You leave behind things, old habits die and hobbies often get consumed by the pressures and demands of life. But, one fine morning you end waking up with this hangover of the past: when all that you feel like doing is revisiting a place; you’ve been avoiding.

And, you take the road leading downtown to find yourself in the midst of stuff you have loved. I have always been fascinated by the smell of books, so much so that I would often as a child lock myself up and get lost in my world which comprised of my bookshelf and an antique trunk filled with books too. I seemed to have lost the habit of reading, but certain things just don’t leave: they stay within, you just have to force them out; find that tiny little leeway for it to come back again.

The day had been an ordeal; one such day when nothing went right, thus the left turn towards the market, to find myself in the company of fellow book revellers. If there’s any high that can’t be comprehended: it has to be the joy of reading. To pass through the by-lanes where you see nothing but bookstores, all stocked up. What a sight!!

The booker nominees had just been announced and I knew to myself what I was looking for. This had been a ritual until 2016, gifting myself Booker nominated pieces: strangely though I realised today; it was time I rekindled this old affair of mine – reading, reading and a bit of more reading. I had deprived myself of the joy, with earthly characters now running riot in my mind; it was time I surrendered myself to the ones who wouldn’t come to life; would rather nurture me the way I had always been: shape me with whatever remains of me now, perhaps sprinkle a bit of their tragic spice into my being.

’10 minutes 38 seconds in this strange world’ by Elif Shafak; and ‘An orchestra of minorities’ by Chigozie Obioma; were my choice this time. And, just as I headed out of the shop, my eyes fell on a book of short stories: the magic of reading as we say, the power of drawing you into something you had tried putting in the bin; but there’s always this leeway. There was Ruskin Bond’s ‘The prospect of flowers’; the salesman could guess that I would pack it for myself too.

For now, the booker nominees can wait while I get lost again; in my world along with Binya and Ram Bharosa. Bond, me and our bonding – we go a long way back. I knew it, She knew it and Bond?? Well, who cares !!

At crossroads again, a fall; yet another one but not as bad as I would have liked it to be, that’s another issue to add on to the misery that so far seemed nonexistent. The existence of someone the heart pines for, but that’s okay. Life goes on, doesn’t it? Yes, it does, but the space remains vacant, in the heart and in between those fingers which never got to hold on to something. The mess lying scattered all around, not just a mess, the remains of a saga deprived of an end; a meaningful one. But, that’s what I wanted it to be, a beautiful thing unfolding into nothing and now that nothingness is beautiful too. Holding on to it will be a task for sure, I will see it to; until the end though.

I found light; I had in fact, the length of the tunnel didn’t seem like a bother then, the mind that had given up, the soul that had grown tired, then; had started sowing seeds of renewal, the mind was rejuvenating and there seemed a purpose at the end of it. Mirage it was, or was it not? It’s hard to figure out, as I set out again, tired and weary, for travelling without anything in mind is better than not having travelled at all. A calling beckons, a ray of hope perhaps, it’s all in the mind they say, as I see a silver lining. This too shall pass, this won’t forever be. Who cares? For I hadn’t, I never have.

Reading into too much and reading too much has been something I was plagued by always, over thinking has been something intrinsic and co-relating life events with something fictional as found in books has been a trait. So, this was bound to be; no infatuation, no law of attraction held good as I fell for something that seemed as good as the stuff found in books. As if, Dickens had plotted for the stars to cross, ‘Estella’ was in sight and Pip didn’t mind giving it all away. But, life is real; life is earnest, serious business it is and it has just begun.

I have been a sucker for tragedies, no matter how happy the endings are, something tragic is always camouflaged and passed on as just another occurring, and that’s worth it all in the end. But, no; there’s something about an ending that all good endings have: they end, not a tragedy though, it manifests into something more beautiful, and something tragic can be a source of an unending zeal to carry on. The zeal to hang on, the zeal to live on and the zeal to long for. Romancing this longing within is a bliss, not bound by selfish desires or worldly virtues of give and take.

