Fifteen Minutes

Who would have thought that the shower stall would be so conducive to crying? Heartrending passionate sobs that racked the length of her body. Soft tears of disappointment that cut a silent course along her face. Eyes that had exhausted their ability to cry, and now vacant, stared at the wall. Fifteen minutes was all it took. Fifteen minutes of solitude when she could give free reign to her emotions. Fifteen minutes, at the end of which, out she stepped, with bright eyes, a smile playing on her lips and a spring in her steps. Fifteen minutes for which the mask slipped. Fifteen minutes was all it took.

Of Winter Evenings and Loneliness

I love winter. I love the feel of the cold still air on my skin. I hate winter evenings. I don't know what it is about the stillness that pervades winter evenings that is unpleasant. By all accounts, it is probably a figment of an overactive imagination. But it's been long since I have reconciled to being in a constant state of mental turmoil, not the bad kind of turmoil, just a state of constant flux. And somehow the shorter the days get towards the end of the year and the stiller the nights get, the more agitated my thoughts get, again not necessarily the unpleasant kind of agitation but far from any semblance of peace. 

I remember this evening spent in Kullu, Himachal Pradesh in late April, 2010. It was right after my board exams. It was quite late, actually, and I was sitting in the balcony with my parents asleep in the room. It was a beautiful night, the moon full and the soft sound of the Beas flowing nearby faintly audible. There was a song playing somewhere. I don't remember what the song was. But I remember how I felt at that instant, a feeling so potent that I haven't forgotten about it even four years hence. It was an extreme sense of yearning for something that felt like it was just at the edge of my fingertips yet definitively beyond grasp. This was not an yearning for something tangible. It wasn't even aspirational. It was for that elusive thing that would somehow make make everything in life fall into place. Yes, I know how unreal this sounds like, hence the use of the word elusive. And with the yearning came a certain sense of loneliness. A kind of loneliness that has nothing to do with lack of people one loves or is loved by. It has nothing to do with sadness either. It is in fact an acknowledgement of the fact that irrespective of how many people one holds close to oneself, they can only do so much. One still remains the sole protagonist in ones life story. The journey is ultimately lonesome.

This memory of what I felt at that moment in time is the best way in which I can describe the reason behind my distaste for winter evenings. The feeling is not saddening, no. It is  humbling because with it also comes the realisation that one occupies only but a miniscule space in the grand scheme of things in the world.

Of Sea. Of Memories. Of Love.

I can see the sea, the waves crashing against the shore. I can hear it, I can breathe it. There’s faint music playing in the background. The moon is half hidden behind the clouds. There’s a slight breeze, which picks up at times. It’s teasing my hair, playing with it. It’s been sometime since I have felt my hair fly, behind me, all over my face, in every direction. The caress of the wind is oddly intimate. The moon’s out. It’s weirdly shaped today, neither half nor full. The blemish on it is clearly visible. It is beautiful. I can see a lone figure walking along the shore,

staring out at the sea. A woman, I presume. I can see her hair flying. It’s late in the night. Why is she there, all alone? Is she happy? Is she sad? Is she yearning for somebody? A loved one, maybe? Or a bygone era? Happier times? Or maybe she is letting go of something? Someone? The wind has picked up. She is walking back. I feel like an intruder, suddenly. Like I can feel her innermost thoughts unfold even though I don’t know what or who she is thinking about. Someone’s whistling. A cop just getting off duty? A lifeguard signalling to some wayward straggler? A lover calling out to his beloved? The moon is behind the clouds. I can see the lone woman again. She is hurrying back now, almost running. She looks back at the sea, almost fearfully, as if whatever she has left there, buried in the waves, will come back to her. The same song is playing on the loop in the background. It’s about yearning for a loved one, about fearing for the loss of a loved one. Love and loss. Such potent emotions. Emotions difficult to live with and difficult to live without. What is love, in anycase? Why do the songs make sense? Why is it accompanied by a gripping fear of loss? Ever present, ever looming. Why is it that the stronger love is, the more fragile one is? There are no stars visible today. Just the moon, sometimes shining brightly, staring down at the sea, caressing the waves and at other times dormant behind the clouds, a dull reflection of its exuberant self. There’s a tree right in front of me. Broad leaves. The leaves are moving with the breeze, too much in its grip to stop, too far gone to turn back. 

