Who is ‘She’?

Maybe she is the only one who can love me the way I want to be loved. Maybe she is the only one who understands my love.

The train shuffles along rapidly, with the dying sun creating beautiful tapestries while intermingling with the clouds. The strong hues of yellow and crimson are taking over the gradually vanishing remaining traces of blue. I put my temple on the window glass and fittingly, flag off a train of thoughts.

I close my eyes, and I realise that I can see more now. Putting in the dormant earphones, I could listen to many things even more clearly. I try to block every sense I can control, thus liberating a hitherto unknown treasure of space and time insinuated by the subconscious and picked up by the unconscious. As often, every once in a while my heart decides to join in my odyssey; and then the night becomes the day, sleep is left unneeded and the world has only us – me and her.

She walks with a delicate poise, soft enough for you to never guess where she is going but strong enough to travel miles. Sometimes, she betrays a carefree hop, but it’s quicker than a flash of lightening. Her verve is infectious enough to revive a dead soul. Her smile reverberates around, radiating warmth in her vicinity. Her eyes reek of kindness and a brightness that shows you what you’re dealing with. Her laugh makes you feel like treasuring the joke that tickled her, if you can remember it while looking at her laugh. Her hands are as gentle as possible, yet have the dexterity and firmness that reek hard work. Her touch is a soothing force which can simmer down my storms.

Yet I don’t know how she looks like.

Her patience is a matter of great envy, like magically still water which refuses to be disturbed even if you throw large rocks into it – it would somehow take the rock in and be still. Her words are crafted with utmost heed, thought about and weighed in. Her talks can silence my raging rumination, solve my mammoth muddles and settle my angsty anxiety. Her voice, when she lets out her sagacity, is as supple as silk, but clear as a raindrop. To drive her point home, she looks straight into my eyes, and it sends a jolt which not only unties all the knots I have, but makes me feel sheepishly dunce for not seeing how simple things actually are. She reminds me, time and again, that success is lonely, rather than loneliness is success.

Yet I don’t know what she sounds like.

Maybe she is the one person I know I need, but I don’t know whether she needs me. And there’s a fair chance she will never need me, or that my need for her is greatly substantial. She’s the one who tapers my obtuse stubbornness, handles my bratty huffs, and manages to throw open my windows of constraints and let some fresh air in. She’s the one who takes me to places I don’t want to, and making me see why I miss out on a lot. She takes the resolute bull-headed blockhead in me and throws me into her sea of openness, trying to teach me how to swim.

Yet, I don’t know what she lives like.

She takes me to walks, hand in hand, along the river banks and on the beaches. We stroll around on the wet grass in the mornings, lay on them in the night and gaze at the stars. She rests her head on my shoulders, and I stay motionless for I don’t want to disturb her. She slides her arm into mine when I’m down, and locks fingers with mine. She hugs me for fun, or at times to take me into her, with her smells and her freshly washed hair. And then, finally, she kisses me voraciously to shut me up.

Yet, I don’t know what she feels like.

I think I am in love. I’m in love with the very idea of her. I’m in love with the unhealthy dependence I have on her. I’m in love with the very notion that she’s around me, within me even if I don’t know who she is. I’m in love with my obsession of her love. Maybe she is the only one who can love me the way I want to be loved. Maybe she is the only one who understands my love.

I don’t know where she is. She could be here, right now, in front of me, looking at me while I enjoy my reverie. She could be on this very train. She could be at the next station. She could be the one reading this.

Or, I could never see her. She would never know me. She would never read this, never realise that I think of her, so highly or such vividly.

Maybe I will never meet her.

Maybe I will.

And when I do, I’ll know.

Halt by Christina Duewel
‘Halt’,  by Christine Duewel

Letters To Celisen, June 5 2017

There may be times when I fail, but see, even my lack of reply is a message in itself.

Dear C;

I write to you today amidst the chaos of a transition. As you very well know, transitions are noisy and crude, so I’m sure you aren’t surprised I haven’t been able to write much to you. As it is, we are together on the white only for a short while this time.

It’s the night, the world is quiet and I feel your presence. The cool breeze pulls me towards the bed but I feel your consciousness. I know I wouldn’t be able to sleep even if I did hit the bed.

