Longing

A metallic purple nail lacquer shone through her nails. It could be likened to a bar of Indian chocolate with a deep purple outer cover. Gazing at her monitor, grappling for thoughts and words; vividly recollecting fresh thoughts of an afternoon that passed by, exactly a month ago. Everyday post that was intimately special. It was an afternoon of togetherness. A mild escapade into the wilderness of love. Thoughts, nay thought waves, kept gushing in the shore of the mind and brain and the damn heart. She was fully wary of the fact that she was getting nowhere and these were just some temporarily pleasing mental trips. Oh yeah she could take innumerable number of such trips. Yet the innate joy during these jaunts was something that she held tight to her bosom. Beautiful is an understatement for her features and looks. Charming and seductive perhaps would do half justice. No sashaying across the walking floor or anything. She leaps with excitement and takes humanly steps, only. Ain't this genteel kind, in fact sports calluses and burns. Easily attractive. Nevertheless her carnal love for this formless someone was intense. Clueless of the fellow women who would have fallen for the same person. Did not and does not really matter to her. A huge literary crush, that's what it was. Visibly available on all the media one could think of. This feeling could even easily pass off as a banal act of infatuation. But the more she thought of that afternoon, her love had a fortified effect, it had grown manifold. The fact that she was ignorantly innocuous about her next rendezvous was even more racy, a titillating madness. Long for, is all she could do. Loads of that, she pursued.

Serendipity

So much feels like home. A dashboard of sorts; a springboard perhaps. Something that I always turn towards. I take a detour of the city in the hunt for that ‘perfect’ lateral move that I can make. Oh my goodness, what a herculean task I say! Regardless, I don’t really care. I just want to explore the possibilities lying latent out there. I am sure I’d succeed. Now all that’s there... Heck, I need some dashboard though! Where I can bang my head on, yet not manage to get hurt in the process. Something that could be likened to a clandestine boyfriend who offers to caress my hair, giving me that tightest embrace (All this only tucked in within the emotions of some wondrous abstracts called WORDS and language). And that’s it. Back to business. No clinging on. Once written, the emotion doesn’t lurk right there and loom large; instead it lets out a cloudburst ushering some summer rain. I feel the freshness of the first rain kissing the mud. A lovely smell of union I say! This is one dashboard where I feel them all. Serendipity, my trusted springboard. Short or long, notwithstanding, writing is one damn catharsis, I can’t live without. My dear, want you next to me, with me, ALWAYS.

Heathcliff, charming

Heathcliff, of the heightened Wuthering,
You seem to be nursed by many a woman
A subplot of the Wuthering
Exists in every woman's shimmering smile
Love and its paraphernalia had remained the same even 3 centuries ago
After all, humankind, has been of the same kind
Reminding us that we've become no less human
There is a Catherine and a Heathcliff in every life
Battling life's strife.

Reticence

A vagrant yet boisterous mind, easily pulled even by the slightest insignia of change. Amateurish disposition and a countenance mostly flamboyant and impulsive, not exactly favourable for the decision-making kind. What can consume ages to be tamed; luckily required only a few months, albeit they seemed like a lifetime. No external factors involved, just subtleties being deftly handled from within. Penning, that’s one hell of a sword I say. One could poke all they wanted using this tool. Not once does it hurt. A non-harmful exercise that gives one the effect of having poked the knife into a cushion, perhaps... no matter how many times it is punched with the sharp edge of the sword, only cotton comes out! That’s the result with penning.  Tight-lippedness, that’s what we inherit in the process. Saying a lot, yet  arguably dumb: communicating only via the written word. Elevates you to a solitudinal state: pleasingly reticent. Reticence, goes on to stay as a virtue.

Eyes

Guileless eyes that told a tale
Sooth they did, many an ailment
What magic they weaved
Neither men nor the bearer knew not!
Haughty men sank in merriment
Let they did their egotist mind
Stay in the hind
And surrender before the lovely seductive pair!
Alas! The bearer of those eyes
Could not fathom how beautiful they were
Her beholders narrated
Them as ravishing magnets
They conclude: "Oh what a seductive work of creativity!"
All, though had but only one lingering interrogation:
How could the bearer hold such a charming pair in a deep socket
Without an air of arrogance in the mind's pockets?
Demure they are,
With an enduring pull,
A mass appeal,
Lulling men to a balmy indulgence
Kohl, or without,
They were just as alluring
The answers to questions remained elusive to her
For she just bore the eyes
Let the beholders do the talking!

