Intezaar (poem)

29^th May, 2015.

Aaj phir woh dastak de gaye in khamosh darwaazon par,

aur de gaye kuch jeene ki wajah, ek maqsad,

jo aaj bhi zinda rakhti hain mujhe in veeraniyon mein,

maqsad intezaar ka.

Intezaar karta hoon main, shayad unhe bhi intezaar hain,

Faaslon ke kashmkash mein humein intezar hain ek dusre ka,

Ki kab hum doori mitayen, ki kab woh ek wajah banein thaherne ki.

Dard hota hain intezaar mein, bewajah raahon mein bhatakne mein,

Shayad woh bhi yahi kartein hain, bewajah dard sahtein hain.

Nadan, nasamajh hum dono hi isi intezaar mein hain,

ki kabhi kisi raah par ek dusre se mil jaayein, aur puchhe ek dusre se,

‘kahan the?’

Mujhe intezaar hain unke dastak ka, mere darwaaze par, unki muskurahat ka.

Unhe shayad intezar hain unke dil par meri sargoshi ka, ki shayad chupke se unhe

Choomlun main.

Isi intezaar ke darmiyan aaj main bhi hoon aur woh bhi, ek dusre ke dard se waaqif.

Toh kya main kahoon, ki main yaahin hoon, unke, aapke intezaar mein, aapko

Thaamne aur mohabbat se dil mein phir se utarne ke liye?

Kya main kahoon, ki bina kisi kasmakash, aur intezaar na ho?

Project : Letters #6

19th May, 2015.

Well, someone has asked me to complete it. So, the next letter in the series.

Letter 6.

“03rd November, 2014.

Dear _______

‘For Rishiraj Bhowmick, she will always be the _________. Everyone had seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes, she eclipses the whole of her sex. True, it might would have been not so if he hadn’t been so much of cold and abhorrent in his own accord, where he held all such notions of passion and love as trivial, yet there she was, ________ of a dubious memory who designed a new person in him.’

If I ever write a story about us (which I will), I would start with this line. Please mind my shaky handwriting, something has happened, I will come to that in a bit. Oh by the way, this line has been taken from ‘A scandal in Bohemia’ by A.C Doyle. Read it if you can.

So… 03rd November! My birthday unfortunately. Or as of today, might it be the most fortunate day in my life. You know, it will be false if I say that I wasn’t expecting anything. Really. It started in the morning when Veenu called first. Then Dishant, Shiv and that’s the point I started expecting. Although after that nothing much of interesting happened until moments before when… ah, when you called. You really take fun in torturing my heart, don’t you? I mean, no message nothing, when everyone else wished me right after 12.00 am last night, but not you. I was actually feeling lower and lower, to the point when I almost decided to switch my phone off and throw it away somewhere in the room, but you called. Couldn’t believe it that you did, but it was there. Your call, your voice…

My earliest memory of you is not from 12th of august, 2012, when I first messaged you on facebook, asking “kire, mone aache na bhule gechish?”, to which you replied, “Of course I remember, I am surprised that you remember me!” check it if you want, we talked about history and Enrique, instead, I remember you from 2004 to ’06, When you sat with or behind Nuzayra Hassan Khan in class 5c, just by the window. True, you never remember from there because I was practically invisible. Then there was 2006 when you left school. Sometimes, when our bus crossed the sainik farm area, where now the BRT stands, we (me and a classmate) used to wave at you, whenever we saw you there with that silly boy-cut hairstyle. That is my faintest memory of you. You used to stand on the other side of the road, and you waved at us… Heh… I am amazed by my own memory. Anyways, that is what I remember, and I never thought that after 9 years, we’ll be here, in love with each other. Strange it is! But when has life been not strange?

You know S_______, I was going to thank you for that…that song you sang (okay, I asked you to, but you did!) but I would not. I would not thank you for this gift, or for Brida, or for Wallflower, or for the origami lotus you made for me that is safe in my box. No! Although, these gifts are so beautiful, but I am afraid they don’t mean anything in comparison to the other gift. The most exquisite gift that you gave me. The gift of life. Since the day I met you, since the day I had the fortune of knowing you, I knew what life was. I became a better person, a person with enhanced perception of things that might seem mundane to others. Trisha said that love makes us a better human, day by day, we change, bloom into something new, and she was right. I became what I wanted to but never could due to wrong choices. And that is just by your constant warmth and friendship, I need not to tell you what your love has made me. You know that pretty well, (why did you send me that Simpsons pic? It was funny and true). It made me much more of a human, your friendship, your silliness, and your bloody moodswings that made me what I am today, tonight. A guy who is in love, not with you only, but with life and everything else. For such a thing, for undoing me and making me vulnerable to world, letting me be what I was to be and feeling that there is always a better thing, thank you _______ thank you so much.

As it is my birthday, can I ask for one more thing? Just one more thing? Can I have you for the rest of my life? Not just as the love, but as a friend, a companion with whom I can be me, me? With whom I can share life and the adventures to come? Can I ask you not to leave me? (Well, you said you would not, ever, not until you die, but still). Will you be the constant magic that you already are? You are walking with your heart in your suitcase, don’t show me what’s in there, but can you take mine and put in there? I will walk with you to the farthest lands. I don't want to heal you of your hurt and pain, healing will not make my love love, it will be something else. I want be your companion not your healer, and walk. You are the strongest person, you'll heal and you do not need help. Well, I promised to walk with you even if you go bald…(when is it happening man?)

Anyways, now I guess you know the reason for my shaky handwriting. I am exalted, exuberant and that is in effect! Thank you for such a wonderful gift of life, poems and your presence. I love you!

Jaaai ebaar, onek likhechi… just don’t, cry… okay?

Goodnight love!

R.B (signature)…”

Disadvantges

19th May, 2015.

I know it is too early that I am posting something, given that there was a stupid rant last night. I have been asked to post the next letter in the letter series, but it can wait. I am not going anywhere, and neither my brain is rotting, it is saved up there. This is about something else. The title must have made it a bit obvious if not entirely clear.

I just returned from C.R Park, and it was raining when I reached there. I walked, soaked in rain, went to library and donated some books, it was fun in rain. You know, actually, you should take a walk with me in rain. I promise you, by the end of the day, you will, quite inevitably, fall in love with me and the rainy days. Believe it, you will, I am that good. Mostly with rain, a little with me!

Anyways, this is not about my acute pluviophilia, it is about something else. If anyone of you had the opportunity to see the TV show Sherlock, there is this amazing quote: “all lives end, all heart gets broken, caring is not an advantage Sherlock!” it was spoken by Mycroft Holmes, his elder brother and far superior a detective, who looks us normal people as goldfish (nice metaphor btw).

