The nip in the air hadn’t felt so bone chilling, perhaps the onset of spring has never been so illusionary, there I was; back then celebrating the fall, who knew the fall was right around the corner, the demons which then seemed exorcised by her presence now seem to have woken up from their slumber.

It wasn’t good as long as it lasted, perhaps there was just no last at all, having been at peace and laughed a laugh like I never had, it now seems my demons are laughing back at me, as if making a mockery of all the effort I had put in to appease them. The wait will now be futile, the barren land of my mind that once felt fertile, now longs for her showers of grace again.

She had always been hard to hold, too fragile I was as well, nothing accounted for and I let it slip this time, for all my doings had undone all the magic she had weaved.
There’s a void, no ordinary one, the pull of a thousand black holes sucking me into that zone of nothingness, I had held on to the light, now it has diminished, all I have for now are the twinkling glitters that She leftover, gone, gone for good, for she could do no bad. The life that felt resurgent with her presence, that wild smile which spread light and delight is now missing, forever it will be, my doing again, forever it has been and now forever it will be. No calm before the storm, her fury has found rest, the tumultuous storms that I loved facing now finds me withered all over again.

Vulnerability writ large on my soul, and it has never been so dark, her light that guided me home is nowhere in sight.
The Northern Skies are lit up, no sight of the brightest star, all the distance that I had covered now feels long and very far.
I look up and I see the moon, the radiance the same, shining at some place else as I lie here devoid of any light.

This will be a tedious journey as I set foot on what lies ahead, the mind isn’t mindful of anything but the absence of something that I held so dear. The futility of all my efforts to hold things up, the impermanence of all things that seemed bright, now doomed; as I reflect upon what it would be if she were here. But, no point wondering, it had to if not today. The lines I read to her, and the passages she read to me; the words she etched on my soul will remain the takeaway. I shall not write to her, I will write about her. My spring she was, and as the spring sets in I can see the autumn not far away, and like the night jasmine she’d bloom again spreading her fragrance in the vacant corridors of my mind. The soul would still seek and the heart would long, this cycle of loving and longing would someday coincide and find her trace, for now just let it be.

Until then, I would keep reminding myself of what Bukowski felt it should be like:
“I loved you like a man loves a woman he never touches, only writes to, keeps little photographs of.”

” I sung of chaos and eternal night, Taught by the heav’nly Muse to venture down the dark decent, and up to reascend… “

John Milton, Paradise Lost

She was my heavenly muse, still is and shall forever be, feeding the rivulets of chaos and calm streaming out from the glaciers of my mind, keeping me sane amidst the insanity I was surrounded by.
To me she wasn’t ordinary, for I hadn’t met anyone who would go onto stir my soul, connect deep and liberate it from the clutches of desires holding it down.

She was my heavenly muse, still is and shall forever be, for I hadn’t been left mused, amused and bemused by anyone as such, capturing her impression was and is beyond words that can be confined by mere expression. She was the embodiment of grace and rage. I was blessed to have been in her good graces.

She was my heavenly muse, still is and shall forever be, for all the light then, and shadows now are hers. The capacity of my mind, and now the incapacity of my soul to seek and find the traces of whatever I am left with is hers, doing-undoing, tying-untying and all the knots that remain, the strings holding it has an invisible pull that drew it’s source from her presence then, and absence now.

She was my heavenly muse, still is and shall forever be, enabling and paralyzing the flight of my thoughts. She, the life and the dance of death too, the life source of all that remains in me and the terminal of all things beautiful my senses can proclaim. She, the crest and She, the trough.

She was my heavenly muse, still is and shall forever be, the heavens I tread upon and the hell of fire I walked into. The culmination of bright and dull, all that I am and without. She, the dawn then, the dusk now and She, my endless twilight.

