I was Flying

Aren’t bridges wings? Why has man thrown logs over streaming brooks? Why has he erected columns to pave way for humanity? Yes, they are bridges, they are wings! You fly over the land, only that you have your feet on the concrete. You feel the smell of air of the heights. You are born to fly. The ones on the ground, don’t they feel the desire to stand where you stand? Don’t they envy you for being at a height? Yes, you certainly fly, coz you are born to. Bridges are wings!

The other day, I was standing on a bridge. I was flying in the breeze, which fingered gingerly through my hair, and, like an old passionate lovelorn lover, seduced me to loosen up my clothes to feel her running with every hair, every goose bump of my body. It gently pecked marks of love over my body parched by the sunny days of lost childhood and fake adult rationale and hypocrisy. Yes, I was in love with the wind again, with myself and our solitude love making. I was flying again; naked I was, having stripped off my clothes of materialism, shrewdness, skewness and hatred. 

I was looking westward, to the setting sun. The horizon transitioned through thousands of psychedelic shades of amber, as the earth kissed the sun. The sun blushed and the whole sky, the whole of my bosom’s universe felt the tinge of love.

The river, the Ganga, that tore the horizon of nothingness filled wilderness into two, like a flying bird rips off the heart of the heaven into two, was wavering and returning back the blush to the sky. The boatmen down into the river carrying young couples pulled their boats in the stream. They are blessed people, they make some of the most mesmerizing and cherishable moments for people. They trouble their hands pulling oars to let people capture the spectacle into their hearts. They see numerous stories beginning and ending before them. On one hand they look at people starting their lives anew and on the other hand they turn their heads to the far back to look smoke rising from the cremation grounds.

I smiled at the brutally paradoxical irony. I pulled on my hood and flew away! Smiling! Waiting to fly over the scene again someday…in solitude…

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Numb Nothingness! 

The auto kept moving in the tempo of its monotonous noise and I was lost in the haze of running trees and houses. The mind had a shallow nothingness drowning into a deeper one like a leaf tide on a sinking stone. It was strange how the mind was totally empty even though it had a great deal of issues to think over and over and over and over and to not reach a conclusion, then to get ready for next consignment of issues. 

She sat next to me. I couldn’t see her face as it was hidden beyond the curtains of bouncy hair. The suspense was clearly indicative of the veiled beauty. It was very tempting thanks to the proximity and the smell of her products. One would surely wish to brush her hair aside and stamp his love on her lips, which produced a beautiful melodious sound on the phone in Bengali. She was like a drag a of marijuana, you know it harms, yet you take it because it is the eventual ‘high’ that matters, the heaven and the angels that matters.

She was showing interest in me and that was making me fall in love with her. Why do I fall in love with every girl who shows even a little bit of attention to me! I sat before a mirror last night asking the same question over and over to my image but sadly my image kept asking me the same! It seemed to be stuck in the same problem.

She sat in silence then, not uttering a word except for the hum she produced. Some beautiful song lost in her hearts seemed to make out its way mesmerizing the listeners and freeing itself from a place nobody would long freedom from. I was tired and her divine voice reminded me of the childhood lullabies. I heard the voice of a lost child in me demanding more of the soothing voice caressing the wounds of rationale and hypocrisy that are getting indelible in me as I grow.

She invited me to spend some time with her. I was double minded about going. I did not want to reveal how insecure and vulnerable I was. Yes I speak less to others and more to myself, lest my words may sing the melody of my alone and needy heart.

Did she look into the blinking eyes which made futile efforts to look away from her? I have trust issues, a messed up past and pathetically tangled up present. I did not want her to get stuck in the cobwebs of my desperation and vulnerability to hurt herself ultimately. I smiled silently to her talks, her questions, her compliments. This is my reply to most situations in general. A smile. It is a nice tool for stoics who do not want to come across as rude and indecent. Besides, least said easily mended.

So much was altercating in my mind  yet there was a macabre nothingness like an abandoned cemetery. It was horrifying to find my thoughts numb and my lips smiling. The auto kept moving in the tempo of its monotonous noise and I was still lost in the haze of running trees and houses leaving my stop, three stops back!

I might survive this pang, I might survive the next pang, might survive  yet another fit…

But how many times do I survive, till I survive?

What face of love is it?

Repost from one of my old post: “What face of love is it?”

…Sweet girl is Aditi. The kind of girl you feel like hugging, the kind of girl who smiles any pain off you, the kind which is innocent, the kind that is soft, the kind that is friendly, is strict, is cutely stubborn. She is one of those girls who hums bollywood, who cries for Indian cricket team, who sings madly, dances, lives. Her smile is one which demands attention. Her eyebrows, the way they dance above her eyes making all the expression of all the melodramatic daily soaps she has seen is a cherishable beauty, they perform drama, they question. Merely her brows are hypnotic enough to gain over the strongest willed person enough leave alone me. Her lips are the kind which I call ‘irresistible’. Her night black eyes behind her frameless are something which I have waited lives to look into. The impeccability of her face comes to me from the fact that even a bit of Photoshop makes her look akin to a Barbie. God only knows what she actually is, but whatever she is, impeccability is the only word that defines her.

May be I am exaggerating but isn’t that what a person in love is expected to look at the one, perfection. I don’t see it coz I’m expected to but because she actually is. So I love her, don’t know what exactly in her. Maybe her smile or maybe the way she exaggerates her dramatic expression, or maybe the way she cares for me, may be its simply the way she is; mad, wild, cute, lovely, graceful, beautiful and all. Whatever it is, I love her as madly as one can imagine….

The Lovely Summer-girl 

Beneath the night sky, with summer heat high; lay two souls, bound in a roll;

In the tide of stars and blooming crescent, they lay embraced arm in arm; the cool breeze and her velvet hair danced over his face ,  her lips chirped stories of her age , which he did not listen but heared without any damage;

At times prevailed silence , it felt like night sky; still and full of feeling like the stars, where the blazing moon of their embrace cooled their heart’s pending scars;

The boy felt like rain, in his tiny brain; when she told him a thousands of stories and hundreds of her friend’s mysteries; he lay there on her arm, caressed her cheeks with his hands not so strong, and stole glance in her eyes which danced as her talks went high.

Never did he leave her alone, searched for her eyes all day long, she looked forward along; every morning he woke up in her arms, ‘Ah! this is the best morning.’ he thought.

But his best summer came to a halt, before he named what he felt in his heart; like a mesmerising dream he held her in him.

He bore his summer girl, deep down his bosom; and loved to play his tune when alone;

Some words he should have said remained unspoken. he let her go, for it was his first crush, and he savoured the unsaid intimacy he had with her.