Haiku & Sumi Ink

 Slice of moon
The dew-laden leaves shimmer
Are they black opals?

 Sweaty fingers link
Clumsy feet tread on hers
First dance of love

 Cocoon of wisdom
Myriad tales of love and loss
Grandmother's bun

 Sleepless nights
I wait by my window
Silvered shadows walk

 Scent of jasmine
Raven black tresses fan out
The pillow tangles them

 Fleeting thoughts
An old kiss comes to mind
I forget the year

 Smoky wooden oven
Cheese melts into thin crust
A slice of heaven

 A veil of icicles
Bejeweled the naked tree
Winter delight

 She will write
In vermillion stained pages
A story of love

 I wait for the sun,
My room will glow orange,
Like the brewing tea.

 The words come slowly
Waiting at the end of each page
The ink is not yet dry

 Her bare shoulder
Finesse of an ivory arc
Like tonight's moon

Evening breeze
The frail leaves rustle
Like a cobra's hood

 Woods in winter
Squirrels peep from burrows
A couple reads

 Pack a little bag
Soar across cottony skies
Gypsy at heart

 A lone maple leaf,
Orange in a sea of grey,
You caught my eye.

 Swirling caramel hues
Wispy steam warms the face
My morning coffee

 An old love letter
Papery petal to rich plum
The kisses revive

 In the old room
An oblong patch of sunbeam
I sat there often

Winter morning
A bare tree watches over me
I read Dickens

The Blur of my 20s

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair."

Of all things, I didn't expect my '20s' to resemble the opening line of "A Tale of Two Cities".

Everything overlaps in my memory. I can't pinpoint what happened when.

My 20s has been a blur-the years, the events, experiences, people who drifted in and out, people who lingered, the hard-earned and the surprise successes, the vicious cycles of failure, the ennui of adulthood, the simple or extravagant joys, deceptions and lies, the foolish heart that refuses to learn lessons, the heart that has learnt to be and even accept indifference, journeys of self-discovery, the indirect search for the meaning of it all, nights of fervent prayers, indulging in frivolities, still reading books with the same love and worship for the written word, still being the pampered daughter and doting sister, paranoid driving, learning compassion and responsibilities, healing and not just because it is a job, learning the hard way to follow the advice of my parents, waiting for I know not what, laughing at how far I've come along yet how long I have stood still, sometimes mourning an untarnished memory, kicking myself often for wavering in the most important thing in the world-discipline, uncertain steps into writing, accepting deficiencies and along the way accepting myself, wondering what my ten year old self would say when my dreams of a settled career and being happily married and traveling the world by 27 seems impossible now, telling my ten year old self that it's okay the way things are now and meaning it, still skeptical about most of the people I meet, creating my own happiness, and not even close to learning how to cook.

When I was sixteen, a person who was over twenty-five was OLD, a fossil. Today I have turned 26. I don't feel like a fossil. I have yet to embark on many journeys. I have yet to find the utopian true love. I have yet to get kicked in the guts by life and learn few more lessons. I have yet to find contentment. I have yet to make my parents proud. I have yet to travel to places I've read about in books and compare my mind's imagery with the real beauty. I have yet to do something meaningful for the causes I believe in and support.

Miles to go...


(Photo Courtesy: kikimatters)

Hills

“Mod”, the movie I watched this weekend. I had always been a Kukunoor fan, enraptured by his simple storytelling in Dor and Hyderabad Blues.

Loopholes abound, unwanted subplots, unimaginative “Mod” (turn) in the story, and few sequences were rushed and repetitive. But, I didn’t want it to end.

I wanted to keep watching the sun peeping through the misty mornings of the charming hill town of Ganga, waking up to steaming cups of coffee, the unhurried existence, rides up the winding mountain roads in an old bike, the quaint clock repair shop, the delightful “kishore kumar fan” father, the fun and assertive aunt, the girl wooed by poems and poetry, the tender love story bloom. The movie had so many elements that I liked and wanted to see more of, but sadly they reached a plateau a bit too soon and got lost in the cacophony of the “Mod”.

But I would watch this poetic fable again, despite shortcomings, for it’s a Kukunoor film and he delivers a little of the charming elements I looked forward to. Just like I would keep returning to every Pamuk novel, even if certain pages get tedious, because of the familiarity of prose that speak directly to me; I would return to “Mod” again.

