The Listener

Familiar voices pour into my ears and with a sizzle, rightfully touch the soul. They do not demand, do not expect, and go on being who they are -- performing for the dark space in which their listeners' faces linger. And I, I listen to them intently as if learning about their lives would sort mine. How could I not, it feels like an enticing, compelling sermon, like someone opened a window with a view of the gushing waterfalls in the distant, rushing towards life.

On multiple occasions, I have sought refuge in switching the TV on, only to listen to those known voices, replaying their lives and roles all over again. There is no adventure, because I know what would happen next, and to be able to forecast the future, who is not happy with that? While working on the laptop, I have Koffee with Karan or invisibly stay with Ghosh & Co. They go about running and hosting their houses in the background, oblivious of atrocious errors I clean. They dig out treasures all over their guest maps. This sharing, this fearless sharing, make them more own than concerned uncles and aunts and more dear than conceited evil uncles and evil aunts. 

I haven't yet bought a TV here, and needless to say the depression setting in from its absence is appalling. There are no irritating jingles barging into beautiful movies, no binge watching of Harry Potter and Grey's Anatomy and most importantly, no decided laugh that I can have over a justly categorised 'bad-movie.' They are people in my room who do not care whether I lie on the phone, or what and how I eat. They do not judge my severe thickness jutting out of doodled shorts or discoloured t-shirts. They do not ask me anything, anything at all. They don't even retaliate when I ask them to shut up and move on. They are my best friends.

This afternoon, trying to gather the shreds that people have turned me into and dispersed, and to forget even myself for a while, I invited Rituparno Ghosh's Titli in my ears. It was a thoughtless choice, but as they say, sometimes impulse is divine. The internet connection was powerful even with the introduction as the otherwise nyaka song "Megh piyon'er..." felt nothing inferior than a long awaited massage, thoughtfully gifted. 

The Sen mother-daughter began their impeccable banter, which frames the cultural crown of Bengali popular artsy movies. I could not refrain myself to only their voices, and opened the tab. I must have resembled a clinically ill person, smiling at the screen in the office. And then there was the mist of Kurseong and the thrill of the lyrical shot in which Mithun is shown to walk in, a silhouette taking slow shape right into the heart, till he took the shape of the heartbeat. My goosebumps made me realize I should stop watching it and go back to listening the movie. I did.

I am a very happy person now. I love the old Ghosh of Titli, Shubho Mahurat and Utsab. He explores the complexest of relationships with the effortlessness of having being through them all. The cross-hatch of his dialogues is a tribute to details. So many actors now seem orphan without him. Anyway, to return to Titli, I feel like I have just hosted a fabulous party -- and each one on the guest list was selectively catered to. I baked and cooked and fed and feel satiated myself.

I listened, I listened and I listened. Like it was all meant for me. I was home with the stars. 

Writing the Future

Insane instances about rejections sound unreal. In a world where nothing but success glitters and nothing but luck favours, stories about rejection sound like medicines for depression -- a fake candy for a diabetic, a tranq for the nervous. Have you ever wondered why are there so many writers in this world who are in debt, poor and sad? They breed happiness but cannot feed on it themselves. Sorry, I speak for myself. I have come to that stage where I have accepted that the myth around JK Rowling's success story is exactly that -- a myth. She must belong to the magical fraternity, who came out to the muggle world one day and decided to give it a taste of where she hails from. No other explanation can convince me that things 'happened' to her. Yes, I have become a pathetic, pragmatic pessimist. Pessimist I always was, atleast earlier I was a jovial human-being. Or so I thought. I was never jovial. I just had a happy demeanour.

For all those who remember me as happy-go-lucky, I was that face, yes. But I always had clever confusions killing me, I had the company of doubt and low self-esteem groping me. Wisely, the other face clowned it. Looking back now, to that chair in which I sat to do unending Maths and that sofa on where legs crossed I settled, writing letters and doodling, I always had thoughts -- dementors -- all over me. And day-dreams -- my patronus. That is all of my childhood I can look back to, struggling to stay awake, fighting my biggest enemy The Boards Expectations. I had stage fright, people fright, yet I wanted to be famous. Should have figure it out then, I dwell in dichotomies. 