The laws of the physical world don’t hold any good, as metaphysics takes over; time, space and distance, formless selves connected without being connected at all. The magic of holding on and letting go, coupled with a sweet little pang does keep things alive, like some sedation that kicks in to assure that there’s a calm in the chaos. Between having and not having someone, the mind chooses the middle path as the heart concedes too: “‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

Life goes on, and so does longing, longing doesn’t require to be mutual or reciprocated at all, rather it aids in sharpening the desire to hold on. To hold on to that spark that lit the fire in the first place; and warmed the soul that that had turned cold. To give it all up like Pip sans “The Great Expectations”, for there remains the bottom-line: Once for all; I knew to my sorrow, often and often, if not always, that I loved her against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be. Once for all; I loved her none the less because I knew it, and it had no more influence in restraining me, than if I had devoutly believed her to be human perfection.

** Ending lines from The Great Expectations by Charles Dickens – Chapter 29

“I will be back, back soon, new year’s eve maybe”; I said, as I took the stairs that led me outside, it was an emotional moment for me to bid adieu to the place that has helped shape me, the place where I took refuge when the demons inside me were up in arms, the place which provided me with the much needed comfort and solace, the place which made me fall in love with myself and also with people around me. I had been a loner all my life, grabbing a drink all by myself was never an issue, I had always enjoyed my own company, but this was one place which made me see life through a different lens. A place, I proudly call home, my second home, my home away from home – Urban Mantra, to me it has never been a pub, it never will be, it will now remain a emotion I’ll carry with me, within me; wherever I go.

I had never imagined a place would go on to mean so very much that I would one day pen a blog dedicated to it, I have lived a considerable part of my life staying away from home, lived across five cities, a couple of metropolis and been to many such places which served me a drink, this place though was different; very very different.

I, first visited the place when I was down in the dumps, depressed and battling crises in my personal and professional life, the place then seemed like my escape to freedom, a route out of the chaos my life was surrounded with. As the visits became more frequent with time, it went on to become a huge part of my life, my existence and a route out of the my existential crisis. I would sit on a particular table which I would get myself reserved and switch myself off, it did take time though for the place to make it’s impact, a couple of visits maybe. They say, ‘happiness is contagious’; and rightly so, I would find myself on a different plane every time I walked up the stairs and entered the place, it led to happiness and opened the doors of hope for me.

The music they played also had it’s effect, never had I been to any such place in the city where I would get to listen to music that suited my taste, I could shuffle the playlist too, play songs I felt like listening to, no other place would have tolerated anything as such. The live bands and the live music scene thrived there, I would often end up singing along, shouting and screaming the lyrics, without caring a dime about what impression I would be making. Isn’t such behaviour normal when you are at home? Yes, it was my home after all.

The owner who would earlier take my calls to reserve the table gradually went on to become a dear friend, he to me is now family, perhaps amongst the few people I know in the city, a huge pillar of support he has been, from encouraging my comic abilities to ensuring the right kind of music was played, he has been a constant source of motivation. “Ek gig yaha bhi karna”; he had said after I returned from Gurgaon, someone trusting me with such words of encouragement, it did mean a lot. The staff and the manager had never let me down with their service, be it serving me an extra drink even after the closing hours or packing me a bottle of beer so that I could keep my demons at bay. They would never mind my freakish behaviour, what else do I call them if not family? My family, away from my family, my own people.

I made friends for life there, an elder sister who’d cook ethnic meals and ask me to come over, we would indulge in chatting over how the food scene in the city sucked, made friends who would add their glitter to my life. From silly conversations over a mug of beer to dancing on retro tunes, this place did weave it’s magic upon me, as I now look back; it did bless me with sanity and a renewed mental vigor to take on life, pulled me out of depression and put me back on track.
If a place could be magic, could have a healing effect and could induce such positivity: it had to be mantra, my Urban Mantra.