The hills did it for me.

I explored another small hill town, Shillong, in the book I had been reading in stolen pockets of time over the past fortnight. Shillong had always been a favorite weekend getaway, owing to its proximity to Guwahati. The unruly rain that disobeyed all weather forecasts, tree-lined paths, frosty mornings, the old world charm of cottages and churches, the buzz of the market selling shoes a size too small for me, the cafes and eateries with impromptu performances, the rock music fans, the kwai chewing gentle souls, the undulating hills, waterfalls and brooks veiled in lush greenery; I had been a good tourist and fell in love with all these long ago. I never gave much thought what it would be like to live in Shillong, the town that held strawberry pie bake-offs, skinny dipping contests on New Year’s Eve, and has created generations of people who breathed music and religiously held Dylan concerts. I never wondered what it’d feel like waking up to the cold, invigorating air and a foggy breath every morning of my life. I wonder what it would be like to walk the rain-washed, grey pavements on a regular basis; will the rain depress me? Will the pine trees smell equally enticing after I rest under their shade for the fiftieth time?

I had been born and raised in the plains, where the pollution and dust to greenery ratio escalated every year. I need a Shillong break every year, but will the small town charm captivate me for a longer period?

I found answers in Anjum Hasan’s “Lunatic in my Head”. The book had piqued my interest because of the author’s origins in North-East India. I hadn’t till that instant had the opportunity to read original works in English by authors from North-East, having chanced upon only translated works from Assamese earlier.

The prose is subtle, poetic and rich. It follows the lives of three individuals who are strangers yet are bound to each other through acquaintances, circumstances and destinies. They lead parallel lives with events ranging from joyous to that of disgust, occurring almost simultaneously. The central protagonist is the small town of Shillong, how it binds them, shapes their destinies, creates in them a desire to escape and finally their reconciliation to their place of existence.

There is Firadaus, a thirty something lecturer, who is entangled in her world of completing a PhD thesis on Jane Austen’s work, a young Manipuri boyfriend, an orthodox grandfather and submission to living her entire life in Shillong. The second character is Aman, an IAS aspirant, who feels Roger Waters writes songs inspired by his letters to him, and has a group of rock enthusiasts for friends. He loves a Khasi girl, for whom Pink Floyd is just another band and it depresses him, along with his IAS notes, his aloof parents and his own timidity. And finally there is eight year old Sophie, who loves to smile when her parents smile, and one day suddenly believes she is adopted. Her world is about a mother who was pregnant a for a tad too long, a father who hopes for a job to fall into his lap, a kind Khasi landlady and her disturbingly provocative son, her school and the constant need to please Miss Wilson, her novels and the character of Anna.

These three lives are entwined subtly, each individual unaware of each other’s presence till they intersect for a brief moment once. The narrative is compelling and experimental, and the characters and subplots are well sketched out.

Nothing extraordinary happens in small towns, cocooned from the rest of the world, moving in their own unhurried pace. This happens in Shillong too. This happens to Firadaus, Aman and Sophie too. Nothing extraordinary happens, there are no twists and turns. The monotonous existence, the claustrophobia that brings about a longing to escape, the love of familiarity and fear of unknown that binds the residents of such towns to it; all such emotions are well-depicted in the book. Emotions, landscapes, individuals all come to life in Hasan’s vibrant prose. The melancholy of this small town that tourists overlook is palpable throughout the narrative.

I loved the book and highly recommend ' Lunatic in my head'. The hills had done it for me again.

My Autumn: Cottony skies, Ghibli magic, Banned Books, Lemon Cake, Pasta, Phase 3, Basho, Earthquake and Empty Bank

I would always be partial to November, as it gave me to the world and mostly vice versa.  September comes a close second, autumn subtly coloring up my life.

I got a new job. I am not ecstatic about it. It’s a government job (the mere sound of which nearly mars all possibilities of excitement) at a remote corner of Assam. But it’s preferable to studying at home the whole day till my exams in January. It’s just the right pace, 5 hours a day; the puzzle piece that fits into the jigsaw of my exam preparation and the solitude I seek. The place is so remote it’s like the 1920s.  A car passing by on the dusty road becomes the discussion of the day at the market. The people are laid back and “adda” is the widely practiced local sport. Only solace is the unsullied green fields, the trees, cottony skies, the dew-laden mornings; and a pristine solitude.

