Rhapsody in February

I was buying hard and fast into the argument of the cynics. What is so special about this day? Western or Eastern, it is an absurd tradition. How can the celebration of love be confined to a single day? It is just a propaganda. It creates so much pressure. It builds expectations. It is mad. And then in India, it is dangerous too. Valentines. Big deal!

So, yes, it was decided. This is a day to remain locked up at home. With my candles, and cakes, and flowers. Wait, no! Wasn't I just ridiculing the very concept of this day? And now, I plan to, like the painful cliché goes, be my own Valentine? I smirked. I am a sad case. It is all absurd. Not only is it a day to suck brain and money out of the fooled consumers, it is also a day designed to make the likes of me pathetic and lonely. Everything is wrong with this day. What are you all, smeared with crimson, happy about? Get a life. 

Its seven in the evening. The sun took longer to erase its trail from the sky tonight. I wait for it to sink before I go for my rendezvous with the light breeze outside. It is convenient. I can stroll on the terrace with a goofy smile on my face, and no one will know. I can walk, and churn stories in my head, layering them with apposite facial expressions, and no one will know. I can remember him, feel a ticklish sensation in my heart, have a drop or two shed from my eyes, and no one will know. To amuse myself, I can draw a long, filmi sigh, and no one still will know. These nights are my own - they help me live and breathe like no one's watching. Secure in dark. Looking down (literally) at the world. Looking back in time. It really is a spoilt day 

A gentle melody wafts up on the breeze. I hear it for some seconds, and then it fades. I must have hallucinated. Are my imaginations that strong? I hear it again. This time, fainter. It disappears again, but not before my lips curve into a smile. I feel like exploring, discovering, reaching the source of this sound. Only, I am rendered immobile. With a weak, confused smile on my face. Did I hear it? For some seconds, yes. It sounded familiar, but, didn't it? I wish desperately to hear it once more. I try to rouse the music by the power of my will, concentrating hard with closed eyes. There. It hits again. Not my ears, but my heart. It comes closer, those lovely strains of the piano. I feel light on my feet, and my dimples deepen. I can visualize the nimble fingers working their magic to write romance with music. 

With laughter matching the rhythm of that melody, I open my eyes. I know this composition. With a lump in my throat, I look back to last Valentine's, when he played it for me. He did not just play, he made it for me. We were not just celebrating Valentine's. We were celebrating the day which brought us together, about half a decade back. 

His love continues to throb like music in my heart. He did get lost in the pages of time somewhere, but the love lingered. Like sweet music, like pious tears. 

Today, I cannot reach him, but I can write to him. If I could, this is what I would... 

Kyun tu achchha lagta hai, 

Waqt mila toh sochenge.

Tujh mein kya kya dekha hai

Waqt mila toh sochenge

Sara sheher shanasai ka davedaar toh hai lekin

Kaun humara apna hai, waqt mila toh sochenge

Humne usko likha tha kuchh milne ki tadbeer karo

Usne likhkar bheja hai, waqt mila toh sochenge

Aur mausam, khushbu, baad-e-saba, chand, shafaq aur taaron mein

Kaun tumhare jaisa hai, waqt mila toh sochenge

Ya toh apne dil ki maano ya phir duniyawalon ki

Mashwara kiska achchha hai, waqt mila toh sochenge

Kyun tu achchha lagta hai,

Waqt mila toh sochenge, 

Waqt mila toh sochenge

Happy Valentine's Day!

To all of you. 

Spread the love!

(I do not know the poet of the above lines. Do share if you do.)