Today, I loved you

Today, I had a bath. It doesn't happen usually during winters that I bathe because I want to. I wanted to have a bath. I put on fresh clothes, and not the t-shirt I'd been wearing for two weeks straight, because I didn't want to dress-up and be tidy. I had been doing that because I didn't have you to dress-up for. I didn't have you to see my combed hair, which usually spills over the corners of my forehead, fresh clothes straight out of the washing machine - un-ironed though - men's cream on my face, and my smile. I did all of this today. I dressed up for you. Because, today, I was in a mood to love you - notwithstanding the history, or shall I say, because of the history.

I have warm water at my disposal now, quite unlike Delhi where we had to use the stove and still not get the requisite quantity. So I can afford long showers. Have you noticed that immediately after getting a hot-water bath when you walk out of the bathroom or while having your shower when you pause to apply soap, you feel cold? That's the body adjusting to the temperature around you. So you hurry up and apply soap as quickly as you can - don't know how women do it - or dress up immediately after walking out of the bathroom. 

That brief moment of unwelcome coldness, which makes you numb - quite surprisingly - is what we had this year. That is what happened to us. After years of warmth and love, we - or rather, I - goofed up and submitted to the cold without looking at the clothes you'd kept ready on the bed for me to be warm again.

As the year, a turbulent one for me, draws to a close, I recall, for some reason, this caption that you'd put up alongside a picture, which you had updated immediately after my departure from your college.

"Winters are cosy until I'm warm."

This isn't exactly what you'd written - pardon me for my fading memory - but I remember exactly how you were smiling at the camera - a blue pullover complementing how sedative the smile was and your teeth complementing your moles. Your teeth always complement your moles. 

A friend had commented, "Seedhi-saadhi Gorakhpuriya." 

That is who you are: a seedhi-saadhi Gorakhpuriya. Pardon me for making you anything but. Pardon yourself for turning into something else, if you have. 

So I bathed, put on two pullovers, and basked in the Sun. I sat on the bench - do you remember the bench? I strolled around and chatted with an autowallah. He was worried if I had taken the picture of the number plate on his vehicle in order to report to the police. I assured him that I had no such intention. I got a dejavu - you had no such intention either, didn't you?

This year, we've fought more and talked less than ever before. This year would hold the record for the fewest number of conversations that we've had. Also for the distance we've travelled away from each other. And yet, because of the history and not despite it, I write this letter to tell you: My dear, I have loved you and I'll always do, just like I have since I have known you. I have forgiven you and would keep forgiving you, just like I had been doing. 

While taking a stroll around my locality, I was overcome with just how much we'd once meant to each other. To cite an example, I remember that you had called me sometime in September 2014. You were sick, and your mom was there with you. You called me and cribbed. You were complaining that she'd been making you uncomfortable. I was sitting outside Saket Metro Station - Saidulajab side - with my roommate. I had told you that it's okay to have differences with your parents. I'd told you that they are the only ones who'd love you because of the differences as well as despite them. We talked, and I tried to calm you down. 

A few days later, I met you at Noida City Centre and you greeted me with a swollen face and a scarf tied around your neck as if to strangulate you. I wanted to hug you there, immediately upon my arrival - out of pure, unadulterated love - but the exit gate got in between. Also, I was shy. We sat outside the GIP and talked, I brought you biryani - to your delight - and by the time I saw you off, I was convinced that I had made your day. Your happiness at the sheer number of edibles you had at your disposal that night confirmed that the day which had a begun with a phone call over which you'd cried, "Kislaya, milo yar. Mere paas kuch nahi hai," and ended with another phone call, "Mere paas, biryani hai, cold drink hai, fruits hain..." had been a token of the love I had for you.

The months May to October 2014 defined the kind of love I had for you. It was the first time that we were in the same city, and I couldn't help being ecstatic - not because we were meeting or going out every day, but because you were there, so close that I could hop onto a metro and reach you. I had always longed for closeness when we were in college, and I finally had it. 

That's how I felt today. I felt that I still have unconditional love to bestow upon you. Last night, I had this weird fantasy that made me feel how I had felt while looking at the aforementioned picture on THAT birthday. I want to plan one more birthday for you. Last night, when this thought crossed my mind, I was magically empowered to bury all the pain in some corner of my heart and think about just that - planning your birthday. 

"Mere birthday pe humse zyada khush to tum rehte ho," you'd said. It holds true to this day. I cannot describe why it happens - maybe because I travelled to you only to stay for a few hours, which was an act of love I couldn't make out then. Today, I felt as if there'd be no repercussions even if you go away with someone else. It felt as if I was born to love you, and not ask for it in return. Today, my love went one step closer to unconditionality. 