And they tell me, those who read me, I am good, I am bloody good, and publishable. I got one of those calls again today, and I pulled my car to the side, and took the call. A casual voice, genuine in its HR-intent to rope in a candidate, asked me, "What have you written?" I was on a speeding highway, with cars zooming past me. With due seriousness to the question, the fallacy of the situation made me answer ridiculously honestly, "I have attempted answers, done content, I am pursuing a dissertation (which I am pretty sure, she does not know the meaning of), and also written what we call creative writing."

"Oh, nice, nice, Kuntala." Yes nice indeed. What have you written? I started the car. "A 'bright' English-student," as the phrase is popular, I wrote applications and invites. For people in my family, and their birthday parties, for those dead, and for many who take the living for granted -- I have written, I have written and I have fucking written. Endlessly. But you see, it is not a song that people queue up in honourable silence to intellectually praise, nor is it a piece of painting unaffordably priced; it is just language, something we all know, we all speak and need not specialise in. It is a matter of permutation, combination and patience to place a rhyme or prose in their proper position.

What have I written, really? The moment I try to make a selection, I reject them myself, "the mass won't understand." And so, the meek me slices them gregariously and makes me think of what magic I need to unearth to build a story to meet myths of "luck meets talent." Strangely, while I think I will distract myself online, I find hundreds of writers. Even more strangely, none of them are in debt or doubt, they bask in self-love and are well-to-do, instant popularity comes free these days. They don't seem sad too, I am relieved. May be one day I will be too, and on my epitaph my favourite words for me would outlive me, "Well-loved and best-selling..."

The only good thing about this piece? I have come to terms with my identity.

I am a writer, a creative writer. And one day, I will write only for myself.
No invitations, no alterations -- just what you would like to read while going off to sleep.

Cover Story

The lazy linseed wafted out of the canvas. The brushstrokes, loyally, did not reveal what the artist tried to hide. Her landscape had taken a golden shower, like her body. She wore a long sleeveless t-shirt, and a scowl, disappointed with the sunset shine and the coffee stains. Slender, silver bangles made slight sounds on her wrist, as she ran her hand under the tap. Anamika stole the evening to spend with herself. She came to this apartment, their apartment, once every month quite unannounced, and undeclared, deliberately.

Six years back, when they were both in their twenties, luck favoured them with the property, and they had moved into it, willingly. They liked the longing with which it looked out to the sad road, its sad noise and sadder sights. This was no place by the sea, with thick curtains to shut out the harsh light, but it was home to their secrets and to all what they had to shed. The apartment, was named "AM" after the initials of their names. It grew with their tenderness and failures, their fights and eventually their silences, till it too, like they, became a monument of habitual silence. 

The apartment had come to life, one stolen evening like this one, breezy with the smell of strong coffee, when Anamika stormed in and rushed into the bedroom, stifling howls. To the "What happened, Anamika? Tell me, Anamika" she had only her fists to punch into the cushion till the "what happened Anamika" was articulated with a soul crushing embrace that led from one kiss to another, from compassion to passion, from the ties of rights to the opening of wrongs. Since that moment, even with separate love interests, they came home to their mutual dependence in unbridled proximity, habits that they wore and woke up with.

But Anamika stole this evening to spend with herself. Since her marriage, she came to this apartment, their apartment, once every month quite unannounced, and undeclared, deliberately. She painted, she slept on the bed they had made theirs, and she generously whiled away a lot of time, commanding their memories before Mallika returned. Mallika, her elder sister, was now in-charge of a fashion magazine, while Anamika still struggled with her painting. She evolved as a rich man's wife though.

The sisters' commitment was a conspiracy that grew with their tenderness and failures, their fights and eventually their silences, till it too became a monument of habitual silence. As her bangles whispered, Anamika recalled the evening of tears where the entire passion had begun. After one and a half years, Mallika was back into the city with the promotion. 

