“Play that song, Rajneesh”; I said, it was a long drive to Ladakh, and the numbing cold had already gotten the better of me. The song in question was ‘Pashmina’; a song I was hooked on to, every word of the lyrics resonating in my ears as I now pen this piece. The song had become an integral part of the journey we had then taken, ten months on it would become something I would connect to, even better. Who knew, I didn’t.

The foggy roads which led us onwards had taken us towards self discovery, towards letting go, towards finding peace within ourselves and with all that remained, who knew back then that I would be back to square one: still listening to the same old track, still on a voyage and still diving within to find that escape route which lead me onward, forward and towards something that I had never anticipated, but now I do: nothingness, a void within a void that now remains.

And, it will stay; until everything else ceases. The chasm within; the yells of the silence echoing something that for now guides me, and with the song playing in the background: I know to myself that there is this one connect that still remains, still as fresh and as pure as the pashmina. The song resonates, and it brings back a thousand memories, it brings Her back; as I stand still to soak Her all within me; allover again. The body might have parted, the soul still awaits it’s emancipation in Her. It’s time: time again to seek,to feel and to take the same old road; while the song keeps playing.

The connect with the song, the roads and the city remains, I had found myself here; lost my sanity here too. I had found my answers here, the city had posed questions too, the song had only played it’s part in reminding me of all that remained, all that I held and all I had lost, I haven’t forsaken any of it: neither the answers nor the tough questionnaire my life had thrown up, life lessons maybe; life perhaps.
The song, a city, the roads and my journey towards emancipation: now to Her, in Her and in Her light, all bathed and under it’s glow.
The song says it all, makes it all up.

मैं साया बनूँ, तेरे पीछे चलूँ, चलता रहूँ…

पश्मीना धागों के संग..

P.S: Ending lines from the song ‘Pashmina’, by Amit Trivedi.

Life seems to have mellowed down, gone are the days when confusion prevailed; the nights when chaos took over. The only thought now buzzing in the head is now to take control, of the situation maybe. The last couple of months have taught me a great deal, taught me to unlearn and relearn a few things, my ordeals now seem insignificant when I think of what lies ahead. A vast sea of nothingness, maybe.

It has been hard to hold the mind’s reins, to pivot it towards where it wants to be, the tussle within is perhaps creating the buzz, growing louder with each passing moment, drowning every bit of consciousness. To hold, to harness and to be in control, to breathe, to sigh and to consume all that my head is up to has been a task worth enduring.

I haven’t had the luxury to listen to the voices in my head for a long long time, it feels as if I am now face to face with myself, with my own true self. There remains no baggage tied to my heart causing a blockage of the air of relief that I was so badly seeking, there is no induced melodrama being played out by the characters I had woven in the fairytales which I thought would one day be real. With everything now seeming more far fetched than it actually were, it has been slightly easier to convince the heart to agree with the grey matter.

But then, I have always been a lunatic, my sanity has been dependent on the changes of the Moon. That’s what the ‘word’, in it’s most literal sense means. This way and that, my mind can swivel; the absence of chaos is anything but permanent. The buzz, for now is the only thing keeping me sane, holding me in good stead. And, as I think of it; I pour myself a drink; raise a toast to all that my mind has been through; from the abrasion caused by corrosive thoughts to the metamorphosis which I hadn’t expected. This has been a glorious battle, the buzz is nothing but the battle cry, all good and all sane, all steady and no pain.

But, the Moon’s out there playing peekaboo; hypnotizing my sanity. The lunatic in me falling for it, the charm; the spell; as I see it’s light washing over me. Again, not again? let me pour another drink, for now there’s a melancholy far more intriguing. The head buzzing, the Moon out in the skies, and me?? Let me make another drink.

And, it felt good, walking down the same old streets, revisiting the same old nooks of the city, passing by the old corners where I had once left a mark, now the marks of the same are etched on the deepest core of my memory.

