When you look back, things seem to have just whirred past you. In a moment. Fraction of a moment. I'm almost 36 now. Still struggling. With my breathing patterns. With life. With dreams. With the past. With you (more of that later). The physical strength is not quite the same. Imagination has become a drudgery.
I think adolescence is over.
Standing on a pensive highway
Watching cars, trucks and what have you
Speed away in turbulent glory
Leaving behind an exhilarating trail of fumes
I was reminded of a not so distant freckled past.
(I)
It rained all summer that year.
Why?
I needed an answer;I got none.
(II)
I saw my Gods,Frail.Hungry.Powerless.Naked.Copulating.
(III)
A sealed envelope received in childhood
Was opened in adolescence.
It brought me one step closer to death.
(IV)
I got my life's metaphor
From the pressure cooker
Singing its ballad in the kitchen.
(V)
Running away from home (I thought I was Siddharta reborn)
Doing the death-walk on the ramp (a la Shelley)
More than compensated for losing in love.
(VI)
My soul was my dungeon
And I was a political prisoner there
A dreary six-year term
Spruced a bit by reading life's choicest books
Standing on a pensive highway
Watching cars, trucks and what have you
Speed away in turbulent glory
I just about held my head low
At the loss of fire in my belly.
I loved literature. Literature acknowledged my passion. But we never got together in a frenzy of love and passion.That sort of explains my relationship with you. Another point:My relationship with you pushed me harder towards literary climes. Let me elaborate. After you went away, I groped and moped till I found a true anchor in literature. But as things stand today, as with you, literature has merely acknowledged me, never really accepted me. Why am I writing all this? I don't know. After you vanished, I kept looking for you. Seriously. I was confident that we would meet again, that I would see you again. The pain was adamant and the desire to see you again was feverish. And then it happened. I saw you moving towards me one evening at India Habitat Centre. The evening went past in a blur. And then I disappeared.
You traced me again. And we chat almost everyday. Cordial. Polite. Normal at times. I haven't really gotten over you. But what do I want from you this time? Friendship? Comapnionship?Love? But did I ever love you? I do not know. Or was my torment the twisted imagination of a shattered ego? Whatever. The desire to talk to you, to meet you, to touch you, is even now as great as the urge to compose a few lines or write a new play. Somewhere my mind has got confused between you and what I write. It won't be erroneous to state that whenever I write I do think of you. You remain my core. My muse. If I hadn't written this, I probably woudln't have realized the depth of my longing. I'm married. So are you. Yet the yearning. As someone rightly wrote: "Sirf ehsas hai, rooh se mehsoos karo." But I admit, I'm not idealistic. I'm mortal. I crave, I hanker, I despair. I'm almost 36 now. Still struggling. With my breathing patterns. With life. With dreams. With the past. With you.