 September introduced me to Studio Ghibli movies. My breath often forms a solid lump of joy in my chest, as I watch and relish idyllic visuals, marvel at imaginations, and relieve my childhood. I cling to these movies like an oasis of pure, stark joy. I watch them alone on evenings, in my room, on my bed. 'Grave of the Fireflies', 'Whisper of the Heart', 'Only Yesterday', 'Arrietty', 'Howl's Movng Castle', 'Kiki's delivery Service', 'Princess Mononkone', 'My neighbor Tortoro', 'My neighbours-The Yamadas', 'Ponyo' and 'Spirited Away'. I don’t rush through them, as I usually do with things that interest me. I am slowly savoring each visual, each word and each feeling that it arouses in me.

Being jobless for a month and half, had a weird effect on me. I went on a spending spree knowing fully well my dwindling finances. I added the color purple to my wardrobe, and made Flipkart.com rich by a dozen books. I have an upcoming exam and can’t afford to indulge in the luxury of reading a dozen novels. But I hoard them. My mother has banned nine of these books from my life till January. Her threat is a real one, a new lock on my library evidence of her resolution. She doesn’t trust me when it comes to a few things in life, and reading novels stealthily tops the list. Many a flashlight had been angrily flung to the floor and sacrificed during my childhood, when my mother discovered it aiding a new novel to keep me awake beyond 3 am. I am 25, I have few bank accounts, I can drive, I can finally cross roads during rush hour, I can eat alone in restaurants, I am a doctor, I can call myself almost an adult; but I dare not defy my mother’s rules when an exam looms in the near horizon. So, the books are banned. Not the MCQ books though.

 My mother is overall a kind woman and I’m her first-born; so she let me choose three novels to read during the three months till January. My mind went into a tizzy, trying to decide which books to choose from the dozen new ones. I chose “The naïve and the sentimental novelist” by Orhan Pamuk, “The particular sadness of lemon cake” by Aimee Bender and “Oxford anthology of Writings from North-east India”. I’ve started reading the Aimee Bender book. Beautiful writing. I devote pockets of time throughout the day to it without upsetting my study schedule and most importantly, my mother. I’ve read only a hundred pages till now. It’s about a nine year old girl who can taste in food the emotions of the people who cook it. It agitates her routine life, when she can taste a sad hollowness in her cheerful mother’s lemon cake. The knowledge of facades people erect lurches her forward from her complacent childhood. Aimee Bender’s words are brilliant and effortless; conjuring up images from a nine year old’s perspective. I am looking forward to reading more of it.

 I am a disaster in the kitchen, and so less bothered about my lack of culinary skills, that I stupidly flaunt it. I had a panic attack once when I was asked to boil eggs, because the duration of boiling was as unfathomable to me as the mysteries of life and death. When I was in a hostel, I was a mere bystander when other girls chopped vegetables, measured oil, marinated with spices and cooked delicious dishes that I shamelessly ate. My mother shudders to think what I would cook for my husband after marriage. Maggi noodles and cornflakes, quips my aunt. Then a month ago I read “Eat, Pray, Love” by Elizabeth Gilbert. I fell in love with Italy. The food in the book personified and seduced me. Indian meditation and Balinese life balance intrigued me too. But Italy won. Not just the country and the language, even the food. I downloaded apps on my phone to learn Italian verbs, listened to the soundtrack of ‘La Dolce Vita’, and ate Italian food at restaurants. This phase lasted a fortnight. It mellowed down after that, but my ‘Italy’ hangover did the unthinkable. It made me venture into unknown territory within my own home, the kitchen. I cooked. Pastas, frittatas, and a variety of soups. As I skinned and seeded tomatoes, and whiffed the herbs in the soup, I FINALLY discovered the “joy” in cooking. It wasn’t finger-licking good, but after a few mishaps, I can now cook some decent Pasta. My mother thanked her stars at this small start. ‘All hope isn’t lost’.

July saw me falling in love, that went unrequited and September found me making peace with it. It’s Phase 3. After Phase 1 of dazed existence, and Phase 2 of sleepless nights, constant turbulence of thoughts, and brooding about the same person every day; this is a cool, refreshing gulp of air. It has cleansed and calmed me, and has brought back some much needed focus and stability to my life. Getting a grip on my thoughts had been a topsy-turvy and unpleasant ride, but time has worked its magic again. Relief. 