Dusk-Time Tale

Dusk again. Time for purging. An innate sense of togetherness with the self then. Timed just right, as though strung to an alarm. Almost occupying a slot, daily. The mind dictates dusk time, purging time. Entering into a pyre, with a cleansing inferno: Disposing thoughts and actions of the day that passed by. Nothing official about it for it is all between the body and the soul. A tête-á- tête between the two over a table, perhaps. Listless until then, with endless thoughts about what she believed was a positive future in career, in the reckoning. A rather trying, predicament it was. A sojourn that she undertook each day, during dusk. She hears the tinkling of glass tumblers, drowns in the smell of some fresh, aromatic beverage. She was at the local tea shop, again. Quite a comforting acquaintance that she had developed towards the stall. Familiar smiles are exchanged with the makers of the refreshing tea. Three men going about their chores unmindful about the happenings around their eyes busily meet the incessantly boiling milk, deftly adding the appropriate ratio of dust. They exactly knew the perfect blend she preferred; not a syllable had to be uttered: Strong, brown-hued tea, with less sucrose and two butter cookies serving for a dip. Suffice it to say that this swayed her into her own world. The polluted, yet cool breeze underneath the shade of the tree that serves as a canopy for the tea shop brushes against her face. She considers this sojourn as a rather sagacious one, for it rejuvenates her from the vexatious corporate air-conditioning, giving her some beverage-for-thought. A certain conditioned air within the confines of a decade-long corporate stint. The few steps that were taken towards the stall were this rewarding, at least in terms of fresh air, although not entirely pure. The likes of country roads and lemon tree chartbusters of the past played on constantly; with the canopy and breeze serving as perfect compliments: both atmospherically and mentally. A tea-break, that was: lonesome, yet solitary- A reason to reflect and introspect into the day’s occurrences, date with the self. Dusk time, thus tea time!

Immune

Waiting by the window
To see if he dropped by
All except him stopped by
Each time she was notified,
She bloated in eagerness
If it wasn't him,
She'd say nay with dismay
Her days were set to a certain auto-pattern
That she followed, sans letting an eyelid batter,
It brought an air of calm
Feeling the charm all day
Keeping worries at bay
She still nursed this charm
And wait for him to drop by, in quiteude,
Though she'd be all baffled from deep within
She was acclimatized to his PRESENCE:
Drunk in bliss, that she never thought of anything that might be amiss,
She was his
This is it, she thought.
Yet things changed, wait she did by the window
No, not even an insignia
She felt like a maniac
Scurry, she would for him
Never mind she thought,
He ought to be busy
Hence just moved on
Oh lady love, he did return
Vanished in a jiffy
Flashed by with a few pleasantries
Raising her spirits, yes!
She was coated with immunity though
For she no longer knew his schedule
There was no prelude to her LOVE
For she was now immune,
Writhing in love, sans any pain!

Beyond the "Available" Tag

How did he know the other existed; lest he saw a status message on social media? They never called each other. Did not call on quite often too. Their existence hovered around only social media. Nothing beyond a green dot. Hours spent in pain and anticipation; yet they would not budge to pick up the phone. How were they to know if all was right or ok with each other? What if their timelines were hacked and the activity on social media was fake? Could they go merely by these daily logs? Of course they chose to be this way. They felt it was non-indulgent, no poking of noses into each other's affairs, until really necessary. Only the right measure. There was a latent craving, albeit: for more; just a little more of Presence. For it changed everything, optimistically. In the days of absence, she does not know whatever he was upto, but she silently conversed with him, through her mind. She wrote, unposted and unaddressed letters to him, each day.

Write when you’re drunk; edit when you’re sober: Ernest Hemingway.

Quite earnestly, by all means Hemingway,

On a spirited high,

Thinking of LOVE from head to toe,

Filled with woes of a week-long separation

Post some intense human touch.

Whatever happened after that?

Reason still undecipherable.

Love, not in its melodramatic sense,

September whence it all began

Bloody hell

Realization dawned, screaming that this is it

This is Love!

Fall in love; one did not want to,

For falling could mean hurt,

Regardless, let’s call it stepped into love zone

Taken a full dip now

Nothing asphyxiating,

Only joyous,

Yet painful,

Love, respond

This is with tears and some spirit

Warmest embrace and the longest of kisses

Shall remain, she shall contain

Until love returned, for whatever reason he remained oblivious!

Silent conversations

She was quite ignorant about the happenings in the mainland; continued to live in suburban quietude. The city’s once most popular mall was the place of her vaccination; she remembers through stories narrated by her mother. That’s all. Nothing post that. One of the longest connecting roads has been a race track of nostalgia. When she was growing up, it was an interconnecting road that she had to take each time she commuted to visit relatives; in the protective shade of her mother. A thick coating of verdigris after that; stained, with no signs of removal. She was not quite blissful about the ignorance on the other end of the city. She knew something, WOULD distract her and lead her to the mainland. A ray of light thus ensued and buses did lead her to the destination. A destination of an inexplicable madness, they call it LOVE, she guessed; albeit she was never particular about naming the emotion as LOVE. She was non-expectant, and detested this abstract emotion called love. Nonetheless, she silently began reeling in love; with the roads and bylanes acquiring a flash card of memory each. Traveling to the mainland meant meeting, perhaps seeing her charm, if not indulgence, to say the least. Imprisoned by tantalizingly sweet memories. Everything else was secondary; a certain pleasurable trap it was, rather. A self-lover of sorts that she was had developed a quaint preoccupation with another self, quite abruptly.  She waded her way out of anything menacy that came by, making sure there was no interruption.

All, finally for nothingness. A big ball of imbroglio. Ensconced in silent continuous, silent conversations that had no destination, no direction. She did not even know if there was an iota of sameness from the other end, from Love’s end. Nothing whatsoever. Swathed in a storehouse of memoirs, from which she sought incentive, to even exist.