So…why am I speaking of such heartless things? Well, you see, there was this message last night. I won’t go into the finer details; they are irrelevant for you and all. It said, and I quote “whatever you are, being egoistical to a person you can’t help caring is the last thing.”  Quite right. Am I that readable? Or are my efforts to conceal myself are so quaint and vain? Perhaps the concerned person is right; I am, if anything, hardly egoistical towards the people I care about. Care, respect, love, anything. But it doesn’t mean I do not have an ego, no, I possess it much powerfully that it sometimes becomes hurtful to others. That is my disadvantage. Caring! The more I ask myself to shut the hell up and leave everyone, be reckless and uncaring, the more my other part shuns it out. Mycroft was right, caring is not an advantage. And Sherlock was right too, love is a chemical defect found on the losing side. So, here I am, on the losing side with a huge disadvantage. But then, isn’t it a much better position? Yes, I care way too much than it needs, than it requires, I love too much so that it sometimes seems maddening and which might have led to me into a greater insanity (oh well, sane people don’t feel the rain, they use umbrella and then sing song of rains), and indeed it has cost me a certain disadvantage of keeping my words and promises as my priorities. When the entire world is leaving the old school notions of such a blatant thing, I am constantly here, trying to be better than I was yesterday, or 5 minutes ago. Caring, loving. So, where does my ego goes? I just said that I do have an ego, where does it fit itself if inside these? Maybe it is like those disorders where if I start liking a person, sorry, if I start respecting a person, it becomes my pride. For instance, I have utter respect for people like my Dada, (I am excluding immediate family, my Dada is cousin), or friends like Dishant and Narcissus and Marion and Doc and Bohemian. For them, I have pride. I take pride in knowing them, having them, loving them. But for people other than them, who haven’t earned my respect for that matter, they aren’t worth of my time and energy. I have more cousins, and I don’t give the flying shit for them. I have other ‘acquaintances’ but they hardly matter to me, and there comes my ego. It becomes huge enough to let them wither away. Indeed, if the ask for my help, I can be there, but other than that, nuh-uh. I don’t mean to be rude, but if they can’t even touch my brain, what is the point of anything?

Anyways, the point that I so stupidly tried to make was, yes, the person was right, and yes, I will continue to be in such a disadvantaged side. For all that matters, I am not what I believe I was, it is such a better thing to do, be in love and care for those who are your cogs and gears in your heart… Sure, some take it for granted at times, my care sometimes becomes a bloody doormat. I let them do it, if it makes them feel good! I need to stop it though, until then!

Shiv is calling again and again, his exam tomorrow… damn, how many fools are there for me?

Ta!

What's up!

18th May, 2015.

Well hello darling readers of mine who have nothing to do in this fine evening. I have a plan for you. Take a walk! Get an auto and go to mehrauli, the bhul bhulaiya is amazing right now. Or take your car and drive off to hauz khas, c.p , or Agra! Just get the hell out and smile at someone you don’t know, anything that doesn’t agrees with your daily life!

Anywho, I don’t know what or why I am writing. Had my entrances yesterday and it was not bad. But the aftermath was worse… you know, Delhi is burning up again, after a fortnight of rain and my pluviophilia, it just messed me up. Well, most of you must know that I have this bad habit of taking long walks in odd hours, so I took one today. And that’s about it! First it was my head that spun like the time I had cough syrup to get high. You know, 12 pm in the afternoon, when the roads are deserted, you really don’t want to get out in thus summer. Anywho, after a profuse sweating, cold palms and sudden bleeding out of my nose, I found myself in the toilets of Shiv Mandir, CR park, washing my face. Funny how it feels when your head spins. The voices and faces get distorted like those bad VCR from the early 90’s, you try to figure out what is going on but you have no other option than to crash down somewhere and wait for the time to mend itself.

The marble floor of the temple was cool enough, along with the fan up on the ceiling, and people really do not have time for you, they are busier with god and their demands. I wonder when they stopped demanding and actually thanked god for what they have. When was the last time I thanked them for everything? Last Monday I assume, I am hazy on the details, but I always thank them. Demand too! But thank mostly. Anyways, that is for later rants. Suffice to say, I came home and crashed on the bed.

The good news is, I am not dead, not yet. Well, believe me, I am not dying easily. I have plans. And I intend to execute them. I made a new list of places and treks, so yeah, not in the next 75 or 80 years motherfu****r! And then there are the other things...

Well, what next? What’s on my mind? Lets see… um… I started hike, but the software sucks, nobody there. My sketching is going good, instagram is basically loaded with my “artworks” than photographs, there is another story, a new poem, a new book I started and there is that… eh… I might have learnt a bit how to dance like Elvis! Baby, if you need to dance, dance like the king did! or John Travolta (Saturday night fever). Anywho, I need to go now, need to write it off! And a walk, although, I am seriously advised to stay at home, I am not in a position to go out! But then, have I ever listened? What is life without the silly things?

Love to you!

Regards!

Sulk.

14^th May, 2015.

12^th May 2015. 4.45 pm. Surajkund Helipad. 5 young people with the broadest variations of emotions, smoking cigarettes and maybe pondering over things unknown to each other. Narcissus was right in a certain way. I was sulking. But not because of one obvious reason, there were many.

11^th May, 2015. 9.10 pm. A call came which I wasn’t expecting. Actually, if anything, I was expecting that there would not be a call, but then, it did. Marion called, and there wasn’t a request but matter of fact order, “you have to come!”, couldn’t refuse.

It was his birthday, narcissus’, and I was invited. No big deal right? I mean, it just a birthday party, how can it even qualify to be on a blog to be written and to be read? Yet, considering all that I have seen, been through or done, it does become a certain issue with me, in a better way of course.

You see, I have a best friend, Dishant. Yes, maybe the only best friend I have. Even then, I do not expect much from him. I know his birthday, I know Veenu’s birthday (his girlfriend) I know Newton’s birthday, the bohemian's birthday, and everyone else’s birthday for whom I have the deepest respect and love only, and yet I don’t expect a phone call or an invitation to be there. I really don’t. I stopped that when I was in school, class 11, when I had this really close friend, or so I thought. She was having her birthday party in lunchtime. Everyone was invited, really, all of them. But me, I was quite invisible. I went into the classroom to wish her, but I saw, not happiness but awkwardness in their faces and I knew I wasn’t needed there. They would have a much better time if I left and so I did. After that, I sort of promised to myself to avoid all such trivial things and trained myself to be detached from such expectations to be called or that my presence would make any difference there. As I said, I remember all the birthdays of the people close to me, yet I do not expect anything. To be very truthful, I do not even expect any call own my own birthday. As much as i love my friends, my closest people to my heart, i really don't expect, not much in a sense of saying. It had been so for so long that I don’t know what to feel or what to say. The last birthday was an exception, with that call, that phone at 8.30 pm when we talked and I was wished with the song. Anyways, that is for a later matter to rant about. I will say, it was beautiful.

As said, I don’t know how or why my presence means that much to Marion, Narcissus or to Roy for that matter (who was really adamant for my presence), I was going through a lot. Not because I was happy or overjoyed, but because it wasn’t normal for me. Yes, I root for all kinds of chaos and entropy, serious types of maddening shenanigans and all sorts of things that might seem eerily repulsive, but they are my design, I create them for my own existing behavior. But this, this was a lot to take in and then let it settle. I am not saying that I didn’t enjoyed, hell, it was a pretty awesome day for me, given my rather dull routines these days, but then, you cannot handle everything all at once. Life is not really a game of chess, you cannot, not in a million years, you can plan and calculate and then hope that they will fall into right places. Never happens. And since it is really not in our control, we can just do one thing, sit down and take a moment. Yes, he was right, I was sulking. I was indeed, sulking regarding too many a things. Sometimes, you need to smoke and sulk to know what is going on. An absence, a message, a dialogue and the moment itself. The helipad is somewhere you can sit silently and look over the dry green shrubs, the cawing of peacocks, and the honks of cars far down the road, yet they won’t be disturbing in the least. I was really rooting for a presence of the face so beautiful, I was trying to figure out the need for a certain unrelated thing and the dialogue I had with a person. Then there was this event too.