The places, the pubs, the bistros, the walkways: all the same, all unmoved, perhaps people move on; places don’t.
The urge to return had been so great that I was overwhelmed to the point of tears when I landed, the very sight of the city from up above made me immensely nostalgic, it moved me; shook me and took me back in time, which now remains the only bliss I was endowed with. There comes a point in your life when the will to hold on and to let go coincides at a point; the calling was here, but then the mind willingly surrenders and starts cherishing whatever it had been blessed with, a chest full of sweet memories, in my case. The city had played it’s part in making me whatever I am, blessed me with the greatest gift I ever received: a friend, a confidant, a soulmate and my ‘Divine Muse’. She had played her role in making me the man I am today, whatever now remains of me is her magic too, the spell remains and it continues to daze me to day.

I had for long: longed to return, longed to walk through the old pavements and bask in the sunlight and wash my soul with the beams of the setting sun, stand underneath the silken shade and soak in the comfort of the place: where I had once made home, my mind had; and my heart had lost itself: to the city, to a person and now as I look back, I realise there’s something deeply romantic about stuff which remain unrequited.

My affair was short-lived, the relationship though isn’t dead, it has surely manifested into this living and self sustaining pool of thought which refills each time I close my eyes and think of the city, and that one person who made it all up. She still makes it up, the thoughts, the words and all that remains of her and the city, it’s all her, like her and for her. To her, all of it is.
And, as I board the flight and look up at the skies above, there’s this tinge of numbness that I feel within, hold within and I break into a smile. This shall forever stay: the pain of parting, the joy of having been together and in unison: with the city and the Muse it had blessed me with. Sour grapes and the sweetness of the memories which now seem more real than ever, this is life perhaps.

This day, last year: it were different, it is Uruka, the local day of feasting and as I set to fly out, I know I’ll be depriving myself of the sweetmeats but then, I know to myself that all the sweetness that lingers within now is the doing of the city too, I will be carrying it within me. The container tightly sealed and secured, I will happily serve myself a portion each time life would tend to get bitter. I will happily return for a refill, soon maybe.

P.S: People move on, places don’t. The cafeteria hasn’t, the tables haven’t either. The smell still lingers in the air, it numbs me still. I parted with a gift again: She, perhaps.
All I wanted for Bihu, certainly the gift of myself and a bit of you.

I’m fettered and abused,
I stand naked and accused
Should I surface this one man submarine?

And, Incubus took me back in time, with each word resonating in my ears and crippling me with all that had transpired. This had been one of my favorite songs, little did I know that years down the line it would be playing on loop, be a lullaby and put me to sleep.

Funny it is, we often tend to realise the worth of a moment once it is behind us, funnier it is, for the moment isn’t gone; I am still holding onto it, letting it gradually slip away. It might have been destined, but this has to be the retribution for all my actions of the past, dead and buried but yet undead.
The calling of the past never beckoned, a vulnerable moment did, and the fear of being put to the grind all over again.

We often imagine living a dream, I was living one for myself until the dark clouds gathered all over again, taking me under it’s seize. Action – inaction and momentary loss of judgement, in the hindsight my fear had gotten the better of me. The refuge I sought was denied,  the warmth I so badly desired for has now left me cold and numb, waking up to a nightmare has always been a case, I was living a nightmare all through.

The demons dancing and thumping in the amphitheater of my mind, this needs intervention. But, who will?? One man submarine, isn’t it ??
Amidst all the chaos that I am now left battling, there’s nothing but panic in sight, I have handled it, and panic has handled me rather well. A sedative it has been, imperfectly perfect and always poised to take control.

There was but a time when I would stay conscious of everything, everything I was surrounded with:  man or machine, keeping an eye on the preying eyes and a hand that held mine,  helped me in calming down, the loss of touch has something to do with the resurgence of the conflicts within me all over again, a feeling so numb had not been experienced for long.

But, this again is the onset of something beautiful, I believe. The focus to get back on track, the urge to write and the will to cast someone in words is perhaps even greater now. There remains no fear, I am at a loss having lost what I anyway would have lost, and this feeling is liberating although there remains a tinge of sour grapes. If(s)  and But(s) shall lead me to nowhere,  She did and now I’ll follow, with her out of sight, all I can do is trace a path which would somehow lead me towards her if not to her, and as I hit the panic button; the sense of urgency creeps in; so much to think,  so much to decipher – her silence, her chatter and that fury; which almost burnt me down, and so much to write.

