Epochs Ago and Years After (Just literature no humor) ------------------------------------ I wonder if I should call her ‘ex’, for she is not past but present even in the foreseeable future. It’s her birthday. Epochs ago, when the dust of misunderstandings didn’t besmirch the lovely bench in the lakeside park, I would fill every resplendent hour of her special day, with special messages. Special not because I wrote them but because they were about her. For what paeans could you sing about the cactus in the dreary wastelands? What odes could you write about the willows in the wilderness? Yet, what letters would you pick for orchids in the bloom that wouldn’t sound mellifluous. Years after she walked away, I still wake up on the side of the bed she would fight for, hoping that a faint microcosm from her existence, floating all the while, finds me and lulls me into a trance, far-removed from the hubbub of what the remnants of my life have become. Probably, I could call her X, for she was always an enigma, always will be. I have often asked the rain splattering on my window sill about her whereabouts. For she always talked to the rain. Always. Humming half-remembered songs, off-tune. Some days from her balcony. Offering to the skies a few smiles, letting the rain drops kiss her and slide away into eternity like petals of rose gliding over enchanting muslin. At times, my mind quietens down, trying to snatch bits of her, from the breeze. At times, it quietens down because some lost moment comes back like petrichors from moist earth to remind me what it felt like, to be with someone who is capable of turning you inside out, of setting a thousand bumblebees buzzing in your head, at the same moment that you are dealing with the infinite colors of imagined butterflies that fill the imagined gardens of your imagined dreams. Life fades away gently into the background, so musings could take centre-stage, so hazy minutes of unspoken love embellished beautifully with unencumbered imaginations sing the operas of a story we let go, in beautiful cascading undertones and intonations, in crescendos of unreturned calls and abysses of buried words. It’s her birthday today and I wonder what adjectives I should summon from novels and novellas of a distant past. What words, should I pull out from brownish, aromatic parchments tattered around the edges, sulking in some unfound corner of a lost library. What lines could possibly be written, to sound like they were as much in love with you as the doves are with the wind and the gulls are with the sea, without being painted in melodrama, tainted by pangs of unnecessary eloquence. Epochs ago, when the dust of misunderstandings didn’t besmirch the lovely bench in the lakeside park, I would cajole your half-woken eyes to remind you it is just another day of being special. Years after, I wonder what lilting tunes could I possibly summon, to remind myself, about the times when my heart was still alive. Disclaimer: If you are not my ex-wife, you have probably no reason to be offended, but still, please do not get offended! - Krish Sripada
Posted on: Sat, 12 Jul 2014 11:23:06 +0000
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