Hitesha Deshpande's Blog, page 2
October 2, 2013
Hide and Seek
On the silver wings of the gliding geeseIn the winks of the midnight starsUnder pillows of clouds floating in the breeze Between the colors of the rainbow bars
On the toes of the dancing wavesIn the soft grains of the slipping sandIn the reflections of the blades of grassBlushing green under the gaze of the sun
Are words hiding alone and lostWaiting for that reason or causeTo bind them so tight and close as one as random verses of a beautiful poem
Written for the OctPoWriMo Day #2
On the toes of the dancing wavesIn the soft grains of the slipping sandIn the reflections of the blades of grassBlushing green under the gaze of the sun
Are words hiding alone and lostWaiting for that reason or causeTo bind them so tight and close as one as random verses of a beautiful poem
Written for the OctPoWriMo Day #2
October 1, 2013
Pyre of Desires
A hurried glance gone astray
Like a thought who had lost her home
Lands on a stranger's face
Stirs feelings that were not there before
A smile that lasts all night long
Whispers which wake up the dawn
A wish that lingers on
Like the fading shades of the moon
Every moment then and now
Blur the lines between right and wrong
All that's good burns in a fire
On this raging pyre of desires
Written for the OctPoWriMo
Like a thought who had lost her home
Lands on a stranger's face
Stirs feelings that were not there before
A smile that lasts all night long
Whispers which wake up the dawn
A wish that lingers on
Like the fading shades of the moon
Every moment then and now
Blur the lines between right and wrong
All that's good burns in a fire
On this raging pyre of desires
Written for the OctPoWriMo
June 17, 2013
And then it rained!
“You have been pushing this for long,” She threw her hands in the air in exasperation. “It is your birthday party you know!” Even a deaf man could not miss her emphasis on ‘is’. When she received no reply, she took in a deep breath. “Ten minutes,” she announced. “I can keep them entertained without you for ten minutes. Tops! After that they want to be with you. They are here for you. You have no right to deny them that!” She turned and stomped towards the door. With one hand on the doorknob she tilted her head to make herself more audible and said softly, “those people are here because they love you. Don’t disappoint them.”Love. She smirked. The people on the other side of the door did not love her! They wanted her. They needed her. But they did not love her. Half of them wanted what her money could buy, the other half needed her networks. Not one amidst the three hundred people come to celebrate her birthday had really come because they loved her! She swirled the glass in her wine and watched the ruby fluid slide smoothly down the walls of the goblet. In the gathering pool of red at the bottom of her glass were dreams drenched in her blood, relationships she had sacrificed and love she had murdered.
All of this to get to the top of an empty space where bodies are mummified in their ambitions. Where money was the embalming fluid which preserved the fake beauty of human artifacts and real human beings looked in through glass windows coveting the delusional glory. She swallowed the remaining wine in one gulp and was about to pour herself another glass when she caught her reflection in the mirror.
Her dress was dazzling. It was created by one of the top designers. He had spent a month thinking what her birthday dress would be. Not because he wanted it to reflect who she was, he wanted it speak of who she had become. He wanted it to be covered by the journalists and for another month he wanted to be the talk of the town. He had not done a bad deal either. Soft golden silk hugged her curves sensuously before flowing down in asymmetrical frills just above her knee. Her narrow waist was accentuated by a Swarowski studded belt which glinted gold in the harsh yellow light of dressing table.
She moved her eyes upwards to the bare column of her neck. Further up to her garish red lips which people found so luscious, up the bridge of her nose to her eyes. Long ago someone had told her that her eyes reflected her soul. She squinted at the black pearly staring back at her. She wanted to see something left of her soul. Some hope. Some light. Some glint. Something. Anything. She searched the black orbs with an intensity she did not know she possessed. She needed to find her soul in those eyes. She looked frantically.
Yet all that stared back at her were two lifeless dots, rimmed with spectacular make-up. She swallowed a sob. Her eyes sparked to life at that. She swallowed another small lump of tears. Her eyes shimmered awake. Dancing delicately on the gold sprinkled mascara were the first traces of her tears. They looked like they might have traces of her soul in them. She blinked hard. She could not let those tears flow. They were all she had!
The tears rolled down nevertheless. They took whatever little life she had left with them.