She was my heavenly muse, still is and shall forever be, She; the manifestation of the prose I read then, the central theme of the poetry I read now. She, the ideas my mind can conceive and the feelings my heart can deceive. She, my everything then and in all my nothings now, nothings that mean everything, the threshold of both merging into her.

She was my heavenly muse, still is and shall forever be, She; the abyss and the zion. She, the remnant of all that shall remain. She, the remainder and the only blissful reminder.

She, my ascend and the descent. She, the muse and the art. The light, the shadow. All things good, bright and beautiful. Absent but present; transient She isn’t. She was my heavenly muse, still is and shall forever be.

“Heaven’s last best gift, my ever new delight.”

“I am nobody, I was nobody”; she thundered, that was perhaps the last time her rage struck me, it has been calm ever since, a calm so disrupting that it almost feels numb, as if debilitating my senses. ‘Nobody’, perhaps she mustn’t have realized it, a spur of the moment reaction, as I thought to myself but it wasn’t to be. Yes, she was a nobody; but had made an impact like nobody else too, nobody had ever pulled my soul into and towards themselves as much as she did, nobody repelled it either the way she did.

Nobody, not just anybody could do what she was capable of, transfixing my mind with a purpose unknown, exciting and numbing it at the same time, being my quest and terminus, being the oar and the anchor.
Nobody, She in fact was nobody, not just anybody could have played muse and critic, could have been the source and the delta of all the thoughts that arose, nobody just nobody could have lifted and slammed me and my spirit the way she did. She was and will remain nobody, just nobody whom I can compare or contrast with just anybody else.

All the while she stayed, she was just a nobody, beyond touch, beyond expression and beyond all things that can find physical attribution in my life; her absence now proving the same as I probe deep into finding the existence of her dwelling within me, her duality. Nobody, just not anybody could have done that, being present and absent at the same time. Being in my thoughts and the words I carry and breed in my mind, just not anybody. She’s a nobody, well; I will let her remain so. Just a nobody, nobody like anybody.

It was a revelation for me, as if she had opened up the crest of something divine, that one line. It set me on course to seek nothing like anything, something I hadn’t aspired for before, seeking nothing out of everything and find everything in the nothing that now remains. That’s She !! A nobody, just not anybody.

She is yet to be written about, yet to be thought of and yet to be traced, yet all that I am left surrounded by is the sound of her voice resonating in my ears: “I am nobody”. Yes, you have been, you shall remain nobody, just a thought, a lost touch and the warmth of your breath on my face, and an invisible pull tying me down and calming me in the midst of mayhem. Nobody, just not anybody would be attributed that way, ever again.

And, as I try thinking of her, I go open Dickens again.

“The unqualified truth is, that when I loved Estella with the love of a man, I loved her simply because I found her irresistible. 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 love 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.”

Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

Perfection yet to be found. Nobody is perfect and yes, She’s nobody.

And, the train chugged into the station, platform number 5, 21:20 hours, a month ago I had someone waiting on me outside, tonight as I stepped out of the coach I felt this little niggle within, slowly numbing the senses out of me. All on a sudden, this city seems and feels so alien, it hadn’t felt so cold in a long while.

The places I would frequent now seem to be in their ruins as the cab zoomed past them, the cafeteria where I last had a cup of Irish coffee with her by my side and the pub where both of us had our last selfie clicked, they are now but a thing of the past.
I hadn’t opened up to anyone in a long long time, with her now gone, flashbacks of the days bygone are now coming back to haunt me, the billboards and the skyline of the city hasn’t changed a bit, but the place I fell so much in love with is now seeming terribly alien.
The roads I used to take when I would go to see her, the pavement where I would wait for her, her office and the florist from whom I would get roses for her, nothing has changed, and here I am, moving on, at least pretending to be but still stuck in the days which were the most beautiful part of my life.

The city has given me all that I have, a career, a passion and friends for life, with everything now behind me, I can’t seem to find a reason to feel at home. It’s spring time here, but autumn has set in. All that I had, all the broken pieces she helped gather now broken further, gluing them together wouldn’t be possible for She will forever remain the biggest missing piece of the gigantic jigsaw that life is.