So after returning from the mini-stroll, as I sat on the bench, again, and watched the Sun set, I couldn't help but recall your face resting on the support pole in the metro. All eight of us were returning to the campus, and you, in an act of complete nonchalance, closed your eyes and leaned against the cold metallic body. There were so many shoulders around but you chose the pole. Maybe because you'd always been independent. 

Your black sweater gently hugging your breasts, my yellow sweater which you had cradled between your arms, that strand of hair, which always rests on your forehead, your blue shoes and your closed eyes - illuminated by the setting Sun - made me believe with absolute conviction that I was in love. I knew then that she is the woman I'll always love, with all of my heart. Today, at this moment, as I write this, I can say that I love you with all of my heart. 

As the train moved cities, I likened it to the long journey that lay ahead for us wherein we'll move cities, grow up and apart - as we did - only to come back to each other. You were my home. You are my home. You'll always be.

"I am lucky to have you. Don't ever ask why I sent this." 

I would not ask you why you'd sent this. I'll just rest in piece tonight knowing that it still holds true.

I must post this now before I walk out of the bathroom, fail to bear the cold, and pollute this letter with my desires.

I lost my heart in Connaught Place

I lost my heart in Connaught Place
It lost itself in the din
It swirled around through my broody face
And got hungover at N-81.

At every nook, at every alley,
It saw a silhouette recede,
It fluttered over helter-skelter,
Only to confirm its imagery.

The pillars- all white
The roads- all dark
The skies spilled Goldust
And the silhouette was lost.

It looked beyond the faces,
It looked beyond the walls
It looked inside the coffee shop
But the silhouette was lost.

It searched the subway
Hoards of souls
Looked for the taller ones
But found it no more.

The onlookers gazed
With contempt and dismay
My poor heart though resembled the dog
Who just refused to sway.

Long strands of hair were everywhere
But the smell was not to be found
The nectar it had drunk first
In the summer of 2009.

Strands gave way to scarfs
Purple ones with white stars
Necks were scanned, so were backs
But none as colossal were found.

Moles on the faces were plenty
Twins though were scanty
Hardly did it ever miss
Didn't find the ones it'd longed to kiss.

My heart was frantic
Tired and erratic
For it had swept the circus
Through summers and winters.

Through autumns and springs
Through souls- living and dead
Through concrete- erect and broken
Through local markets
Through confectionery stalls

Through the earth and the heavens
It searched and searched
To have glimpse of the hurricane
It had seen before it breathed last.

On a fidgety winter morning
My heart was like a phoenix
It burnt itself through the day
But didn't rise ever since.

Its ghost runs through the realms
Hidden behind my broody face
It was a cold November evening
When I lost my heart in Connaught Place.

Photo courtesy- shades-n-hues

Winter is coming

The winter season is just around the corner. It is the time for the fortunate ones like you and me to open the box that contained the woolen clothes all through the summer, and revel in the smell of wool. It is time for those misty mornings, fog laden air and cool winds sending literal shivers down your spines. It is also, in many ways, time to embrace your vulnerabilities.

Not that summer is benevolent, but the fear of looming disaster and death seems more likely when you find everything around you either frozen or freezing. When life draws itself into a cocoon, when late mornings and not so late nights resemble deserted warships, you realize that you're vulnerable. You realize that all through the spring, summer, monsoon, and right up till autumn, you were free- in body, mind and spirit- but the moment you step out now, you're greeted with hostility. It is nature's way of reminding you of the springs, summers and autumns of your lives and telling you that there has to be a winter.

Winter shows you the mirror. It tells you that your hands that might have worked ceaselessly throughout the year, mending lives and breaking them, are capable of trembling themselves. Your lips that would have mended a broken heart or broken a soulful one are capable of roughening up. Your feet might have trodden all over the world but are capable of going numb. You don layers upon layers upon layers as if to cover yourself and your frailties, in a hope that the winds won't pierce you like an open dagger does. But, they do, and all of a sudden you realize that you're human and you can bear only so much, that the knell can sound anytime and if it does now, you're more than likely to give in.

Winter sets the clock, the clock against which we race, the clock that ticks, the clock that's beating out of time. But, to what end? To know that when the buzzer goes off, we'll be treated with something that we have no control over? To know that there's a force more powerful than the powers that we display to our inner selves? We might as well tread and not run, keeping in mind that we don't run over something that's just as alive as we are.

Winter is karma slapping you in the face to remind you that you're only mortal. Winter is eternal just like death and there are only so many winters in our lives. Every year, the clock is set, and every year you run against it. Chosen wisely whether you want to embrace something that's eternal and unforgiving, panting for breath, or shouldering arms. Because if you manage to come out to the other side, to see another winter, you're one hell of a lucky person.