And, as the cold numbing breeze hits me hard, I know it hadn’t felt so cold inside. The test lies ahead, the call beckons:  not the dark clouds of the past, but the warmth of her touch; my emancipation lies there. Right towards her, no not her.

“Love hurts…
But sometimes it’s a good hurt
And it feels like I’m alive”

And, Incubus just said it, I feel alive, alive again.

In the clouds
All the graves
I’ll stay if you
Go away
Concrete
Tall as the sky
Movement passi’n me by
When you blush
What a rush
Reminisce
Cold crush
Next door ear to the wall
All the tension on me for the call
I wish I wish…

And, I was indeed the bad man, the sad man. The gloom is never ending, and I hope it stays. Tonight’s no different, the skies lit up brilliantly but no sight of my brightest star, gloom – doom and a beauty to behold, not fading but piercing across the farthest horizons visible, the skies aren’t as pale as I assumed it would be, but it’s jaded nonetheless.

The incapacity of the mind to conceive and convince itself of multiple conclusions at a time has never been a tiring thing at all, it’s the lack of control at limiting the boundless diversions of the conflicting and consuming thoughts. Yes, I am a bad man, have been bad at switching on and turning off the emotional button, and deservingly so I was rewarded with this innate dynamics of the mind. On and Off, Off and On. But, then there was a control once, an external intervention as if modulating the impulses of the fickle mind I was born with. There has been no such control mechanism otherwise, everything outbound and outrageous and at times self destructive instincts safely guided and often grounded, with her playing both the plug and the fuse.

But, now I am bad, and all over again this self realisation isn’t as sickening as it had been earlier, for I know the emotions, both beautiful and uglily will find no takers of it’s course.
Love and happiness has been an ill affordable luxury, and this is a boon in disguise, I now understand. For now, the mind can think of multiple things, hold a few and jot down a bit. Tales of her presence, myths of love and sadness and the tragedy of fitting in and being happy.

The dark clouds shalln’t recede, and I pray it never does, for there will be spells of thunder and lightning then, the light of which might just help me in seeking and searching for her bits, the remains of which are missing.
Emotions switching On and Off again, no plug and fuse this time, no her. My existence and my salvation lies in staying put, holding on to whatever emotions aren’t sieved out, each grain of it is a piece of the jigsaw that’ll never come to form for the reference is now out of picture.

The sights, visions, sounds and her fragrance, reminiscent of the days bygone but not for good, the only good in me that now remains, will forever be the final remainder. All said and done, easier said than done; I am still bad, a bad man, a sad man, but a glad man.

“But my dreams they aren’t as empty
As my conscience seems to be…”

P.S: Lines from one of my favourite songs, ‘Behind Blue Eyes’ (Originally sung by The Who, written by Pete Townshend).

The road that takes me home from office now seems never ending, as if taking a toll on my senses, choking and suffocating me with every passing metre, there hasn’t been a lack of drive ever before, this form of lethargy. I, now have nothing to look forward to, the evenings which were spent planning about catching up with her, we often used to; with a third wheel, I didn’t mind him either, a friend he was too.

But, as things seem to be fading away, I just can’t get over the fact that those are now memories of the past, some pills are hard to digest, the past is one such bitter capsule. No matter how good the times were, it now feels as if it ended too very fast, too very soon. I wish, we had partied a little longer, a tad bit harder; but then, attributing them in the past tense would now be for the better, whose? I wish, I had an honest answer to this question.

The roads are filled with enough places which trigger flashbacks, drawing me towards them. Holding on is difficult, with the city haunting, the path ahead daunting and the situation taunting my existence. The pubs, the cafes and the roads, everything reminding me of her, the times when She were here, more than being alone and the nostalgia, it’s about me here, being here, stuck by myself, the feeling of being lost in the midst of faces and places I know.

The roads now reminiscent of all that existed, before it came crashing down, I had seen it coming, I hadn’t anticipated this drastic change though. The city all lit up, the traffic stuck and so am I, lost in my thoughts with her in my vision. And, as I see people walk past me, vehicles zooming ahead, I feel like standing on the corner of the road by myself, do nothing but admire the city I fell so much in love with, no love lost here, but no sense of purpose either. Suddenly, all the affection I had, I still have seem unrequited, yet beautiful, the city isn’t pausing to reflect but I am. The good, the bad, the worse: all that it had to offer, has been offered. The boon, the bane and the gift of love and friendship, all that I gained and lost out on, the city’s account has been balanced, no debt on me remains, except for the burden of memories I am left to shoulder, shoulder by myself. The city playing the bag and baggage and the burden, the city and the memories created here now seem to be all that I am left with.