I did not have the luxury to sit back and reflect, although the change was gradual but this is no metamorphosis I am undergoing, the wheel of life spinning away, and me going back to square one with every revolution. Memories coming back, they make me smile and they haunt me too, as if I have woken up to this nightmare, I had imagined this all along but never knew it would be a hard slap on my soul, a knockout punch perhaps.

I open the drawer to find the little stuff she gifted me, a handwritten note, a couple of hair clutches, a book and a box of night jasmine flowers, these are all that I have, I have of her and I have of myself. And, as I unpack my luggage to pack it again, I know I’ll carry them wherever I go.

Guwahati, was but a chapter in the book titled ‘Her’, with me set to turn over to a new page; I know She’ll stay, in the form of nascent memories. I will not see her again, I shall not hear her again; but in the midst of faces unknown I shall look out for her, her voice ringing in my ears, She’s all that now remains of me, all things good, everything beautiful.
The south wind is blowing Dora again, the flowers on the hedges are blooming Dora’s too. She’s here, within me, She’ll stay. She isn’t my soulmate, intertwined to mine, She has my soul, I parted with it.

A walk down the street which led to her old office was something I had held myself from taking ever since She left, although I had taken a few cab rides through the same route, but to stand at the pavement where I would often stand waiting on her, smoke a cigarette until She took the stairs and came down looking for me was an experience I thought couldn’t be missed. Back in the day, it was an usual sort of a routine to land up there, sip a cup of tea, pack a bouquet of roses and bid my time, I would at times wait for 20 odd minutes for her to get done with her work.

She never appreciated the fact that I would take a long route, pay an exorbitant cab fare and trouble myself to get to her office, to me though it was nothing short of an adventure. The 13kms of travel, the hot cup of tea and the fiery look of her eyes, it made up for all the trouble She assumed I put myself through.

She would initially text me citing it wouldn’t be possible for her to finish off her work, she would always be in the middle of something, a bit of persuasion and at times some cold response from my end would make my business easy, She would come down, blast me for every reason She thought were valid and I would pretend listening to her, I knew that deep within She did like the fact that I met her, and got her roses.

The meetings would last depending on her mood and pressure at work, I would avoid adventure trips on Fridays, given the volume of work She was assigned on that day of the week, I would not risk taking any chances of upsetting her mood any further. Also, given the kind of dedicated employee She was, it wouldn’t seem nice to invade into her professional commitments during the business day of the week. Tuesdays and Saturdays would be a bit relaxing for her, if I were to do a statistical analysis of our meet ups near her work place, I guess, I must have met her there mostly on Tuesdays, on Saturdays: She would take a cab and come down to the cafe near my place.

I could never muster the courage to look into her eyes, I would just stand and look somewhere else, look at her feet; her shapeless toes and neatly trimmed toenails, stealing glances was the real deal, catching her unaware and keeping my heart content that I could at least see her, and I did. I don’t remember getting into any awkward situation when She might have caught me looking up, trying to steal a glance. Stolen things are sweet, aren’t they? With her, it was even sweeter.

Now, as I stand on the same pavement where we would meet, with me stealing glances and She telling me a thing or two, rebuking me for coming down to her office, it’s all coming back; all things good.
The florist hasn’t opened his shop yet, the tea seller busy in serving hot cups of tea, I try catching up on all that has transpired ever since She left, for good; for bad or for the reasons known to both us.

“Ek cup chai dena bhaiya”; I say, and as the tea is sipped I realize there’s this lump in my throat, choking me down.

I look at my phone, no texts and no calls; She mustn’t have known that I was here again, looking out for her in the midst of all the things I am left with : a cup of tea, a cigarette, the florist who knows me rather well and the pavement where I would wait on for her. I am not moving !!

