Anaahat

At the door of the black-hole-soul, a vacancy flashes, of a parent, brother, a friend, a lover, siphoning my vessel of all the things dark and light. From above He watches this game I play, watches me, break and scatter, and watches still, as I gather the pieces with timid hopeless courage. And I find myself at that same place of hurt and disappointment. The adamant self, discounting the altercations, the growth and maturity I pride in, only to realize that I am but, the solitary prisoner of my own self.

That relentless squat, every day, rain or shine, holding a dirty bowl, waiting with patience, or resignation. Tattered clothes, and his bony structure, torn with karmic beatings. Wrinkled face, with a toothless grin, and a pair of thick, hazy glasses hiding his gaze looking for, some glances of sympathy, perhaps some gestures of kindness. A walking stick by his side, to run away, again, if need be. He looks up every time I pass, no eye contact, no conversation, not even a moment spent to drop a coin in his bowl. Just a connection of two steps, From the time I turn on his street, to the time I turn the corner. But there he sits, with a certain degree of dignity, with a fervent defiance against life’s trials, in his silent, unyielding begging.

It seeps slowly, through the bones, sags her shoulders like a breath through her being. Corners of her eyes, hold invisible traces, of hopes and hopefuls, dying and living, each day, every day. Dreams and wishes, in silence elude her senses, out of her system, through her feet, sinking, firm into the moist earth. Then she breathes, again life into the core, raises her eyes, clears the lines,on her forehead, takes a step, leaving behind, an imprint, of a disappointment.

Is it the intimacy, the dependence, the duality of existence, the doubling of things. Is it the fear of not finding the unconditional love preached by the damn fairy tales or the fear of being loved, for love alone. Whats wrong? They (damn them) say, the grayed uncles and the wrinkled grandmothers, This is no way to be, to be sol, alone, solitary. What will life be, when the youth will be gone, the independence will be physically taken away, And one fine day, You will be lying on the floor, with a broken backbone and nobody to clean the mess, the rotting of life. Whats wrong in living in fairy tales that have acquired new definitions, when there is no need to ‘settle down’ and settle for whats available just for a reason to live another day, for another life, to fight the fear of being alone. without the quest of a ‘forever’.

Picture-perfect he stands with an unreadable face his arms around her smiles in the offing and a baby in the pram. Heavy bags tug at his shoulders and he stands, an invisible centimetre, minus his height, with the world he recreated –a man, a woman, a child. a life xeroxed as the one he knew with the trappings of life to anchor himself. And on wakeful nights while changing diapers, and in moments of solitude, fear creeps inside of him, evaluating his abilities to re-create the picture in his mind. From a distance, an observer zooms his lens, a spectator who spends nights witnessing others live their loves, questioning his own stance, his own ways with no trappings with the shackles de-shackled, with no connect with a soul except his own.

They are all there on my chat list, the first one, the last one 'Travelling' reads the status message of one, 'do not disturb' says another, and I contemplate, those who say ex-lovers can be good friends, were never one or another, or maybe they simply don’t love anymore. But then, what is love, but all the things you never thought possible of yourself? the things you thought you’d never say, the highs you’d fly, the lows you’d reach, the depths your character would stoop? Should I say, ‘How are you doing?’ ‘whats up?’ Or maybe I should just shut up? Negating all the mundane things to say, of stayin’in touch, of socializing, of sharing pictures and geographical locations, to leave the past where it belongs, with no thankyous, no apologies, no forward, no rewind, only a memory of a place where you and I met, while in transit through the various planes of the metaphysical realm.

this letter that i hold, speaks a different language today, tells many different things, than what i read years ago. it emotes some love which i refused to see, cause i was looking for words instead. listen to me now, i was looking for a bond too, a connection, which was so aptly crafted, captured in this letter, when i was looking for words instead. at this hour, i sit still, drowned, overwhelmed, wanting, to bring back the time, to say different things, for a chance with the past, to tell you that the words don’t matter, when all this while, i have only, been looking for you instead.