Letters to Anita : Letter 4

           Rain lapped at the cheeks but the shadowy figure continued to brisk down the street.  The sharp-edged moon is long gone and dreams can wait for a while. Puddles danced in sinewy strides. Tucked under the arm was a semblance of hope.

            A single street light fought the darkness in lynching rain as winds whistled in pain. A silhouette began to appear.  The other end of the street couldn’t be seen at all. An old tune hummed between the lips. Razor like blades were cutting through the body. Wobbly legs carried the dark figure. At the catacomb of its mind, thoughts were running wild. In its heart was a strange desire. As always. But the reality is far from wishes of a whimsical mind.

            As the figure reached the end of the street, a ghost like house stood in front of it. Tucked arm revealed a trembling hand with an envelope. A little red letter box creaked in dismay. Red paint was peeling off its body. But this time it was not a quick delivery. For a moment the eyes were transfixed on a neatly sealed envelope inside the box. It was for the deliverer.  It quickly picked up the envelope and replaced it with its own.  

            A single street light fought the darkness in lynching rain as winds whistled in pain. A silhouette began to disappear.  Too many thoughts crossed its mind. Somewhere there was a hope. The creaking letter box woken up a pair of soggy eyes. It peered through the sheet of rain and saw the figure. It was nothing unusual. It does not even bark herald anymore.

Letters to Anita : Letter 3

Dear Anita,

I stood there at the end of the street looking down to the emptiness. Strange sounds of night hurt my ears.  Stray dogs heralded my presence with pity in their eyes.  A waning moon casted a long shadow on the ever dark streets. As I looked up to the stars in the sky, all I could see the sharp edges of a lazy moon. I began my walk to the end of darkness. I hummed the song you sung to me. My words fumbled and my legs wobbled. But I kept on walking.

            At the stroke of dawn I reached home and birds chirped to greet my untimely arrival. But it was not my home. My home was in your heart. Your name is etched on my stone heart with softness of your smile. Often I juxtaposed myself in believing that I don’t love you. My mind says to move on. But my heart tells me to stay on. My heart is at war with my mind. But at the end it’s my heart that wins. It is because it’s not my heart at all. It’s your heart that beats in me. I have only taken care of it all these years. But now people tell me that I am heartless because you have taken it away.

            Etched in forlornness is the sketch of my day dreams. Happiness has emptied itself at your feet to beg mercy for peace. But that is as far it reaches. Though the heavens have opened it up to bring rain and peace to a parched earth; I still walk down that street with rain as a guise. It helps me to hide the tears.

            I still walk down that street where your home is. I do not need rain anymore. My heart still cries but, my parched eyes have nothing to offer my cheeks. It has dried up. Only the tears of sadness as rain will bring it comfort. I will wait for that rain.

Yours Always.

P.S. – I still walk down that street where your home is. I still love your home.

Letters to Anita : Letter 2

Dear Anita,

I still stare at the river. My friend tells me that it will take time but it will help. No. It does not. My mind has become hollow now. The hollow emptiness cocoons me from the rest of the universe. The sounds of silence are deafening. And, when sprays of rain open up little boxes of memories, streams of tears make lines on my cheeks. But no one can see them. They are hidden by rain. But the drops of water when reaches my lips, they are still salty.

You are like the old tune in radio which makes one nostalgic. Sometimes I wish you were a song, so that I could learn it by heart and hum it all day. That old tune you hummed when we were together. At the lap of a tree and on a carpet of grass; with my head on your lap, you lullabied your love to me. Last night I went to the same place. Now the tree seems like a grotesque monster ready to devour me with dark boughs. And the blades of grasses tear my thoughts into million pieces.

I was drunk that day. I was so drunk that I could count minutes between the seconds. When I stared at my watch it was ironically midnight. And a balmy zephyr was caressing me. As if your fingers were running through the contours of my face.  Then I realized how drunk I was in your love. The night was dark and I stood alone at the end of a street. It had no lights and it ran into darkness. I couldn’t see the other end at all.

I still cannot see it.

Yours Always.

P.S. – Wrapped a gift for you last time. Hope you liked it.

Letters to Anita : Letter 1

Dear Anita,

I tried to call you a couple of times yesterday. You did not pick up. It’s alright dear. You don’t have to say anything but just let me write this letter to you once in a while, because this is my salvation.