“It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.”

~ Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

And, Dickens has a quote for every emotion that I hold within, this one; from one of his classics that I so much love. There comes a stage in your life when things start adding up, the hits and the misses not making much of a sense, rather a bagful of knowledge to carry on with what seems right, and it is right. It is spring time, new twigs branching out and the chill diminishing, but then this is what the heart pines for: a bit of a misery in all things that reveal themselves to be good, the bad now not holding anything good.

She hadn’t left, the corridors of my mind still reverberate with the sounds of her laughter that I held so dear, I still do. A pole which holds firm the rope my life is holding onto, casting no dark shadow but bathed in her light, it’ll be dusk soon; until then I’d still bathe in whatever glow remains, the little pieces of her and the stuff She shared with me; pushing me forward, helping me wage my battle against the demons which are now surfacing back to life.

The summer is yet to arrive; the scorching Sun would be up. The summer in my heart though is now but a thing of the past, I feel no reluctance in owing up and admiring the burning sensation within. It has made me the person I am, moulded me into becoming the man I am today, not a better version I guess; but then, who needs validation when all that matters is the just the presence of one person deep within the core to calm and keep thing cool, to channelise the molten lava of my thoughts into words, into actions which make me what I am.

The shade, the light and the very source now within me, deep within me; manifesting it’s presence as and when required; the pain, the anxiety, the relief and the calm: all but her, fiddling away, making and breaking and recreating all that I have and hold.

It was in fact during one of those March days when the revelation happened, as if the Heaven’s had opened up it’s chest of Divine Knowledge, for me to realize and absorb: Her vision, the way I first saw that sight, dressed the same, still the same; the light and the cool shade still the same. The winds of change had started to blow, hot and cold; but the soul understood none of it; it never will for it had found refuge after it’s great escape. The cradle of her eyes, the warm breath and the cold embrace all making up whatever held me, but what did I hold on to? Her, the pieces of her, shredded by the swords of destiny and crushed by the galloping horses of fate, I’d still hold onto them.

Material-immaterial : all that I have for and to myself, staying put and staying calm in the face of all the chaos and calamities. This was beautiful, as beautiful as her and scenic as the spring time scenes of March. She branching out, She’s here and so is spring.

The Summer might melt me down, the Winter; chill and numb my senses, this Spring, the revelation will however stay, the vice-grip within is all her, holding, guarding and guiding me as I spring forward. Yes, Spring’s here, lifespring and it is She.

“Congratulations on writing 100 posts”; my phone beeped, as a flood of memories warm and cold, sweet and bitter, calm and torrid hit me. It has been a journey of sorts for me, from me venting out to writing about people I admire, adore for life. From creating characters to taking a stand for causes I believe in, this has been a ride: a joyride and a rollercoaster at the same time.

“You aren’t someone who would catch someone by their collar and vent out, try writing, give it some time. Write about your experiences – good and bad, about people and trust me you will feel much better, lighter.” said the psychologist. It was August ‘2015, the onset of doom perhaps, the relationship I had treasured now razed to the ground. No traces of it remains now, expect for the skin that I haven’t been able to shed. And, three springs later as I look back, I know certain things are meant to be, for the good.

My heartfelt gratitude goes out to the counsellor who understood the pulse of my mind, understood the kind of person I was and gauged deep into my psyche. I thank her for asking me to write, to begin with it in the first place, for enabling me in tracing out my then lost passion for writing.

I thank the one I lost my heart to when I was teenager for helping me write, giving me content and importing content for me from the plains of Northern India. The starting phase of anything depends on stability, the relation had none but the content was more or less stable. I thank her for being the dark chapter of my life, it helped me in seeking light and sunshine for myself, all by myself.

2015, was more of an experiment; I tried to communicate what if felt like to be out of a relationship, nothing self-destructive, self-realization here; I was holding onto a toxic relationship; it was a cruel test of time and fate.