There’s a lone figure sitting in a lighted balcony. Her chin is resting on her left hand as she writes something in a piece of paper in front of her.

There’s a certain strange sense of urgency in her, even though she is sitting perfectly still. Her hair has a life of its own, whipping across her face in tandem with a sudden gust of wind. She has been playing the same song over and over again. She looks up, suddenly. Her eyes are searching for something. It’s dark. Her eyes bore into the empty space in front of her, piercing, yearning, young and old. Her lips twist into a wry smile. She is staring at her phone. Her fingers curl into themselves and then uncurl. She types out something in her phone and smiles again. She tips her head back and looks at the sea. There’s a strange calmness to her expression now, even with the remnants of some unknown fear warring for space with a lingering wistfulness. She weaves her hand through her hair, and, stops midway. Her eyes bear a faraway look as she stares at the dark frothing sea. It’s as if she is reliving a memory, long past. A wayward tear slips past her eye as a look of extreme tenderness smoothens her expression. She turns and heads back to the room. The balcony reverts back to darkness. 

[P.S. If the recurring references to the song playing in the background have piqued your curiosity, here goes! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2uX0_9ST3cw#  :) ]

This is what happiness looks like...

Almost 3 months back, when I had started this blog, I had written an article about how I had become tired of trying to make good things happen to me. Especially when I met with failure every time I tried. Life had become all about reaching the milestones that were considered desirable by society, or by my peer group. And I had lost the ability to live in the moment, to appreciate the ‘every-day’ good things, because I kept waiting for the ‘big’ good things to happen.

This trimester I had resolved to sit back and savour what I already had. And to wait for the ‘big’ good things to find their way towards me. And they did. Good things happened to me, least when I expected them to happen. And what made them all the more special was the fact that I wasn’t waiting in anticipation for them to happen. Allow me to explain. I was fine before they happened to me, really. I wasn’t waiting for them to happen to change my life. No. Before they happened, I was just fine, my life was just fine. And then they happened. In fact, they crept in to my life so stealthily that I wasn’t aware of them until they were well into the process of happening. And when they happened, my life didn’t change around its axis. No. I wasn’t sad before but for a very very long time, I had forgotten what being happy felt like. The kind of happiness that made you giddy and breathless had proved elusive for so long! The kind of happiness that you just can’t regret even if things go awfully downhill later.

I have always believed that happiness is not a phase in life. If asked, I can very easily point out the sad/trying phases in my life. But I have been the happiest in my life in moments. Yes, I am a firm believer in the theory that happiness lies in moments. Tiny fleeting moments which often don’t register when they are happening. But on a long lonely evening, when one gets the opportunity to sit back and take stock of life, these are the moments that stand out. Moments, which, if could be crystallized would be like old photographs, the kind which were probably taken without one's knowledge but which somehow managed to capture that tiny part of one's soul that one never knew existed. Moments that are like twinkling fairy lights in a dark room. Or like a wash of stars in a moonless night. Yes, those are the moments that one will always look for in retrospect, not the long endless nights when sleep had proved elusive nor the never ending listless days when things had not gone the way one wanted them to go.

How can one grudge oneself such moments when they are so few and far between and difficult to come by? For in long lonely cold nights, what will keep one company are not doubts and insecurities. No. The only source of comfort will be these moments in time when one had felt warm and comfortable. Safe and content. Happy. And one can never be thankful enough when one gets the privilege to add some such moments to the collage of life’s memories.