 I also discovered Basho’s Haiku poems in the past month; another delightful discovery this autumn. It appealed to me like no other poetry ever did. I watched “Winter Days”, a short anime movie about visuals from Basho’s haiku poems. I basked in his words. I made a clumsy attempt at writing a few Haiku poems myself too, which are on this blog here and here.

And to round it all up, there had been a 6.8 earthquake on Sunday that literally shook the life out of me for the briefest of moments. It has resulted in a sad loss of life and property in idyllic Sikkim and neighboring areas; not to mention the emotional trauma, fear and alarm that it has caused in the whole of India. I will always remember though that at the precise moment when the ground beneath me shook, I sprouted legs that could run as fast as the wind. I, who am outpaced by my eight year old cousin on long walks, glided downstairs from my second floor flat with my hard drive, phone and folder of school and college certificates in ten seconds flat. I salute my inner runner.

My autumn has just begun…

Photo Courtesy: grubbsartist.wordpress.com, authentic-italian-pasta-recipes.com 

Words

 In old library
Read Dante by candlelight,
As moths ate words.

A pregnant red bus
The faces unnerve you,
An old friend waves.

 

I draw the curtains,
Killing a patch of sunbeam,
A peeping neighbour.

Insomnia,
I watch silvered shadows walk
On a moonlit path.

A mute observer
Veiled in leafy vines,
Chameleon of a door.

Old tales revive
As one combs a sister's hair,
Time halts to smile.





 

(Photo courtesy: millyonair.files.wordpress.com, lucasusual.com, 123rf.com, www.kershisnik.com)

"The dream begins with a teacher who believes in you, who tugs and pushes and leads you to the next plateau, sometimes poking you with a sharp stick called 'truth'."

You might remember me only as a face in your classroom. But I will always be grateful for your support, belief in me and guidance at crucial points of my life. I feel blessed to be your student.

This is for you:~

Ma'am Deepti Singh: For that encouraging smile, a pat on the back, and developing a healthy competitive streak in me. And it touches me that you remember me even though it has been fifteen years since I last sat in your classroom. You were, are and will always be my favorite teacher in the whole wide world.

Sir Bijoy Handique: You were a lot of firsts for me. You were the first person to notice the 'biggest introvert' (me) in the classroom, the first to appreciate my work, the first to believe that I could achieve something big, the first to create a genuine interest to learn something instead of mugging up for exams and what do you know, you were even my first crush! I will always like history :) And the fact that you still remember me as the little girl in a grey skirt, wearing tiny, hoop earrings and traveling to school in the old fiat...delights me no end.

Ma'am Manjula: Your smile comforted me on the first day of kindergarten. You taught me the alphabet. You didn't laugh when I said that I sent my sports shoes to the 'barber' for cleaning!

Ma'am Ruprekha: I still remember the first thought that crossed my mind when I first saw you, "If my grandmother dressed up in chiffon sarees and wore lipstick, she too would look as beautiful as Ruprekha Ma'am". I think your maternal aura made it impossible for anyone not to like you. How you patiently listened to my fanciful imaginations about ETs, doppelgangers and the ghosts in the school church!

 Ma'am Anita: You were the woman of 2011 in 1994! You made learning such fun. You brought beautifully crafted jewellery boxes to class when teaching about indigenous craftsmanship of Jammu and Kashmir, you taught us to appreciate the beauty of a song's lyrics (the example was 'ek ladki ko dekha toh aisa laga'), you striked the perfect balance between being amiable yet someone we didn't dare anger!

Sir Joseph: You introduced me to the world of books...novels, poems, short stories, essays, and even limericks. You let me borrow 4 library books every month when the rule was a limit of maximum 2 books. You played chess with me and didn't make a big fuss when I bunked PT class. You also bought me pastries in the school canteen, when the queue was long. You are awesome :)

Ma'am Srivastav: You always saw through my trick of feigning stomach ache when it was my turn to read a passage from the Hindi textbook, but you didn't scold and embarrass me in front of the class. You gradually let the love for the language grow on me, even though it never reached substantial heights. But you managed to hold my hand and walk with me through my living hell of writing Hindi essays!