Well, in any case, I would like to thank you mate… no, actually, I would like to thank Marion for calling me up and quite intimidating manner demand my rather inconclusive presence. I guess, as of right now, I do exist somewhere. And maybe that is all for me to celebrate!

Regards!

p. s – two things, Lucifer is finally getting a show, ah, that devil! (I would like that name for me, LUCIFER!)

project : letter #5

12^th May, 2015.

Letter 5

“2^nd November, 2014.

Darling _______

Well, how can I describe what the morning was like? I told you I go to jog every day, and the morning mist is just…OOOFFFF!!! Like you would have a serious urge to get that mist in a cup and sip it, tasting its dewy texture until it gets down your throat. That sheer feeling of content when I see the sun finally breaking out of the sky. I told you I would take you there; it is something that I really want to share with the one person. A morning date please? Pretty please?

Anyways, I hope you like the sketch I made of you. Well, the nose is a bit like a beak, please forgive me, I am not an artist like you. And I used just pen, so no scope of erasing. I just saw your photo and did it! ( :/ )

Now that you are basked in the glory of your own sketch, let me talk. It is about your blog dated 22^nd October, 2014. Yes, I read your blogs a couple of times. Hmmm… why do you thank me for such a little thing? I mean, I just made you write in your diary when you weren’t. Okay, let me explain.

When I say I love you, it is not just that warm fuzzy feeling in the heart, or that need or urge to see my phone every morning or that long conversations until late of nights. I mean, they are so clichéd things, right? Romantic, yes, but you know me, I am a bit unnatural I a certain way of expressing things.  When I say I love you, I have a responsibility. To make you better than you are, or atleast take you back, undone you, uncover you. I am not just your boyfriend or man or whatever the term we use, we share a much, much deeper bond, respected and understood. Can you give me any instance when the girl or the boy pushes the other person to do something that is just right? You remember I asked you every day, to complete the “whiskey in teacup” analogy? I didn’t wanted it because it was for me, your love is enough an analogy. I asked you to write it because I wanted you to write. You are a great writer you see; your ideas about a story and their subsequent execution are beautiful. I wanted to see your bohemian style because frankly, no one drinks whiskey in a teacup, let alone metaphorising it with a person! It could only be you! Or remember the Haiku class in your British council? The Hypothermia poetry? (that was…ha!) everybody else might have written all the usual things, yours was out of the usual. I am not flattering you; I am just making a point. So, I pushed you to write the diary, the part of you which has been since so long… like 9 or 10 years of your life? I don’t know exactly. So when I asked, pushed you to write, write, write, I only wanted you to pick your pen, and bleed it out. Whatever you were/are thinking. I don’t know if I have a place in your journals, I don’t mind if am not.

Now, there are people, “lovers” I see out there who just are there! Unaware of each other. Yes I am comparing, because that is what I am! Look at Dishant-Veenu (you gotta meet them), Shimpy-Sanjay, Newton-Mishti or anyone else you know. But have you ever seen them push each other at their better core? Sure, they love each other, true in all senses and their hearts are connected, but really, where is the urge to know each other? They know their likes, dislikes, past, like I do know you, your past, your faults and fairness, and you do about me, but there is more to us both! It is not about knowing what is already so obvious; it is about knowing what is beneath so much of drama we hold. I pushed you to write a page but wasn’t me who took you back to your roots of knowing and existence as you so eloquently put in your X-ray blog, it was you, all the way. I just took you to the edge and saw you fly! That is a flight too my love, that one page was your flight in your own accord. I don’t know how many people risk that, the push to the person they love. Mostly people will look in your eyes and speak all sorts of honey laced things, fantasies and dreams and all. They will expect you’re abundant in their mediocrity. But me? My dear, even though I do these things too, I dare to risk. I want to take you to the cliff and ask you to jump, so that you know what is flying. Love is not all about feeling safe in one’s arms, melted like a butter bar, no! it is, as I have learnt by being with you only s_____a, the fact that the edge is always there and how strongly will you go to know yourself! And I will push you again and again, not as a pushover of do this and be with me or call me and text me, but as a friend, to know your limits, and exceed them, expand them, as I myself am pushing me, as you too push me to do what I do good, to do better and then to do best! Believe me, not many people do this, they are afraid! I do this because I love you and I want to know why you are instead of who you are!

I guess now you know, you don’t need to thank me! it was my sincere obligation to my own heart actually. What you do need to do is, believe me, trust me a little when I am trying to push, I am really trying to open another door inside you, love! But still, I am honored that you feel special that I have been there for things like these. I will always be there for you my darling!

Love you always!

R.B (signature)

p. s – got my monthly payment from the tuitions, phuchkaa khaabi ebaar?…"

project : letter #4

11^th May, 2015.

Letter 4

“1^st November, 2014.

Dear ________

I feel a bit better from last night. Woke up around 1 just to find out your message on my phone. It seems, you are so deeply missing me that your Sabbath is irrelevant now huh? But if you do not go, why am I writing these? And why are you writing the letters then? Seriously, we are just complete mad…oh wait, you don’t like being called mad…but it is true, we are! By the way, I am giving you another name, ‘meera’. I don’t know why, but it suits you. You never told me why you left ISCKON, but I assume it has something to do with your name. I was going through your pictures (stalking, yes, I know you do too) and I found that photo with the tilak on your forehead. That, and that huge argument we had about god’s existence and Geeta. Hehehe… man, you are one amazing woman. Anyways, I cannot write much now, maybe later again, I am leaving a space on this page for any developments. (note to self- have to talk about your recent blog). I am going out with parents. Will text you later sweetheart.

Oh and, you are invited on third! (although you will get this letter on 6th December).

Love you always.

R.B (signature)…”

project : letters #3

11^th May, 2015.

Letter 3

“31^st October, 2014.

Dear_________

I love you. It is 2.30 in night, and I am sick. Very sick. Actually, against your repeated warnings and pleas, I did another experiment with myself, had a bath with cold water and it just hit me bad. Doctor’s orders, to sleep and have rest. You can see my handwriting going too awry, as it is proven in science of graphology that our handwriting is affected by our mental and physical health. I am sorry, no more experiments.