Angrily she grabbed the bottle of wine and stumbled towards the balcony. She raised the bottle to her lips and took long swigs which did nothing to calm her. It smelled lovely outside. It smelled of careless summers and grass swept monsoons. It smelled like the blush of a teenager having her first crush. She lifted her button nose into the air and inhaled deeply.
She started a little. It took her by surprise. She drew her hand under her nose, where she could see it better. There, right under her third knuckle was the crystal clear drop of rain. She smiled. It seemed to smile back at her. Another drop joined him as he plopped on her wrist. Another one landed on her hand. She was sure she was catching some in her hair.
They started multiplying rapidly all over her body. They danced in the faint magic created by the city lights. She laughed at their performance. Suddenly they were everywhere. On her expensive golden dress, on her silly red lips, on her mosaic tiled terrace, everywhere! There was a huge rumble which shook her to her bones.
And then it rained!
June 13, 2013
Rainwashed Memory
He was running late. Usually by this hour he was in his cabin zapping out task lists and planning his day. He knew weekday parties was a very bad idea. Yet he had given in and gone out. One drink led to a tempting conversation inviting more drinks. The result was that he had embarrassed himself and was tugging along a very irritating hangover. Now, just because he had to pick up those very annoying but very effective aspirins from an apothecary five minutes out of his way, he was even getting late to work!He cursed himself under his breath as he fumbled around in his massive jacket pockets for some change. He slapped it on the counter, flashed a pasted smiled, grabbed his bottle of aspirins and headed out in a hurry. A gentle drizzle slapped his face. He grunted. This is exactly what he needed. He made a mental note to hate June . He stood a little away from the door of the apothecary and took a deep calming breath. He wriggled his toes inside his stonewashed shoes. His yoga instructor insisted it aided blood circulation and helped calm the mind.
He watched little crystals of droplet hit the gray pavement and crash into a million splinters before disappearing completely. The sight was in equal parts heart wrenching and absolutely beautiful. He watched them for a couple of seconds more and then looked up.
That’s when he saw her.
The thin film of rain did nothing to hide her from his sight. She stood on the other side of the road fumbling with her umbrella. He watched her lips move. He knew she was talking to the umbrella, coaxing it open up. Like always, her lips reminded him of rich plums flirting with sun; their shade just the right kind of crimson, like wine made from the finest of grapes, aged to perfection. She had cut her hair. They now hung in soft curls around her neck. The gentle breeze ruffled through those curls drawing them over her face. She would angrily brush them away. The breeze would naughtily come right back.
He wanted to be the breeze.
He stood there watching her bottle green dress billow around her long legs. He could not move even if he wanted. The weight of memories of things unsaid between them anchored him to his spot. He watched with quiet fascination as she finally managed to get her umbrella open. She held it above her head. A slight frown still creased her forehead as she looked left and right, unsure of what she was looking for.
His heart skipped a beat.
Would she look at him? He felt his heart wake up and kick into gear. What would he do if she did look at him? Should he wave out to her? Should he cross the distance and walk up to her? He should have done that years ago. It was too late now.
That thought calmed him. It was too late. There were years of silence he could not explain or unfold.
He watched her hitch her bag higher on her shoulder. She turned away from him and started walking. He stood staring at the now empty spot where he had seen her. One by one the memories rose. They always did. Each more poignant than the other, each more colorful. One by one, the rain bleached the memories of all color, till all that was left was a heavy sadness hanging from his shoulders.
His phone buzzed. Someone form work was trying to reach out to him. He smirked. How ironical was it that certain moments brought your world to a standstill and certain moments taught you that life moves on.
April 9, 2012
Storm Petrel
The sun touched the surface of the blue waters, causing it to shiver ever so slightly. As if thrilled at the warm golden touch after a night out in the cold. A tiny bird swooped to the water, scattering diamonds of drops on the surface. Each eager to trap a bit of the sun and light themselves up. The little bird rose sunwards and circled the sky, watching its own creation draw sparkling patterns in the silent hour. Dissatisfied, she dipped again, causing another stir, another ripple, another pattern.
She watched from the deck of the ship as another bird joined the first one. Together they continued to draw on the canvas of the sea, with the gold of the sun for paints.
"It's a storm petrel," he said. She angled her head so she could look at him better. How did he manage to move so stealthily? Or maybe she was just wooly headed. "Sorry?"
"Those birds out there," he waved towards the two artists slowly being joined by more and more like minded birds, "they are called the storm petrels."
