You cuddled me and cheered me up. You told me that it's all right, again and again. In your arms, I felt the warmth of your love. I felt safe, as you caressed me. When I cried, you wiped my tears and you cried with me. You spent sleepless nights during my sickness and bad days. You're the method to my madness, the reason why I am so brave. You always managed to sense the desperation beneath my cajolery. You're the reason why I've taken several steps towards events where I knew I was surely to get hurt. Yet, you asked me to take a chance. And you were the only one who did, so I did, I got hurt, but I learnt to lift myself up. You never let me be the burnt child who dreaded the fire. You helped me gain ground. You're a Good Samaritan, you forgive so easily. You extol the person who has hurt you, and it's beyond my realms of understanding how you manage to do that. 

You must have been trying to prepare me for different situations that might present themselves to me in future, and I was benighted at times. Because I could never comprehend what shape they might take in future, and this is where I was really a child to you.

And the times I have turned my face away from yours might be innumerable. A hundred little conflicts, fights and wishes that entailed being born far away from you now seem evil on my part, because it was always you who consoled me. Oh, how I always thought that you picked me to pieces and projected your aspirations on mine. But it's not your fault. Everybody in this world is allowed to have expectations. I do too. And yet you supported me no matter what. 

Your beliefs were never my beliefs, I evolved and changed and yet you accepted me for all that I am. I never believed in your God- his infinite knowledge, his love, his existence-it’s always a big joke to me. Yet we understood each other and existed on the same ground, happily. Our subtle perceptions and abstruse philosophies learnt to intermingle, and it’s still a work in progress. I can only imagine somebody to love me unconditionally, like you have. When did it matter if it were an obligation or not?

But I know now that I'm not a child anymore; I can't crawl back into your arms whenever I feel scared. I can't cry to you every time things went haywire because the number is uncountable. I can't discuss with you the interminable fights I fight with myself. I can't bother you with callow stories of all the whippersnappers I'd to deal with in my life. You don't tell me anymore that I'm too young for love because I'm too old to not know. You don't ask me where I'm headed, because I'm too old to not figure out the directions to a place that's far away from home. You don't ask me whom I'm talking to (not until you see a smile on my face!). 

You know exactly how much pain I can tolerate as I say I can't be hurt. 

And you know one thing best, mother - to mollycoddle me. 

Oh don't I hate being so cliché? 

But take this as a spiritual epiphany. I've always wanted to be myself. And these are my very genuine feelings. Here's to you, before these words get lost in a cobweb at the back of my mind and I'm too dazed to make sense of it all, before I use up all the words to cook up stories that hold no face value, here's to you. 

Her

She says, that

It is easy to fall in love with her,

Once you seek her out

But so very difficult to stay in love with her,

As you begin to connect the dots

Her, who is hunched over a worn-out book in the university library, with her long hair hanging over the sides of her shoulder, she who appears so still and stolid that you begin to wonder with a puerile curiosity, about what is so riveting about those pages that she seldom lifts up her face, and does so only to push her spectacles up on her nose.

Her, who is embarrassed at you being fascinated by her, who doesn’t want you to decipher her, or to tug at the seams of a mystery which is so intricately stitched to her being that she will come apart with one single pull, if you were to try so hard.

Her, who suddenly wears such a solemn and tired expression on her face that you feel guilty; you're an idiot, to look at her in a way an inquisitive child would look at something.

Her, who nervously started tugging at the hem of her top, displaying a gaucherie that yet again riveted your attention towards her and this realization, made her flush. So much so, that she closed her book and got up.

Her, on whose face you saw indifference, whose mellow eyes suddenly, seemed so piercing, testimony to the fact that you had been an oaf.  Her, who you had gotten paranoid, uncomfortable and flustered- all these things, that being her friend, you weren’t supposed to make her feel.

So this was her, who realized that you were falling in love with her. Because who else deciphers a person that way, than a guy who is in love with you, she’d said. 

Her, who stopped being a friend to you long ago, who’d bullshit her way out so effortlessly, making you the villain, and cried when she did so. Her, who didn’t want to jeopardize “our” friendship of one year, who said you haven’t know her “long enough”, then there was you, who’d have it no other way, who no longer wanted to be her nice friend.

