Tag Archives: Moving on

Parenthesis

19 Aug

How do thoughts travel? From a lifetime of memories that make me feel like I am being forced into a matchbox to trivialities to making me soar across the endless vista of clear skies towards a thousand wishes and dreams…

2011. The world dissolved around me and I thought I could get it whole again by sheer force of will. I went through the motions. What is the appropriate behaviour when you are offered condolences? I still don’t know. I looked at the sea of people and wondered what is that they see on my face. People I haven’t seen or known of. I envied our cat crawling under the bed. I recall not being able to cry. I wanted to do something to replace the strange vacuum I was cocooned in. Bits and pieces come to me about the week that passed. I walk around in a daze. I find shirts and other knickknacks. They still smell of him. Of comfort, filter coffee and incense.

***

2012. Not seeing him around is confusing. I keep thinking he is bathing or lying down. I am able to look at things he loved and while my throat clogs up, I think I am getting better at not being a wreck. There is a strange sense of deja-vu as I see people I saw last year. Some laughter tinged with tears, lots of memories and plenty of photo albums. I find myself talking to him and writing letters. I am clearing things up and I find an unopened bottle of his shaving cream. I look at his stamps, his books. Those accounts he kept of what and how much was spent where. There are random scribbles of his. As I look at the familiar scrawl the knot loosens a little.

***

2013. I am in a new place. New faces. A few idiots. I remember being angry with him for leaving. I am writing a letter to a friend. We go for a drive in the evening and there is a tense cold silence, shifting and moving. Suddenly we are near a small school and I talk while the dashboard is being subject to a stony glare and swear words. Suddenly my eyes are being shielded from the fierce glare of headlights with a palm. The heat coming off is gentle, like the fire warming your house. I smell his soap, the chocolate we shared and air freshener. Throughout the walk back home and after reaching I feel my heart galloping and I wonder if they can see in my eyes.. How my world faded away …

***

2014. This year has been awful so far. I think about how events would have played out if he were still alive. I wonder if the vacant expression on her face will vanish if he comes back, just for a moment… Or has she forgotten him too? I think about that moment when a fairy tale came to life and I wonder if I dreamed it up. I wait for the cold to dissipate and for the blood to start flowing again. I remember feeling guilty that I was feeling this .. this giddy… happy on the same date I lost someone. I am seeing with fresh eyes and yet I am longing for familiarity. I wish I didn’t have to write letters or talk alone as I try to bridge a distance that is insurmountable. I remember hearing that he was glad that the date wasn’t one of only loss anymore…

***

2015. I am wondering about DNA. Life. The entire day goes by and I remember rather late what the date is. Existential crises continue to swirl in my head when I look at the mirror and see that people who have gone, aren’t as gone as we think. That maybe their legacy will live on vicariously in you, even if they aren’t around anymore. That sharing their memories is how keep them alive. And I realize that even though it has been four years since I spoke to him I remember the finer details. Like him leaving paste over my brush after he brushed. The bottles of cold water. Groundnut candy. An anthology. I ask him why he left, swiping at stray, traitorous tears absent-mindedly. Amidst all this there are snatches of normalcy. Me being a fool in love.

***

2016. Now, it’s been five years. I thought I would never be able to get over the grief. And yet, here I am. I miss you terribly and I know it’s something that I will always carry around. As I am typing this, my eyes go to the clock as it ticks closer to the end of three years… I am opening random apps on my phone and grimacing at my impatience. Loss is a funny thing, isn’t it? You think you will never be able to get over something or someone who was so deeply entwined into your life. And yet, it morphs and it gets easier to breathe with time. Like a battle scar. Love is confusing. With each passing day, you are less sure of how to define it. Comes along when you least expect it, shakes everything up and leaves behind a flavour you will never be completely free of. Then again, do you want to be?

***

© My Rickety Typewriter, 2016; Vintage Ink.
No part of the text – partial or complete – may be copied/ reproduced or transmitted without prior permission from the author. The content is the intellectual property of the author. The above applies no matter what way the access to the blog was granted.

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Kintsukuroi

15 Aug

 To seven years of friendship and counting. 
Happy birthday.

*

“‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” —Alfred Lord Tennyson

***

You asked me to write about it..
Oh darling! How I tried
If only it were so simple to scribe
As it were to fly..

How do I map lands that change,
Each time I set sail?
How do I tell you where the water flows,
When I am lost in the view?
As far as the sun’s reach,
As deep as your soul.

