Part I - Unwritten
Part II - Rewritten
Part III - Erased
It rained today. It rained all over my story today.
It rained with ferocity. I witnessed the mad love making of rain and wind cast gloom and bliss together in the city. I had a crazy schedule and a dozen tasks to finish in remote corners of the city, but I knew to which centre my day would converge. By six, I had to be where I was yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. The first two days I spent beside the green water of a still lake, located within a bubbling hub of urban jabberwocky, were what enticing aromas of Earl Grey were made of, or what the smoky seduction of his piercing gaze was made of. The third day made the Earl Grey go undrinkably cold. It also made smoke smell like the irritation that smoke is.
I had first met him at this secluded, pretty spot beside the lake, flipping the pages of his little green diary, throwing down velvet caressed words as impalpable ripples on unbelievably still and lifeless water. His words were what he was made of. His expressions - casual, yet precise - were his weapons of choice to illuminate a moment by voicing them, or sadden the climate by withholding them. I loved listening to him - to whatever he said. So, when the next day, he was reticent (but charming as hell), even the usually garrulous girl in me felt it pressurizing to be the one talking. I could clearly not think myself saying anything half as worthy as the lamest thing that came out of his lips. I would have loved to speak the language of silence with him, but he did not know I had already been doing that since the first hour we spent together, and I did not know how to actually make this language known to him. I was with him in my mind, and, I had a feeling, he was with himself, in his own.
I walked back to the same spot beside the lake yesterday, but he was not there. It felt odd. I walked on, sat down there, opened my diary, and scribbled whatever I remembered of the earthy countenance of his. Amicable, and inscrutable dwelt beautifully within the features which now seemed distant. I had his number, hesitantly yes, but I called. No answer. And so became the trend for my next eleven calls made over several diurnal and nocturnal hours. I slept with the trepidation that he has disappeared on me - my chance at poetry had disappeared on me. Today, amid a hectic schedule of dry powerpoints and dull meetings, I managed to find time to be fearful and indignant at the same time. How could he disappear on me?
Braving rains now threatening to be violent, I reached the same spot today as well - but he was not here. How could he be - it was raining, right? But then again, he was not here, or anywhere around. Drenched, I smiled helplessly, and leaned across to the same place where his hands had caressed mine. His fingers, rather boldly, had then curled around in a firm grip - the embrace of gestures ever so natural that I had failed to notice it till I actually did. I did not feel coy, I just lived.
Today, I felt raindrops run in a ticklish path down my neck - and I sat down, wishing, if that tickle could have been caused by him, his words that touch. He could not have been here in this downpour - I was mad to think that. But I was here in this downpour - mad enough to do that.
He was glorious, sure, but undecipherable still. He was beguiling, yes, but unwritten still. He gave names to feelings I had not felt since ages, but he demanded to be erased now. He was my chance at poetry, but probably I was not his. At some core, insistent, crying part of ours, we all want to be written, but while I was writing him, probably he was sketching someone else. To think again, I was writing him, and I was sure he was writing himself. And it hurt. Hurt enough to make me calm.
I walked away, drenched. I will probably come back here tomorrow, when the sun would be up there, winking at the lake. However, I will not forget him not being here when it rained, and when it was dark, and when I was alone, searching for even the tiniest reflection of his. He will probably be back here, but he will not be back here.
As I said, it rained today. It rained all over my story today.
Part II - Rewritten
Part III - Erased
It rained today. It rained all over my story today.
It rained with ferocity. I witnessed the mad love making of rain and wind cast gloom and bliss together in the city. I had a crazy schedule and a dozen tasks to finish in remote corners of the city, but I knew to which centre my day would converge. By six, I had to be where I was yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. The first two days I spent beside the green water of a still lake, located within a bubbling hub of urban jabberwocky, were what enticing aromas of Earl Grey were made of, or what the smoky seduction of his piercing gaze was made of. The third day made the Earl Grey go undrinkably cold. It also made smoke smell like the irritation that smoke is.
I had first met him at this secluded, pretty spot beside the lake, flipping the pages of his little green diary, throwing down velvet caressed words as impalpable ripples on unbelievably still and lifeless water. His words were what he was made of. His expressions - casual, yet precise - were his weapons of choice to illuminate a moment by voicing them, or sadden the climate by withholding them. I loved listening to him - to whatever he said. So, when the next day, he was reticent (but charming as hell), even the usually garrulous girl in me felt it pressurizing to be the one talking. I could clearly not think myself saying anything half as worthy as the lamest thing that came out of his lips. I would have loved to speak the language of silence with him, but he did not know I had already been doing that since the first hour we spent together, and I did not know how to actually make this language known to him. I was with him in my mind, and, I had a feeling, he was with himself, in his own.
I walked back to the same spot beside the lake yesterday, but he was not there. It felt odd. I walked on, sat down there, opened my diary, and scribbled whatever I remembered of the earthy countenance of his. Amicable, and inscrutable dwelt beautifully within the features which now seemed distant. I had his number, hesitantly yes, but I called. No answer. And so became the trend for my next eleven calls made over several diurnal and nocturnal hours. I slept with the trepidation that he has disappeared on me - my chance at poetry had disappeared on me. Today, amid a hectic schedule of dry powerpoints and dull meetings, I managed to find time to be fearful and indignant at the same time. How could he disappear on me?