She'd said, that

It is easy to fall in love with her,

Once you seek her out

But so very difficult to stay in love with her,

As you begin to connect the dots

You asked her, what does she mean, so she smiled her stupid smile and leaned in – to say nothing.

So it hurts. To remember her, her, whose sound of voice you long to hear, after a tired, long and hard day. And distinctly  remember her sweet cadence, her sincerity in her words, her wide eyed gaze over something that you said, her concentration, her cheerfulness, her energy- just like a dream, it all appears before your eyes, all of her- void of her.

Her, whose ramblings you can’t live without, whose logic of doing things a certain way always eluded you and, her, who always made you see things in a new light. Her immaculate and dramatic expressions, her unusual behaviour, her passion, her stupid grin, her long hair and her short hair- How is it; that you irrevocably came in close contact with her, only to be captivated by her and then relinquished, by her. She must be ok, you think. So you call up the next girl you could think of.

She writes in her diary, crying profusely. She calls it future.

So he complains that she is just not the same.

She chuckles; it’s always the same line with every nice guy she meets.

They always try to figure things out,

Always try to use them as a weapon against her.

And she being so passionate, it always ends on a bitter note.

So they always get over her, before it actually ever begins.

But had she known you were different, that you were not just fascinated, that you would have loved her unconditionally, had you understood her when she said to you, “long enough” or, had you been a little more patient, she would’ve definitely pursued you. But you let her slip away and, she you. 

Cataclysmic.

2010

In times of despair, 

The feelings she wished to have shared-

With the one that understood, as authentically as he ever could;

It was all she ever wanted.

And she'd be so incandescent, at the brilliant description of lonely nights

Given by people who loathed it, but who are too afraid to admit.

But this lonesome woman still cries, no matter how bright the moon shines.

No matter how satisfying being alone felt,

The love the other woman received from their loved "one", 

Repressed all love she has ever received from her loved ones.

Now there isn't a dearth of love in her life, and neither of importance.

But still, why does she feel unloved? And unwanted?

And why is that she stands alone, not one name to call her own.

Not one love to be proud of, not one love to boast. 

And how has this managed to relegate her to her worst? 

She is certainly Cinderella in reverse, but then she hasn't ever been mistreated. 

Surely, these twisted set of questions intermittently seduce her into its chimera.

In them she finds - a hand to hold, eyes to search.

She finds a voice, a name - and the universe of unreality which they have to offer. 

She obtains nothing more and nothing less; and nothing as satisfying as the reality. 

So, frustratingly and curiously, at the far end of the rainbow, she flounders with the questions,

That only he could answer. 

But before the end, she meets him in the middle.

He says - You're the best I've ever known, you've been brought to me so that I can call you my own.

She cries.

But at the end, he isn't there, so she slumps to the floor,

And persists to cry. 

Flowers at the doorstep

 This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

“Tomorrow is your birthday, I am sure you have made a list of things you want, ranked by priority? Is it five pages long yet?” Chris said with a smile on his face, a genuinely amused one, it’s nothing rare for me as I’ve gotten used to it by now. Seeing him almost every day at work had brought us closer.

I wanted to roll my eyes at him or shake my head but ended up articulately staring at him, with a smile on my face, heart palpitating like a sleeping volcano, at the unexplored possibilities, at the percolating realizations. Anything I might have wanted- a new dress, an iPod or art supplies even - seemed to be vacuous. I’ve far long stopped caring about the materialistic things, they were nothing compared to the one thing I wanted the most.

“No,” I said. “There isn’t any list.”

He laughed through his nose, shaking his head, his hair falling on his eyes, dishevelled as always. Also, he had a habit of running his hands through his hair every now and then, making them more messy. His hair was black, like mine, but not nearly as light. Mine looked brown at times. He runs his fingers through his hair, only to have them fall on his forehead again.

“There must be something you really want; otherwise it’s going to be a boring birthday.”

If he knew nearly as much as I knew, it would have been a different conversation. But if there is one thing, it’d be the freedom; freedom to love who I wanted and freedom to make my own choices.

“Let it be.” I said instead.

He stayed silent, studying me like he was trying to remember something, trying to find something; I tried not to give myself away and started working instead. I was aware that he was looking at me still and I know before he stops looking, he’ll shake his head, laugh through his nose and get back to his work.