She smiled. He would know. It was what had attracted her to him in the first place. How he seemed to know so much about the sea he loved. She looked back to the birds that kept splashing to the sea and soaring to the sun, weaving invisible threads which formed the horizon.
"How do you know?" She challenged, certain he would have an answer. "They are barely more than dots against the sky."
"Oh a multiple number of reasons," he said evasively, "like the wind's picking up. I can smell the rain which has just drenched them. And far beyond this horizon, lurk the clouds which carry this rain. But above all, sometimes deep within your heart, you just know."
She sighed. "When you talk like that, it is difficult to not fall for you."
"Like what?" he smiled, and a dimple dented his left cheek. He moved to stand next to her and leaned on the railing. She barely managed to breathe. The wind caressing his skin inches away from hers sent impulses which numbed her thoughts. "Like what?" He prompted. His eyes caught hers. They were like the ocean at night. Forever changing colors, from a smoky black to steel gray, depending on his mood. His mood was a mischievous charcoal right now. "Like what?" He whispered for a third time.
"Like there is a poet haunting your sailor's soul," she whispered.
"When you talk like that," he moved closer, the smile on his lips threatening to merge with hers. "I feel like a storm petrel."
"What?" She frowned and pulled her head inches away from his.
"Monogamous," he explained.
"Whatever happened to the poet within you?" she laughed.
"The storm scared him off," he straightened up.
"What storm?" She asked confused.
"The ones the petrels are warning you about," he smiled.
She looked out to the ocean. It was windy. But then out on the ocean it was always windy. As far as she could see the skies were devoid of any threatening clouds. The storm petrels sure had increased in number and were gathering closer to the ship. She looked at him and frowned. He shrugged his shoulders.
"Whenever there is a storm approaching, the petrels get closer to the ship. When the storm hits, the hide in the shadow of the ship. So in a way they warn us of an approaching storm. It is why they are known as the storm petrels." He explained.
There it was again. His vast knowledge which drove her insane. She stared at him. His eyes changed from charcoal to a stunning gray. "Look behind you," he urged her. She turned her back on him. Thick black clouds were frothing at the horizon. Of course he had to be right.
"I warned you," he whispered against her ear. Once again she was taken aback by how silently he moved. "A storm is approaching." Something in his voice made her snap her eyes back to him. He was grinning. He raised his hands and pushed her shoulders.
She was too stunned to react. She felt her feet leave the ground as she plummeted over the railing, into the glittering ocean below. Startled, the storm petrels chattered violently. The splash as she hit the waters drowned out their frenzied chirping.
Then everything went blank.
She watched from the deck of the ship as another bird joined the first one. Together they continued to draw on the canvas of the sea, with the gold of the sun for paints.
"It's a storm petrel," he said. She angled her head so she could look at him better. How did he manage to move so stealthily? Or maybe she was just wooly headed. "Sorry?"
"Those birds out there," he waved towards the two artists slowly being joined by more and more like minded birds, "they are called the storm petrels."
She smiled. He would know. It was what had attracted her to him in the first place. How he seemed to know so much about the sea he loved. She looked back to the birds that kept splashing to the sea and soaring to the sun, weaving invisible threads which formed the horizon.
"How do you know?" She challenged, certain he would have an answer. "They are barely more than dots against the sky."
"Oh a multiple number of reasons," he said evasively, "like the wind's picking up. I can smell the rain which has just drenched them. And far beyond this horizon, lurk the clouds which carry this rain. But above all, sometimes deep within your heart, you just know."
She sighed. "When you talk like that, it is difficult to not fall for you."
"Like what?" he smiled, and a dimple dented his left cheek. He moved to stand next to her and leaned on the railing. She barely managed to breathe. The wind caressing his skin inches away from hers sent impulses which numbed her thoughts. "Like what?" He prompted. His eyes caught hers. They were like the ocean at night. Forever changing colors, from a smoky black to steel gray, depending on his mood. His mood was a mischievous charcoal right now. "Like what?" He whispered for a third time.
"Like there is a poet haunting your sailor's soul," she whispered.
"When you talk like that," he moved closer, the smile on his lips threatening to merge with hers. "I feel like a storm petrel."
"What?" She frowned and pulled her head inches away from his.
"Monogamous," he explained.
"Whatever happened to the poet within you?" she laughed.
"The storm scared him off," he straightened up.