Anamika wore a long sleeveless t-shirt, and a scowl, disappointed with the sunset shine and the coffee stains. She was feverishly hoping that she could initiate what Mallika did, six years back. I will sympathise the absence of your lover, Mallika. Anamika laughed and let a dab of red to remain on her wrist, partly covered by the bangles. You will notice this, I know. And you will kiss it, and all sad things away. She pulled the curtains and fell asleep with a copy of Mallika's magazine on her. 

Come home, Mallika.

A Birthday Note

Once I had tried to believe that I was a fairy, or a princess, or one of those things that rarely happen. That was of course when I was still learning to understand why I could not have a cake, while other friends on their birthday did, an entire cake to slice a song with, and perhaps from that trim an age, I grew an unconscious defence mechanism, about things I would like to have and could not. Cakes and laces are things that make a dream, and well, dreams are infamous for being unreal. I grew up, rejecting the festoons and fandom in planning a birthday party.

Then I grew up some more and rejected anniversaries. Like travel destinations, my mates and the dates around them changed. I did not celebrate year after year my first kiss, well of course I did, but only the adventure of it -- of how it felt, the lips touching like caramel coating a boat of neatly lined nuts, and finally the sweet crunch of a delicate bite. Kisses changed with the people I kissed. It did not make any sense to dab a generous layer of highlight over the whens.

Sometime back, when I felt all suited-up in my studied elegance, I wished the mother on her child's birthday, for having undergone the pain, pleasure and patience of giving birth. She must have thought of me as a nerd, while collecting crumpled paper-cups from obnoxious corners of the party site. That was adolescence, which I now forgive as. I will now tell you of what happens when people get excited about birthdays, as a dependable adult. 

Phonathon -- that is what the day is reduced to, with redundant questions like, "What are your plans?", "Where is the party?" and "What gift did you get?" Special people on their special day have asked for special attention from me, while I, mean that I am, laughed at them inside my head, and decided to gift them me, but what a waste. Just as you are about to share a moment of mutual lazing longer, the electronic circus unfurls with special sound effects, and the monotony of same answers eat into the invisible festoons. I am a cup of steaming coffee held by the birthday person and feel like yelling, "Drink me up before I spill the beans!!!"

Apart from some well-wishers who remember us (or not) all year through, the rest seem like an army of nonsense, even the poor mobile phone cannot battle. I am wrong, sorry. The day begins with a barrage of probability questions, "What will you do? Where will you go? Who are invited? Where's the treat?" and ends with unacceptable shameless questions, "What did you do? What did you have? What did you get?" all of which would have made sense if the person facing the battery was taking it willingly. Mercilessly at the end of having to politely respond to courtesy questions and wishes, ate into the "special day" time.

The day ends as uneventfully as it began, with the sunrise and the moon drifting away somewhere it could not be caught. It was spent as usual with having to have banter with strangers, an ask to handle the heart with special care, marked "Fragile" for those who cared to notice. They were privileged to participate in a negligible moment of the celebration called life, and the ordeal called living. 

What's so happy about a birthday, anyway?  

U-Turn

Buildings, like bodies, have a character. Sometimes, a soul too. We return from concrete roads to buildings which house homes; we take off with or without a wish to get there, we get stuck between our decisions and our wishes and finally we take turns in living up to our call. We abide by rules, we race past them, we face questions. Buildings and roads suffer secrets, bodies and souls too.

I am going to keep this short and stark, both, for you as you read, as well for me even as I write. I am not double cross-checking it like the ratio between brick and mortar, were I to repair someone else's roof. That said, it is also not a mail I am slipping to you dear Pankhi, between one tab and the other. Boys wouldn't be doing this, this writing business, right? Wrong.

And to tell you of other wrongs, one began from the moment life began here in this nation which jeered at me each time I said my name aloud, "Yodhha Mansoor." religion and curiosity came in the way of lyrics and poetry. I have been hounded and later bored with, "Are you a Punjabi Muslim?" No. I am just a passionate home-maker, a brick-layer, I have become the architect I wanted to be and I finish each project with a prayer that the house finally becomes a home.