2016, got me going; the heartbreak felt real, and as I sulked in depression I sought intervention again; suicidal thoughts and tendencies gripping my mind, never had I felt that frustrated and low. I saw my counsellor again, she asked me to write, helped connect me to NGOs and take up volunteering work and referred me to a psychiatrist. “He is a mental case”; they talked behind my back and as the murmurs grew I knew to myself that the pills had to work, ease me and put me to sleep. Anxiety had always been an issue with me, fighting the monsters of depression now seemed arduous too. Popping a tablet and scribbling on my phone became more than a pastime, I was jobless and broke too; it aided in me venting out.

My blogs did reasonably well in 2016, the viewership grew; posts were shared widely and it did help me in breaking the shackles of depression to an extent.

I thank all my subjects, people whom I wrote about during that time.

Mr. Sharma for being the content he is, I might have not written about him recently, but I still hold him in high and low regard, we have shared a symbiotic relationship and I shall glorify it again.

The freak; my friend whom I met on a train journey from Mumbai to Calcutta, the owner of my favourite pub; a place like no place else, the girl who inspired me with her grit, my ex manager (someone who pretended to be), the junior from college who loved metal and the senior from school who taught me a thing or two, my tattooist friend, the Mallus in my life, the Nagas I grew up with, the friend who came out to me and Delhi; Dilli for me – Hazrat Nizzamuddin Auliya, my savior, my guiding light; for guiding me through the tumultuous times.

2017, took off slower than expected; my writing suffered a bit of a spasm as other worries crept in, being jobless does that to you. The nagging, the taunts and jokes about me being depressed now taking me nowhere, with me writing lesser and lesser with each passing day. The only relief then was meeting a publisher who wanted me to write, but write his version of my story. I agreed initially, but then my principles weighed in, it wasn’t for sale; I couldn’t spice things up to sell something I held close to my heart. The end result, 300 pages deleted for good. I had better things to write, even better things to experience. A miracle awaited, a blessing sent from the Heavens was to be parceled soon. Chester Bennington, the late Linkin Park frontman was the angel who delivered to me the greatest gift I was to receive: My Muse, Estella was in sight!! Perhaps, She’ll understand as to why I mentioned Chester here.

The second half of 2017 got me going as I discovered a new zeal to write, with someone inspiring me with her words and silence, her calm and chaos, with her presence then and absence now.

And, as I step into my journey again with a vigor now renewed, I know: I can only write about her, write for her and write to her, endlessly and seamlessly. I would also like to thank my depression, the pain I held within and my pills for making me write, the authors I grew up reading and the songs I grew up listening to and the tales I grew up romancing, they are all adding up now; as I ready myself for another voyage, this time a tad bit difficult with her absence, but then isn’t the Northern Star far away too, miles away from the earth.

Lead, kindly light, amid the encircling gloom,
Lead thou me on;
The night is dark, and I am far from home;
Lead thou me on;
Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene: one step enough for me.

~ John Henry Newman

P.S: A big shout out to all the readers, followers and people who took time out to read, share and provide feedback on stuff that I wrote. A big thank you for keeping me sane, giving me time and enabling me to do what I am worse at doing best – scribbling.

“I will tell you a bed time story tonight”; She said. No, She wasn’t going to be beside me, She had promised She would read to me one her favourite childhood stories from the ‘Grandmother’s fables’ by Lakshminath Bezbaroa, he was a literary giant, considered to be one of the finest storytellers in Assamese literature, I had done my homework well. While, I had all the options to browse the internet and the find out the story by myself, I held on to the the urge. The soothing affect of her voice meant more than just some random story telling.

I hadn’t felt this excited for a long long time, I had last heard a bedtime story when I was a six year old, I still remember it was ‘The Homecoming’ by Tagore, Phatik Chakraborty and his story had made me weep and cry, I was so touched that I ran temperature and fell sick, Maa hadn’t told me a story ever since and this was perhaps after 24 years that someone was going to read to me something, rather tell me a story.