With me now set to bid goodbye, I know what I’ll miss the most about the city, I hadn’t fallen in love with it, but this place changed all of it. If there’s one thing that will pull me back here, it’ll be my home, away from home: Urban Mantra, hell, there’s a hell lot of happiness inside. I’ll take the stairs, and walk in again.

Many friends died on the way
Only few of us survived
But I would gladly
Take their place
In Odens hall up high

And, She would often ask, “Why metal?”, She might have never realized that metal wasn’t just a music genre, it meant more; to me it has been a philosophy, something spiritual and an antidepressant of sorts. Although, I wouldn’t come across to be someone who is into metal music, I never kept my hairs long and don’t carry a persona which would bring to attention the kind of music I am into, but metal music over the years has played a role in shaping me.

2003, was just another year and the 15 year old in me had just started to discover the magic that metal was; I had grown up listening to a lot of old school rock and roll: Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, The Doors, Velvet Underground and the likes and the transition to metal did feel like a sea of change. The tempo, the notes and the lyrics nothing like what rock and roll would resemble. Initially, it was my quest of being cool; being different and trying something that others generally wouldn’t but with time it did get me hooked.

From trying thrash to heavy metal and black to death; I chanced upon something that would go on to act as a soothing balm in days to come; melodic death metal. The lyrics were deep, the music and the tone much subtle and the growls could be tried once in a while. It was then, that I discovered Amarth. They would sing about Odin and Thor and the songs often had a deeper meaning than one could actually imagine; rooted in the Viking age and telling tales from the Norse mythology. The sound might throw a fit on someone who isn’t a metalhead, but whoever loved and understood the true context of it would definitely fall for it’s magic.

It has been more than a decade and a half and Amon Amarth are still going strong, still keeping my chaos at bay. When the call of the monsters from my within grow louder, the growls of Johan Hegg ensures everything is drowned and there prevails sanity. And, with age catching up on me; the lyrics now seem to mean even more; depicting all the reasons my struggles are for, all my sanity and my sense is somewhere connected to me plugging the earphones and listening to the band I hold so close to my heart. It’s metal, it’s music, it’s meaningful and it’s magical. The desire to hold on, to hang on and to overcome; still burning bright; the dream to one day watch Amarth perform Under the Northern Lights is somehow keeping me alive 🤘

Many years we have been away
Many oceans we have roamed
Now the North Star
Guides us on our way
As we are headed home…

(Song: Under the Northern Star; Amon Amarth)

P.S: Amon Amarth did sing about my Northern Star, makes me love the band a little more.

“Baba, Macbeth porechis? Summer vacation ae Julius Caesar ta porbi.” That was Maa; asking the 11 year old me. The 34 year old I, now finds it perplexing when the same woman who introduced reading and the love for tragedies to me asks why I keep sad. She has a point though, she had asked me to read; to think deep was my choice. I wasn’t ever the idealistic son, shall never be. But, I hope I did make her proud when people would compliment her that I was well read, when I had trunks and suitcases full of books while most children of my age were into videogames.

While, I haven’t carried the burden of being abused as a child, but my formative years were spent in trying to live up to what was expected of me. To be good at academics, to read and to not get into fights with others. What seems to be so uncomplicated now, it was then a battle of restraint I fought within. I had always been asked to be happy, but at the cost of what? To choose mathematics over grammar? To give up Tolstoy for Newton? To part with literature for the sake of engineering? I did all that it took to live up to what was expected of me. I was well read, but there was a vice grip on my neck too. The fear of consequence and failure was so deep rooted that I had to choose the easy over what seemed right. Right for whom? I was never asked, except for once. I was in love then, the sign of approval and the validation took time; but then to err was human. Perhaps, I had the liberty to fail just once, my life; not my chances.

I was given the freedom to live my life, but why let a bird out of the cage after trimming it’s feathers? The fear of failure, the hearsay theories and the dogma of being ostracized; few things that held me back. The over indulgence and the presence of over protective guardians wherever I went, it did feel suffocating but I was conditioned to be that way. I did have my share of indulgences too, friends with whom I would go on to share a life, but then, people who grow up alone know deep within what it feels to be left out alone. Life seemed good, it always looks calm on the surface; right?

