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

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.

A Room Without Windows.

I once asked for a room of my own.

Several months and appeals later, I got one.

But with no windows.

As a person fond of windows, I found this deplorable.

Confined to the four walls of the room with a shelf full of books and a painting of a mountain on the wall, I began to make conversations with words on blank sheets and stories inside books with slightly torn pages.

I fell in love with words and together, we realized that we had stories to tell and hearts to win.

It was in this little room I grew familiar with Elizabeth Bennet and her love for Darcy.

Here, I discovered Shelley and her Frankenstein and grew weary of the mysterious things the world held in itself.

The adventures were many, but I was a lover of windows and longed for a room with one.

And when I got one, I rejoiced!

I was no longer a prisoner of my thoughts and imagination.

Now, I had visitors in the form of pigeons and neighbours who took long morning walks.

I began noticing the tasks of the watchmen in the night, and slowly fell into the regular pattern of life.

I grew weary again, and this time, it wasn't short lived.

I wondered if this was what life was all about? Mornings and nights, noons and evenings withheld probably nothing that the stories I read offered.

Horrified with the banal reality of life, I wanted to run back to the room with no windows.

Where I went fishing with Tom Sawyer and pictured the view of River Thames in the words of Pip.

It was here that I wrote alongside Ruskin Bond and the likes because they were my only windows to the world I desperately wanted to belong.

But like words, there was a lot in life, that once said and done, had no going back.

Words Versus Silence.

Words come easy to me.

But when I'm with you, I don't fill the silence with words.

As we sit at the corner of a coffee shop away from the world,

The darkness of the place, the pretty lights dangling up above,

Everything is perfect, but I don't try to fill the silence with words.

We laugh over the things that remain unsaid, we smile over the

thoughts that run in our heads.

You ask me to spill them out loud, but I don't feel the need to fill the

silence with words.

As I circle my fingers over a cup of coffee, I know your eyes are on me.

You look like you mean to say something but your lips twitch into a smile instead.

Neither do you fill the silence with words nor do I.

Words do come easy to me.

But when I'm with you, it's mostly silence that engulfs me.

Give Up, Romantic.

I am your regular girl.

I want to be in the sort of love that I can swoon about on Instagram. Yet I want the sort of love that I want to hide from the rest of the world.

I am your regular girl. I am confused about the sort of love I want.

Contrary to the popular belief, I am not really a huge fan of good looking men. Not that I really mind them, and I don't really disapprove of a wonderful man with brains at the right place and has a beautiful face too. Some perks are good. 

My idea of the perfect man is the one who could woo me with his words. As a writer, I love soaking into the splendour of words that sometimes ruin me. I sign up for things like that - men who are all about words. Unfortunately, about no action.

No, I don't like the mysterious danger that lurks along with that sort of love. Because that isn't the kind that goes on Instagram, remember? For years, I tormented myself looking for the grand, maddening, I-will-kill-you-with-my-love sort of love only to realize it was too bad for me. So, one fine morning I wiped my slate clean.

I wrote, no expectations. Zilch. Nada.

The days turned sunnier and rosy. That's when I met him. In the beginning, he seemed like a person I could easily avoid. But, he ended up being in my face most of the time, and no matter where I went, he was available at every nook and corner of the earth. Maybe he made himself available for me. Maybe he did not. I hated him for reasons I could not even fathom but hating him was easy. So, I hated. Avoided. Ignored. Hid. Ran.

Things changed, of course. You must have watched enough romantic comedies to figure out what happens when a mysterious guy walks into the life of a girl smoothly and glides away just the way he walks in. He didn't even belong to the section of guys I liked, and no don't remind me about wiping my slate clean. I could give a lot of reasons, but the fact was that I was heartbroken again because the words I fell for were the ones that drowned me in the end. Now, I would blame all the movies and books I've devoured, and sometimes went overboard with picturing what if my life would be like if I was a character from a book. Fiction ruined me, just the way I ruined my expectations with the most unrealistic forms of love.