Fr. Philip: I am yet to see a person as dashing and as charismatic as you. I doubt whether I'll ever see one. The way you spoke, the way you walked, the way you taught us the values of life was awe inspiring. But during tiffin break you patiently answered the questions of two enthusiastic little girls, my best friend and me, ranging from the contents of your lunch box to 'why bad things happen to good people'. You let us rummage through your personal library every day. And when I left my hometown and joined a new school, you uncomplainingly passed on my long letters, addressed to the school principal, to my eagerly waiting friends in that old classroom. Yes, I will never meet anyone like you again.

Sir Angelus: You were aggressive, and you never missed the target when you threw a chalk piece at an errant student. You scared me when you threatened to clip my long nails in front of the whole class. Yet, when I came to know you better, I thought you were the most gentle person I had ever met! Your razor sharp wit, your quirky assignments, your exciting tales, and the fact that you were the lone inhabitant of the school at night (as your living quarters were on the spooky top floor of the school) made you quite the interesting character. You disciplined us when we needed it the most.

Rafida Ma'am: You taught the most boring subject on earth. Social Studies. Yet, I never dozed off in your class. You helped me adjust to a new school. You handed me important responsibilities, so that I felt more involved in the alien environment. You advised in hushed tones to each of the girls individually when it was their time to start wearing a bra. I anticipated the dreaded moment and it lived up to the most awkward conversation (or was it just nodding my head) of my life. You left us all bereaved early this year, but I would always remember you fondly. RIP, Rafida Ma'am.

Sir Ratul Rajkhowa: You instilled in me a love for life sciences and consequently medicine. Your tuition classes were so much fun. You showed us the bottled gall bladder stones of your wife while solving genetics problems, you showed us your Bihu music cassette while classifying bacteria, and told us about your stint with the Indian Navy when we discussed ecological hazards! I so enjoyed those two hours of biology tuitions every morning.


Sir Balwant: I excelled in mathematics in school because of you. I was a dunce when it came to numbers, but your teaching showed me how mathematics could be fun. Your black diary with the toughest mathematical problems, invoked in me such a competitive streak to solve all of them before anyone else, that it scared me. You are such a down-to-earth and humble person. I will always appreciate your confidence in my abilities.

Sujata Ma'am: English seemed more than substance writing and grammar. Poetry awakened dreams instead of being monotonously mugged up for exams. I loved that you understood and took care of the individual needs of each of your students. You are such a witty, and for a lack of a better word 'spunky' woman. I liked your ideas, and everything you had done in life. You will always remain my idol.

Sir Jnanendra Sharma: I can't picture Gauhati Medical College without you. You are a great teacher and one of the most tirelessly hard working person I've ever met. During undergraduate days, you always encouraged this "Jorhat'or suwali" to work hard, and I really did during Pediatrics, which still is my favorite subject. Even when I was going through a bad phase of severe anxiety and cut myself off from the whole world, you were the only teacher who was supportive and gave me hope. You are a busy man and you didn't have to care if your past pupil was having a problem, but you did. And I will always be thankful for it. You didn't even make me feel awkward by questioning about my past problems, when I resumed my normal life. You made it very comfortable for me. I hope someday this "jorhat'or suwali" will be able to make you proud in her own small way.

Sir Sahid Ali: You are knowledge personified. And you are genuinely interested in sharing your knowledge with all your students. You care. A lot. And that's why I respect you so much.

Ma'am Gayatri: You are an epitome of intelligence, hard work and positive attitude. I always wanted to work hard in your classes. Especially pediatric ward classes. You are one of the finest women I have ever met.

Sir Suresh Chakraborty: I always looked forward to your questions about Gabriel Garcia Marquez to Satyajit Ray at the end of the psychiatry class. You made psychiatry come alive. I loved when you encouraged us to make diagnosis, validate it with strong arguments, and supported it with that happy smile of yours. You had always encouraged me to write during my undergraduate days in GMC, and I'd always be thankful for that.

Probodh Da: I hated it when you cut short the evenings, meant for having fun with my cousins, with boring homework assignments. But you never missed a class for 8 years, and made sure I stick to the books. I enjoyed the chat sessions at the end of the class, and playing scrabble with you.<

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"Into each life, some rain must fall"

I nestled my face against the half open windowpane, a book on my lap; as I watched the clouds veil the sun and paint the sky a sharp grey. The bracing wind blew in a stray leaf through my window; from the tree that I wake up to every morning. I picked up the papery leaf, and placed it on page 96 of the book I had been reading. It can wait.