Anyways, everybody else is asleep, I am in my room, and the table lamp is glowing bright.  I am really not feeling very well, I want to sleep, but something reminded me of you and I realized, I never had been so much in love with you as of right now. And it is not just love you see. Even though we talked a bit today (seriously, are you going to Sabbath or not?), I feel like talking to you for an eternity and it will never be enough for me. Yes I know, I always say I love you, as you say you do too, but tonight, as it seems my brain is turning into a mush, I feel your presence more strongly around me. You asked me, why I love you so much, even after your complete stupidity at times. I don’t know. I never started off with loving you. The first time I met you on facebook, it was just as an old friend, sort of face from past. But tonight, after 4 years of our beautiful friendship, I feel the happiest person on earth, to have my bo_____n as not only my friend, but as my love, and in turn being loved by you. And I am honored. Because frankly, I never thought that I would love anyone. I was so cold and placid for everything. No, I am not drunk or anything. I am writing this with my otherwise dull but still functioning faculty. You see, when I say that I feel your presence, when I say that I feel your kisses, I really do. That time, I feel a lump in my throat, overwhelmed by the sheer fact that there is a woman, who could have anyone, she chose me. And I still don’t know why. You said that I was able to woo you, with my words and the calm secrecy that I hold. You say that after your dadabhai, ms kushwah, I am the person you saw who is strong enough and that is what made you love me. That and my withholding power on my anger. Although, I don’t really hold it, I just let it out on the other way, so that I won’t hurt you. I had hurt you before and they were a blow to my own heart. I will not hurt you again. If I had my way with the world, I would have done everything to take you out of your trauma, but since I cannot do that, I am doing what I should do. To love you. If there is a choice for me to choose between you and a hundred riches or the world at my feet, I will always choose to be with you. With my bo____n. Why? Simple enough, you are a poison to my heart, the complete bedlam to my head and yet, without you, my life seems bland, tasteless. You’re like that first drop of rain that I taste. Whenever I am with you, I feel, that all my problems, heartaches, everything is worth if the end result is you. You, my love are that one book I never want to finish, I want to keep reading you and be surprised by each new page of you. Yes, I might act rude around you, but believe me, it is just because I don’t know how to act around you and keep myself in check all at a same time. The night when you said yes, after my long and arduous tries, I was just silent. I     not sleep the whole night, because I did not knew what sleep was. Well, you know that, I told you the next day. I love you because I don’t know you. I don’t know what enigma you hold inside you or how much damaging your love for me will be, I might die from it. If it means to be so, I will die for you then, so be it! I want to know you, your puzzled heart. I love you because you’re a walking ball of that certified energy that if handled carelessly, will be too destructive. Loving you is a risk, and I am ready for it. There is no other way I would like you. Not a calm serene fair maiden, but that raging nymph who messed up my heart with just a touch. You are pure love my bo____n.  I know that I am your living diary; I hold a major part of your emotions within me, in a vow of secret to not let them out, and knowing that, I am even more overwhelmed to know that your love for me is, unending, when you said “you can leave if you want, if you ever feel suffocated, I will understand. I will know that you left, but remember that S______ loved you more than ever. Know that I love you with all my heart and will never leave you, my stupid Mr. Holmes…” I don’t know whether you were drunk or not, I don’t care if you were, because at the end, you love me, more than I love myself, even if I lose my way, you will be here to bring me back. I don’t even know how I achieved this, how did I got the most beautiful person in love with me, how did I get her smile and mood swings for me or how did I managed to get into her heart, but I know this, that I won’t stop now. I am even forgetting the 30 feet rule, forget it, I am meeting you next time and I will hold you closer to me, you, the one with fat in her skull…(your blog). Damn…I love you…I just do and I will, regardless of whatever happens, I will never let my love for you falter.

Oh look, it is 3.20 already, I need to sleep now. I hope when you hold this paper in your hand, we will read it together. I want to see your face lighting up. And maybe, I will kiss you.

Until then, goodnight.

I love you.

R.B (signature)…”

Project : Letter #2

10th May, 2015.

So, mother's day. I really do not get the point of assigning a particular day for the person who means world to you. Like, what about the rest of the 364 days? You don't love her then? But anyways, whatever makes you lot happy. I am here to continue my Project : Letters. This is the second one. So, here.

Letter 2.

"30th October, 2014.

Dear ________

It is 6.45 in the evening and I am here on my roof, looking at the Qutub Minar and writing this.Yes, the same Qutub Minar that you could't see, hahahaha.... but the evening was beautiful. Finally you were in my actual Sandcastle, by my side, and I cannot ask for anything more. I even remember your appearance. Full sleeved blue floral dress, blue jeans, hair tied to a ponytail or plait (i am not sure what to call it).  Anywho, the Minar is still there if you want to know, although the fog is consuming it. October fog... hmm... i loved that evening more than any.

So, let me describe you what is it like up here now, or the things going around. See if you can imagine it, since you do have a way with it. the sky is purpulish in shade, the sun already is down, done with the day, letting the night to take us in her embrace. Silly, sometimes we personify night as a man and at times as a woman. Maybe to suit our rather 'poetic' needs. Anyway, right on the opposite roof of mine, there is a man with his wife and their little kid. the child is playing with a broken helicopter toy, the mother and the father are munching on peanuts and drinking tea. The mosque is already calling out with the evening prayer and there is a temple too somewhere, i cannot see it, but can hear the bells and they are playing this "Mata rani" song on highest decibel possible. Strange is human's faith.

There is a guy on the roof on far left to my roof. He is wearing a red t-shirt and blue jeans. Continuously oogling on the phone screen, he just stood up in an exuberant manner, I am assuming his girlfriend had finally called him, given is jolly gait across the whole roof and smile. That reminds me how much i am like him, waiting for your text. yes, we do not call each other, but then, we talk like hell. I can actually feel his heartbeat, because it is like mine when i see your text with "Mr HOOOOLMES!". Well...we will continue that after your sabbath is over. For now, I will my heart in this strange but lovely solace.

Down below on the street, the kids are playing badminton, bhai being the undefeated champion... the kids like him, he has a special talent to charm them. Heh! Oh, by the way, he was asking about your well being. Since the day you felt hurt by his non talking behavior, he is a bit concerned. Baba too was asking.

The evening is drowning in the cacophony of night, i can hear mother blowing the conch shell, the evening pujo is complete. now she will call me to go to the market...urrgh!

Anyways, my students will be here soon, i gave them a task, today is test. And i know one will fail (kya karun main iska!).

How is everyone by the way? Kaku-kakima, guten? And how is mr.sen? still flirting? (hehehe, i need to meet him.) And ms....um.. Rajkamal is it? the one who was low and talked about which you wrote a blog? i hope she is good!

Well, Maa is calling, i need to stop now. Take care.

Love.

R.B (signature)..."

Letter from Past. (6th blog story)

10^th May, 2015.

                                       Letter from past.

Alfieri’s pizzeria was just around the corner of the street near Pont Saint Michaels, the only bridge that connected Place Saint Michaels on the left bank of Seine to the Ile de la Cite. Whether ironic or not, both Alfieri and pizza were alien to Paris in terms of origins. But that never bothered her. Not now, and not the first time when she accidently discovered this place while returning from the Sainte Chapelle 6 years ago. Since then, Alfieri’s has been a place of solace for Nivedita. There was, indeed a problem in communication between Tatiana and her. But then, 6 years of continuous visits does magic on such problems. Sure, they still have enough problems in language, but when the heart speaks, lingual barriers are nothing.