I lost my heart and insanity to it, a part of sanity now is a gift of the city too, and so is the will to carry on, hold myself and live life on the backup of the memories.
The skyline hasn’t changed, the scenery hasn’t, the city still looks the same, but does it feel the same?? No, it won’t ever again. Never again. She for me manifested the city in herself, the embodiment of all things good the place had to offer. And, as I look up, I realize the skies above hasn’t, it stretches until where She’s at the moment at least, my prayers, my plea and angst might be reaching her, heavenly medium I have been blessed with, She blessed me with it. The city will still be loved, so will She be. The bag and baggage feels a little light, the city seems beautiful. And, She?? She is beautiful, prettier than all the sights of the city put together.

“Would you still write about me if nothing existed? Would you still care?”; She asked. It wasn’t the first time that She had posed this question, but the gravity of the situation was enormous now, She was leaving and I wasn’t in the right frame of mind. While, most of our coffee table conversations would be fun and revolve around the latest happenings in town and at times football too, but this was no time to indulge in anything as such. She looked serious, and She was looking beautiful. There was this thing about her, any shade of anger would add to her beauty, perhaps it complemented her spark. I would be left besotted and go numb and speechless; and it would often add fuel to her raging fire, What chaos! What a thing of beauty!

I looked at her, and smiled; “I will write and I will care, Jenny”; I replied, but She was always driven by her assumptions, She felt I wouldn’t, and She has my benefit of doubt, I would change; She felt. Distance is a great deterrent, isn’t it? No, certainly not, I never thought so, perhaps it would bring her back to me, indulge and involve my mind in thinking of her, I had learnt to count my blessings, they added up to her, the summation of all things good my life had seen; still sees.

Life is uncertain and fate often treacherous; but the feelings aren’t a function of any of these, to have seen and to have felt; and then, to have realised: She mattered, my care did too. I couldn’t and I wouldn’t shrug off anything just so easily. The chaos would perpetuate, the absence would haunt and the distance wouldn’t cease; but the foundation She had laid wasn’t that weak; it could sustain the blows of whatever fate and time had in store.

I could sense her taking those long breathes, pausing in between and then speaking up; those were signs of the storm calming down, how well had I gotten to know her!! She knew, I would write for there existed nothing else apart from her who could drive me into writing, She knew I would still care; for I hadn’t cared as such for anyone else before, and She knew: distance would just be a number, the farther the better, it would make me write and care better.

From being perfect strangers, to now something beyond what any definition couldn’t define; we had grown into something better, something similar and something irreplaceable in each other’s lives. There was this space that no one, just no one could occupy, regardless of whatever they brought to our lives, whatever value they added. And, this would stay. Distance wouldn’t dictate anything, the separation wouldn’t.

There’s this beauty in being far away from her, it makes me long for her all the more, and keeps my heart in good stead. No matter how frightening and gory the time ahead and life would be, I know; She would still be the same for me; will remain the same. My home, away from home. The refuge my soul would seek no matter where it might wander, my Northern Star.

This would be the least I could do, to keep going: to keep writing; to keep caring. Nothing extraordinary, not an ordinary promise too.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

P.S: I wouldn’t sleep, would shape a dream of her rather. Ending lines from the poem, ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening’, by Robert Frost

It was good to be home, to dust my old bookshelf and find books which had collected dust and yellow stains, a few had been nibbled by rats but no major damage done otherwise. Being someone who found company in books, and who was taught from an early age that reading isn’t just a pastime but more of a lifestyle, I had come to realise that while solitude beckons, I can still get lost in the company of my old mates, relive my early years, reread a few lines and go back to discover the tales of life, love and struggles which have moulded me into becoming half the man that I am, the other half is now to be discovered as I turn over the pages from my collection.

