Amongst a host of things that leave me baffled about relationships is the bitter urge to destroy an ex-lover; that is one emotion I will never understand. You have known each other in the most uncompromised way… You have shared with each other the most intimate of feelings… How can all that be forgotten in a flash? I understand the emotions of grief, disappointment, anxiety and pain; but the emotion of hatred… I will never understand. Why can’t you be happy that you were fortunate enough to experience something so ethereal? Why can’t it be left behind as a beautiful chapter in the book of your life? Why would you ever want to ruin something you loved so dearly? Why?
In another failed attempt to get control over her turbulent mind, she kept repeating in her head, “I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.”
Her heart pitied her and reasoned, “It’s okay. Breathe. You love him, and it is okay.”
There is a mad intensity in the way I am reading these days. I always was a reader, but I have now become a manic reader. I want to know all about the authors, what they were going through when they wrote a particular book (particularly the ones that had unapologetically non-conforming protagonists) and more. From Rumi to Dostoyevsky, Proust to Kafka, Nietzsche to Haruki Murakami… I am going insane. There is so much to read (and so little time)! Words have become my fuel and I can’t survive without them. Amid all this, I bumped into this beautiful piece (a fusion of humour and truth) from the man I have loved since I heard him sing Husna on Coke Studio – ?#?PiyushMishra?, the born rebel. Watch it for yourself.
“Woh kaam bhala kya kaam hua jo maza nahi de whisky ka, wo ishq bhala kya ishq hua jisme na mauka siski ka.” ;)
“I have never seen you “happy drunk”. Why do you drink?” her friend questioned. She pondered over the question and responded with a teary-eyed smile. No words. If only it was that simple to quiet the stubborn tormenting voice in her head asking her the same question over and over again, she thought… Then she thought some more and tried to come up with an answer. Yes, she liked being liquored up every once in a while… maybe because it guaranteed bringing to the fore all the pain she managed to bottle up in her sober state… maybe because she enjoyed not being in control every once in while… maybe because she relished the pain that missing him brought her every once in while… maybe because her drunk self reveled in the knowledge that she still was madly in love with him despite the constant denial by her sane self… “Aah, too many maybes to deal with,” she told herself and blasted music to stop this chatter in her head. Indeed, there were too many maybes.
I keep getting comments, e-mails, WhatApp messages and more from people who connect with what I write. Many hold themselves back from commenting on public forum out of fear of being reprimanded for being too bold. One such person decided to inbox me today. There is a reason why I am sharing this, but we will get to that in a bit. Here is an excerpt from the e-mail (I have decided to share only a part of it for a reason.).
“How are you doing this? I have been following you for quite a while. It is like you are writing my story. Every post. How can it be? This is who I am. … Thanks for confirming there are others like me. Thanks for saying it out to the world what I want to tell everyone around me. You are my escape. … Please write more often. You have a gift of knowing how to hold a pen with audacity.”
First things first. I am humbled and touched beyond words. Thanks for writing in. You made my day. I never started writing with a goal; it was and still is my way to get away from the compulsion of incessant thinking. Like you, words are my escape too.
I never thought of my blog as some bold platform to write what comes to my mind, but I now do realise that is how it is being perceived. I know why you would call me audacious. I have received quite a few curious mails asking me if this blog is my story, a friend’s story or a work of fiction. Some decided it is their story. Some decided it is my story. Some decided I am twisted. Some read, got curious, bitched and gossiped to a level that was beyond my mind’s ability to comprehend. A few others are still trying to pschoanalyse me through those words.
I just have one answer for those not-so-happy readers, “The line between fact and fiction is blurred. And good luck figuring out what’s what. Please let me know when you reach a conclusion. Meanwhile, thanks for following my blog with such dedication. All the reading, analysing, judging, bitching and gossiping means more publicity… Bring it on, people!”
And for my happy readers, I don’t see why you would not comment publicly. I would love it if you do. Perception is the stupidest thing to be worried about. So let go and just be!
Words are magic. Write what you feel like writing… Shout, be brave, cry, bleed it all out… just WRITE. Let the words shatter you. Let the words heal you.
In her bid to escape the mundane, she had reached a beautiful quaint town on an unnoticed Greek island. As she was sauntering around the charming little town, soaking in the beauty and peace of it all, she stopped outside a cafe noticing a pair of sad eyes of a woman staring at her from a painting; she could not help but stare back. “Do you like the painting?” a husky voice asked her breaking her concentration. She turned around to put a face to the voice and found a man in rugged light blue jeans and casual white shirt standing next to the pots of brushes and an easel. She responded with a question as she realised he was the artist who created this piece of stirring emotion, “Why are her eyes so sad?” The painter studied the inquisitor’s dewy eyes for a brief moment and then looked at his painting. After a few seconds of contemplation he demanded, “Why don’t you tell me?”
That’s the thing about art and artists, she thought. A piece of art only assures you that you are not alone in your wretchedness. It is always about your interpretation, your pain. It is always about why you feel a connection with it. Be it music, words, paintings, photographs or any other art form. The fact that she could sense the pain of the woman in the painting was only a reflection of her own misery.
She gave a knowing smile to the cute brown-eyed painter, decided not to answer this time and turned to leave.
After a few steps she paused, looked back, winked at him and said, “Efharisto.” This time he gave her a reassuring smile.