"What storm?" She asked confused.
"The ones the petrels are warning you about," he smiled.
She looked out to the ocean. It was windy. But then out on the ocean it was always windy. As far as she could see the skies were devoid of any threatening clouds. The storm petrels sure had increased in number and were gathering closer to the ship. She looked at him and frowned. He shrugged his shoulders.
"Whenever there is a storm approaching, the petrels get closer to the ship. When the storm hits, the hide in the shadow of the ship. So in a way they warn us of an approaching storm. It is why they are known as the storm petrels." He explained.
There it was again. His vast knowledge which drove her insane. She stared at him. His eyes changed from charcoal to a stunning gray. "Look behind you," he urged her. She turned her back on him. Thick black clouds were frothing at the horizon. Of course he had to be right.
"I warned you," he whispered against her ear. Once again she was taken aback by how silently he moved. "A storm is approaching." Something in his voice made her snap her eyes back to him. He was grinning. He raised his hands and pushed her shoulders.
She was too stunned to react. She felt her feet leave the ground as she plummeted over the railing, into the glittering ocean below. Startled, the storm petrels chattered violently. The splash as she hit the waters drowned out their frenzied chirping.
Then everything went blank.
September 22, 2011
Being a woman
He: hey
She: Hey!!!
Have been waiting to hear from you
How have you been?
He: good
She: That's good to know
Are you busy?
I could always talk to you later?
He: No
She: Have u hurt ur fingers
or something?
u seem to have difficulty typing
He: lol
She: wasnt trying to make u laugh
at least not consciously
He: :)
She: This is so bloody annoying
Why do I have to reply in 3 sentences
To ur stupid one word replies
He: chill! ur just bein a woman
September 15, 2011
August Rain
Strangers did not make her squeamish. They just put her off. They were like these big bad clouds ruining her perfect August morning. They wouldn't rain, nor would they let the winds flirt with the pootted pink petunias on her window sill. They would just stay stubbornly sulking in the skies blocking out a perfectly gorgeous sun. A bundle of useless murky colored fluff- that's what they were; the clouds and the strangers.
The minute she saw him lean against the bar counter and whisper to the bartender, she knew her peace was about to be shattered. For that past half an hour he had been darting quick glances her way. She assessed her response to his glances. Did staring back with a frown on your face qualify as an invitation? Not the last time she checked. Did swiveling on the bar stool and turning her back on him mean he could offer her a drink? The rules had sure changed since the past week.
The bartender got busy with mixing drinks. He settled down on the stool , careful to avoid looking at her. If he looked at her before the steward got her the drink, he would come across as too eager. If he did not look at her at all, it would be flippant. If he looked at her after she was given the drink, he would come across as a coward. The timing would have to be just right. She knew that. Been there done that.
Would his timing be right? She narrowed her eyes at him. His hair was thick and cut stylishly short. Definitely an expensive hair stylist. So he was a man who cared about his looks. Was that good or bad? It could mean he was immensely self absorbed, or it could mean he simply liked to look good. Did he look good? His jaw was square cut in a very Tom Cruise way, that definitely worked in his favor. His lips had a pout that just missed being feminine, making them look very kissable in a romantic sort of way. His nose seemed to be a problem. It was fine till mid-length but seemed to flare a little too much for her taste. If only she could see his eyes. In the dim lighting of the bar, with his face turned away from her there was no way she could see his eyes. But the eyes were the key to the truth of his soul.
Her scrutiny was interrupted by the steward at her elbow. She looked at him. He was leaning his elbow on the bar, his head turned towards her with a confident smile stretching his tempting lips. Timing. He had gotten the timing right. She picked the glass off the tray and raised a toast to him. He lifted his glass in response but did not make a move to come towards her. Smart move. He could not afford to seem too desperate now.
She eyed the bomb pop handed to her. A tiny smile made its presence felt. He had noticed what she was drinking. Actually he had more than just noticed, he had actually identified her drink! Not everybody knew what a bomb pop was. That was one up for him. She took a hesitant sip of the drink. An eyebrow popped in appreciation all of its own accord. She looked at him bewildered. The drink was perfectly laced with an extra hint of lemonade. Just the way she liked it.
He moved off the stool and walked towards her. She watched his every step. The way his blue shirt clung to his torso, the way his long legs swallowed the distance between them. The way his eyes never left her.
