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.
Driving in the rain.
Our song on the unsympathetic radio.
700 miles between us.
And I am expected to stay sane…
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.
It scared her that insanity may go out of fashion one day. She was surrounded by mundane. Mundane made her cringe. It scared her, made her anxious. She craved madness. But honestly, I don’t think the world had what it took to embrace that kind insanity.
Despite everything, some things hadn’t changed; like the way he could still make her laugh on her worst days.
There was a slight difference in the way he handled queries about their relationship compared to how she did it. Slight difference, mind you.
Her: I love him. He loves me. Period.
Him: We are “good friends”. Period.
She wasn’t a slave to the world’s perception about them; she made herself vulnerable and wasn’t ashamed of what they had. It is, indeed, a pity that he would never experience that kind of madness.
Sadly, in the end, the fake worldly honor mattered much more.
And then the realisation dawned on her… He indeed made her tremble with the sweet pain of pleasure, every time. He made her experience pleasures she never thought she was capable of feeling. But in the end, he was just a chapter in her book that was fast coming to a close… A chapter, a lesson, a memory and an experience. An experience she unabashedly reveled in, an experience that made her aware of a side she never knew existed, an experience that left her with a lot of anticipation for the coming chapters… and that is one thing she was grateful to him for… probably, the only thing.