This ginger tea reminds me of your submission nights' frenzy. The cup too is still not broken, I am surprised. The glaring orange Garfield cup you had put in my bag when I shifted from office to my own office. And even as the office grew, you and I grew apart, away. It began with the damned roads of difference and distance, and the sentimental intolerance put on display by our families. I feel as if we belong to a film, and all that is happening, none is in our hands. The reel unrolls, suffering our secrets.

It has been so lonely, to take the u-turn to return to a home without you. Buildings, like bodies, do have a character. And the soul within, it is parched. The glowing directions make no sense.

Pankhi, I am no Yodhha without you.

Everything urges me to take a You-Turn.

Soulful Tales

Observing fresh morning acts on fresh mornings by the river-bed -- washermen stretch out limp sarees and place them on the ground, are wishes I cannot afford. Yet, ever since I have begun to write, I cry often at the movies, I pause longer and I itch till a story has been told. Today I share one from the depths of my womb. It is called, "Failed Feminists" and like the unwanted child, I dare not give birth to it. So long. Sometimes, conveniently I call it "Flawed Feminists" to sound a little less sharp. But, like unborn children, they have a pulse which beat at unwarranted moments. I had to let it go, out in the wild, one with the history of spoken words.

To trace the history of any movement is easier than that of clouds, even though clouds change consistently. The academic papers ended with my serious name, Aamodini Vaishnabh, which soon became Dr Aamodini Vaishnabh. I liked to root out the unearthed, scoop them diligently off the dust and then place them on the pedestal, turning them out after a good haircut. People liked listening to me, and what I had conjured on any occasion. They were intrigued by me, I could read that in their admiration. I never disrespected that, but failed relationships and abortions were mishaps I preferred to keep to myself. Those belonged to the history of one of the un-s -- the unspoken, the unearthed, the unwarranted and to my greatest belief, the unbelievable.

Theories were the borrowed ornaments with which I decorated my findings. Others' theories. Yet, I failed my own beauty when I chose to cover my doormat survival. I did not have it in me to become an activist, who could alter perspectives. I was only a scholar who ensured thickening of books. One of the things which it did not permit me was to write. How I wished to become like Arundhati Roy, to be able to write a God of Small Things and how devastatingly I had to criticize The Algebra of Infinite Justice. So, I kept a serene notebook for my wild shrubs, and let them grow where intruders weren't welcome. Till I found out that the intruders were those who would not approve of my inflated belly. 

I killed my child, it was murder. It was murder. And the next day I showed up at a seminar, gleaming with the intruders, now, warm hosts to my speckless personal memoir, one that did not have any obscene entry on a serene notebook. Such shadows of guilt clawed upon my fingers. And my thoughts, and the interaction between my fingers and my thoughts, and did not allow me to write. I decided this would be my last entry as Aamodini. She is easily flawed without her surname, without any surname for that matter. Dr Aamodini Vaishnabh, on the other hand, was celebrated for more years to come. She ploughed, but she did not plant. 

On nights that are starless, as a writer, I take the liberty to shower my anger on the paper. Without the paper at hand, I sketch on the skies. And somewhere when the crimson touches the prussian blue, a violet emerges, a defiant brushstroke of the soul, painting words that could never be held within pages. 

Aamodini, 2016.

This & That

Naman touched the dust that had gathered at his old desk. He worded his name on it, carefully, and no one disturbed him this time. Towards the end of the cursive of the second 'N', he put his head on the table, and looked at it, as though the alphabet shone back at him, tracing its way glitter all the way to his eyes, "Puneeta."

If anyone was not paying attention to Naman and his antics till that moment, they were all ears now. Puneeta was often found wired in with Naman, in this particular corner, to their defence, "sharing similar taste in music." Colleagues were happy when work-time went into the showcause of two adults indulging in "unacceptable behaviour." 

It was two years back, each of the six days, the common fifteen minutes off the lunch break, Naman and Puneet would settle and others would sigh at their intimacy. They would often eavesdrop upon giggles which emitted from silly sounding options:

 

"Mountains or Sea?"

