Musings, Romance

A Drive of Love

The salty breeze parted my hair. The night sky was pitch black and had specks of white which seemed to be stars. The waves hit the rocks with aplomb, as I sat with legs crossed and shoulders slouched.

I looked into the horizon, towards the Mumbai skyline. The more I focused, the more lights appeared in the distance. The more I sought, the more borderlines of buildings and structures appeared. Until I blinked and they all vanished.

A few cold drops from a strong wave hitting the rocks below touched my face, triggering goosebumps. Goosebumps which required just an excuse to pop up I reckon. Ever since I was with her, they’ve been excited to jump out, much like an overenthusiastic puppy after locating its owner.

With her. These two words can mean so much; ranging from a mere companionship to everything beyond that. But beyond the influence of physical presence, something I haven’t discovered yet exists an entire realm of presence; wherein we play, love, heal, and talk. We talk about things I haughtily assume people, in general, don’t, we heal each other in a way I proudly presume we haven’t before; yet we play in a simple way as almost everyone does. How do we love, though?

Love. What is love? Many, including myself, have been questioning that, and as I’ve pondered about it more I’ve realised that it means differently to every person. Some see love in bodies, some in the skin, some skin deep, some in the hair. Some within the heart, some in the soul, some in the scars, some in the mind. Some in the blocks, some in the barriers, some within the vulnerabilities, some deep into the fears, while some find love in the opposite of each. Brilliantly enough, none of those approaches are right or wrong, even though disagreements may arise. How does one love someone, or doesn’t, is dependent on how one has lived, and even the most mundanely similar lives vary in the bitsy aspects of every day that are unique within the common.

The question then, is not how one does love another, as to how does one love oneself. Quite often, loving someone is the later stage of making them love themselves. It is not a noble take, at least not as noble as words may portray, it is inherently selfish. If one doesn’t love oneself, there is no way he or she will able to love you. When it was said, ‘to get love you must give love,’ it didn’t mean that you need to love someone to get love back. It was a hint, that you need to give them the blessing of loving themselves, to get the fruit of them loving you.

You want someone to love you? Make them love themselves, and that love will eventually find you.

Of course, you can only do that when you love yourself. What does loving oneself mean?

Loving oneself is the simple and straight act of giving yourself what you’d give to someone you love. As humans, many of us have a tendency to either judge ourselves too harshly or too favourably. In either case, it leads to detrimental effects. The most valuable part of love is honesty, it is the mammoth block of ice beneath the tip of the iceberg that is love. Nothing in love strives without honesty, as from honesty stems the glorious aspects of love – trust, belief, faith, assurance and knowingness. And if you aren’t giving someone you love your honesty, you aren’t loving them, at least not yet. Give yourself some honesty before you give it to love, as that will mould you into a better person. And a better you is easier for you to love, and more capable to make others love themselves, and eventually more lovable in return.

Give yourself the same space to make errors you’d give to your loved one. Allow yourself the same forgiveness that you give to them. Take off steam from your own head just as you will take theirs. One of the greatest lessons she has taught me was to be me, while I constantly try to make her the best version of herself. Probably a little swap in approaches from time to time would be awesome.

Love is learning. Love is a path. Love is finding someone who is equal parts your complement and equal parts your polar opposite. You want to be with someone who, deep down, is just like you – you share the same values and beliefs, probably even favourite music and teams, you share the same outlook on life. But beyond that, you will want differences, for they are what you will talk about. You need differences to understand the other person better, and to grasp what makes them tick. It is the differences which will make you appreciate the seperate entity that the person is. And the differences are the factors that will maintain an element of surprise and excitement throughout.

It is both, however, the fact that you are similar yet different; two different entities yet intertwined into something bigger; that makes you appreciate the wonder that love is.  Two wholes doubling up into a strength that shakes the world. A little dark in white and a little white in the dark – two human beings, one bond. Love.