Tatiana had a seat reserved for her, always. The old voluptuous woman, who was no less than a mother to Nivedita, was aware of her habits. The last table by the window always kept for her. Somehow, Tatiana knew that the window was not just a window for Nivedita; it was her own private world, impenetrable by anything. It provided a charming view of the bridge, the river and the street that ran across. She never knew what this customer of hers was seeing outside, but it wasn’t just Paris. It was something else, her eyes told her. There were times when Tatiana had sat down across her, when there were not many customers to haggle with. Sharing a cup of Nivedita’s favorite black coffee, they both kept their silence, watching the sun go down, painting the river with a golden streak, the faces which swarmed up on the bridge. Maybe a couple would kiss each other; the witness was the silent sun and the rushing river beneath, and a face in a window that was totally overlooked by them. But it wasn’t just those scenes. Tatiana saw a strange longing sadness in Nivedita’s eyes; sometimes she sang something that this old woman didn’t understood. It wasn’t her language, not even French. But it had a beautiful, painful essence, which took Tatiana to her younger age, when she ran over the hills of Sicily, with her lover Enzo. How she came to Paris is a different story, maybe for next time. Tatiana never asked Nivedita anything, she respected her, perhaps she saw her own reflection in this strange girl, but she knew that something was there. Intuitions of a woman are hardly wrong.

Like every day, Nivedita took her usual space by the window that afternoon. It was around 2 p.m so the shop was basically empty. Tatiana gave her a warm smile while she put down the usual pizza and coffee on the table, Nivedita too smiled at her. “Merci, ma mere” she said. Tatiana stroked her cheek like she indeed was her mother, and then went off to the kitchen. Nivedita gazed at the bridge, which was deserted for now, just a couple of humans here and there. The sky forecasted a rain, sooner maybe. She took out her daily diary to write something, chewing the pen, when the bell above the door rang as it opened, followed by a man about in his mid thirties entered the shop. Tall, good built, wearing a black trench coat, with a cap tilted on the left side. For some reasons, Nivedita thought that she must have seen him somewhere not recently though, she was trying to fix the face in her mind. Tatiana came out of the kitchen to attend the customer. The man gave Nivedita a raised eyebrow, knowing that she was staring at him and passed her over.

It didn’t bother her, the cold look, for she was still trying very hard to remember who he was, when she heard him placing his order. Tatiana told him to take a seat while she was at it. Nodding curtly, he took a seat at the table far from Nivedita, at the other end, taking out a pocket book, engrossing himself, unaware or rather apathetic that there was a person who was now intently looking at him. His voice triggered the suppressed memory inside her head; she knew exactly who he was and where she knew him from. Only she wasn’t sure if she should approach him or not.

While still fighting this dilemma, Tatiana broke her chain of thoughts, asking the man to take away the order placed. Thanking and paying, he left without another word, rushing off in a swift but airy gait. Before leaving, he gave a final look at Nivedita, a knowing look, and then disappeared. Tatiana too looked at Nivedita, only to see slight tears stinging her eyes.

Sometimes, there are a certain events that have no logical way of occurring. People do not believe in serious coincidences, but then, not everything can be understood by the way of logic.

Nivedita never thought, or rather wished very dearly not to face that man again. One single glance was enough to break her inside out. Yet, as said, certain events…

Although she wasn’t sure much, something told her that she will be seeing him again, and she did, that very night, in a posh restaurant near her home. She wasn’t planning, but she went there anyway, there was a small event that was to take place. The place was decorated accordingly; a stage was set for the jazz performance by a not so renowned band.

She saw him again, sitting at a corner, wearing a formal tuxedo, crisp white shirt and high framed glasses, writing something. Gathering some courage, she went to him; after all, it has been 18 years.

“Ahem…” she cleared her throat, rather too seek his attention. He looked up, placid and cold. “Yes?” he asked.

“Remember me?” she asked, her heart fluttering like a caged bird, a sheepish smile crept.

He kept looking at her and she knew he wasn’t trying to figure it out who she was. His locked, clenched jaw and his left hand which he was squeezing into a fist was all she needed that he recognized her. He always squeezed his left hand to control his anger, one of the tell tale signs of him.

“Can… can I sit?” she asked.

Releasing his fist as his palms went red he motioned his head towards the chair in affirmation.

“I knew you recognized me at the pizza shop, why didn’t you say anything?”

He fixed his glasses, not answering. Nivedita noticed his right hand was bandaged around the knuckles.

“Raj, I… it is 18 years!” she pleaded.

“Exactly, it is 18 years, 18 bloody years!” Raj gritted his teeth.

“But why didn’t you say something?” her voice trembled.

“Oh I don’t know… why did you left? 18years, I don’t know if you are alive, dead, gone, whatever. You did not bother to tell me anything, you literally killed all the contacts, I had no way to reach you. The last message you left was so full of deranged things that I could not fathom what they were. “I cannot be here” you wrote. What possibly could I have said today? All my questions, answers, reasons, everything went cold after a time, dead they are! And you are here, asking me, why I didn’t say anything? you chose to leave without any reason after 5 years of relation, breaking everything around me, breaking me, and now here you are after 18 damn years of my life, asking me why ignored you today? You need an answer? Here read this…” Raj furiously tossed a page at her face. The page, old and yellow, the ink was fading. In small steady handwriting, it was letter, dated almost 18 years ago from that night. She couldn’t look into his eyes, but she knew that he was looking at him, she knew why his hand was bandaged and she could hear his breath furiously leaving him. Trembling, she took the letter to read.

“Nivedita,

Things are not quite good between us right now, and I know why. And I don’t blame anyone but me. If only I had taken time to set things right, not rush them, we might not have faced this. But it is past, and I intend not to dwell on what I should have or could have done, but rather what I can and should do. And I am starting by the one thing that really matters. Yes, I could have said this, but I want you to read, it is much surprising.

So, dear Nivedita Mitro, here I am, with an uncertain heart, asking you, will you…”

Raj snatched away the letter back, without letting her finish it; a bewildered look befell on Nivedita’s face, as it became clear what was in that letter. Folding it neatly and tucking it back in the old envelope Raj said, “It doesn’t matter now, does it? You didn’t read it that day so it won’t change anything if you read it tonight after this long time. I mean, I tried every way there was to find you, to contact you, and the more I tried, the more far you ran. Yes, I promised that I will never leave, never lose you, but how was it going to happen if you yourself killed it? Even your parents refused to tell me your whereabouts. For six years, I kept looking, but I lost. For the first time in my life, I lost and it was painful. But I still hold on to this shit letter, hoping, believing. There does not goes a day when I do not read this, but why shall it matter to you? You never missed my presence, the bond, the fucking love we had. No. So, if it didn’t matter then, I don’t think it will matter to you now.” Raj stopped. Both sat in silence, the restaurant was getting busier with the event coming up and nobody had the time to see two lonely souls sitting at the same table. One who was furiously trying not to break his hard attained demeanor and other who was trying in futility to stop her tears from reaching down.  Finally Raj stood up, possibly to leave; Nivedita looked at him, with a plea in her eyes, like begging to not leave. But for a person who has really gone cold after a huge, damaging battle, a few drops of tear would hardly help. It can be easily compared to those two or three rain drops that try hard to flood the vast desert, failing finally the sands swallow them up, removing their traces. He passed her but stopped for one final time, just by her chair.

Gripping the chair, he said, but not in a gritted voice, there was a genuine pain of a lost person, “You know, I don't hate you even after this. I cannot. I loved you. I did, with all I had and I still love you. Hell, I never even had any other woman, my heart wasn’t with me, it stayed in that bloody room in Delhi where we met last time. It is still there. I wish you had found it.” With a deep, pained exhalation, Raj left the restaurant. Nivedita’s tears never stopped. After a moment, she picked herself, left too, with a quivering heart.