I remember her telling me how She had performed a street play showcasing the same story, She held it very close to her heart. Also, She had shared photographs of the same, in one of the pictures She was holding her wrist, sitting down and weeping. She played the role of the protagonist, and I was touched; deeply touched. The picture said a thousand words, it was from 2010-11, her university days. I was overawed by the kind of qualities She had, She could write, She was very well read, She danced like a dream (who knew this better than me) and She could act too. Woah !! What awesomeness, what a find. I was now looking forward to the kind of storyteller She would be.

The wait was a long one, longer than I had expected. The promised night of her telling me the bedtime story never came by, She would promise me once in a while that She would, She hadn’t forgotten, She would say; and I would keep looking forward to it. Months passed by and She never kept her promise, I was tempted to read the story myself but I restrained, you know how addictive hope can be, and when it meant the soothing balm of her voice; I could have waited for a lifetime.

The day did come by, night perhaps; I thank the good heavens and the chains of her mood, they didn’t snap. She had a good day at work, was keeping happy and luckily for me She had met me in the evening too, a pizza bribe did the trick. It was one of those autumn nights, and the moon was up in the sky spreading it’s radiance. The call started with her being all casual, the cribbing then started and I was loosing my mind, I had heard her office stories, I knew all the characters who occupied the cubicles there.

But then, out of nowhere She started with the story as I mumbled, asked her to hold, I looked out for my earphones, plugged them in lest I missed something, noise and distortion you know. The story was a good one, it didn’t put me to sleep, rather I asked her if She could tell me another, sadly She didn’t oblige. “Some other time”; She said; well I’ll wait, even if it means seeing her across the other side of this world.

P.S: She would tell stories like no one else, She will be a story like no one else. I’ll tell her story some day.

“Mind helping me out with an assignment?” She asked, I couldn’t say ‘No’ to her, She was keeping busy She said; the assignment was an important one and had to be submitted urgently. Although, I couldn’t write half as good as She could, I nonetheless tried. She, putting the trust in me was all that mattered, I believed I would do a satisfactory job; if not anything great.

I guessed what the assignment could be, perhaps some comprehension test; She had applied for this new job at a new location. I was happy for her, sad for myself; like one of those days when you have this mixed bag of feelings which feels a little heavy, but her growth mattered. She had put in all the hard work all these years, had been very competent and dedicated but sometimes this what being in small town does to you: it can tie you down, and who would have known this better than me.

We met later in the evening at our favourite bar, She looked excited perhaps camouflaging a couple of things. She seemed happy and excited, I could sense that in the voice; but, in her mind there were certain apprehensions too. New place, new workplace and a brand new assignment; all this while She was so much in love with the position She had here, She loved her job to bits but then change was necessary and inevitable too, She had to try and test new waters; more than her, I believed in her abilities; I still do. She had the creative bent of mind that mattered, She could write and phrase sentences beautifully and above all else She was an extremely hardworking woman. Everyone needs a bit of hand-holding initially and with the right kind of mentoring, I believed She could and would go far. But, there was also this tinge of heaviness within: She would be going away.

She had been smiling all the while, discussing about the perks the job had to offer; it took me some time to get all of that in my head; my mind was lost elsewhere, I was busy thinking of the time when we had first met to the numerous meeting we had over a year and a half, I had zoned out and her eyes were taking me on a different trip. I choked for a while, and went straight to the smoking zone pretending I had a call to make; I had to get out of it; I couldn’t let it show on my face; a cigarette did help.

“So, you all excited for the new role?”; I asked, as I came out, “What is the profile they are offering, and would you get to write?”; I enquired again. I didn’t remember that She had already mentioned about it a good thirty minutes ago, luckily for me; She didn’t assume too much. She went ahead answering me again.