"Hope nothing's wrong with the drink," he smiled. Confident. Sassy. His voice was gruff. Had he already had one drink too many? If he did; it did not show.
"Its perfect. Thank you."
"I noticed you frown through the evening," he leaned against the table. "Was going to blame it on the drink."
"Guess you were wrong. The drink had nothing to do with it!" She meant to be rude, but her voice had a smile in it.
"I figured that out when you turned your back on me," he laughed.
"And yet you choose to buy me a drink?"
"I cant help it if you have an irresistibly sexy back!" He defended. Mischief poured through his eyes, which she noticed were a crazy shade of hazel.
Sometimes, she told herself as she sipped her bomb pop, grey clouds burst into a bubble of rains. And in an instant the weather changes. August rains, she confessed, were the most beautiful thing she had ever experienced.
The minute she saw him lean against the bar counter and whisper to the bartender, she knew her peace was about to be shattered. For that past half an hour he had been darting quick glances her way. She assessed her response to his glances. Did staring back with a frown on your face qualify as an invitation? Not the last time she checked. Did swiveling on the bar stool and turning her back on him mean he could offer her a drink? The rules had sure changed since the past week.
The bartender got busy with mixing drinks. He settled down on the stool , careful to avoid looking at her. If he looked at her before the steward got her the drink, he would come across as too eager. If he did not look at her at all, it would be flippant. If he looked at her after she was given the drink, he would come across as a coward. The timing would have to be just right. She knew that. Been there done that.
Would his timing be right? She narrowed her eyes at him. His hair was thick and cut stylishly short. Definitely an expensive hair stylist. So he was a man who cared about his looks. Was that good or bad? It could mean he was immensely self absorbed, or it could mean he simply liked to look good. Did he look good? His jaw was square cut in a very Tom Cruise way, that definitely worked in his favor. His lips had a pout that just missed being feminine, making them look very kissable in a romantic sort of way. His nose seemed to be a problem. It was fine till mid-length but seemed to flare a little too much for her taste. If only she could see his eyes. In the dim lighting of the bar, with his face turned away from her there was no way she could see his eyes. But the eyes were the key to the truth of his soul.
Her scrutiny was interrupted by the steward at her elbow. She looked at him. He was leaning his elbow on the bar, his head turned towards her with a confident smile stretching his tempting lips. Timing. He had gotten the timing right. She picked the glass off the tray and raised a toast to him. He lifted his glass in response but did not make a move to come towards her. Smart move. He could not afford to seem too desperate now.
She eyed the bomb pop handed to her. A tiny smile made its presence felt. He had noticed what she was drinking. Actually he had more than just noticed, he had actually identified her drink! Not everybody knew what a bomb pop was. That was one up for him. She took a hesitant sip of the drink. An eyebrow popped in appreciation all of its own accord. She looked at him bewildered. The drink was perfectly laced with an extra hint of lemonade. Just the way she liked it.
He moved off the stool and walked towards her. She watched his every step. The way his blue shirt clung to his torso, the way his long legs swallowed the distance between them. The way his eyes never left her.
"Hope nothing's wrong with the drink," he smiled. Confident. Sassy. His voice was gruff. Had he already had one drink too many? If he did; it did not show.
"Its perfect. Thank you."
"I noticed you frown through the evening," he leaned against the table. "Was going to blame it on the drink."
"Guess you were wrong. The drink had nothing to do with it!" She meant to be rude, but her voice had a smile in it.
"I figured that out when you turned your back on me," he laughed.
"And yet you choose to buy me a drink?"
"I cant help it if you have an irresistibly sexy back!" He defended. Mischief poured through his eyes, which she noticed were a crazy shade of hazel.
Sometimes, she told herself as she sipped her bomb pop, grey clouds burst into a bubble of rains. And in an instant the weather changes. August rains, she confessed, were the most beautiful thing she had ever experienced.
June 1, 2011
Almost Stranger
"Good Lord Anamika!" Sejal screeched in mock horror, "since when did you start liking that awful shade of blue?"
Anamika smiled and shook her head at her best friends theatrics. "Its called powder blue by the way," she informed Sejal. In response Sejal threw her elegant neck back in a scoff. Anamika absently stirred her coffee, as she watched Sejal go through the routine of folding her expensive snake skin jacket across the back of her chair. Her Burberry bag was given a seat of its own at their table. She rolled back the sleeves of her white silk top and pulled a menu towards her.