Parenting can be complex, although I have been blessed with the most wonderful set of parents; I guess certain things could have been better. There’s always room for some improvement, some communication maybe. But, protocols are for everyone to follow. Lineage, legacy and the burden of standing up to the achievements of people who shared the same gene. Boxes are to be ticked, the checklist they had prepared while my horoscope was being drafted at birth has to be neat, no criss crosses and no overwriting.

I was trained to be inquisitive, but questioning would brand me a rebel; I had to be the ‘Bhalo Chele’ and do everything that was supposedly ‘Bhalo’; and as I now stand at the crossroads of life, I wonder if being ‘Bhalo’ has come at a price? Yes, it has. To have parted with a part of my childhood, my teenage years and now wasting away all that I am left with; still in quest of living up to the standard protocol of being the ‘Bhalo Chele’. No wonder, I wouldn’t want to pass the mantle; and not carry on with what the cycle of my gene did to me.

She asked; “Why are you keeping sad?”; I wish; I were asked if I was keeping happy.

I wouldn’t budge still, I am a ‘Bhalo Chele’, you see.

“Write about things other than me, people you know, experiences you have had”; She said. I knew a lot of people, and most of my experiences were with her. To write about people who now hold little or no value is confusing, will it make sense? Will I make sense? Would it be okay to portray someone based on my perception? Would it justify their individuality? Multiple questions, legit questions and no positive answers. But, then I have to try. How about writing about people with whom She and me, both of us have shared a mutual connect? There were just a few, a couple of them maybe.

Let me get started with this.

“Open mic at The Maati Centre”, the poster read; another event to attend and another podium to try. I had just started with my stand-up comedy thing in Guwahati, and the culture then was very nascent, very alien to the city. Although, self-proclaimed promoters tried to rake in the moolah, but nothing significant for the growth of the art had been done. I pinged them on their Facebook page mentioning that I was interested in participating as an open micer, a response did arrive but I didn’t reply, I was occupied at home. I was going through bad times: jobless and broke and my granny had passed away, the ceremony was to be on the day after the event, I had no material ready either. But, nonetheless I looked forward to attending the show. A new venue, a new place to explore and also new people to meet.

And, as I walked in to confirm my participation I chanced upon the guy who had put together the event, he was lying on the mat and taking a nap. A tall, dark and bespectacled bong; he looked like a nerd, not the funny kind of guy I had assumed it takes to think of organizing a stand-up open mic. Formalities done, I found out soon that I was the only participant and had to go up first, left with no choice I did, the audience response wasn’t that overwhelming but considering the fact that it was mostly made of social activists, I could take it in my stride. The bespectacled babu, tried his material too, I was impressed. Perhaps, for the first time I saw someone trying puns in Guwahati, really good puns, although they weren’t part of any comic storyline, but a nice change it was. We had a conversation later that evening, I could sense that he knew a thing or two about comedy, the culture, the genres and had an uncanny sense of humor too. Numbers exchanged, requests sent and it was time to leave, we didn’t communicate for the next 10 days or so.

I had always wanted to have a comedy collective, me and my biker mate had been looking around for a third cog for our wheel, who better than the bespectacled babu, I thought to myself, my biker mate agreed too. And, the nerd it was!! A collective, perhaps the first and one of it’s kind in Guwahati and Northeast India. The ball of laughter had to roll, we just did it.

There were things about him which he hadn’t made known, we were just collaborators until then, yet to be friends. I dug a little deep, and so did he and Holy Moly!! He was a Kopite, a Liverpool FC fan. Some planets get aligned on earth just like that, I was yet to meet someone who supported my team in Guwahati, and I had unearthed a gem at ‘Maati’. The conversations soon started to bear fruit and become more meaningful: we’d discuss almost everything under the sun, from politics to religion, from art to music, from comedy to books of tragedy and Football. But, the thing which was yet to show was his attitude towards life, his understanding of something I cared for too: Mental Health. Woah!! This seemed like a partnership, we would often discuss about the stigma attached to depression and mental issues, talk about our experiences with it, the friendship did deepen.