We don’t miss people, we miss the moments we created; the tales we lived and if anything were to haunt me it would be the streets we walked upon and the pavements where we would stand and chat, I could visualize all of this; her chatter not making any sense then. The beer did feel colder than ever, her favourite sprouts almost left untouched; She would otherwise finish off a couple of plates with me helping her too. It was me coming to terms with what I’d be left with, I had known this for a long time but there are moments when you feeling like staying put and not accepting whatever life has to offer; life is real though. I had been sleepwalking all through my life; this was going to be a living nightmare.

“I hope they let you write”; I said, “If they don’t, please take up freelance assignments, but please keep writing”; I added. I knew what writing and expressing her thoughts meant to her, certain things can’t be valued by the perks they earn you or the money you make, it’s about the feel good factor attached to it, writing wasn’t just a job for her; it made her who She was. I hoped, She wouldn’t discontinue.

And, She did write; a long text and a blog; She did keep her word.

P.S: Jenny, you are meant to write better; human stories with a humane touch, remember? Don’t you dare forget that.

“Where are you? Don’t be late, we’ll be there by 3:30 pm”; She said, and hung up the call, She had made ten calls in a span of forty minutes. She was leaving the city, with me and another friend going to see her off to new her abode. Although, I didn’t feel like going, I knew it would be heartbreaking, but I decided it would perhaps be the last time that I would get to sit beside her, to travel with her; the three of us had so far made plans of travelling together, but given our schedules; nothing materialized.

The days have flown by rather quickly, with She; now more or less settled in her new place, although much hasn’t changed the way we feel, certain things are hard to let go; and I believe we shouldn’t let them go either. The times which made me the person that I am can’t be cast away and thrown into the bin of the past; I certainly; most certainly feel. But, the memories do come back, flooding the gates of my mind and my eyes can’t hold up, the tear drops aren’t salty; coated with sweetness of her presence and now longing for her in her absence.

I had initially planned to do away with things that I did when She were with me, for I felt it would hurt me within, with her absence now pinching me more than ever, what more could I do than revisiting the places where we would go. It has been a hard battle of sorts, to convince the mind and my heart to come to an agreement; but I would now like to feel the pang of her not being here as I set out to rekindle the emotions which I seemed to have parted with. I had been to the café where we would spend our evenings over cups of black coffee and never ending conversations on life, books and literature, often topped with her cribbing; it was hard for me to focus then.

As, I now set out yet again to take to the streets which I last walked through with her, I know the walk will be long and never ending, I might very well feel choked, but then it would be She releasing herself through the emotion that would come out, no better feeling than this.

I don’t plan to visit any of the restaurants or pubs we would go to, rather it would be the streets and the pavements where we would stand and chit chat, the street leading to her office; to her favourite restaurant; the mall where we last watched a movie and the narrow lane leading to the Dargah; I last visited with her. Perhaps, I’ll bow down my head and pray again, pray She be good.

The air feels slightly heavy, as if suffocating me with the fragrance She carried; but, I have to walk on; smear myself with her memories again, feel the pang of her absence and pray that her presence stays on for life, it’s all that I have got; will have for life.

As, I walk on I see this tiny little shop from where we would buy cigarettes, I walk up and buy myself a packet, her absence now feeling stronger than ever, She would usually pay for it. The streets, the shops, the frantic scenes on the street all still the same, I miss my monument of calm amidst all this.

And, hold myself up; and take a bus, a departure from my usual routine of getting a cab; for I wanted to feel the streets. I plug in my earphones and listen to a song which She last played for me. The Dargah isn’t far away.

‘Cause if one day you wake up and find that you’re missing me
And your heart starts to wonder where on this earth I could be
Thinkin’ maybe you’ll come back here to the place that we’d meet
And you’ll see me waiting for you on our corner of the street..

P.S: Ending lines from the song, ‘The man who can’t be moved’ by The Script