The sort of love I was looking for did not happen to me though it happened to a lot of people around me. I stopped believing in the sheer presence of love and the ways it could alter the definition of my life. What was I thinking anyway? My life wasn't like 'Notting Hill' and it definitely is never going to be like 'Say Anything.' So, I had to separate love from my love life and live my life.

Sadly, some things are not meant to be. If I was Taylor Swift, I would have sung a sad melody for you, but I am not and don’t fancy Taylor much, so I figured I must Instagram the heck out of my life and never bother about a guy I’d put on Instagram. The clouds seem blue all over again.

You Are My Lost Story!

As I think of the day we spent together, I try to put them into words.

I am not living in the past, I assure you.

But I am still fascinated by the beauty of those moments.

I still remember that day.

When I was in pink, and you were in blue.

With your dimples and the hair not so tamed, I still managed to find you debonair.

With my haircut disaster and a grin too long, you still managed to find me beautiful.

The conversations we had over the breakfast turned out to be our inside secrets.

All the kisses and hugs just remained as scars on my body.

I am not living in the past, I assure you.

But I still remember that afternoon.

When I crashed by your side, while watching TV.

And I still remember that evening.

When you stood by my side, as I was tying my hair up.

I guess I still remember that night when you dropped me home.

And when you sent me a message, “It was an amazing day.”

I remember all of it. Bits and pieces. Tiny shreds.

But I am not living in the past, I assure you.

The beauty of that day is still fresh in my mind.

The charm of those moments is preserved in my heart.

And your smile haunted me for days and weeks.

Maybe your aroma still engulfs me sometimes.

I admit you will be remembered.

But let me also confess this.

Someday, you will just remain as a lost story.

In the torn pages of an old journal.

Journal Entry 537.

“When you're on your own, you look for signs. Sometimes you make them up, sometimes they're actually there, but most of the time you can't tell the difference from the two.” 

― Cecelia Ahern

January 4, 2015

I sat up whole night musing over time and how days are simply passing by. I am worried. I do not want to be the one standing alone looking at time pass.

I went over the details of my day, grimacing over the ones that were highly unpleasant, and smiling at the ones I've spent thinking about us.

I've had a terrible day, you know?

I did not just miss my deadlines, I missed my morning bus too. What if this turns into a compulsive habit? Also, did I tell you how incorrigible my new editor is? I blame you for this. If not for you, I would have just remained as a closet writer.

I have lost the track of the world around me.

And you, your thoughts never seem to go away from me.

The tears too have dried out but I haven't lose the count of the days ever since you left.

537 days. I am still counting.

Of course, there is no looking back. You told me that. But have I ever paid heed to your advice? I should have, you know? When you were still around!

Our pet has grown older, and ferocious. I can tell you, he misses you. He looks for you in every stranger. Your mother longs to treat you with the chocolate cake you loved as a child. Your father hopes you would magically appear at our doorstep every morning. No one can fill your void at his chess table.

And I? I wish I could tell you I am brave enough to wait forever but I miss my morning sunshine, waking up to your lazy smile and sleepy voice asking for a cup of coffee, and your warm breath at the nape of my neck.

I wish you were still here.

To experience more of my words and its enigma, flowers and their enticing fragrance, dandelion seeds and their sly quirks, sky and its endless hope. I want you to just remember that I have started loving the beauty of the world only after I fell in love with you.

Even the sapling we first planted together has grown into a giant tree bearing sweet smelling fruit.

I wish you stayed. I wish you weren't gone already.

Words And Reflections!

“She had the world’s worst poker face: her feelings floated across them like reflections on a still pond.”

― Jojo Moyes

She finally sat down to write with a pen and a notepad, overlooking the fairy lights up high in her room. The faint rustling of the trees in her courtyard distracted her time and again. She let her thoughts go astray for a moment, and gathered herself again.

