02nd 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!
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