Soon, it was coming down really hard. Sudden. Unexpected. Gratifying. I heard it on the tin roof, felt it on my outstretched hand, breathed it in as it soaked the garden, saw it glisten on the new road, and tasted it in a warm samosa and mango pickle.

I watched the rain for an hour, as it cocooned me from everything that bothered me in the recent past. I had said too much, messed up priorities, and hurt many. Relying on a memory that blocked out unpleasant incidents and repressed mistakes, I tried to lead a normal life; but kept on making the same mistakes over and over again. The brain was quick to mask them before I could learn my lesson. I lived in illusions to make it from one day to the other.

I needed this hour of quiet retrospection to break this vicious chain. I needed to feel something fresh and unsullied, that could wash away the accumulating grime of unmet expectations, a shaky self-image and futile hopes. I needed it to unfurl a blank, white sheet of my life; a new start imbibing much needed realizations and a clearer perspective. I needed the rain.

It stopped at dusk, as suddenly as it had come. The evening air, the black outline of the treetops, the lights gleaming on the distant hill, the raindrops on my windowsill, the wetness in my palm; I tried to absorb in everything as I woke up from my reverie.

Switching on the light, I opened page 96 and read on.

She defined it

The morning rush of patients was over; monitoring vitals, sending laboratory investigations, prescribing medicines and all the relatively small yet hectic duties that internship brought were done with for the day. The patients were in their beds and that provided her some rare quiet moments. She pored over her books; the books that would enable her to cross yet another threshold of her medical career; a postgraduate degree. She concentrated on the questions, mentally eliminating choices and zeroing on a single answer. Confidence surged and ebbed with every guess.

 Two hours passed by. Apart from a casual chat with the nurse on duty, there was nothing to interrupt her studies. Few seniors came by later in the evening, and she updated them about any changes in the patients' conditions. After arrival of the seniors, she was left with nothing much to do at the ward; her duties lessened. She closed her book and waited for nine pm, when she could finally go home. Suddenly everything seemed dull. She looked at the clock, the minute hand mockingly refused to budge even after what seemed like an eon.

Then he walked in, a confident stride. He had come for his evening shift. Suddenly she was unable to emote normally. Her hands felt heavy and awkward, and not knowing what to do with them, she picked up the book in front of her. Her eyes darted furtively trying to catch a glimpse of him, without being too obvious. She was acutely aware of the fact that he stood a few inches away from her, and that was her cue to freeze. The simple task of handing over a patient file to him made her sweat glands go into an overdrive. He was totally oblivious of what his presence was doing to her, he probably didn't even notice that she existed. Time seemed to gallop now, and soon it was time for her to go home. She cursed this relativity of time!

She didn't even notice him the first few days, he was just another face, another acquaintance. It might have been sudden or gradual, it's a blur; but she started blushing every time he looked at her or the rare times he talked to her. He hardly knew her, nor did she. And there was no use of harboring any romantic notions for him, as it wouldn't have led to anything. Be reasonable, she chided herself repeatedly. But the heart had stopped taking orders from the reason-seeing, logically-thinking brain. There was a visible disconnect between what she thought and what she felt.

So here she was, acting like an over-enthusiastic teenager, feeling elated every time she caught a glimpse of him or saw him smile, when she had firmly decided that falling in love wasn't a consideration in the near future.

What was it?

It wasn't love, it's too deep a word to assign to her feelings for someone she hardly knew. It wasn't lust, she didn't obsess or fantasize about him. It wasn't an infatuation, he was not the most eligible guy around. It wasn't the want to be in a relationship, she knew and accepted that he would never reciprocate her feelings. She didn't feel the urge to see him, or be with him constantly.

She was just happy that there was this boy out there who made her smile every time he crossed her mind. And that's that.

4am Haiku

      A lone maple leaf,

      Orange in a sea of grey,

      He caught my eye.

 

 I wait for the sun,

 My room will glow orange,

 Like the brewing tea.

               Long winter night,

               A tear soaked pillow,

               Dry by morning.

 An empty inbox,

 With a thousand mails;

  I wait yet again.

To a day in June,

Wind back all the clocks,

He sat beside me.

A withering past,

Turns a fresh page of life, 

I draw a rainbow.