We don’t know if she met Raj again or not, but we can hope.

                       Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx  End xxxxxxxxxxxxX

Note : I cannot truthfully say that this story is all from my brain. This, was actually a scenario that was given to me as a mental exercise. We did that, making up stories and let each other finish it. I took the liberty to change a bit of it.

project : Letters

9^th May, 2015.

I was cleaning my bookshelf when it happened.  I see, cleaning my bookshelf has always led me to a miracle or something every time. Sometimes, I find a page of a forgotten poetry; other times doodle in the back of a register from school. Today, I found a register that wasn’t supposed to be there. On the first page, there was written “letters” in blue ink. It was my handwriting. A couple of months back, I was assigned with a task. To write letters for a person, for the next 1 month. It was agreed that we both will write and after the said time was over, they would be exchanged. The person was leaving for a month and we weren’t to contact each other, so this plan. Amazing was it, and I loved it, I still do. Alas, the pages are no more there, I tore them off. Why, I won’t disclose, it is a matter of irrelevance, but I will say that my anger got the better of me. I just got to write 13 letters in all, where there was 33 to be written. After tearing them out, I handed them over to mother to dispose them. I don’t know what she has done with them, I didn’t ask, maybe threw them, or maybe kept them safe, hoping. But funny thing is, even though they are not there anymore, the pages, I remember each and every letter in their exact form. It is like they are in my brain and I can print them off I remember them so well. I intend to write them down because I want to. At least, I do not forget. So, here I am. This and probably the next 12 blogs (maybe something else will be in between, I cannot guarantee) will be the letters that I wrote to the person I adore and respect and love. Remembering Goethe, here I am, at a risk of exploding my brains out, but then… so, shall we?

Letter 1.

“29^th October, 2014.

Dear _________

Well, the salutation sucks I assume, I cannot quote Byron. And do forgive my handwriting. As you can see, the stationary is of a ridiculously low standard. I was hoping atleast the pages will be bright, but the stores were closed and I had this spare register only. Well, whatever serves the purpose. Do mind the doodles on the last page.

So, this is officially the first letter, if I forget about the last two, the yellow diary page and the white sheet that I gave you the other day. I know you must have tucked them away in some book, you’ll find them when cleaning your bookshelf and one of them will fall at your feet, you’ll sit down and read them, and a slight smile will be there. I know because we both have this same heart for these silly little things. We both have this fetish for such things; remember your box of diary under your bed?  And I know you. I know how beautiful your smile looks when you pucker your mouth in to stop yourself from bursting. A tear in your eyes, and that’s it. Maybe that is why…

Okay, I will try and keep this one short, because I see my handwriting is going into a paraplegic mode, and secondly, I really do not have much to tell you tonight. I did some research on Google, searching for the letters by celebrities to their loved ones, I found Oscar Wilde, Napoleon, Franz Kafka, and Edgar Poe. And damn it woman, they were so… but I guess if I start taking inspiration from them, I lose my own individual idea. Really, I did not see the point when you asked me to write letters to you when you are gone for the annual Sabbath. But then, you never asked me anything. Well apart from the tickets to Prague, which I will, but really, you never ask. You asked for this one thing, this is your first “abdaar” and I cannot say no to you. And why shall I?  You did not ask for the moon and stars, just my feelings on a ruled page. I gave you the only thing I had my ever entropic brain and cracked heart, how hard can it be giving you some pages from a month of my life which is so complete now? I intend to give you more than these. I intend, and I will give you all that my heart has. But for now, this/these letters.

Anyways, this is it for tonight. For the time being, this is only what I can gather to write for you. I will write again tomorrow. Hope you are having a good time with yourself, I respect that.

Love you my lady.

R.B (signature)…”

Anesthesia (5th blog story)

28^th April, 2015.

                                           Anesthesia.

The hospital floor of Ruby General hospital, Kolkata, reeked of antiseptics, formaldehyde and other solutions, combined with a stench of all kinds of medicines from the pharmacy below. The spit shine floor squeaked beneath the rubber shoes of the nurses who had a strange urgency in their movements, quick, agile but not too fast or finicky. Indeed, within fifteen minutes, they had to arrange and ready everything, so they needed to be fast. There was no room for mistakes as a life was at stake today.

Inside the room with green tiles, the doctors too had a composed urgency in their behavior. The green tunic and the masks and the rubber gloves can send chills down the spine of anyone. Added with all the machinery, the tools and the dense smell, it could have been easily mistaken with a scene from a horror science fiction movie. The whole floor was silent outside.

Dr. Chatterjee, the bespectacled elderly neurosurgeon stood beside Shibika who lay on the operating table, her head shaved and the face poised with utter calmness. With a fatherly affection he ran his hand on her forehead, as his own heart trembled with fear. Quite natural it would be, for Shibika was one of his students almost 6 years ago, and now she was lying in front of him. That particular batch was his favorite as there were students with prodigious talents, Shibika being one of them.

“Don’t worry kaka, I will be fine!” Shibika said, anticipating the doctor’s emotional turmoil. Even on that table, she hadn’t lost her spirit, and that was the best amazement Dr. Chatterjee could have asked for.

“I know you will, dearly!” Chatterjee replied. Glancing at his watch, he steadied himself, there was no time for panicking now, and he knew that. It was time.

“Kaka, is he coming?” Shibika asked eagerly, continuously looking at the white door with two windows, waiting for an arrival which was in doubt. Expectations never loses its

dominion, even when there’s a life at perilous stake

“Hush now, you need to calm down” the doctor said, at any cost, it was a requirement that she was calm, but still, he himself was wondering about if he is coming or not.

A male nurse came over to the other side to the table holding an oxygen mask. The arrangements were done and it was time, “ma’am, we are going to put under anesthesia. You’ll be gone for a considerable amount of time. I need you to do a countdown from 10 to 1.” Said he, with the impeccable courteous tone, trying to sooth the patient. Outside window, in the dark corridor, Shibika knew that her family was there, their each breath becoming a burden to their hearts. Still, no sign of him. The mask was placed on her face and the lights were turned on. A sweet smell came out of the nozzle as she started counting. Counting for a long sleep. And with each count, there crowded the moments.

10…

Truth is always stranger than fiction. And this has been proved by the universe every now and then with examples of strange stories. Like that rainy day at College Street when Shibika met Virat for the first time. Although they were in the same batch in the medical college, as it happens, they were entirely oblivious to each other. Or so they pretended to be for both of them had noticed each other, by the irrefutable laws of obvious issues. Quite often, as the theologists would suggest, the world will bring two different characters at a same place and things will start happening on their own. Both of them, by fate or chance, were looking for the same book, plausibly rare to find. And with a bizarre series of coincidence, it was available at one book store with only one copy.

“Oh, I see you’ve already paid for it.” Shibika said in a dismayed voice as Virat paid for the book.

“Yes, well, I was looking for this book for a long time. You’re Shibika, right? From the college?”

“Yes”

“I’m Virat. I see you too wanted this book.”

“Yeah, well, you bought it before I could have.” Shibika laughed understandingly.