It is amusing as to how we end up becoming something that we fantasize, while it might not last forever but the impact can be enormous, at times life changing, life threatening too. The 10 year old me had always romanticised the idea of falling in love, breaking my heart and then dying of longing. I had forever imagined myself to be this tragic hero, who loves immensely and loses out, now 20 years down the line it lights up my mood and also casts a dark shadow hovering over my mind, making me feel: Perhaps, Yes, I have lived through it, I am living through it.

I remember reading Sarat.C Chattopadhya’s tragedy ‘Devdas’ as a 15 year old, how fascinating it then seemed to die at the gates of your beloved. At 30, I realize the protagonist was an egoistic person, a narcissist. My notion about certain characters have changed, but the fascination of being a tragic hero and glorifying tragedy hasn’t.
Unrequited and unfulfilled desires make the best stories, timeless they are. A happy ending has an end to it, clichéd it is. Tragedies are more intense, think of Macbeth or Romeo and Juliet or Hamlet, they make such real stories, if not beautiful. Love and ordeals of life knitted together to bring forth stories that are as real as life itself.

As, I now flip through the pages of my old books some passed on to me by my grandfather, I realize how far I have come, to what extent I have been able to live up to that childhood fascination of mine. Love – checked, heartbreak – checked, longing – this I hope goes on, I pray it does. Death?? Isn’t separation as painful?? Death kills you but once. How about dying a death with every breathe you exhale?

The 10 year old in me is rejoicing, the 30 year old isn’t; both contradicting each other, I’d still go with the 10 year old me.
” ‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. ” said Tennyson, and how true, I loved, I lost but I haven’t lost out. The 10 year old me hasn’t, it’s time I flip through the pages, find the love that I lost, and keep it locked inside, within me.

P.S: Estella, you have been the dream of my soul since I was 10. I seek, I read and I find you. Look, you are here, right beside me.

“What would you write about me?”; She asked. This wasn’t a question, this was more of an assertion, She knew I would write, and I knew to myself that there couldn’t be anything more stimulating than her for my mind to think about. She wasn’t this ordinary, girl next door. She was a living, breathing chest of extraordinary tales, She went by an amusing name on her Instagram handle, her Quora profile too mentioned her to be nothing typical, She wasn’t just the ‘regular mahila’. Her life was nothing ordinary too, so much of content, so many tales to tell, She held them within, often her eyes would let out a thing or two.

I hadn’t until then found this inspiration to write about just one person, although I would often jot down about the people I knew, no one could otherwise supply my mind with such stories and words in plentiful. In her; I found all that my mind desired for, my soul craved and my heart sought. She was the perfect dose of sedation my desperate and restless mind needed to calm itself.

My quest She was, and She had become. I would go through her profile, read the answers She wrote on Quora, re-read them and try to dive deep into her psyche. One such answers had her mentioning about her twin nephews, the daylight they showed her, I found my daylight in her. I could understand and relate to the pain She withstood when She had suffered a major accident. All the while, I was busy reading into her, reading about her and reading what She wrote about life and her experiences. I was never into poetry, I could never understand anything apart from the rhyming scheme of a poem, the poems She wrote on her blogs took some time to make sense to me, I thank the countless pegs of rum which aided the process. I could finally see sense, understand a little more; relate to the emotions that She so beautifully chose to keep layered within.

It took time, almost three months for me to decide upon what had to be written, She brought the answers along and sprinkled them on my mind, it had to be her, and about her. I could think nothing else; nothing beyond her.

And, finally after a struggle of a couple of days I could give shape to a piece on her, it didn’t attribute everything to her, I couldn’t do it, it would have been in haste, I knew what I had to mention and in what proportion. She making up all the ratios in my mind now, all that I thought I would do is pull her out, put her on the piece of paper and cast her in words.

It has been a good 18 months since I started with this humble attempt at capturing her, my words often fail to come through. Her magic beyond everything that I have experienced, her aura spreads beyond everything else that exists. To cast her, in her perspective would be hard, to put her in mine: it would still be a colossal mountain to climb.

The question still remains: What would I write about her?

I have no answers, I will have no answers, for She remains a question, still intriguing my mind into thinking, provoking it with questions. I look out for her, look at her answers and the poems She wrote, there’s a hint about her; the rest will follow. The trail, the quest will go on forever.