There comes a time in your life when you realize that the quanta of time spent with someone doesn’t necessarily quantify the relationship you share with them, I had known this guy for a year and a half, a fellow comic, a collaborator, a Kopite and now: one of my closest mates, for life. I know we share this bond, unknown to many, we can talk for hours and not talk for days too, but this level of mutual understanding is hard to find. And, when you chance upon someone who shares the same interests as you, you know to yourself that the Heavens has brewed something really dark and special, as good as his dark sense of humor.

P.S: He’s a single child too, Ahh!! There’s a burden of expectations to meet.

Call of the void – Although, not many know what this term actually means, I had first heard of it during my engineering days; I wasn’t aware of the human psyche and mental health had a whole set of different meanings attached to it then, people weren’t too aware either and it wasn’t something that was openly talked about or discussed. Today, as I write this piece; I am glad that I know a bit about the issue; can talk and discuss about the same.

The sudden tendency of the mind to end life and the pull back or do something totally insane and self destructive, the restraint that prevents us from causing harm to ourselves. This is what the call of the void is. The sudden urge to jump in front of a speeding train, or a high cliff, and then holding back. This is what the call is. It isn’t being suicidal, it’s rather the split-second decision our mind makes not to, a unique way of us holding back, pausing and appreciating life. And, this is very natural; one doesn’t have to be depressed to feel the call of the void.

I have had my issues, battling with the monsters my mind had created, I have felt suicidal and I have made many a feeble attempt aimed at coming out of the misery life had become, although there wasn’t anything left to be appreciated about life, but having failed at my not so glorious attempts did teach me a thing or two. Perhaps, my issue lied in over thinking and over dependence on medication to calm my nerves, sleepless nights and horrid thoughts which seemed to multiply every time I tried contemplating on what life had become. Everyone battles some crisis or the other, to me: mine seemed the hardest, the most difficult to cope; overcoming it was out of the picture. Moreover, we all have different coping mechanisms, but what could I do when my synapses had snapped and mechanisms failed. But, failure is a teacher too; creating life is easy, ending it – that’s too difficult, although it might take a few seconds to really do it, but then, it is complex; more complex than what life is. Too many thoughts, too many doubts and just too many unnecessary questions. Who’d cry if I died? Too many people too, and I stopped. The urge didn’t die though, neither did I. I live on, the urge still does; a never ending battle within me; confronting me with questions and giving me the answers as well. What a terrific war within!!

The call, A void and me saying no to it, a constancy of life it has become; not just a split second decision here, a contemplation that often runs for hours, days and now for years. The urge to and not to at the same time. Life is to be appreciated despite all the flaws that come with it, the show has to be managed and the smile faked, but at the cost of what? The cost of life again, living a death to live a life; this barter is perplexing, but so is life. Ahh!! A thing of beauty too, glorious uncertainties.

And, as the urge to end it and escape comes again, I pop in my med. I look at the brighter side, life is to be experienced for now if not lived, to survive and see it through. The call shall be forever, the void would be constant; but the pull to resist and survive and write about it: that’s far greater. This is one cycle, a vicious one. The start, the end; all the same. The urge and the restraint, the pull and the hold; all finely balanced. I write, and the question lingers: Who’d cry if I die? Let’s write about it, the pull can wait, the mind and the meds are working fine.

P.S: The opinions are my own, I don’t endorse suicide, it isn’t the solution to anything and can never be.

The significance of anything can be gauged the moment you lose it, the point of no return maybe. The point here lied in her not returning, me being stuck and She stuck too. I hadn’t discovered altruism until I found her, and the last peck on her forehead signifying to what extent I would care, I did, I do and I shall forever. Her significance lied in being her and me being me, if I weren’t the restless, conscious soul who kept falling apart, She wouldn’t have been the person; ‘She’ were to me, selfless in what She did to me and to my soul. Lifting, catching and holding my ever crumbling and vulnerable spirit. She had me, had me like no one else ever will.

