To Anonymous

There were times I would furiously write down what was on my mind and wonder who’s reading this anyway. I would shout into the void and wonder if there’s someone waiting to hear what I have to say. I would sob silently and hope that there was someone who understood.

*pop* Notification: Anonymous comment.

Not once or twice but Anonymous would be back with his words every time I wrote. Cheering me up when I was low, helping me up when I was down, Anonymous was always there.

There were times I would write and wait, why has there been no comment. No Anonymous notification, dropping down a few wise words. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, nothing. And then suddenly out of nowhere, Anonymous would be back, sometimes, back with a smile.

Just the other day, I was thinking I will write for Anonymous one day.

And then, my phone rang. You called. We laughed, we shouted at each other, we spoke till we ran out of words and right when I was on a rant about how you had forgotten me, you said, “So who do you think reads your blog every time.”

It was you. It has been you all along. And just like that, you make me realise that we may drift apart, we may not talk anymore but when the days are bad and the times are tough, we can always go back to those seven days, those few months and smile.

We were never bound by the shackles of a name, we were and will always be just two people, falling in love, just a little, oh a little bit every day with someone new.

But

I have been waiting for far too long now.

I have been warned, asked to stay away.

I have been told that I don’t deserve it.

But,

You said you’ll be there soon.

You paved way for something new.

You said you’ll make it worth it.

I’ll be waiting. 

Missing Miss Paul

We had a ritual, Miss Paul and me. Every time the either of us came back from a holiday, the other one had to be there, waiting downstairs to help with the luggage. Even if it was just a three-day vacation with a tiny luggage bag, we would find our way up through those wretched steps, laughing or complaining about spending days alone in the hostel (more often than not with her saying "tu kitna luggage leti hain re").

This time, I couldn't call her for she had already left for home before she starts a new chapter at the Newcastle University.

There's a new mat in front of her room and trust me when I say this, that room has never been this clean. While the room and its walls must be thanking their stars, the entire essence of Miss Paul has gone.

And where is it found now you ask? The very unkempt way in which she has left my room. And for once, I'm not complaining. It's found in the letter she has left for me and the weird books she has left for me because she couldn't carry them back.

She is miles away now yet is the first person to be there for me when I'm stupidly crying in my room because as luck would have it, in my two years in Hyderabad, it's maybe the first time I got fever.

I miss her when I think about those walks we took around the streets of Marredpally, talking about the phase of my life which I'm still stuck in. Now, she gives me her anecdotes over text messages.

I miss her when I turn around and see someone else sitting at her desk.

I miss her when there's no one to trouble or tease.

But I miss her the most when I come back home to an empty corridor and enter my room closing the door behind me, shutting out the room that was once hers.