Leaving her friend to do a critical appraisal of what was on offer at the newly opened café, she turned to stare out of the glass panes that shielded the café from the rest of the city. Her eyes roamed over the array of colors over restless feet. Each a stranger to the one less than a foot away. An occasional step out of sync made the strangers either smile at each other, or frown their disdain. Either way, it was a discord which made them acknowledge the presence of another human being.
"It used to be my favorite color you know," she said suddenly, startling Sejal out of the menu. "Back when Rishabh and I were dating; powder blue used to be my favorite color," she smiled. Tears gathered at the corner of her eyes and she forced her smile wider in an attempt to cover them up.
The steward chose that moment to collect their orders. Sejal hastily ordered a hazelnut latte and diet sandwich. Anamika continued to stir her coffee. Sejal fidgeted for a couple of seconds adjusting the pearls in her ears. It was the only way she could stop herself from pushing Anamika into a conversation.
"This," Anamika looked down at her powder blue shirt and blinked, "is a birthday gift from Rishabh. He still remembers I like powder blue."
"Uhuh," Sejal nodded. "That's bull shit!"
"Sorry?"
"You used to like powder blue Ann. Like Ten years ago! Your fav color now is purple! The whole world knows that!" Sejal sat back and grinned plastically at Anamika.
"And I used to think Rishabh and I would remain best friends for life," Anamika rested her elbows on the table and leaned on them. She squinted once again at the glass panes, "Like ten years ago? I really believed that Rishabh would remain my best friend forever."
"That sounds like high school talk Ann and you know that," Sejal reasoned. "It sounds like a girl who dreams of a prince charming on a white horse with a happily ever after. You are not that girl, anymore! You have grown up! And grown ups understand the concept of change. Everybody changes. Some a little more than others. It happens all the while!"
"Yeah yeah I know. I changed. I like purple instead of blue. He changed. He likes brown instead of black. But see?" Anamika leaned a little more towards Sejal. "I know he changed. I am aware he changed. I know what he has changed into. I accept it. But he still thinks I am the Ann he married seven years ago."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means I still get powder blue gifts on birthdays, it means that he does not know I'd rather eat subway instead of chinese, that I like baking over cooking and that somewhere it hurts so bad that he has no time to notice this change!" A tiny tear slipped right down her cheek this time. She fumbled in her purse and pulled out a tissue. "Ten years ago, I fell in love with a stranger who became my best friend," she sniffed, "ten years later my best friend is an almost stranger."
Anamika smiled and shook her head at her best friends theatrics. "Its called powder blue by the way," she informed Sejal. In response Sejal threw her elegant neck back in a scoff. Anamika absently stirred her coffee, as she watched Sejal go through the routine of folding her expensive snake skin jacket across the back of her chair. Her Burberry bag was given a seat of its own at their table. She rolled back the sleeves of her white silk top and pulled a menu towards her.
Leaving her friend to do a critical appraisal of what was on offer at the newly opened café, she turned to stare out of the glass panes that shielded the café from the rest of the city. Her eyes roamed over the array of colors over restless feet. Each a stranger to the one less than a foot away. An occasional step out of sync made the strangers either smile at each other, or frown their disdain. Either way, it was a discord which made them acknowledge the presence of another human being.
"It used to be my favorite color you know," she said suddenly, startling Sejal out of the menu. "Back when Rishabh and I were dating; powder blue used to be my favorite color," she smiled. Tears gathered at the corner of her eyes and she forced her smile wider in an attempt to cover them up.
The steward chose that moment to collect their orders. Sejal hastily ordered a hazelnut latte and diet sandwich. Anamika continued to stir her coffee. Sejal fidgeted for a couple of seconds adjusting the pearls in her ears. It was the only way she could stop herself from pushing Anamika into a conversation.
"This," Anamika looked down at her powder blue shirt and blinked, "is a birthday gift from Rishabh. He still remembers I like powder blue."
"Uhuh," Sejal nodded. "That's bull shit!"
"Sorry?"
"You used to like powder blue Ann. Like Ten years ago! Your fav color now is purple! The whole world knows that!" Sejal sat back and grinned plastically at Anamika.
"And I used to think Rishabh and I would remain best friends for life," Anamika rested her elbows on the table and leaned on them. She squinted once again at the glass panes, "Like ten years ago? I really believed that Rishabh would remain my best friend forever."