To feel nature’s serenade,
To want to enter his blood,
And become a raging fever.
The moon revels in her power,
For she is the Luna to his Alpha
White, distant and light years ahead,
She makes the tides turn.

You think you can shape it, love.
But, if you have tasted the madness,
You will know you are but clay.

Don’t go after it, darling..
It leads you a merry chase..
No rudder true enough,
No boat strong enough.

Let it find you..
When it blooms by itself.
It will stay with you
Till death and beyond..
If you reached for it,
And it was poison,
Leave.. But, darling,
Don’t lose hope.

With all I am,
With everything I yearn for,
I believe..
Believe, darling, for no archer
Struck bulls eye
In his first few attempts..

The journey is more your story
Than your time with her..

 © My Rickety Typewriter, 2014; Vintage Ink.
No part of the text – partial or complete – may be copied/ reproduced or transmitted without prior permission from the author. The content is the intellectual property of the author. The above applies no matter what way the access to the blog was granted.

End of the rainbow

18 Dec

I fancy that I am getting over you.
Some days, when I feel particularly strong,
I think I am over you.
Till a stranger passes by,
And a whiff of their perfume lingers.
I take a deep lungful,
Despite fighting the urge not to.
But when has any part of me listened,
when you were involved?

Your obstinacy has rubbed off,
As I realize that,
Nothing of me is mine anymore.
Not my heart, not my mind,
Not even my senses.
And suddenly that small whiff,
Destroys the false hopes I have nurtured,
The foolish attempts I have made.

The eight inches between the head and heart,
Seem like light years away.
And the memories come rushing back,
A force stronger than me.
Your smile when you see me,
Your words, your eyes,
How you used to say,
You would take me away,
Your eyes in contrast with that smile.
Telling me more than your words ever could.
Making me want to wish it into existence.

The thing that all the writers write about,
You made me see it through you.
More than you, more than me,
But somehow not enough?
Because if it were wouldn’t we be one?
And so I fancy that I am getting over you.
Some days, when I feel particularly strong,
I think I am over you..

But for now, I am hung over.
As I remember things I thought were long forgotten,
And now I see,
They were like a placid lake.
Your absence, my anguish,
The biggest pebble,
Creating endless ripples.

And so, I wonder,
Were you just a passing fancy,
Or were you the last of them all?

Shoulder to cry on

© My Rickety Typewriter, 2014; Vintage Ink.
No part of the text – partial or complete – may be copied/ reproduced or transmitted without prior permission from the author. The content is the intellectual property of the author. The above applies no matter what way the access to the blog was granted.

Void

1 Jun

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That void, it never goes away.
The ghost of their presence, always around.
When you are happy or sad and turn to find them it’s only then you realize they are gone.
You go around like you are okay, but you wonder what would they say or do if they could see you now.

Would they smile and run their hand over your head?
Would they laugh and tell that they are right here?
Or would they allow you to hug them and cry.

You can’t even cry now, can you? Because it’s been so long, people have expected you to have moved on.
But you don’t know how.
You don’t know if you should cry because somewhere inside, you are glad they are free from pain and are away from this darkness.

If only you would come back, but for a moment ..
If only you would come back, I would tell how much I love you and always will.
If only you would come back, I would show you how grateful I am for having been in your life.
If only you would come back, I would tell the world how much you mean to me.
If only you would come back, I would hug you and never let go.
If only you would come back, I would fight the world for you, for without you, where is my world?

If only..

For all the times you have made me smile.
For all the times you have wiped my tears.
For all the times you have pulled the blanket over me.
For all the times I have eaten off your plate.
For all the times I have hugged you.
For all the times you have told me it will be alright.
For all the fights we have had.
For all the times you took care of me.
For all the times you told me you will always be there.

Sometimes people tell me this kind of intensity will only burn me down.
Be more mellow, they tell me.
But they didn’t know you, did they?
Why aren’t you crying they asked me the very day you left.
What could I tell?

That I could still sense you?
That I was always ensconced in your warmth, safely?
That I couldn’t believe you were gone?
I will make you proud, I promise.

P.S. This is because of you, Kruthika Maheswar.

Reading that poem of yours made me cry my eyes out.

P.P.S- I don’t know why I posted this. Be gentle, please.

© My Rickety Typewriter, 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Vintage Ink and My Rickety Typewriter with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. The content is the intellectual property of the author. The above applies no matter what way the access to the blog was granted.

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