The view is gorgeous, isn't it? From your window? The sea lapping up the sand on one end, the sun on the other? The view in your arms is beautiful, isn't it? The steady photographs radiate the warmth between you both, so I have to believe it is true; warmth, after all, cannot be woven. I try to forget you, each and every minute of my life. I give it all it takes -- ire, ignorance, ink and ah, my soul too -- but you have a way of showing up, like the steam off my tea, stubbornly swaying all over my spectacles, persuading everything else away.
But you know what a view I had this morning? Oh, I, Rohini, you may have forgotten by now, I am doing quite well. My husband decided to drive today and I had the pleasure of looking out of the window. I generally glare at number-plates. Privileges are rare, so I made the most of it. You came back. But the sky took over.
The clouds had cleared to reveal a blue, freshly painted space, one I could smell. First it smelled of lemongrass, the one you wear, but I had to push it back with a punch. I couldn't let it overpower my day. And then there was a crimson bouquet garlanded all over the blue, announcement like. I could not avoid it, like I have never been able to avoid you. And all around you, and that bouquet of unapologetic enchantment, there was life breathing, invisibly, unassumingly. Much like my existence in your life.
There, look! The dusty greens in a queue, refusing to give way to you, yet, the ochre-chrome yellows shine like ten-rupee coins in the novel confidence of undying admiration; banners of brussel sprouts too nudge into the queue, and once in a while, a branch of pride stands tall. All of it adorning the blue, adorning you. Did I tell you about the betel-leaf shaped green leaves? At moment I felt like being in an open-air Paul Signet exhibition -- each leaf distinct and different from the other.
Abhimanyu lovingly passed me a sliced apple. It disturbed me. I accepted it gladly, wearing a fake content and thought of you, unendingly. There was something about the sky today. You, with you gorgeous view could overlook it, I am willing to call it melancholically enticing. You, with all your warmth must be soaking up wine glasses to cheer at life, and gorging at views with your beloved, buying her necklaces and fulfilling up with kisses.
Here I am, off at "Here you are, Rohini! Remember to pick up Aditya on your way back from his karate class." Here I am, adorned with an i-card, punching in towards mundanity and giving into it. And here I am, at work, and unable to stop thinking about you. For it has always been you. Like those trees who outlive the change, who shed only to return to the purpose. Of living, and giving. You can give me neither, dearest. I am rich, richer than your world tours and your lovely toys. I am richest because I forgive you. But most of all because I forgive myself for never being able to stop loving.
The view is gorgeous here too. It is, as has always been, you.
But you know what a view I had this morning? Oh, I, Rohini, you may have forgotten by now, I am doing quite well. My husband decided to drive today and I had the pleasure of looking out of the window. I generally glare at number-plates. Privileges are rare, so I made the most of it. You came back. But the sky took over.
The clouds had cleared to reveal a blue, freshly painted space, one I could smell. First it smelled of lemongrass, the one you wear, but I had to push it back with a punch. I couldn't let it overpower my day. And then there was a crimson bouquet garlanded all over the blue, announcement like. I could not avoid it, like I have never been able to avoid you. And all around you, and that bouquet of unapologetic enchantment, there was life breathing, invisibly, unassumingly. Much like my existence in your life.
There, look! The dusty greens in a queue, refusing to give way to you, yet, the ochre-chrome yellows shine like ten-rupee coins in the novel confidence of undying admiration; banners of brussel sprouts too nudge into the queue, and once in a while, a branch of pride stands tall. All of it adorning the blue, adorning you. Did I tell you about the betel-leaf shaped green leaves? At moment I felt like being in an open-air Paul Signet exhibition -- each leaf distinct and different from the other.
Abhimanyu lovingly passed me a sliced apple. It disturbed me. I accepted it gladly, wearing a fake content and thought of you, unendingly. There was something about the sky today. You, with you gorgeous view could overlook it, I am willing to call it melancholically enticing. You, with all your warmth must be soaking up wine glasses to cheer at life, and gorging at views with your beloved, buying her necklaces and fulfilling up with kisses.
Here I am, off at "Here you are, Rohini! Remember to pick up Aditya on your way back from his karate class." Here I am, adorned with an i-card, punching in towards mundanity and giving into it. And here I am, at work, and unable to stop thinking about you. For it has always been you. Like those trees who outlive the change, who shed only to return to the purpose. Of living, and giving. You can give me neither, dearest. I am rich, richer than your world tours and your lovely toys. I am richest because I forgive you. But most of all because I forgive myself for never being able to stop loving.
The view is gorgeous here too. It is, as has always been, you.
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