If I could freeze and frame and pan the exact moment when I last felt her skin against mine, I would have lived my life in those few seconds. I knew it was time, She knew it and time stood testimony to the fact that She and I both cared, that last kiss, not stolen this time, right on her forehead as She for one last time hugged me in embrace, I had my world and my world had me. I wouldn’t have felt violent tremors if there were any at that very moment, in her I knew, I was safe.

The pills had started showing it’s effects, I was a lot calmer than I usually would have been, for if I could sense everything falling apart, I would have fallen too. She was the sedative, the good kick of the kicks I received, anxiety never stood a chance in her presence. Her light eradicating my darkness, filling and fulfilling all that I had, and desired for. A calm, a certain degree of chaos; a cocktail of insanity and sense.
It was never a goodbye, can and will never be, for the last embrace put the right perspective into my mind, my senses rather. ‘Invisible Red Thread’; She had once mentioned, it was no ordinary string, a rope tied tight to her soul clamping mine to it, the pull far greater than what a thousand moons would have had on the vast seas on earth. She made it all up, the Moons and the earth underneath, the waves and the high tides now rising within me, finding it’s pull and strength in her.

I was numbed, but that warmth of her breath on my neck eased life back, infused life into my senses, making me understand I was alive, living and still witnessing her magic, the magic wand She would spin to tame my soul, was now hers, I had gladly parted with it.

And, as I leaned towards her forehead for that one last contact, I knew to myself that I cared, I did and this will forever be, not driven by love, not held by distance and not fueled by passion; She meant more, more than life itself. And, who wouldn’t care to be alive if that meant caring for life in return?? Life She was, still is and will forever be, my soul now gone with her, the chill is back and as I lie dying and breathing for that warmth of her breath again, the Moon’s lighting up the skies, exercising it’s pull and as I look up, I feel the air surrounding me. That’s her breath, as it brushes my neck, alive and resurrected I feel. She’s here, holding me in embrace and I blow a kiss, the sky’s her forehead.

Dil Se.. , the Mani Ratnam classic holds a special place in my life, apart from being my most favourite movie, the masterpiece also has helped shape my outlook on love and relationships. I remember being a 10 year old when I first watched the movie, it was way back in 1998. I would like to thank my cousin, who back then was a huge Shah Rukh Khan fan for taking me to the theatre, although he wasn’t too impressed with the climax, but that was what got me drawn towards the film in the first place.

Growing up, I had been and I am still a sucker for tragedies and with both the leads ending their lives, I knew this movie was more than just a tale directed to entertain.
The 10 year old in me, who had in him this affinity towards sad and tragic endings and was already into books that portrayed stories of love, longing and despair, the movie played the perfect foil to instill in me the kind of relationship I would have wanted in my life, something beyond ordinary love and romance.

The madness of Amarkant Varma, and the twinkle in the eyes of Moina (Meghna) had set the ball of falling in love rolling. Although, it was too early an age for me to think of anything as such, but I looked forward to being in one such relationship, that meets no happy end, doesn’t end on a bitter note, but is carried forward by longing, intense passion and separation if not death.
Love at first sight was something I wanted to experience, and it never happened until I was 29.

I had been in love before, but that was more of a mental conditioning over a period of time, to live and realize that I was falling in love; I hadn’t ever fallen head over heels in the first sight itself and it took time for the feeling to get into my head that probably I was falling in love. I shall in the future have to coerce myself into falling in love, perhaps there would be a sense of societal obligation attached to it.
But then, blessed I was to have experienced the rush of being in love, to have been swept off my feet, as if I was treading on the seventh heaven the moment I set my eyes on her for the very first time and she was Moina too, as in the movie. Ahh!! What bliss !!

