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. 

For Jeremy: 1

Photo credit: Miss P. Read her blogs here yesnobutwhy

To understand the reference of Jeremy, read this wonderfully written article in New York Times.

And just like that, a name — one I referred to often — became an archetype, a trope, an all-purpose noun used by my college friends to talk about “that guy,” the one who remains for us in some netherworld between friend and boyfriend, often for years.
Excerpt from Modern Love, published on New York Times

"He's your Jeremy," she said.

Haven't we all found ourselves at that weird situation, where you don't know what's going on. A little laughter when you meet, a smile when he messages and yet annoyance when you fail to get the answer. You try to withdraw yourself, bury yourself in your cocoon and yearn for him to notice. Alas, there is no notice.

And you on the other hand, turn into this self-deprecating version of yourself. Finding faults and picking fights.

But why should a man be allowed to rule over your mood, you protest. His yes, brightens your day and a no, brings you to this dull halt. And you're left to question your own feelings, about when is a good time to pick up those baggage of emotions and leave.

It's only a little time before you feel the distance. When after having pulled your hair in frustration, you will decide to step away.

But is there really a goodbye? Every time he pulls you back, you give it another chance, a shot at "what could be". And this goes on. You trap yourself in this circle of emotions, which never had a beginning and therefore, will never see an end.

He will come to you at his time of need and you will look for him to share a laugh. There will be those effortless conversations, those laughter sessions, those rare trips around town where he will treat you fine and you will wish it lasts forever.

The time runs out and you fall back.
And he, he will always be your Jeremy.

Back at work

"So, how does it feel?" everyone asked me. 

First day back at work after a 13-day leave can seem like a tiresome task, and sometimes when you're a journalist and you have been hearing stories about being short-staffed, it can be dreadful.

It starts off right as I had predicted it, the curse of the return, astroman (Copyright, Miss P) was waiting for me. And as I worked on the predictions that astroman had written down for others, apart from the usual nondescript sentences, he seemed to be doing quite fine. 

That and the usual coffee banter or the hurried chats between work where we still manage to find the most stupid jokes and laugh it off as they were the best, brings you back to the everyday routine you had.

And even then, by the end of the day, you look at the empty chairs or the replaced ones. You look around for those random messages that used to pop up on your screen or the offering of a biscuit right when you are super hungry. The conversations that would make you smile or the one that continues over texts about pending plans that have to be checked off a bucket list. 

Somethings don't change for good and the ones that do, leave an empty space forever. Sure, with time, you adjust to it but at times, when you look up from your desk, and there's no one to say "Can I interest you with a cookie?", you wish they had never changed.

:)

Only Time

Who can say if your love grows,

As your heart chose - Only time,

And who can say where the road goes,
Where the day flows, only time,

Who knows? Only time

- (Only time by Enya)

Every time someone tells me, With time, you'll know the answer, I wonder. So what's this time going to do? Obviously, I don't know the answer to that too. You don't as well. 

But anyway, I stood with it, time. As the clocks went all tick-tock, I stepped away. I put myself in a different place, did different things, tried to avoid texts, calls. I laughed, cried, almost threw the phone in frustration but I refrained from jumping the boundary that time had put forth. 

In the complexities of today's relationships, I don't know what we are. Then again, they say time will tell.
The wretched know-it-all, time. And this, when I don't even wear a watch!

And yet as the seconds turned into minutes, I thought about you over and over again. I wrote to not think about you, I wrote to say something to you but I only wrote about you.

I hope you are hoping too, I wish you want it too, I dream you see it too. But the answer is with, only time.

Going away, again

And the bags are packed yet again, now standing in the hallway.
I remember the first time it was like this, five years ago. Two big suitcases filled to the brim and being overweight with the luggage was not a worry. I'm told now, "Take the smaller suitcase, you anyway come home only for a few days".
Right at the door, my dog sits patiently. Five years ago, he thought I was just heading out and will be back in a few hours. When my parents came back home without me, he kept growling at them. Now, he's accustomed, every time I come home, he knows I'll be gone soon.
The mangoes are not yet ripe, but I'm told they are expecting a good lot this year. My sisters giggle, "We'll tell you how it tastes."
The kinara shop uncle is excited to know about my adventures yet gives my dad a look of disappointment when I say I'll be gone tomorrow.
There's a big renovation planned at home. "It will take a long time to have everything ready," says the architect. My mom turns to me with a heavy heart and says, "It will be done when you're home the next time."