"Football or Tennis?"

"Son or Daughter?"

"County or City?"

"Sunrise or Sunset?"

"Bungalow or Apartment?"

"Tea or Coffee?"

"Beer or Whiskey?"

"Dark or White Chocolate?"

 

The stolen sessions went on. Between preferences, nobody could intercept their silence. They betted on what the answers could be. They betted on how long they would last, or one outlast the other. They betted on who amongst them would give these two out. All of this happened. Between victories and defeats Puneeta changed cities and Naman took to the seat of power. Between assumptions and answers, they gave up each of the above.

Naman returned to the moment, straigtened his tie, finished his greetings and left the campus. He thought of Puneeta the entire way back to his office. Nobody knew Puneeta was his cousin, nobody knew their answers. 

 

"With You."

Windows

Windows 3:

Age -- in terms of class attended -- IV. I was hardly fascinated with this thing called the 'new subject.' We had to rote commands to run. What were we doing, inside an ac room, when all the running was supposed to take place out in the playground? I learnt zero about the computer and I may have passed only because I had to draw boxes and drop-downs, and the grace marks attached to cleanliness.

Windows 2000: 

Class X. I realized the virtue of having two glamorous windows in my room, one which opened to an endless field of green, which became a river during the notorious Assam floods, and the other which brought in voices of a self-defence class, each morning as I sat in the sofa in the name of an hour of study, before school -- "Hoo! Haa!" I knew some faces by the chords of my ear. The same window exposed me to the sound of mass-violence of Bihari bhagao! Bangali bhagao! Early sleepers, my family, I curled up on the same sofa, this time seeing blood with my own ears and for in many, many years, walking into my parents' room thereafter.

Windows XP:

UGI. I took the early morning bus to college, and looked out at the empty roads which would grow like fungus in the next five hours on my way back. Peddlers were beginning to set their wares up. Wives lined up to fill various plastic pots with municipality water, husbands braved the stench of fresh morning fish and bargained over their best bet at dinner, sleepy children in crisp uniforms went about their mundane school routine, without a trace of the minutest joy on their face. 

Windows 8:

I have four dedicated power-windows installed specially in the base range of the car I bought on hard-earned loan. I had thought of the other side of the window from UG I, where I could look up at the buses and voyeur into people and plots. How diligently wrong I have been. I have a sip of my water, grab a fruit slice, or set my hair once I am at the red light. Shamelessly, I also dab another layer of lipstick on my 'cigarette lips.' It is only then that I look out and up, and try and figure if there is a me on the next bus, watching me do this. I have no time to ponder much, it is 9-8-7-6, time to ignite the engine and move on. 

Windows 10:

Sometimes, I look into the little window of the world, my smartphone. Faces I knew since the run command now all smile and stand alike, like those drop-down boxes, with grace marks for perfection in posing. 

In such a palace of windows, I reflect upon decades that slip through my lifetime. Like weight, it weighs on me, the amount that could be burnt down, and the useless assemblance. I curl up in a corner and look out.  

It's time to open them!

Odd One Out

Carefully, she flipped the page, her finger running through the Corning Gorilla, trying to recall how it felt to hold a second-hand bestseller, between the cover of a syllabus-book. Excited guilt. How did this feel? Guilty indulgence. Alerts and notifications ket her updated to a point where she had not been able to proceed into the next paragraph.

Anahita Gautam, author of And Siya is a Bride!, was enjoying her brittle flight of pride, well-aware that she was there because she fed the market with trash. Her favourite song came on as she was furiosly trying to cancel the call. She looked out of her window. The moon was floating, even though there was much dust on the pane to distract her, it did not. The moon was floating away. It is Eid tomorrow. Hastily, she followed the moon, from one end of her apartment into the other, till she was entranced by the golden dollop of a huge sun set into one the buildings. So much so for sunsets by the sea. She returned to her couch and swiped to the next page. Will I ever be able to finish it? Her mind rushed like the curtains -- to and from -- yet, stuck somewhere to not fall apart. Anahita was now following the curtains, it seemed to her that everyone in her comlex had opened their balcony doors to the possibility of a hushed drizzle. The patterns in themselves welcomed the change in hostility from being on one side of the glassdoors. Somewhere, sheep sang, somewhere else circles danced. The squares were on over the other, and the florals smelled beautiful. The curtains are alive. 

