The beginning, middle, and the ending - we imagine all stories must have them.

We imagine our lives must have them and we do.

But not necessarily in the same order.

When we are all brewing stories of our own, just remember not to measure it in the scales of beginnings, middles, and endings.

Monday Morning.

There was nothing enticing about this Monday morning. I wore my usual black pants with a white shirt. I applied my usual mascara and tangerine coloured lipstick. I picked my usual coffee and newspaper from the local cafe before proceeding towards the station to board a metro to my workplace. It was yet another mundane Monday morning and I was definitely not looking forward to it.

As I was waiting for a friend to join me at the station, I noticed a man sitting on a bench. He was rummaging through the contents of his bag as he muttered something incoherent. There was something awfully plain about him. Something awfully regular. I spent more seconds gazing at him as he finally fished a paperback out of his bag. He carefully plucked his spectacles from the inner pockets of his bag and drifted into his own world of reading. He was probably unaware of my presence, of people walking around him, of the man selling tea behind him, of vagrants collecting stray pieces of paper near his feet. He was oblivious to the arrival and departure of trains as I was oblivious to everything around me. Not very often you come across someone who pulls you into their world at the very first sight. Not because they have exotic coloured eyes or great hair. It is mostly because they are your own flavour of people.

I wished I could talk to him, though. It would have been brilliant, wouldn’t it? To forego the responsibilities of work and walk to the closest coffee shop with him. We’d eat breakfast and talk about how much I loved Woody Allen movies while he’d tell me how he did not like a particular movie of his. We’d order more cups of coffee while he’d excuse himself to smoke. He’d come back to rekindle forgotten memories and lost conversations; we’d talk about our first loves and first jobs. And when we’d walk out of the coffee shop, it’s a little late in the day and we’d decide to watch a movie. In the darkness of the movie hall, I’d look at his otherwise imperfect features in awe while he’d run his fingers on my wrist sending tingles down my spine. We’d look at each other in the darkness like we’ve known each other for days. I am afraid, for years! In the evening, we’d spend hours on my balcony staring at the sunset while sharing crammed secrets. He would tell me about the girl that broke his heart brutally while I’d tell him about the painful death of my pet.

It wouldn't have been perfect but it would have been something.

My reverie of thoughts was easily broken with a tap on my shoulder. My friend was here and it was time for us to leave. The awfully plain yet the perfect guy was not to be seen anywhere. He must have left when I was tirelessly concocting stories in my head.

As I boarded the metro with my friend, I told her, “I saw the perfect guy for me.”

“And?”

“I should have told him a hi, ” I sighed.

But some stories were only meant to live in our head while I was meant to ruin my life with some more Excel sheets today.