            I happen to go to the Gurdwara tea stall at the crossing of Elgin road today for a while. It felt strange to drink tea alone without you. Nothing has changed over there but yes a lot has changed from my side. The sweetness in the tea seemed to be less. Then I realized it’s your smile and laughter that was missing. It’s just that the emptiness sometimes kills me. I try to fill it up with your thoughts.

            I stand at Prinsep ghat and look into oblivion. The river flows and damn it does not stop for me to say hello. I never noticed before how it flows nonchalantly. I never got chance for your eyes never allowed me to do so. I stand by its side. I watch it for hours and try to gain strength from it. It goes on flowing no matter what might be the situation. I expect it to fill my soul with its nonchalance. It does not help.

Yours Always.

P.S. – Please reply.

Paper Boats

Life was a lot better in simpler times; when we were children. Our wants and outlook towards life was a lot simpler. The cradle of life went on rocking by hands of time and we grew up to be wiser, essentially. No matter how strange or obtuse it seems. I live in a place where I have grown up. So I have seen the changes a town or city metamorphose over all these years. Same are the roads, same corners and sometimes the same shop which stood the test of time. I never pay attention to how ferociously time has or is passing by. But sometimes, when I find some time for myself, a lazy Sunday evening with music rolling, playing some old songs which I have heard in my growing years, I happen to ponder back. Time actually slows down. And all those memories buried deep inside my mind crawls up to the surface.

As if just yesterday, I remember, it was customary for my dad to take me to the ‘bazar’ every Sunday. I learnt to recognize the fish, the meat, the bread, the milk and many other things. The infusion of various sights, smells and sounds still lingers fresh on my mind.  That was since at a very young age.  My dad held my hand and traversed the busy ‘bazar’. Intrigued and mesmerized by all that happened around me. I always looked forward to those Sundays because I knew after the busy ‘bazar’ lessons, I would get some toy from a local shop. Those kinds of Sundays are not there anymore, neither is dad. The milkman is still there but the ‘bazar’ itself has changed a lot and the toy shop is not there anymore.

First day of school! Suddenly listening to a different language and praying to another unknown God. I often wondered how I or any other child understood the language from first day itself. I started praying to a different God and they told me it was not something different. He was just another of God. Missionary Catholic schools have their own charms. Those who have not been to one will always find the strict rules and disciplines a bit too much. But trust me, it’s not that much different from any other types. It’s just a tad disciplined. You meet and make new friends and suddenly you find someone of your same size to share your thoughts and opinion on what’s happening in and around your small world. His pencil box is larger but you have more number of pencils. Her eraser is better but yours smell nicer.  These kinds of important things, which hardly matters to the rest of the universe, were of paramount importance. Forget pencil, I don’t even use a pen today.

As the small fingers leant to hold pencils, erasers, crayons, a whole lot of new world opened up. Where are those coloring books and drawing sheets? Or the double ruled copy books to write in cursive? The red football and a porch to play on; or my snowy dog, or the slip at the local park; they are not there anymore. When heavy rains meant just small paper boats with my name on it slowly floating to places unknown.

I had this small closet where I used to keep all my toys. It was my small world of Pandora’s box. The content of that box was mostly toy cars. So when my dad bought an attaché, it came along with a sheet of alphabet stickers to imprint one’s initials on it. When I grew up a little older and still in kindergarten, I happen to use those alphabets to form the word ‘CARS’. And I pasted it on the door of that closet. All by myself! It was quite an achievement in those simple times. That closet is not there anymore. It was with us for quite a while until few years back. It had become a tad too old. When it was broken down, it still had traces of those alphabets. That kingdom of mine is long gone.

I always loved nature and playing with mud was one of my favorite pass times. I used to dig up small holes to mimic a small pond and fill it up with water. An imaginary miniature village would come up beside it. An imaginary story line would run on my mind as if it was a different world altogether. Simple were the wants. When was the last time you played in mud?

It rained today quite heavily. As water drops trickled down the leaves of trees, I happen to ponder back to those times. Maybe, you have too. Maybe a drop or two have escaped your earnest heart through your eyes remembering those times. May be you will be nostalgic reading this once you remember your childhood. Maybe!

Today I thought about that paper boat of mine. If it could return to me, I will find it crumpled, soggy and my name all gone from its side. It is too small now to carry all the heart’s desires.  But I can bet, hidden in its small folds are the sights, smells and sounds of the garden I used to play.