Too many adjectives describing him? Edit relentlessly, said one of her post-it-notes. 

Look for imperfections, said another.

As she was scratching her head looking for imperfections, there was yet another distraction. She dashed into her balcony to see the raindrops adorning the streets, young couples running towards trees for shelter, dogs and cats cuddling under carts and cars, and children with bright red umbrellas running in circles with paper boats in their hands. 

Surreal. She muttered. But not again.

She sat down to write again, not letting anything deter her focus. She did not want to be flippant this time.

He was noble, he had his off moments; he was absurd, but being imperfect wasn't one of his liabilities. Like a haiku poem, he was mysteriously beautiful. Of course, he was oblivious to it.

She tried to recreate his voice but she could not. She tried hard to recollect his figure but it was distorted in time. She closed her eyes and tried to picture his smile, but she could barely picture it.

She tried to remember all the conversations they had and this time, she could remember all of it. Words meant everything to her. She had a flair at remembering every word ever said to her. And she did.

She crumpled the paper and opened a fresh one.

"The sea fell in love with the sand," she wrote in big, bold letters.

Understanding The Real ME!

“The real question is, can you love the real me? Not the perfect person you want me to be, not that image you had of me, but who I really am.” 

― Christine Feehan

Over the past few days, I have been trying to come to terms with the real me—the trouble-seeking woman with a flair at weaving stories (Maybe?!), and an antisocial creature who has an entirely different online persona. People assume I am just the way the online persona but the real me is probably a little more subtle but I am also known to bite heads off even at the slightest provocation!

During one of the classes with my professor, I was told, or rather reprimanded for being too nice. Since when did being nice become a problem?

“You are a writer, you are meant to write, you have no time for emotions or moping around,” he said to me. 

Actually, fair enough!

Ever since that incident, I have been trying to come to terms with that as well. Do I have a dual personality? Or should I just hold on to the emotionless reclusive personality, like in school? But the real question here is, can my loved ones actually handle the real me? You know the recluse who doesn't want to make any human conversations and can go on for longer periods of time without craving any company!

With just a few exceptions!

While I am coming to terms with the real me, I have also realized that I really do not have time for emotions. I already feel worse admitting to it, so yes, you get the drift. As much as I try to act like a cold, ice-queen (which I am sometimes), I falter to be so. 

The real me wants to create something beautiful—something that could be remembered for ages; the real me does not want to write books under the pretext of calling them literature. Pretentious pieces of literature we find these days, I tell you! The real me wants to write something so remarkable that it has to be nominated for Man Booker Prize, sure it does not have to win it. (My dreams are too far-fetching, eh? While I am at it, I might as well aim for the stars. Feel free to roll your eyes at my expense.)

The real me just wants to engulf herself with words and solitude and timely cups of coffee. 

Now, the question is—would the real me actually find time for emotions? Or would the real me just break herself from her reverie of grand thoughts and step into the world far apart from literature and face utter disappointment with the reality?

P.S. The real me does not believe in serendipity. 

In Due Course!

“Good communication is as stimulating as black coffee and just as hard to sleep after.” 

― Anne Morrow Lindbergh

They bonded over coffee and peanut butter smoothies, under the starlit nights, and over several texts and calls. They talked and laughed over copious amounts of coffee; he deciphered her silence like he knew the back of her hand. They both had interesting minds, and they spoke those minds to each other.

Even without any hint of pretence or trying to appear likable, they seemed to get along well. She took him to the places he has never been before; he told her the things she had never heard before. She always had a song playing in her hand for any situation; he had a logical statement for any situation.

Sometimes, she did not talk much; sometimes, he did not listen much. 

If he made an effort, it was misunderstood.

If she made an effort, it went unnoticed.
And if words were her forte, indifference was his.

The conversations were stimulating as ever, albeit, they dropped over time. 

"This won't work, you know?"

"Yes!"

They laughed over it, and pushed it aside like it never happened. Things changed, eventually. The bond faded, in due course.