“Well, I really do not like a fellow reader like you should be kept away from reading a book like this just because you couldn’t buy it first. I have a suggestion if you don’t mind?”

 “And that would be?”

“There is a Xerox shop nearby, I frequent it as the rates are minimal, you can have the photocopy.”

“You sure?” Shibika’s face lit up with a rejoiced glow.

“For a book like this” Virat stepped out in the rain popping up the raincoat’s hood, “everything is sure”. That day was the start of a beautiful friendship and an unbreakable relation for the years to come.

9…

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHA” Shibika was laughing uncontrollably as Virat stood in front of her.

“What? What is it?”

“BWAHAHAHAHA…” Virat loved way she laughed. That childish face that went red with rushing blood made her fair skin look more beautiful.

“Arrey Haashchish keno pagoler moton?” Virat asked, slightly embarrassed and annoyed.

“You are wearing a dhoti. Haashbo Na?”

“Lady, I told you I would be wearing the traditional wears during aashtami, what’s so funny about the dhoti?”

“And what will I wear? You know how silly would it look if you wear a dhoti and Panjabi, and I dress up with same old jeans and tees?” Shibika said, slumping down on a bean bag in the room. Virat knew where this was headed, already having the answer ready. A failsafe plan he kept. Without a word he went into his bedroom and came out with a brown packet. Handing it to Shibika who stared at him confused, he finally spoke, “take this Maa, she’ll know.”

Half an hour later, as Virat made the final things done, Shibika returned to his room with Virat’s mother, who was smiling at her son’s brilliant choice. Shibika on the other hand, was going red with blushed emotions. The orange sari with red border suited her olive skin tone. “How do I look?” she asked. Virat stood speechless, as if thunderstruck. Maybe for the first time, his witty answers took a walk. To avoid the unnecessary awkwardness, Mrs. Ray whispered in Shibika’s ears, “well, I have never seen him speechless before. You look amazing darling!” leaving them two alone, she was to get ready too, Mr. Ray would be arriving soon. Placing a slight kiss on her lips, Virat just said, “Kolkata will burn with jealousy tonight!” Shibika blushed more, finally burying her head in his chest.

8…

“Oh, so you are angry, and you won’t talk, but you will dress my wounds.” Virat said, laughing mischievously. Shibika kept her silence as she applied the tincture solution on his elbows. His knees and shin were already dressed.

“OWWW!” screamed Virat. “Careful woman! It hurts!” Virat laughed again, he knew that Shibika was angry.

“Hurts? Really?” Shibika muttered under her breath, her jaws clenched tight. She rushed to his house when she got the news that he met a bike accident. Although it wasn’t that bad, yet Shibika was in a state of minor shock given the loss of her elder sister in a similar accident a few years ago. Virat could feel her cold palms when she touched him, regretting his own stupid thirst for adrenaline rush. Her eyes on the verge of flooding. Some wounds, as he knew, were too deep to heal.

“Shibi… I…” Virat started to speak, at least console her, but that wasn’t enough.

“Why don’t you just kill me and be over it?” Shibi said as two streamline of tears made their way down her cheeks. “why do you have to torment me with all these shenanigans?”

Virat knew about her trauma, and however he tried to make her feel better he knew in his heart that nothing can fix that. A loss, a death, after all isn’t something that can be changed, if it was, he would have done that for her. The tears were too heavy a burden on his heart today. Pulling her close, Virat did the one thing that he knew could calm her. Grabbing her nape lightly, he leaned forward, touching her forehead with his own, being in a breath’s distance to each other but not kissing. “I am sorry darling”, he whispers. The tears kept rolling down her face on his bloodstained bandages. There was nothing else to be done for now.

She tried to go on with the countdown, but her head was getting heavy, and the images in her head started to fall in to oblivion. The light above her head glowed more brightly as for the last time she tried to keep her eyes open looking at the door. It swung open as a fading figure entered the theater. Everything went dark.

“I can’t” Virat said with a desperate tone. The other people in the room stared at him.

“The fuck means you can’t?” asked Tanmoy with a gritted voice.

“I can’t do it, I cannot operate on her” Virat said.

“You… you bastard. You are one the best neurosurgeon in the country, the ‘great’ Dr. Virat Roy, and you cannot do it? You say you love my sister, you want to fucking marry her and you cannot do it? You want to let her die?” Tanmoy grabbed his collar. It was new year’s eve when the symptoms came out. Shibika suddenly fainted with profuse bleeding. They rushed to the hospital and the preliminary report confirmed aneurism in her head, in an operable stage, but the location in her brain was too risky, chances were not slim. Whatever was to be done was to be done quickly. But for Virat, who was indeed an exceptional doctor, it wasn’t just aneurism. It was Shibika who was to be laid down under scalpel.

“You think it is easy for me? goddammit, that’s not just your sister who’ll be on that table, she is my fiancée too!” Virat screamed, flinging the coffee cup that passed inches of Tanmoy’s head, smashing on the wall behind. Slumping on the chair again, his face was buried in his palms, his whole body shook with an unsaid agony. “God…  I can’t…” he repeated. Tanmoy kneeled in front of him, he knew what Virat was going through, and he couldn’t blame him. “Save her Virat” he pleaded.

The room felt colder, along with the A/C and the rain outside. The window seemed like a canvass of a surrealist, the drops scarring the glass in unintended patterns. Her head felt heavy, both due to the bandages and the medicines in her system. Dr. Chatterjee told her that she was out for almost 4 days or so, out of danger, but was infested with anesthesia just so she can sleep. The nurse wasn’t back yet, she asked her to turn off the A/C. Her bedside was crowded with all sorts of bouquets, cards, sweet boxes and other things. Almost all the familiar faces had visited and left, with a promise that they’ll be back soon. All but one. Shibika looked at the wall clock that announced 3.45 p.m, the out of the window, where the sky was graying with the passing time. She could see the buildings afar, with the dark skyline, and the road below that was clogged with unmoving traffic.

The dizziness was hitting her again when the door opened. She was expecting the nurse, but it wasn’t her. Instead, that absent face which she looked for in the crowd.

“Well, you took your time” she said weakly. Virat pulled up a chair by her bed, silently sitting down. Even if she was weak, she could tell that Virat had lost his sleep. Behind his groomed face, there were dark circles under his eyes. Virat said nothing, he was looking outside.

“tell me this isn’t a dream” she said again. “I am not hallucinating things, am I?”

“this isn’t a dream, and you are not hallucinating” Virat said, quietly, taking her hands into his own, the syringe and the tube still dangling off her arm.

“How are you?” Shibika asked, knowing how he would be.

Virat couldn’t say anything. Pulling her close to him, just a breath away, he touched his forehead with hers. “I was afraid, Shibi… I was afraid…” his palms ran cold, just like the glass of the window.

“Well, now you don’t need to” she replied, breaking the touch and kissing him. The anesthesia was wearing off perhaps. She never felt more alive.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx  END xxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

just a poem. (title in progress)

08^th May, 2015.

Hashiye par rakkhe iss dil ke baare mein kahun bhi toh kya?

Kambaqht apne aatish mein mujhe bhi jalaata hai.

Isski khwahisshein bhi badi gustakh hai.

