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.
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.
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