Sooner or later, this was meant to happen, she said to herself.
It was all a fallacy, he said to himself.

The isolated coffee shop embraced her solitude, again.
Ironically, seclusion was just his wilderness.

When all was said and done, they moved on with their lives.

Things ended, even before they began.

18 Things I Learned in 2013!

“For last year's words belong to last year's language 

And next year's words await another voice.” 

― T.S. Eliot

A year ago, I was spending one laid back evening at Truffles Cafe. What a simple way of welcoming a New Year! I admit it-it was the best 31st. It was perfect. Things have so changed so massively in a year. 

I sit down to write this, with so many thoughts in my head, and too many new songs in my playlist. I brood over all the things that happened this year. It has been one disgusting year topped with awful things. But, I've written down things that I learned this year. 

1. It is extremely difficult to hang out with people who do not enjoy food. Even if they are your closest friends alive on this planet Earth, I cannot be with someone who cannot enjoy food.

2. Indian writers are not bad at all. They are quite insightful. 
Jhumpa Lahiri, thanks for being with me this year. Your books were what I really needed.

3. People change. Things change. For good or bad.

You cannot expect things to be the way you want. *Sigh* So unjust!

4. A heartbreak can make you very vulnerable. It tears you apart. You see a different person in yourself. You see things with a different perspective. You change. A heartbreak is not simply an experience, it is a journey. We all go through it. Gracefully!

5. I saw myself going from "I don't want to wake up this morning" to "Let my room remain dark for I am doomed" to "I shall ignore everyone" to "Let me get sloshed" phase. And since my friends are my friends for a mighty reason, they stood by my side in madness and sadness. (It sounds cheesy. Yes, whatever!) 

6. It is alright to be alone. It is alright to go to a cafe alone, have a cup of coffee, and read a book.

For once, it is okay to go shopping alone and carry your own bags. 

It is better to watch movies alone too. Once can concentrate better. (Feel free to roll your eyes.)

7. Why, just why are people SO into this multiplex culture? It is an epic experience to watch a movie in a non-AC theater, located outside the city, without a parking lot. That is what I did this September 27. Boy, was it fun or was it fun? 

Also, the best movies are the ones I haven't watched in a multiplex. 

8. Facebook sucks. It leads to all bad things. It leads to stupid delusions.

9. Cooking takes your head off so many things. Practically, it makes you feel better. I turned into an awesome cook this year, and I just cannot stop bragging about it. Hello, are you listening?

10. There is never too much butter! I mean, really. 

11. Nothing like trance. 

12. First impression is always the worst impression. I am glad I did not go by the old idiom for I would have never made the friends I made this year. I made wonderful friends this year who put up with my whims and caprices, tantrums, ennui, and basically, every brickbat I threw at them. I am sure this trend will continue the next year, and yes, forever. Practically.

Sweet life!

12. I've started seeking comfort in words. Books. Not people. 

You've got a problem with that?

13. You can never hate the people you loved and adored once. You still feel the same about them.

You might be angry, and annoyed with them. I call it a momentary lapse of reason. 

And of course, there are always the second chances. 

14. Lately, I have realized that I am good at ignoring people. Most of the people. I am better off doing that.

If someone is trying to pull you down, if you have even a shred of dignity left, kindly shut them off. You don't need them. You deserve something beautiful. 

15. It is okay to not to have a clue on what you want to do, or what your lifetime plan is. Or what the back-up plan is if plan-A flounders.

For Christ's sake, I am just 22. I am young. I am learning. Let me make mistakes when I can afford to make them. 

16. Working in a corporate office is good. But having 100 bucks in the pocket of your pants as a college student is far richer feeling than having Visa/Mastercards in your bag. 

The coffee you share with your friends in a local place is better than Starbucks. 

17. I am glad I have a sister. Not a brother. I have enough cousin brothers who make my life painfully sweet yet miserable.