Tired of chasing the moon and the curtains, she dozed off into her past. Sudhir was smiling at her from inside the pressure cooker, "Look who's concerned about my whereabouts!" Anahita hurriedly pushed away a lock of hair from her temple. Sudhir called her about her cancelled ticket, "You did not consult me!" Anahita furiously bit her nail. Sudhir undressed her. Anahita unbuttoned him. They were tied in curtains which read headlines of their separation. Smoke covered the small flights of pigeon which she tried to feed in some forsaken place. The pigeons broke apart the smoke cage, and were floating with the moon. She tried to look hard at the mirror as she brushed, and there were two of her, one sharp, one blurred.

"Anahita, Anahita?"

Which one is calling which one? "Anahita? Miss Gautam?" A tortoise skated under the car, like it would have happened in animation, and fixed the wire, ready to ride along. They were in Ladakh. She woke up in a jolt. Damn! I slept! Like those exam days. She found Miss Roy hovering over her, "Are you all right, Anahita?"

"Yes, I am. Sorry had dozed off." She went in and splashed some iced rose-water on her face. As she took in the smell, Anahita, in a rush of unexplained frenzy, banged the mirror. Nothing much happened. She put in her fist into the rose-water ice bowl and began to fill it up with her incessant tears. Slowly, she took in the pain and opened her fist in the bowl, too small for her hand. She found a copy of And Siya is a Bride! on the magazine rack. Slumped against the wall, Anahita opened to page 61, "and there he was, Keshav, glowing in his impeccable honesty. Siya could strangle him. Siya smiled through her ghunghaat at the cheering. Siya could not concentrate through the rituals as the minutes closed in and she knew love was sealed. She had to plan one death before one love was sealed."

She remembered removing Sudhir from her life just so that she would not need to mourn his loss.

Lets kill the loved one. Anahita could not decide between her life and her name.   

Between Siya and Anahita, who is even, who is odd?

The Importance of Nothing

Studies (and people) say patriarchy is the ideology which most governs our actions. Patriarchy is just a garb, I say. We are driven by performance, whether or not patriarchal. It can very well be egoistical, ask yourself if it is not; or controversial, for the necessary feeding of others' ego. In all, it is upon how we are to deliver, how we perform, how we behave, act. We are constantly hop-jump-skipping on others' gaze, being judged, as we do. And hence, in the process, we have all too soon lost out on enjoying that ethereal gift of "nothing".

To be able to take a break -- from profession, from pursuits, from passion too -- and still be able to soak in the little joys of wasting time, lazing around, cleaning cupboards and getting the hands dirty. Nothing is a nice little island filled with Hansel and Gretal castles, with no permit or rent to bother about. In Nothing, people often get trapped, but the wise ones, they come, rejuvinate, extend the time, and leave refreshed. 

People often say it is luxury to indulge in a break. Well, in terms of economics, it is. But what if I say that without that break the productivity would be in question? Would that be economically beneficial?

To be born with genes that refuse to collaborate with deadlines is a curse, especially so when you are born with taste and not with the means to harness it. All of poetry, much of enthusiams towards living too, disappears rather starkly without the impossible presence of Nothing. 

 

Patriarchy is pushed into a pocket and so is performance. But most of us, we do not dare. Why?

Nothing demands nothing.

Editor's Choice

This is going to be eclectic, thought Vedatri and forced her focus back on word one.

