I am writing a letter to life for the #DearZindagi activity at BlogAdda

Dear Zindagi, 

I know I haven't even reached a quarter of a century in age yet. But this I can say, it has been one hell of a ride. And this moment right now I have been compelled to look back on all those wonderful moments which you've given me, opportunities you've showered me with, kindness you’ve showed me and all the wonderful people you’ve had me come across. No matter how little or big the problems were and no matter how bad the times were, there was always something to be thankful for at the end of each day. 

It's difficult to comprehend all the little details of the concatenation of things which make me thankful. But it's deeply felt; the gratitude. You’re indecipherable yet simple; your intricacies enthral me every day. There must be some twisted logic behind all that follows a good day- that smile, the laughter, the wind, the dogs, the butterflies, the leaden sky, the shore, the eyes of your lover, the touch, soft bed-sheets, rain- which is never ending. I know it’s entirely arbitrary and this isn't even the apotheosis of you.

But I am thankful for all the sublime moments and I am thankful for all that you've taught me in my abject moments. As overwhelmed as I might have been, as "unlucky" and as deranged as I might have felt, I've always gathered the strength you've somehow instilled into me, to get back up to you again. And in those moments, I believe that I've lived you before I even existed. I guess such is your magic. To just know, when to do the right thing, when to escape from a dangerous place, when to say hello to someone, when to look in time to catch them looking at you, when to stop talking or when to go to loo. You’re an austere grandeur, unique in all your exquisiteness. Mine, yet connected to hundreds and hundreds to come.

And from being completely clueless and having no idea as to where you were “going”, to finding the patience to connect the dots, I’ve learnt to live you pristinely, genuinely. And now as I cascade though my elusive thoughts, I could almost discern a fact about you, a fact which always seemed to have whizzed past me in moments of utter confusion and indignation – that you were never complicated. That you were as easy to live as you were to rewind, that you were as chaotic as I made you out to be. So, I’m sorry. I’ve always had some twisted idea of perfection about you, that you should be orderly and neat, easy and sweet, all the time. But they say that you don’t come with instructions and that we’ve got to make our own. You’re laughing, right? I guess you must. You only know what sorts of instructions you’ve hidden in a cryptext somewhere.

But I love you. I love every little feeling, every blush and every touch, every dance and every song, and how you’ve managed to interconnect delicately and gradually, with everything and everyone. Remember, not even a quarter, but oh so many subtle and good times. And I don’t know which the right way to live is or if I’ll ever know or if there even exists a right way; but I know I’ll be as true to you as I possibly can, until the very last day you’re with me. The love I feel is strong, what I show to you is just a mere reflection of my exterior, so I’m sorry if I show too little and if I am dingy too often. And thank you for loving me right back, no matter what. 

Thank you. Love you.  

Yours truly

  Dear Zindagi Take 1: Life Is A Game | Teaser | Alia Bhatt, Shah Rukh Khan | Releasing Nov 25

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.