I am happy to have a sister who annoys me all the time, serves me bedside maggi, and lends me her favourite t-shirt once in a while.

18. Make memories. Take pictures. Your stupid brain won't store all the memories. Your pictures are the testament to all that you were. You didn't just have those moments. You lived them. Loved them. Take pictures. Document your life. It is worth it. 

I end this post on a rather nostalgic note. 2013, you have been incorrigible. Yet eventful. I shall never forget 2013. 

Thanks to everyone who were with me in this mad year. Also, the ones who weren't with me. Huge thanks. (No. I am not being sarcastic. *Grins*)

I hope you all have a smashing 31st and a wonderful 2014. And me? I already see a dirty martini enticing me.

Love,

Sunaina.

What Happens When You Date A Writer!

“Who wants to become a writer? And why? Because it’s the answer to everything. … It’s the streaming reason for living. To note, to pin down, to build up, to create, to be astonished at nothing, to cherish the oddities, to let nothing go down the drain, to make something, to make a great flower out of life, even if it’s a cactus.”

—Enid Bagnold

Have you ever wondered how it feels to date a writer? Fall in love so irrevocably it feels like a redemption from your rather insipid past?

When you are dating a writer, you might feel like you are with a person who is suffering with a multiple personality disorder. You can never predict what's going on in his head. Is it about the latest article that he has read or the insecurity he is experiencing about a fellow writer?

Dating a writer comes with its own pros and cons. You put up with his mood swings, his whims and caprices, and even when you feel like an outcast at times, you long for more. If a writer takes you into his life completely, he will write about you, everything about you. He will scandalize your lives. Your life becomes an open book and you find people criticizing your life. Very often! You can never escape that. A writer immortalizes you with every word. If you don't matter, he will never write about you. He is an emotional, aggressive, and a constructive lover. He loves you for all that you are but never forgets the blunders you make. They are forever engraved in his mind.

A writer is delusional. Many a time, you find yourself awake at wee hours of night exchanging tales about his day and the people he has met. You find him curling into a ball, wiping his tears when a book has a dramatic ending. You find him self absorbed, and you cannot fathom why you are so connected yet disconnected with this man whose days begin and end with words. And not you.

When you date a writer, you are up to date with all the happenings and affairs of the world. You share your tales with him, he will lend his ear amicably, and correct you often. It is for your own good, he says. Nobody's perfect at Grammar, he says. Yet you find him chastising you for not knowing the difference between your and you're. On rare nights, you see him consuming copious amounts of coffee, editing an article. Hold his arm, read his lines out, and give an honest opinion. But do not try to be an editor.

A writer may go into his cocoon but he will love you like no other. He will make love to you passionately and introduce you to the enchanting world of Pablo Neruda and Jean Paul Sartre. He is possessive and wouldn't let you be a part of another story. You belong with him and you know it.  

You find him easily disturbed even over the nitty gritty bits of a book. You call him demented. He laughs it away. There are moments when you wish you had a simple life like others. You want to run away from his nasty temper, yet find yourself enticed by his mysterious nature. He has an air of arrogance around him. You fancy it. Admit it!

"Why do you like that writer better than me? He is a misogynist." He runs his brown eyes over your lovely face, hoping for an earnest response.

You find yourself maundering. How can you possibly fight with your man for a writer who was dead decades ago. You smile. You fall for his tender childlike nature. He is on par with an infant when it comes to emotions. You take him into your arms and tell him how good a writer he is, softly appreciating his flair at weaving stories.

When a writer really loves you, he will show you his vulnerable side. For a moment, he will dismiss his wits, and take you into world that he proudly calls his kingdom -- a place where you truly belong. A place where he sits with a Hemingway's book on a worn out couch. He will never let go of you. You might let go of him, and drift away from him. But he will always remember you as a story that was left unfinished, and trust me, he will forever yearn for an ending for a writer believes in endings. Even if it is a tragic one.

His pen will ache for an ending. Always.