It’s a quarter away from seven and the skies are whispering rain. We’re on a patch of green that almost caresses my bare feet as we walk along aimlessly to a spot empty enough to huddle five. You can feel the wind brush your hair away with the taste of thunder on its tongue.
It’s a quarter to six and you can see the winter nudging your sleeves as the wind picks up. You can see the pavements light up with their enlarged fairy lights and a lazy rush flood in. I glance at my ten year old watch as the signal still speaks red. Ten minutes to six. It’s an odd hour to hear Kishore on the stereo but I’m the last to complain. That’s if you ask me to at gunpoint. The road starts to clear and Kishore and I make our way back to the house by the time the clock strikes six. I’ve walked up to the front door but I can’t seem to look at it with its carved roses and clear glass that bends the light in the most magical way. I can hear the blood gushing through my ears ferociously as though it pumps right there. I place my left palm on the door, letting my skin recognize warmth on its cold surface. There isn’t any noise in this part of the city. You have the silence and the waves to keep you company. And my uneven breaths.
I’ve been staring at the canvas with the steak of red and brown for the last fifteen minutes. The limelight wraps it in an air of importance I’m unable to give it. It’s the maze that traps me at lunch and, again at midnight when I’ve fluffed the pillow thrice, or anytime between, before or after.
To my dearest,
How are you?
Well, I hope?
Time is a funny thing, isn’t it? A language of its own; an emotion without boundaries. Somehow, they’re not just a part of you but, they make us too. And yet, we can’t have time ever… Have you ever wanted to catch time and hold on to it for just a bit more time? Like catching a butterfly on a summer afternoon?
Alas. Time is something that’s always there yet never ours.
Say, remember that impromptu drive to the mountains? Remember how the twilight wrapped us in an infinity as the sun set?
“Life always gives us moments. One, two, three… infinite, really. Life’s a box of moments. Life’s a box of infinities.”
Some stories take a lifetime to complete
Some, a breath.
Some stories leave your heart all warm and floating
Some, leave you with an ache that fills you with hollowness from within.
Some stories are made to happen
Some, just happen.
They say that to be in love is as good as being in heaven. The most beautiful feeling ever. Making someone your life. Smiling away in their happiness despite your despair; your sorrow. To bring a smile on their face. To make them forget their tensions. Their grieves. To give them those few endless moments of extreme happiness. Is to be in love. When you become all dramatic and conclude to say that your heart is no longer yours, it’s been handed over to someone else. Like a gift neatly wrapped to be kept. To be taken care. To be loved. Forever and after.
Some say love is all about gifts. Expensive ones. Dates in fancy restaurants. Extravagant surprises. The more the merrier?