It was why we connected the way we did, in spite of the five-year gap in our ages. I’d fallen for him last December. It has been a year. I met him during one of the coffee breaks which I took that day. I’d never seen him in the office before; he was in the canteen, running towards his colleagues when the Marlboro pack fell out of his pants. I almost didn’t care, but something unusual caught my attention and I had to pick up the Marlboro pack. There was a note attached to it which said: 'You know you want it, Chris'. And I don’t know if he was trying to stop smoking or trying to kill himself. It amused me and I went up to him to return the pack, attached a note to it which said: 'Why would you drop me? Don’t you want me now?' Humph. The rest is history.

“I know that every girl has a predilection for flowers, you need not hide it.” He said

“Don’t you have work, Mr. Sexist?” I said without glancing at him.

In a not-so-obvious way to change the subject, he said “Need to make a call, don’t miss me.” I rolled my eyes at him.

At almost seven in the evening, we left the office. I reached my flat in about twenty minutes. Surprised at what my eyes were seeing. Because at the doorstep, were roses. I hastened to pick them up, they were beautiful, immaculate red colour glittered under the yellow light, the smell was intoxicating. There was a note attached to them, I opened it up and read it aloud: See, girls do have a predilection for flowers.

Credits: Google.

I laughed, looked around me to make sure no one was there to catch me smiling like a fool or to point out how red my cheeks have had become. Fool. He is. And here is another sublime moment to cherish, I may have never had a predilection for flowers before but I certainly do now. 

She does know

What is it like to be in love with him? She asked

It’s like being connected to a future which is only possible if the present were not present. Possible only if reality separated itself from what is real; from the present. And one of the many inevitable facts of life is learning that past, present and future are inseparable. The present merely stands on the hopes of the future and exists on the learning’s of the past: the atonements, failures you overcame and achievements you made. Past is the one that you’re drawn to every millisecond, and if you’re lucky, it’s only the good and the bad which reminds you of it and looking back on it, you're met with a thousand different ways you could've ended something or begun something beautiful. 

But coming back to the question, it’s a song which never knows its ending.

It’s the fingers trembling over the guitar when you first start learning it. In the beginning, the chord is strummed harder than you intentionally want to strum it and every note is held tightly until your fingers start to hurt, your hand is stiff, the plectrum is held tightly, you’re struggling and there is only noise to be heard. When you’re not a beginner anymore, the chord is strummed softly and you can hear every note and it sounds beautiful. Your right hand loosens up, it becomes acclimatized to the plectrum and your left hand becomes acclimatized to the fret board.

But why am I comparing Love to learning the Guitar? Because it is so much similar to it, as in the beginning, you’re not sure how to handle it; you’re not even sure about what it is, so you wear your heart on your sleeve. You’re afraid if you don’t hold onto it tightly, the feeling could go away and you might lose all the desire. But when things start getting clearer and you know what it is, you hold onto it faintly, otherwise, you might destroy it (Broken strings, anyone?).

It’s constantly searching the eyes, looking for some kind of revelation. And you stay submerged in them for a while, but the answers never surface the eyes.

It’s like living in a country you don’t know the language of. It’s that eloquent word which you never use in a conversation, because you never get the opportunity.

It’s as if you’ve been given your favourite book to read for one and the last time. So you read between the lines, you hang on to every word and memorize your favourite quotes and before finishing it, you take your time. You take all the time you need. And when you do finish it, you know for a fact that you can’t ever read it again or touch it again. All you have of it is all you’ll ever have of it. The words engraved in your skin, the smell of it at the tip of your nose, the texture of it felt at your fingertips, you have whatever you could take from it but you’ll never have the real thing.

What’s felt in the heart can’t be fathomed into words really. Only if I could somehow show how I feel, you know, like trap my every sensation and every glance I steal in the direction of it, a place where the butterflies like to flutter their wings to.

Like the air, I can only feel it. I can’t touch it.

It’s the dark fervour of a stormy night; it’s the colourful and ceremonious validation of the flowers during spring time.

It’s affection on Monday, confusion on Tuesday, love on Wednesday, hatred on Thursday, hope on Friday, love on Saturday, and confusion on Sunday all over again. It is all or nothing; really, it is a hundred different feelings on Tuesday and emptiness on Thursday. But I know it’s not going anywhere because the feelings keep coming back to me like a Boomerang, felt harder than it did the last time it hit me.

But people fall in love with people they can’t have, all the time. She said

I know.