"That sounds like high school talk Ann and you know that," Sejal reasoned. "It sounds like a girl who dreams of a prince charming on a white horse with a happily ever after. You are not that girl, anymore! You have grown up! And grown ups understand the concept of change. Everybody changes. Some a little more than others. It happens all the while!"
"Yeah yeah I know. I changed. I like purple instead of blue. He changed. He likes brown instead of black. But see?" Anamika leaned a little more towards Sejal. "I know he changed. I am aware he changed. I know what he has changed into. I accept it. But he still thinks I am the Ann he married seven years ago."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means I still get powder blue gifts on birthdays, it means that he does not know I'd rather eat subway instead of chinese, that I like baking over cooking and that somewhere it hurts so bad that he has no time to notice this change!" A tiny tear slipped right down her cheek this time. She fumbled in her purse and pulled out a tissue. "Ten years ago, I fell in love with a stranger who became my best friend," she sniffed, "ten years later my best friend is an almost stranger."
April 26, 2011
Goodbye
Tears shivered on the brink of her reddened eyes. Unable to stay back, afraid of falling over the edge. A cowardly tear, unable to bear the pain, tumbled down the corner. It traveled all the way to her lip, leaving a shimmering path in its wake. It trembled momentarily, uncertain once again and then plunged down her lip.
She brushed an impatient hand against her lips. The ring on her finger bruising their swollen gentleness. She sniffed and cleared her throat. She took two steps backwards, increasing the distance between him and her. Her stone studded stilettos clicked softly but firmly on the spotless white tiles. The click a whisper of an echo in the stillness which surrounded her.
She watched him, as he threw his head back and laughed. The sunlight caught in his soft brown hair and made it look rustier than usual. She would remember him this way. She promised herself she would. For her, he would always laugh.
She tugged the red scarf free off her neck. For a moment she rubbed the satin smoothness between her fingers. She wondered if he remembered the scarf. It was not the only red thing they shared. One a rainy day, years ago, she had lovingly tied it around his neck. The red a perfect compliment to his fair skin.
The tears sprung again. And this time they did not hesitate. A drop landed on the scarf in her hand, darkening the shade of that spot to a much deeper red. Another tear soon followed. She looked away, blinking fast, as if that could stop the years of yearning. The tears had another plan in mind.
She crumpled to the floor unable to bear their torturous onslaught. The red scarf clutched tightly in a grip. It matched everything around it – the white tiles, her simple black dress, the pale hand it was clutched in. After a couple of moments she got to her feet. She tied the red scarf around the handle of the window. She watched for a moment longer as the glass between them muted his movements to her.
He looked happy.
"Goodbye, son" She whispered, uncaring that her farewell went unheard. She spun on her heels and headed out of the door.
She leaned for a moment against the door of her car and closed her eyes. Yes, he was laughing. For her, he would always laugh. She opened the door of the car and slid inside. She would always be able to picture him in the blink of an eye.
Always.
So how was it possible that she would never see him again?
She brushed an impatient hand against her lips. The ring on her finger bruising their swollen gentleness. She sniffed and cleared her throat. She took two steps backwards, increasing the distance between him and her. Her stone studded stilettos clicked softly but firmly on the spotless white tiles. The click a whisper of an echo in the stillness which surrounded her.
She watched him, as he threw his head back and laughed. The sunlight caught in his soft brown hair and made it look rustier than usual. She would remember him this way. She promised herself she would. For her, he would always laugh.
She tugged the red scarf free off her neck. For a moment she rubbed the satin smoothness between her fingers. She wondered if he remembered the scarf. It was not the only red thing they shared. One a rainy day, years ago, she had lovingly tied it around his neck. The red a perfect compliment to his fair skin.
The tears sprung again. And this time they did not hesitate. A drop landed on the scarf in her hand, darkening the shade of that spot to a much deeper red. Another tear soon followed. She looked away, blinking fast, as if that could stop the years of yearning. The tears had another plan in mind.
She crumpled to the floor unable to bear their torturous onslaught. The red scarf clutched tightly in a grip. It matched everything around it – the white tiles, her simple black dress, the pale hand it was clutched in. After a couple of moments she got to her feet. She tied the red scarf around the handle of the window. She watched for a moment longer as the glass between them muted his movements to her.
He looked happy.