Braving rains now threatening to be violent, I reached the same spot today as well - but he was not here. How could he be - it was raining, right? But then again, he was not here, or anywhere around. Drenched, I smiled helplessly, and leaned across to the same place where his hands had caressed mine. His fingers, rather boldly, had then curled around in a firm grip - the embrace of gestures ever so natural that I had failed to notice it till I actually did. I did not feel coy, I just lived.
Today, I felt raindrops run in a ticklish path down my neck - and I sat down, wishing, if that tickle could have been caused by him, his words that touch. He could not have been here in this downpour - I was mad to think that. But I was here in this downpour - mad enough to do that.
He was glorious, sure, but undecipherable still. He was beguiling, yes, but unwritten still. He gave names to feelings I had not felt since ages, but he demanded to be erased now. He was my chance at poetry, but probably I was not his. At some core, insistent, crying part of ours, we all want to be written, but while I was writing him, probably he was sketching someone else. To think again, I was writing him, and I was sure he was writing himself. And it hurt. Hurt enough to make me calm.
I walked away, drenched. I will probably come back here tomorrow, when the sun would be up there, winking at the lake. However, I will not forget him not being here when it rained, and when it was dark, and when I was alone, searching for even the tiniest reflection of his. He will probably be back here, but he will not be back here.
As I said, it rained today. It rained all over my story today.
 |
| Clicked by Aaqib Raza Khan |
Reading what you write makes me feel drowned in the silent ocean of poesy. You are one great flower that smiles over all, you are that penetrating gaze that lies beyond a green lake waiting, to be held between your fingers and creating sheer magic of words...
ReplyDeleteThis is like poetry in response of poetry - glad am I that you found something worth re-reading here.
DeleteToday I am going to post a long comment so, bear with me. I will try and cover each aspect of the story.
ReplyDeleteSo, lets begin with Earl Grey.
It is quite clear that Earl Grey is bad for your health. It doesn't suits you or we can say it doesn't deserve you, to be precise. I don't know how a thing that has a 'Grey' in its name could deserve a person like you who brims with color of magnificence.
Then comes THE place.
Why did you go there? I mean, Why? How could you? You promised me. Infact you promised yourself that you won't go there. Each time you go, your heart aches and asks, " why the hell are you doing this to me? What have I done?" and you are stumped each time. Why would you go? I mean don't step out if you are not able to get to the pitch of the ball. It doesn't mean you don't have the talent. it just means you are out of touch. Out of form. It is time for some consolidation. One good shot is all it takes. Yes! Thats all it takes to get back in the grove. And it comes sooner than most people think. And in your case it'll be much sooner as lots of people are praying for you. I know I am.
Now lets come to the RAIN.
I am pretty sure you know that rain helps the team chasing the target. Similar will be the case in your case. Duckworth Lewis will be proud that his method came in handy for Saumya Kulshreshtha (I mean it is not mean feat). So, rain is good. Rain is healthy. Rain is water. Rain is new harvest. Rain is coming of monsoon. Rain is happiness. Rain will get you the earthy smell. That beautiful smell that every season envy. So don't bother. Rain shall wash away all the gloom and all that will be left is nothing but charm, sunlight and ever so beautiful rainbow. And from that rainbow YOU will take out some colors and we both will paint the world with those. Thus making you happy and consequently me.
So, we have concluded the following:
Grey Earl does't suits/deserve(I'd rather go for the latter word) you.
Going to that place is nothing but exercise in vain.
You may not be in form but soon will be. As they say "form is temporary, class in permanent".
Rain is good. Good especially for you.
And last but not the least, we will paint together someday.
Much love.
Thank you.
This is like a blog post in reply to my blog post. In fact, check to see if your response is longer than the post itself?
DeleteAnyway, the point here is, you make me feel so loved and connected and at peace and secure. I know you are among those people I can count on, and we all need those friends we can count on with our eyes closed. You are, hence, a special friend, child and younger brother for me. It goes without saying that I want to see you climb real high, I'll chip in with whatever I can!
Well, nostalgia drives me into the world where everything small or big is reminiscent of some event,incident,conversation,quarrel,observation,thinking,unthinking,infatuation,emotion,feeling,hatred,sympathy,empathy,consolation and what not.The fiction or the reality in the story reminds me of how nostalgic I am.My whole life,poetry,thought processeven my persona winds and unwinds around it.However much you try,you unwrite,rewrite and then erase,things get etched in ur subconscious and they sprout time and again.Writing these kind of stuff is a part of that nostalgia.May that earl grey in a different aroma besides another lake or may be a spring caress you again and then the saim rain might put a shower for compensating her mistake of drenching your story and leaving it in marshy waters.At that time remember my words "It rains again,it always does"
ReplyDeletePs: its the road side chai,its callousness,its unprepared ness,its burning aroma,its tinge in my throat thats close to me ,I would forego n number of earl greys and pinnacoladas for it
I like it when you take out time to put out an elaborate thought. Just that some of your thoughts sting, hence I am sceptical always. This one made for a pleasant read though.
DeleteBrilliant pieces of literature, all three of these...
ReplyDelete:)
Delete