Hasrat toh thi doobte sooraj ko choomne ki,

Magar voh begairat bhi kisi raat ki bahon mein

Bebaki se chala jaata hai.

Gar iski bewakoofion par zara malal ho bhi to nuksan hi kya?

Jhoothi ranjishon ke darmian ashq aur sharab ki yaari mein bhi mazaa ataa hai.

Phir kisi roz ek adhjali dopahar mein ek aah uthti hai,

Nasamajh bhul jataa hai ki aise kisi khalipan mein hi

Kisi ke dabe paaon aane ki aahat aur

Darwaze par dastaq hoti hai.

Fizool ki beqararion ko thaame,

hazaaron toofan samete hue,

yeh dil kisi khanabadosh se kam toh nahi.

Aaj yahaan, toh kal nahi.

Khuli khidkiyon se baahar taakte hue,

Ab bas intezar isika rehta hai,

Ki kabhi voh laute aur dheeme se kahe,

“Chale kisi anjaan raah par?”

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Rishi xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

P.S - this is my first 'poem' in hindi...and it sucks i guess. please forgive me for any errors. and i am not naming it. if anyone can...

cigarette philosophy

02^nd May, 2015.

Well, hello dear friends, bloggers, delhiites, netizens and stuff. The month of May, as you know, had started with a pulse of silly rain last night, and my sleep was crowded with all sorts of stories and some memories I had tucked away under the bed of my castle. Alright alright, I might refrain from using the word castle again and again, as it might sound that I am king of some sorts. I, if really anything, am just a caretaker of a huge structure, the throne is empty for now, as are the rooms that I cleaned, always ready to welcome the person who stayed there. Well… for now, as I said.

So, I checked up on the internet about some symptoms that I am showing. For the last couple of days, I am having these, um, intermittent tremors I my hands, I am losing the sense of time and place when I am waking up in the morning and my head feels like someone has poured a gallon of water on my head. Suffice to say, it is basically sleep related. Our body mechanism goes haywire if we sleep at 3 and wake up at 8.30. It leads to severe disorders and becomes problematic in due course. Like for example, I met Dishant last Thursday, and as per my usual penchant, I walked from home to Nehru place Epicuria. But when I reached there, I was really at loss as for why I was there in the first place. So much so, I was even having problem in recognizing Dishant for a moment, he looked eerily familiar, but I couldn’t recognize him. Sleeplessness does quite a job on brain, although as I see, my abilities aren’t affected yet. Neither the spree of writing, nor the ridiculous attempts of sketching that I post on instagram, and I am getting good at sketching.

I was just surfing the internet when I came across a poem by Gulzar. It goes like this-

                                          Main cigarette toh nahi peeta, par

                                          har aane jaane waale se maatchis puch leta hoon,

                                           bahut kuch hai jise phoonk dena chahta hoon.

That reminded me of my own likeness for matchsticks, cigarettes and ashes. Sometimes, when I am home alone, I burn matches for no reason at all. I light a matchstick and hold it until the flame reaches my fingers. Until the heat doesn’t make my fingers go limp and I let go of the stick, watching the flame wither for a last time before going off, and a swirling thread of smoke rises and fades into a deeper oblivion while I suck my burnt finger and smile at nothing at all. Same happens with the goldflake I smoke at times. The gray ash that I tap out in the ashtray or on the gritty asphalt roads in CR park. I have, alas, no word to describe the smell, for there is no particular word for the smell of cigarette, but I sort of like it, my father smells of cigarettes and attar, or perfume. As a child, I used to sniff father’s shirt after he came home. Sweat, perfume and 50 to 60 cigarettes was his smell. That is my first memory of him. As I was saying, sometimes, when the cigarette is at its last, I let it burn, feeling the strange stingy heat around my index and middle finger. I am not a chain smoker, but still.

I wonder at times, quite amusingly, is it just the matchstick or cigarette or it is us? Think of it. It takes almost 6 to 8 seconds for a matchstick to burn out. 6 minutes for a cigarette, 60 to 80 years for us. No, nobody smokes us, but the flame we all have, what is the use of it if the finality is so sure and predestined for us? All these raging emotions and the cowering and everything we work for, everything we do and everything that somewhat defines us, it will be over like it was never there in the first place. 80 bloody years of memories, struggles, tears, laughs, love, hate, joy, chaos, tranquility, it all goes up in the air, with a swirling thread of smoke. What of it then? Shouldn’t we just accept it and let it be? like really, what is the point? Why shall we do anything? why shall we strive to be better than what we are today? Why shall we enjoy the rain, the fog, the scorching sun or the first rose of spring? Why shall we hate a person? Why shall we love a person so badly that it hurts when they are hurt, happy when they are happy and shed tears when they are gone? Why wait? Or why even move? Why burn the stuff we don’t need, or burn stuff that were so close to us? Why befriend someone and then become a stranger? What the fuck is anything worth if we are going to die anyway?

I don’t have all the answers to my entire why”s but I am good at formulating my own answers. Believe me, it is better. You see, even though we know that the matchstick is going to go off in a moment, we adore the light, the warmth it possesses. We/I like smoking, alone, because I like the taste of burnt freedom on my tongue, and the exhaled smoke might reflects the unwanted irritation that leaves my mind. “Har fikr ko dhuuyen mein udata chala gaya” sort of feeling. It reminds me that it really doesn’t needs to be a huge truckload of stuff to make me relieved, sometimes a slightest voice in the back of my head is enough for me when it says, “it’s all cool mate!”. I smoke with my friends; it reminds me that nothing is eternal. Not me, not them, and the time, it is a bitch. It will end one day. I will die, my friends will die, I might will be a memory in a corner of a heart or head. A mere photograph in an 8x8 photo frame. People who will leave this world after me will remember the day when we smoked and talked shit. All the teary eyed and laugh infested moments, captured inside our hearts.

Just like the matchstick, our flame will die, it is sure. But this too is sure that the flame we hold, it is worth. Worth loving everything around us, everyone around us. I know, the future is so bloody insecure that I might even drop dead the next moment you finish reading this, saying “oh darn, that guy was an arse anyway” and exactly that is why I am like this. I hold everything dear to me, and I get attached. Practically, that is a shit thing to do, but I do it anyway. I am aware; some people choose to be in a state of stagnation, getting ready to step out in the rain again while just stretching their hands out of the window to feel the drops touching their fair skin and tender souls and then recoiling because of the chill. Some are too reckless; the sheer uncertainty is their dope, their fire too bright and destructive. And then there is I, who is somewhere in between of somewhere and nowhere. I am that sort of traveler who wants to do tap dance in disco music (if you figure this out, call me). Well, I believe that to feel the rain, you must come out of the house, the window is useless. So, here I am, in the rain, and I am reaching out for you. Take my hand; I assure you, even if the sky looks gray and gloomy, it is sweet. I promise it will feel amazing. Just take my hand. Even if you are going to die, die with all the love you can gather, all the amazing little things you can hoard. Be the matchstick that can light the world up or burn the heaven down. and if you need help, well, I am always here. 

I don't know if my brain is even serving its purpose, but this is what I call my answer to self. Live like you're burning and love without holding anything back, it will always come back. I know it will. I believe! Would like a smoke?

Well, that is all for now. I am still working on “Anesthesia”.

 Love!

Ta!