To Her Ravaging Memoirs

THRM

I make into my quietude, and try to break the impasse with my heart. ‘Is this a night, or I am merely shrouded beneath her hair? Is this a mere gust of wind or the smells of her? Are these mere chitterings of birds or they carry her message?’ I ask, peaceful and sagely. Even though I know that it’s not her, but this wretched heart is obstinate. ‘She’s here,‘ it beats. ‘Here somewhere.

Transitions and transformations play a crucial role in life. Little did I know my transition would transform me such.

I never thought it would be like this. I never thought I’d be in this situation, one I never perceived before. I never thought, that she would be there near me, around me but never for me.

Life has come to a standstill. Spending the hours by amidst the rampaging days, walking past roaring vehicles and chattering sounds; time seems to stretch and stretch. The world is always in a blur, and behind that blur I can see naught but a face. That one, very face; the ghost of my desires lost and sentiments prickled.

She was beautiful. Of course she was. Her fair face, her pitch black hair – strands of which often played on her cheeks, her distinct jawline, thin rosy lips, a cheery smirk and the mischievous fire in her gentle eyes were etched and carved into my soul the way the ancient people had notched their gods onto cave walls. Never to be forgotten.

I see her walk and prance around in her joy, dance in her music and sing her songs. Her voice swims around in my conscience, engulfing me into her scents and jerking me out quickly; leaving me breathless and gasping for more of her. I was her prisoner, tied by steel chains which I had no intention to break out of; she was my jailer, never giving me enough to believe she cared for me yet kept me alive; and I was deep into Stockholm Syndrome – or as the masters of words call it – love.

I sit at my window, staring past the horizon into oblivion, trying to bring myself back. Back from where, I know not. Back from whom, I want to say not. “Move on, move on!” they said. “Love can move mountains”, they said. But when it all ends, try moving back the mountains, alone. Try retracing the path you took, the distance you travelled, alone, with the memories nudging you – gently at first, but as time passes the nudge becomes a knock, and then a whack and then a blow.. I sold myself to buy her love. And then I began to loan myself some life to live, and now I’m devoid of both – me and my life.

Late into the nights I sit wide awake; recalling the feel of her touch and the smell of her hair when she hugged me, echoing her words as they were once addressed to me, and finally saying the words I wanted to then. There were a million things in my heart. A million things my brain failed to articulate. A million things lost in translation. All I ever wanted to do was be there for her. I wanted to be the one she searches for when she is nervous on the stage. I wanted to be that one person she runs to, to celebrate her victories. I wanted to be the solitary call she dials when she needs someone deep into the night. I wanted to be the one who made it all right in the morning. I wanted to be the ointment on her wounds and the bringer of shy smiles on her face. But mostly, I wanted her to be the one to tell me, “It’s okay, I understand,” when I needed it the most.

I have forgotten the hours I spent listening to music that splashed every inch of her on my face. It is a curse; I cannot cry. I am thirsty for my tears, which I pray will lighten her grip on me. But the drops won’t come, and anguish is all that is left. The heavens weep for me though. The rain that poured once carried her essence to me which I sheathed in, hid in. The rain that pours now still carries her essence which now tears me apart, one sense at a time.

The grey flashback brings me a memory, served with bitter and sweet sauces. An image, a moment, a still that caught us both doing things we loved most. She sat, playing with her pup and laughing out loud –  the same laugh that was my favourite music once and the same laugh that leaves me wistful now. She was doing what she loved – living her life to the fullest. I was there beside her, watching her and smiling. I was doing what I loved, feasting my eyes and filling myself up with her. I still  remember the walk that we took after.
‘What is it, that you dream for? That if you could, you would magically like to have at the end of today?’ she asked.
You, I thought.
‘Myself,’ I answer her now. ‘Give me back to me,’ I say aloud.

I walk. I talk. I learn and I laugh. I live – yes I do. I am a functional machine trotting out on a daily basis doing my chores. I haven’t let myself into a swamp of immobility and uselessness. But even as yet, more and more as I try to breathe myself a new spirit, she comes in as a whiff of sweet fragrance. Day to day aspects lead me to her – from my early morning coffee to my late night tuning. I look into a future without her, and she pulls me into the past with her. Bittersweet yet, she makes me dive into a sham future of me and her, and of what-could-have-beens. She cannot be cut from me, nor can I just discard her like an old, childish wish. I must accept this one thing to sustain: moving on into the future doesn’t mean losing the past.

I sit and write this, only to share what a rampage the monster named love can go to. I hold no grudges. Only the lovers know the kind of drug love can be, leaving you breathless and asking for more. Only the broken know the thrills of burning in the fires of Cupid, and only the survivors give you verses and portraits which transcend through time, true and beautiful. To all those who know what it is and how it feels, and for all those who know someone such. Love makes people do things they never thought they would. Some pick up the sword, some the pen. Some embrace the light, some dissolve into the darkness. But some, they just love.


tangytuesday BlogAdda’s Tangy Tuesday Picks – August 16, 2016!

Author: Vishvaraj Chauhan

I read, I write. I slip and I slide. I live and I laugh. I love to listen to music, think about every thing that my brain thinks worthy of mentioning and take up a little too much load. But hey, that's why I'm here! The sage in a cage.

3 thoughts on “To Her Ravaging Memoirs”

  1. I have seen dawn and sunset on moors and windy hills
    Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of Spain:
    I have seen the lady April bringing in the daffodils,
    Bringing the springing grass and the soft warm April rain.

    I have heard the song of the blossoms and the old chant of the sea,
    And seen strange lands from under the arched white sails of ships;
    But the loveliest things of beauty God ever has showed to me
    Are her voice, and her hair, and eyes, and the dear red curve of her lips………by john Masefield
    May be you would like this poem

    Liked by 1 person

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