Last time I wrote to you like this was probably in 2010. For past few days you’ve been constantly on my mind. I hate to admit it but sometimes I forget about you. You slip out of my mind for months at a time. But I love you.
I have been accused of not loving people as others might do. I have been told that I will never understand the highs and lows of a lover’s emotions because I have never fallen in love myself ( at least not in the conventional sense). While that might be true to some extents, nonetheless it hurts to listen to others say that you don’t know what loving is. That simply degrades you to something not human. I love. In the purest form I can. It might look like something else. It might feel like something else. But at the end of the day it’s actually love.
I forget about you sometimes but that doesn’t mean you don’t matter anymore. People are unconscious about their breathing most of the time but that doesn’t mean it’s not happening.
I am twenty-two now. Four years older than what you were when you left us. At that time it felt like you were too old; a responsible and mature adult. It is now that I understand that you were just a kid. Eighteen. Barely legal. If I am doing the maths correctly, you would have been thrity-one this June. And here I am, just twenty-two, feeling older than you.
I wish I had that photograph with me. Didi might still have it. I don’t know for sure though. It melts my heart whenever I think of it. I am six years old. Ugly child wearing a white laced frock, hair cut short like that of a boy. You have lifted me up in your arms and one of my hands is on your shoulder. Didi is standing close to you on right, almost as tall as you. On the far right the two brothers are making faces towards the camera. There was something permanent about that picture. I will try to get a copy of it if it is still surviving.
Missing you, always!
Excuse the simplicity of this post, but some stories, or at least parts of it, need to be told in the simplest way possible.
Once upon a time there lived a young girl in some part of the world, about 9-10 years of age, who wore spectacles. She did not go to school. They taught her at home. For a few weeks every summer she was sent to her aunt. She longed for this little vacation throughout the year. It was all very refreshing for the little child, the flower-shop, her cousins, and Mahir. Especially Mahir.
This year too she was very excited for her visit to that strange world. Little did she know that something bizzare was waiting for her. Something she would never figure out whether to hate or appreciate. Something she would dream about even years later. Nightmares.
Karun was the boy’s name.
Read the previous post under TKTM here
Below is something I wrote for a friend a few weeks back.
As a drop of darkness seeped out of my vein and splattered over my existence and the very abyss of my soul, I whispered the same question again: is my darkness same as yours?
I see a drop of white oozing out of a wall of my room and slowly covering every inch of it. The calm, the poignant white.
I shuffle through the watercolour paintings I made as a child. Delicate little bird ready to fly; a leaf about to die. I stopped being a dreamer when my mother stopped having time.
We are no longer permitted to have favourite colours. We are adults. But once upon a time, green was yours and blue was mine. Your voice melted whenever you read poetry. Like a scoop of blue mixed with a scoop of green. Green is a kind of blue.
What is the colour of chaos? Of madness? What is it like to be blind! Pools of dark has now started to seep out from the whites of the walls.
Like liquid fire, thick black fluid trickles down my veins and my skin. It meets the darkness splashing out from the surface of the walls. Cortisol in my blood goes up. Colour goes out.
I have again started feeling the need for a blog. So here I am. Back!