(Shah Rukh Khan and Manisha Koirala in Dil Se)

The movie portrayed the seven stages of love, I might have lived five of them if not all the seven with Moina in sight, like in the movie ‘She’ would defy and deny each advance but then, it was me living a dream; going through every phase of being in love : Hub, Uns, Ishq, Akidat, Ibadat, Junoon ,Maut

While, Maut seems to be evading for the moment, but I hope that would hit me too. With her now out of sight, I know that deep within a locked crest of my heart She’ll forever be the one who moved me, moved me like no one else did. I remember her explaining to me what a rice pounder meant akin to what Moina was shown doing in the movie, and as I sit back and rewind to the same scene, I let out a smile, a tear and a prayer : Stay Blessed Moina. You’ll forever be, and with ‘Ae Ajnabi’ playing in the background, it is bringing you back to me.

तू तो नहीं है, लेकिन तेरी मुस्कुराहटें हैं
चेहरा कहीं नहीं है, पर तेरी आहटें हैं
तू है कहाँ, कहाँ है
तेरा निशाँ कहाँ है
मेरा जहाँ कहाँ है
मैं अधूरा तू अधूरी जी रहे हैं

(Ae Ajnabi, Dil Se.. , Penned by Gulzar)

P.S: Thanks Mani Ratnam !!

And, as the movie ends they play a poem penned by Allama Iqbal, what better note to end than a bit of optimism that there exists a universe where things aren’t bleak.
सितारों के आगे जहाँ और भी हैं
अभी इश्क़ के इम्तिहाँ और भी हैं..

To have read, to have understood, to have understood and to have realised. Reading too much maybe, relating too often, that’s how life has so far rolled out to be. Closures don’t often come by, perhaps a good read inflicting a tragedy brings about the end that wasn’t thought of, thought about it was; but not thought deeply enough, but then this is what makes life and reading fascinating, a closure does come by. Not glossy all the time, and not so happy often. But, as in life and as in the books I have always loved reading, love hadn’t culminated into togetherness.

And togetherness in itself is overrated, the worth of it often fading into an oblivion, distance and longing however keeps the mind and the heart in good stead, inspiring it to think and love in unison. Impermanence and the futility of efforts don’t hold the heart from longing for something that isn’t necessarily easy to come by, the mind lost in solitude in the midst of faces unknown, looking; longing and seeking for a solace that is evasive. That feeling is a solace in itself, mind over matter; undaunted by whatever lies ahead.

To have found one such soul, found light in her soul and to have parted, all that now remains is her afterglow. And, this will remain. We choose to end certain things, but we don’t choose the endings, a relationship never ends, it only fluctuates. From high to low to even hitting the baseline, everything translates into something, for the better at times. An invisible red thread binding my soul to hers, the magic pull of the string shall stay and so I will write, write because this is what remains of her and now remains of me. To cast into words the good that has been done unto me, to mould the glitter I am left over and make it a monument to glorify the tales of her presence, subconsciously She will exist.
She has been the essence of all that I read, the tragic tales of life and love and not so happy but blessed endings, no ending here though, for that’ll be the end of me and my writing capacities.

In her, I found the zeal and the urge to write, the will to start reading books which were long left on the shelf, collecting dust and turning yellow. For now, I see her emerging again, this time in my thoughts, her absence is a boon now, I can now think, reflect and jot down her tales, my stories and our not so happy ending, perhaps a beginning is in sight here. She, my Northern Light and the moon spreading her radiance. No eclipse in the galaxy where I hold her, never.

To have been touched, to have felt and to have found what my soul sought, it was a blessing indeed. She was the blessing, She the prayer and She the Goddess, but like just like any other prayer that is answered and does away after serving the purpose, She perhaps had done hers. I still raise my hands, look up at the skies shining bright in all it’s glory and the same prayer leaves my lips, the soul still seeking her light, she isn’t here but everywhere, the moon light testifying her presence as I bathe my soul in her glory. It’s time, it’s about time. The ending here is just but the beginning, the distance, the longing, the pull of the invisible string; all culminating into something gloriously tragic, and Yes!! I will write about her.

“Promise me, you wouldn’t stop writing” ; she had said. Well, I won’t ma’am; for now I know better.