I was tripping in the bus today morning. I had this thought. How do I tell you pretty details! Like how they’ve started selling brinjals in small packs near the brinjal field on our way to college these days. Ah haha how about the guy at the rasam counter who tried to flirt with me yesterday! How do I tell you stories of how I keep getting put in the path of beauty- deliberately, everyday!
I must be a favourite for some super power, I’m sure. But then, what’s happiness if not shared, right !
So, I found a way. I came up with a system. I remembered a trust worthy postman who’d dedicate his life carrying messages from me to you on an almost day to day basis.
Everyday, I’ll swing up all my thoughts like coins into the clouds here. Just like that gold Swiss franc you gave me, babe. I shall throw it up with all my might and the clouds will catch ’em. And these francs will pour over you like rain there. Where else does it rain beautifully than in the Lands, right ! It’ll come and go. Just like a breeze.
On days of no rains, know that I’m out there living the thoughts that I may swing up later.
On days of no clouds, know that I’m still around and all you’ve got to do is to go to the terrace at night and gaze up above.
On nights of no stars, wait for the sun to come up, my darling.
And meanwhile, I shall whisper your name like a dying man’s last wish until the universe hears me.
I am going to tell you the story of dandelions. About how they sometimes fly far, sometimes near; but always with the wind.
Much like you, my darling .
And then one day, the wind stops and thereby life starts .
The wind stops in places we imagined not and life starts in places we thought was possible not.
Much like you, my darling.
There’s a first time for everything. It was the first time I fell in love three times in one night. First with Latino music and dance that they played at that charming long story short. Probably the last thing one would expect at the end of a quiet street in a Catholic town ! Then with the lovely burchaak that I kept drowning myself in. And then finally, almost like a grand finale, I fell head over heels watching the movie “Chicago” in that open air theatre. Something changed. I was freezing but I knew that this time, the fire wasn’t going to burn out.
Mayflowers that await discovery like the selfish giant’s garden.
Much like a snowball that refuses to melt in cold December’s;
warm embrace burning like July embers.
Phoenix feather wands wandering through March mornings.
Rum on fire, blazing against a mild breeze.
You’re my gentle dandelion that flies around as I fight shape shifting monsters with subtle grace !
I woke up to an image trapped in a mirror.
Hazy smoke rose and fell with grace,
just like your thumping heart dancing to the tunes of my slight tremors
As you blew those dysfunctional rings,
the smoke took the guise of a muse,
and comfort hurtled in the air
The sunshine fought for your spot through the curtain-
that damn yellow mellow fellow,
Amping up actirasty all the way
Transfixing us on today,
the burning bridge between your lips blurred frames of yesterday and tomorrow
Like a girl with lisp, always at the cusp of saying a yes
But as I saw, what was there and what could be there,
Oh Darling, I got stoned on you!
And like most people, she had big dreams-legislative research-small money-hopes and fears-
Sat on her desk-brunette hair basking in the tyndall effect of Dilli’s December sun- blowing hot and cold at the same time-sips chai and opens her inbox.
It wasn’t a typical day at work- what with the VP’s annual lecture around the corner and three MPs threatening to file a suit for slander and libel on one of India’s most celebrated journalist- someone on her ‘one that got away’ list-toxic mix-he wanted too much too soon and she was too much of herself to begin with-it ached now and then.
(Leaves office-puts on N 95 mask-blares Zeppelin in the background-ignores human race in entirety- routine on)
She sees-pretty shoes-actually shoes with bows-which were just shoes before-now branded feminine because of a simple bow-wonders as to who made these sexist rules- notices her shoe had ‘em bows too-she snickers-Zeppelin hit the softer note-hears the metro lady’s recorded voice-her cue to realize that she was on the wrong direction- the neon sign read ‘Delhi Gate’-runs to the door-dramatically jumps out to draw attention-only to ignore it-again-walks to the other side.
(For someone who topped her class in behavioral economics, she still had trouble figuring out how the violet and yellow lines behaved-after a month in Dilli-she still lost her way.)
“Umm. Excuse me? Is Moolchand station on this side?” She asked, hesitant and reluctant to make conversations with people, let alone strangers.
He looks around, desperate to spot another soul-empty station.
“Uhh. One sec. Lemme check” he said, unlocking his cracked screen that looked like spider man’s web.
“Yep. Its this side” He said with a polite smile as he folded his white sleeves and that caught her attention-what a weirdly wired brain-she sighed-dismisses further line of thought- removes her mask-more like out of courtesy-his pupils slightly dilate-she notices but doesn’t react-thanks him-they take the metro towards Kashmere Gate.
(A week later)
“Fuck. Not again” she cussed loudly as she jumped out of the metro unceremoniously.
Her phone falls for the millionth time-being a klutz was second nature to her-someone picks it up-she had already removed her mask-more out of curiosity than courtesy-to see if this stranger’s eyes would pop up too-his eyes didn’t-hers did-such a cliché-she thought.
“Chai piyogi?” he asked.
She smiled and mentally checked a box -walks towards the exit-she wanted to be the one that got away- for once.
Because- Sometimes,it wasn’t the story-but the possibilities.