"Goodbye, son" She whispered, uncaring that her farewell went unheard. She spun on her heels and headed out of the door.
She leaned for a moment against the door of her car and closed her eyes. Yes, he was laughing. For her, he would always laugh. She opened the door of the car and slid inside. She would always be able to picture him in the blink of an eye.
Always.
So how was it possible that she would never see him again?
March 16, 2011
Stuck
Love? An over rated four letter world which drives men up the wall with women chasing them to the high ceilings. There is nothing fantastic about love. No major mystery which science cannot solve. Attraction is easily explained by chemistry. Intoxication could not be better defined than the Jack Daniels burning down his throat this very moment. Jack Daniels could in seconds strip love to its barest existence, which was in end effect no existence at all. Then why was he sparing so much thought berating the non-existent entity?
Black curls. Damn those black curls! It was those black curls which got him thinking of love. Soft, as if the clouds had abandoned the skies and surrendered to the temptation of framing her face with darkness. Lush like they had parted from the bosom of a turbulent sea. It was those damned curls which tempted him to go back to her. Those curls and those heart shaped lips. Just thinking of the way her full upper lip slightly over shadowed the line of pink below it made him want to kiss her. Again.
Her caramel eyes would widen, first with shock and then with pleasure. They would change to a darker brown as shades of desire rained down upon them. Thick black lashes would slowly curtain them from his view as she drowned in the temptation he created. He so desperately wanted to kiss her again. He sloshed some more whiskey in his glass and downed it one gulp. It did nothing to aid the searing fire building within him.
He walked briskly to the window. Outside the city lay scattered, its crazy lights blinking in a futile effort to draw the attention away from the madness of its existence. A lot like love, he thought. Scattered, with no idea of where to go or how to go, blinded by momentary flashes of that which could never last. He rested his palm on the cool glass pane. Vapors outlined the contours of his thick strong fingers.
He remembered the way they looked against her skin. Brown streaks of harsh strong passion blemishing the cream of her vanilla skin. She shivered at his touch. Not from fright, but from the joy of anticipation. Her skin was smooth, the kinds you wanted to touch forever. He pulled his hand away from the glass. The way he was thinking about her one would think she was the first woman he had ever been with.
In many ways she was. No other woman had made him feel like this. No other woman had generated any emotion in him whatsoever. They had been willing means to an end. The biology of the human existence making some moments of life a little more bearable than the rest. She defied science. Science would set a throbbing between his legs, she made his heart thud in his ears.
Was he in love? He reached for the almost empty Jack Daniels and poured it out in his glass. The answer to that question could mean the beginning of an end.
Black curls. Damn those black curls! It was those black curls which got him thinking of love. Soft, as if the clouds had abandoned the skies and surrendered to the temptation of framing her face with darkness. Lush like they had parted from the bosom of a turbulent sea. It was those damned curls which tempted him to go back to her. Those curls and those heart shaped lips. Just thinking of the way her full upper lip slightly over shadowed the line of pink below it made him want to kiss her. Again.
Her caramel eyes would widen, first with shock and then with pleasure. They would change to a darker brown as shades of desire rained down upon them. Thick black lashes would slowly curtain them from his view as she drowned in the temptation he created. He so desperately wanted to kiss her again. He sloshed some more whiskey in his glass and downed it one gulp. It did nothing to aid the searing fire building within him.
He walked briskly to the window. Outside the city lay scattered, its crazy lights blinking in a futile effort to draw the attention away from the madness of its existence. A lot like love, he thought. Scattered, with no idea of where to go or how to go, blinded by momentary flashes of that which could never last. He rested his palm on the cool glass pane. Vapors outlined the contours of his thick strong fingers.
He remembered the way they looked against her skin. Brown streaks of harsh strong passion blemishing the cream of her vanilla skin. She shivered at his touch. Not from fright, but from the joy of anticipation. Her skin was smooth, the kinds you wanted to touch forever. He pulled his hand away from the glass. The way he was thinking about her one would think she was the first woman he had ever been with.
In many ways she was. No other woman had made him feel like this. No other woman had generated any emotion in him whatsoever. They had been willing means to an end. The biology of the human existence making some moments of life a little more bearable than the rest. She defied science. Science would set a throbbing between his legs, she made his heart thud in his ears.
Was he in love? He reached for the almost empty Jack Daniels and poured it out in his glass. The answer to that question could mean the beginning of an end.