        Pine tree woodlet,

        A home in the hills,

        Love has an address.

Take my thoughts,

O wind blow them far,

Wake him up tonight.

          

          A sunlit fjord,

          Eyes alight with laughter;

          Many drowned.

Letters

“I beg anyone who has ever been in love to remember how one usually hurries home after dropping the letter in the box, rapidly gets into bed and pulls up their quilt in full conviction that as soon as one wakes up in the morning, one will be overwhelmed with memories of the previous day and look with rapture at the window, where the daylight will be eagerly making its way through the folds of the curtain.”

~Anton Chekhov

I read and re-read these words written a century and half ago, and marveled at their relevance even in the age of BBM, emails and tweets. I had clicked the ‘send’ button in Gmail, instead of dropping a letter in the postbox, but I felt equally overwhelmed by delightful anticipation on sending a letter to the one I love.

The Chekhov quote reminded me of those days of taking out time to pen a long, hand-written letter. I had not received such a letter for more than a decade. Email is the more available, more convenient option. So is a facebook wall and sms. And there’s always the phone.

But how I miss writing long letters! I am terrible at making small talk, and overcompensate for it by writing long mails. That’s the most important reason I write. I can give some form to my thoughts and feelings, which become blurred in course of a conversation.

If and when I get married, I would want my husband to write letters to me. And patiently read my long letters. Even when we are living in the same house. It sounds silly, and probably is so, but I always want to experience the intimacy and the pleasure of exchanging hand-written letters.

During my childhood, summer vacations always brought letters from friends, cousins and pen pals. Pen-pals.  Yes, I had a few. Just the very idea of communicating with a person I had never met, who is from a different culture, a different country, and comparing notes with them during the growing up years, was very exciting to me.

But as it happens to most things as time goes by, the child-like enthusiasm to write to a pen-pal faded away, and so did the pen-pal. I didn’t care anymore about sitting down cross-legged on my bed, pen and letter pad on my lap, writing to a friend I had never met about my experiences in school and the books I had read, in a scraggly script that I tried in vain to correct, oblivious to the rest of the world for a blissful hour. My parents got a telephone connection one summer, and the new thrill was talking to my best friend every few hours about how many pages of history homework I completed, and the latest songs we heard, and gossiped about how the new girl in class was such a big gossip. It was again the more available, more convenient option to communicate. Why waste time writing letters, and waiting for days to receive a reply, when I can just pick up the phone and talk? Letters faded away from my life. And I didn’t even feel their absence.

I shifted to a new city, when I was in the 8^th standard. I missed my friends back home, and exchanging letters became a habit again. There were a lot of friends I wanted to write to, but I didn’t know everyone’s addresses. So, I used to address a fat envelope containing a nearly ten page letter to the school principal! And he was kind enough to pass the letter, without complaining, to my amused friends who read it in the classroom. And there were days when I walked in home after school, and my mother handed me an equally fat envelope addressed to me. I can’t describe in words the joy I felt on reading my friends’ replies, where they rejoiced in my achievements, gave me advice on my problems, described in detail hilarious incidents, shared the going-on in their lives, updated me on the latest happenings in my old school. And the familiar handwriting, the doodles, and the violet ink; these are memories I will always treasure.

When I had my first heartbreak, I was devastated and I wanted to share it with someone who would understand the gamut of emotions I was going through, who won’t judge me by my wrong choices and patiently hear me out. I wrote a letter saying all that to my father. He understood, and most importantly he didn’t laugh when I wrote him a letter from the next room!

And ever since that day whenever I face a problem, where I am at a loss of words in communicating it, I write a letter. When I am in love, I write a letter. When I miss a friend, I write a letter. When it’s my favorite cousin’s birthday, I write a letter. When I want to apologize, I write a letter.

I will always write letters.

Evenings

As the starry sky slowly shelters us,

I want the moonbeams to shine on you;

Reminding you of a love in utopia.

Thoughts fleet across the evening sky,

Like fireflies, aglow with love;

I wonder whether you think of me too.

An echo of you saying my name,

A shared laugh, a walk with you;

Nostalgia thrives, and I'm near you again.

Giving up on hope is never easy,

I surrender to its futility;

Even love seems near in this evening air.

I watch the evening drift into night;

Ending this indefinite wait, come,

Just hold my hand; words can come later.