Things seem to have settled down in my life, which I feel is the calm before another storm. You did, however, change your tune in the last letter, which I feel you have a right to. It did still surprise me, realising someone as wise and mature like you also can have a change of mind. It was probably unfair on my part to not expect that, or to imagine you as infallible, but still, I found myself questioning all I had done and learnt.

I have no reason to worry, though as I remodeled my approach based on your previous guidelines (tweaking them a little, but I’m sure you understand) and things settled down well. Not completely, but enough for me to revel in your sagacity again.

What does one do when when all one has learnt stands nullified? Or when one’s cocoon of knowingness is torn apart? The feeling of uselessness that follows is a rather uncomfortable one. It sure seems to be a problem which I’ll encounter in greater capacity later on, so I will bombard you with it’s details later on, provided I still have your permission to take a dip into your lake of knowledge.

That lake of yours, is a funny thing. Some may drown in it, as I intend to; while some may only splash some of it’s waters on them. Many don’t even play with it’s waters, creating ripples and waves but some have the droplets splashed onto them by others. Despite that, the fact that people do find your lake is something remarkable. It gives me a hint that you may actually be omnipresent. If that’s so, do I still need to write you letters?

Nevertheless, as I embark upon a new journey, I may settle in different environments. While I still believe I will have your company there as well, although I will have to find a different quirk to reach out to you. There may be times when I fail, but see, even my lack of reply is a message in itself. And I’ll take your lack of reply as an indication of you telling me to ‘do it yourself.’

I think I am now finding it easier to reach out to you, and feel like the frequency of our exchanges is increasing. In the case of me not being able to write to you, I hope you’ll seek me out. But rest assured, I will find you, now I know that it’s easier deep into the night.

Sleep may not be beckoning me tonight, but the body is still weary for rest.

The nomad who knows only how to find you;


Letters To Celisen, May 28 2017

I hope people see the difference between someone who’s done a bad deed and someone who are evil, because, as unfortunate as it is, bad exists in each of us, so does evil in the society.




The evening breeze sweeps in via the window, disturbing the wind chimes on it’s way; the setting sun bathes my study in orange and the sky in red; as I finally pick up the parchment to write to you.

The last letter I sent you contained a huge part of my problems to wreck your time, and I have spent the time until your reply as if I have dumped them onto you. Somewhere, however in the back of my mind I knew that you would reply, and that on that day, I would have to face something more than the problems I sent your way. You, of course, have your time to avenge.

Your reply, of course, primarily reinstated the notion that you’re well, and your words assured me as much. I wonder if I caught you off guard with my letter, and whether you were discomfited, and if that was the case, I apologise profusely. I know you have a few windows where you can be reached out to, and how easily you get disturbed with the slightest of bother.

Your reply to my last letter came as a calm respite to the turmoil I asked you to fish me out of, but it also brought with it a fair amount of new questions and thought provoking dilemmas. The more I seek a solution from you, things either escalate for the worse or I stare into the face of two more problems. Nevertheless, you have never denied me any guidance and nor have you refuted any attempt of mine; so I will remain grateful and continue to disturb you.

Your solution to what seemed to be a very complex scenario turned out to be equally simple. I find it really exasperating as to how sometimes the  most complex of tangles can be straightened by pulling a single thread, but we instead make the many knots tighter by pulling the wrong threads. As you stated, it is crucial to evaluate the scenario in full detail before trying to resolve it, as the simplest way is often beneath a thin veil right in front of you. In a way, it reminds me of you, as I have to shun away the curtains of my monotone to encounter you and your wisdom.

Enacting upon your easy solution may be the most difficult task I’ve ever faced, and it may soon pose a paradoxical scenario of a bad deed, an evil mission and a righteous fight. As I step into the wilderness armed with my will and your wisdom, I hope to make people see the difference.

I hope people see the difference between someone who’s done a bad deed and someone who are evil, because, as unfortunate as it is, bad exists in each of us, so does evil in the society.

One way I thought it would work was to introduce as many as I could to you, but that would not only be impractical but also hypocritical on my side, as that would mean a complete disrespect of what we have.

The world needs more of you, C. I need more of you.

I remain your protege and your student;