I took a deep breath. The cool wind in my lungs seemed to freshen me up. Despite me being there alone, I knew I truly wasn’t. I rarely am. Either I am with her or she is with me, and despite being miles away this makes sense. Sometimes she encroaches my thoughts, and sometimes I go to her. And very much like the Mumbai skyline from Marine Drive, the more I focused on her, the more I could see and hear her everytime.

And as the lateness of the hour dawned on me, I heard her tell me to go home and sleep.

Sure enough, came a ping, as I smiled and started walking.

yin_and_yang_by_oikaiwa
Yang and Yin, by Oikaiwa, Mintskie DeviantArt
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Romance, Special

Here’s To Her

I closed everything on my phone and looked out of the window. The sun was just about to rise, and so was a new dawn in my life.

We had exchanged words all night. One could say that so far that was the only thing we had. But more beautifully, that night was all about the words we didn’t say to each other before. The meaning between the lines, the crafty no responses and the backspaced sentences were all shared, either directly or indirectly. A word sent that night held in a thousand sentences held back before, and each sentence read that night flooded my conscious like my subconscious usually is.

Describing her is a tough task – not because of the fact that my vocabulary often fails me regarding her, not even because my mind goes into noise cancelling mode when I think about her. I have the words, but I don’t know which ones. I’m around a cacophony, and it doesn’t bother me today. But, words are all I have.

So, here’s to her.

There’s beauty between humans – a beauty which is not seen or observed. It is felt and heard, very much like raindrops splattering on a roof. This very beauty is the one languages have tried to capture, for the pen can show what the brush and the camera can’t. Between humans, it is a mix of darkness and light which paints this beauty. It is the fine balance of shade and light which seems to create the beauty of boulevards. And life is nothing but journey along a boulevard, and at times beneath a tree, in the netted patterns of shade, you need someone to play the game of dhoop chhaon.

Here’s to her, the girl who is captivated by dhoop chhaon.

The art of succinct and sure transfer of messages may be a skill, but when it comes to bonds, it becomes a habit – a trait which is fueled by the bond itself. The proficency to ‘tell’, summarize, and share in the least of words comes after a great deal of amity has been passed back and forth. But more so, it is about you saying the right things at the right times to them, which has never happened to you with anybody else. It is about finding the words that they were struggling to find, and giving them the satisfaction that you understand what they mean. It is about how much you can say to each other while being as laconic as possible.

Here’s to her, the girl who believes in trials at brevity.

Sometimes, however, it is about letting the words flow. However difficult and troubling it seems, venting your mind is the first step to trust. As a benefittor of multiple chances to say and share things I couldn’t frame and things that wouldn’t come out, I am the testament to the blessing an open ear is. Sometimes it is a chance is all you need, but well, chances and life have one thing in common – you never know when they can surprise you. People who are a sound listener and a patient reader, the world needs more of you. Every person who has something to say needs more of you. Every struggling Manto needs more of you.

Here’s to her, the girl who stands by ‘Bol ke lab aazad hai!

Bol ke lab aazad hai!‘ comes with it’s humongous share of responsibility. The responsibility is a little about saying things well, saying the right things, and probably about touching a chord somewhere. There’s nothing as exhilirating than impacting someone close with something true and heartfelt, bringing out a response that you know is a prized one. It is that one response that makes you realise that somehow you’ve not messed up, and that you have actually, once again, done something right.  As someone who is a klutz in every sense, it is a response people like me strive for.

So here’s to her, the girl who doles out ‘aaye haayes‘.

But there are a lot more things about that night. Things that I do not have the capacity to share –  not only because I cannot pen them, but because I am so overwhelmed. So far it wasn’t me thinking, it was a warmth in my fingers driving them across the keyboard. And it’s getting hotter. There’s a stupid smile, a happy heart, and a peaceful mind. For probably the first time, I have no complaints with life. I could almost start dancing on the street. Yepp.

Here’s to her, the girl who writes yep with two ps.

Here’s to her.

Musings, Special

Who is ‘She’?

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.

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Read more at: The Best Of Halfway To Asphodel: 2015-2017!

Halt by Christina Duewel
‘Halt’,  by Christine Duewel