Remember those Goo Goo Doll days?

Dear Jo,

As accustomed as I am to the ICSE way of beginning a letter with the usual 'It's been long', or worse, CBSE's 'I hope this letter finds you in the pink of your health' format, I thought these opening words wouldn't count for you since you are slightly more special in ways I can't explain. Plus, it's not really been THAT long since the last time I called you, last month. Considering the frequency of our conversations, I shouldn't really be writing a letter so soon. The once in 3 months update works perfectly with me. It is only on a few, rare days that I think my day and my situation could easily be sorted with your wisdom and grace and hence I must resort to writing to you; I miss you extremely. I am not upset, hurt or angry but I am afraid on an oncoming emotional dependency, if you know what I mean. I think things may change in the next few months so bear with my cheesiness and nostalgic updates, as you always do. The news about Aanchal Maam was really upsetting and that day I just wanted to be around you to talk about the ways we were mean to her. Anyway, all the personal talk can happen when you get to Bombay and we are hot and sweating and melting but otherwise still the same, on the same old beach, with my same old slippers and your same old Black-currant Gola. And we'll talk about all the things that are bothering me now, but wont then because we'll have a logical solution that will pwn all the statistics and facts. Also, even though our lives have changed greatly and that I may be immensely jealous of you, I think you know that nothing can really compete with our friendship. Write to me, when you can.

Looking forward to another summer with you on the beach,
A.

Magar, agar, lekin, phir kyu?

I search for a face like your's
in my family,
on the roads,
in the gardens,
on the commode,
beside the scooter,
beneath the blanket,
inside my wallet,
over the beaches,
underneath the trench coats,
surrounding the bungalow walls,
in between old nails,
beside the dosa alleys,
within my needle set,
on top of the birthday caps,
swinging with the clothesline;
beguiling,
surpassing
all
my
device.
Such is,
my
deep;
crevice.

I once had a boy.

Scrawny and shorter than usual, his genius reputation entered the room a few seconds before he did. There have been afternoons where his presence was too overbearing for a girl of only 17. Afternoons that wore out my thumbs pressing the keys to type to him; stories. Afternoons I spent trying to walk through the musty roads of Bombay to not remember his face anymore. Every other song was our song but lyrics faded in the recollection of us. There were afternoons that I could have spent with my physics tutorials, but instead I wrote letters to him. Now every question about my stoic existence comes back to him and especially the sentence; I once had a boy.
I don't anymore but that doesn't bother me as much as the feeling that one fine day I will begin to say this sentence and you will call me and tell me that I was wrong.
I will walk the streets again that day.

I don't want to call this a deal.

But anything more soppy would make you call me a fag. Can two people remain in that zone where deep-seated conversations happen without moving up or down the friendship ladder and not cause awkward silences the next day? Of course, this isn't a rhetorical question and by two people, I am essentially talking about us. It makes no sense to calculatingly trust you with my insight because really the only thing I lack now is someone who isn't a friend.If nothing follows except shrill toned watsups to which a suitable reply has never been invented, then why do I feel the need to tell you what upsets me each time you enter a room that I am in? Why do I take an effort to walk in your direction when I don't even know what to tell you first? That I want nothing? I should come with a sign that says: Let's talk over some coffee without becoming friends. Especially on Facebook.




Uff. I have lost all my maturity. And now I have to be all cryptic and shit.

Cold floors.

Don’t intimidate me with your meanings and definitions and opinions; I have none now, and your harsh truth only brings forth sorrow that lasts a few minutes. If only I had your wisdom, I might even have cared for the life I lead right now. This vague trumpet of air; I could pack just one suitcase and leave. No one would ask beyond the usual and I won’t be hesitant about not packing any food. Small things like that will come and go and flutter past every single road we pass by. Smaller things like money may cross our minds and on some nights form an encompassing blanket; insulate us from the cold air. I say us, because I know you think, but never write. I lack control over my tongue now, even more so over temptation. Sentences come out without much ponder or saliva. On sober nights like these I think of me and how nothing holds meaning or joy anymore, other than sitting on a clean footpath, the warmth of the coffee cup spreading to the back of my palms, remembering the chaos that may have been the previous night.

Tell me that you still remember a word called ambition. I can’t find my dictionary.

Hopefully this will be the end to a really long writer's block. Not that I called myself a writer, just a term of reference.

In high school I had a really good friend, not the best, but somehow close-minded. At the end-of-school farewell, we only glanced at each other once or twice. Didn't talk much. Then we went to junior college together for a month before he shifted to a different one across the city. I met him only once after that, at a coffee shop on his request. As he drank his cool blue, I spoke about things in school. And then we left. Just like that. No hugs, no exchange of email-ids, not a single smile. Ofcourse, I knew I'd miss him but it was as though that was it, for us. A hasty-no-regret-goodbye.

See, what I'm trying to say here is, I'm ending the blog here much like how I ended it with him. Crass goodbyes are my thing bro.  

"Colour my life with the chaos of trouble."

Validate your words with the denial of action. If words are your thing, write me letters instead. Colour my life with the chaos of your trouble.