This is me. I had thought so when I typed the words on the virtual page. Earlier the words were real -- they formed distorted doodles on used-pages. On so many accounts, I have diluted banter all over the walls, and over my jeans. I have also smeared the bodies and t-shirts of those I have bedded, with lines and lines (straight and sentences). And then of course there was/has been the blackboard. I am now used to whiteboards and translucent glass panels and bedsheets, floortiles and bottles. These days when I deliver exclusive and highly paid lectures they are because I shun the PPT and opt for the whiteboard and multi-coloured markers. But that was now. The even faster now is creepy. It feels like a blackboard once again.

The blackboard is inside my eyes, pearl-like white words etched with some surreal, some real meanings. Flowers burst into blossoms and fish flow out of them, to dive into a field marked by waterbodies. A little girl sits on one of the mould of lands and looks into the water, coloured snakes pop up. Some are vividly blue while another was a velvetty red. A train whistled somewhere nearby, and her stories lost plot, one with the ripples that fought against stillness. As my eyes open, the I desperately try and hold on to the words that are now drowning into unknown waterbodies. 

Poultry remains of deliberations challenge the hefty reasonings of associations. The grandeur of logic eventually collapses. I pettily give up, once again. What else could I do? I give in to laundry and grocery and concern over cholesteral. Unwelcome debit messages alarm me. All my glamourous poetry is cut out as ruthlessly as things-to-do. Things such are jobs and steps to be taken in pursuit of passion. Things that are monster-headed and chew to bits my soul. This is me then.

Vedatri chewed her lips bitterly. She had to bend the rules. Sometimes being the Boss came with its own bites, like Ukti's 314 worded tale. Vedatri knew she would have to fight her team to place this on the top-three, but it was "ridiculously similar" to her life, to not be voiced. She slumped back into her chair. Fourteen words beyond limit. And she clicked on "Enter" thinking of 'things such are jobs...'

Couple of weeks later when Ukti's tale was announced first, Vedatri let out multiple sighs of relief. There were many others who did not know how to save the drowning words. She felt safe, creepy safe. And that is how we cut into each others' lives. 

Love-Letter (LXV)

Dearest,

Months pass as easily as the minutes-hand by my watch. Whether in a Philosophy class or in Physics, we learn the same thing -- the law of no return -- so far as those moments are concerned. But I always had that one question, what if my stare locked at the dial itself? What if the hands held no other meaning than the oyster who gave up the mother-of-pearl? What if what I looked into was a sea of seasons?

Don't you think it is merely foolish that we tie ourselves in the name of "love"? While our lives were meant to be a journey of newness, it crashed against a boulder and what followed were a series of screaming red lights. That sound is the signifier of time for me -- good times and bad, and sometimes, worse. The journey, as I have been told, was given up by me rather selfishly, but I wish to hold your attention for once and let you know, there is not a day I do not hear those red lights and smell the sadness of disinfectants.

Yes, I belong to a different boundary now, and a life whose journey is defined by destinations -- Honeymoon, Birthdays, Anniversaries -- yet, if you could believe it is anything but a holiday, like we had silently exchanged. It is a tri-annual process, where I contest with myself to feel happier than the last. It is trying. It is tiring. 

And so must it be for you? Are you still tied to those tubes? Do you see dreams with those ever closed eye-lids? Are your feelings frozen? Are your feelings frozen too? I have no one to share this with, so I silently share this with you, I am frozen, frozen with life. It would make sense if you could come out of your comatose and feel the freeze. 

But none of that is ever to happen, is it not? Like this letter I write, nameless, on the deck. We are on a cruise-vacation this time, with a plethora of plans waiting to make us delighted. But I slowly sip the Bombay Sapphire instead, decorated with charred lime and flushed in lemonade. And I hear those red-screaming-lights again…Sometimes I curse you, sometimes I curse myself…I am angry, I am sad and I freeze them all with a sizzling smile…

Did the sea ever end with the changing seasons? 

I give this letter to the sea to answer, since you won't. Or maybe you will become a pirate in the future and find this ship and this letter stuck to its bottom…the alphabets washed…may be you will look it up thinking it is a treasure map, and take it back to your castle. You would live in a castle built of limestone. I saw all of that darling, as I stared into my watch. 

In my past I saw your future, both flung out of the present…

Cheers, love. To a loveless life.