Forever? Maybe not.

But maybe the cupid struck the right arrows that day.
maybe the arrows hit the right places.
maybe…?

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A/N- With this story I complete one year of writing stories. It has been a beautiful one year. Thank you for your love and support .
This story is roughly based on the lovestory of Amrita Pritam and Sahir Ludhianvi. It doesn’t aim at hurting anyone’s emotion. Enjoy it as a story and learn a little about love too.

Happy Reading Folks !

Before leaving, she looked into the mirror one last time. With shivering hands, she straightened her bindi. Dressed in a traditional kurti and a pair of rugged jeans, she reflected her inner chaos.
She passed the room clouded with smoke and inside that little chamber rested a man in his late fifties, a newspaper in one hand and cigarette butt in another. The man took to his feet, came close to her, hovering above her tiny body and whispered with a hidden rage, “Don’t you dare look so beautiful and hit the club. I know my kind, we are an easy prey. I don’t want another man to fall and never learn to rise again.” She freed herself from his claws and went away without paying any attention.

Before going any further, She is Avantika, Avantika Chauhan, and the man with the subtle threats is her husband Mirza Khan. Avantika, a freelance poet, wrote mostly in Hindi and was trying to better her works while Mirza was a famed artist who painted his canvas with the colors of Avantika. But unfortunate as his fate was, Avantika never loved him enough nor was he free enough to spend time with her and give her the love she deserved. Twenty years either was tortured by the other. They were tied in a bond which neither could break because they were equally alone, lonely and brilliant to find someone else.

………………………………………………

The first two performers were already down and the audience was loving them. It was her turn. She exhaled the problems and went up to the stage. This was her first Poetry Slam and a one filled with love to start with. Scanning the audience for the last time her eyes rested on another pair of blue ones. A smile flashed from that end and poetry was what escaped.

After the slam was over, they had a dinner to attend and that was when the blue pair of eyes got a name, a friend and a place in her heart.

Siddhartha, an accomplished poet of the time, melting fleshes around the country with the heat of his words. He was a man of few words and even fewer emotions. Love, affection, relationships, foreverness, intimacy, lust were only a part of his poems.

But maybe the cupid struck the right arrows that day.
maybe the arrows hit the right places.
maybe…?
They hit the heart of a poet dead by heart and a woman tied in the knot of a lifetime.

There’s a thing about fate and destiny neither have been seen nor can be decided. In this world of injustice, pain, and cruelty a little love found its place and blossomed, making one’s poems true and the other’s life worth one.

Siddhartha once described their relationship as,

वो चाय की पहली सुडकी थी,

तो मैं अधजले सिगरेट से निकलता आखरी धुआँ।

It was the most beautiful thing happening to two individuals in their mid-forties.
It is true, love always finds a way. Love arrives when it has to and when you know it is the love you deserve everything falls into place. Everything just fits!
Both of them were so engrossed in each other that their poetries and works reflected the love and respect they felt.

Avantika was a free bird again. The rustic cage of twenty years finally broke open. Mirza and Avantika went separate ways.

Siddhartha and Avantika were made for each other. Their relationship was above the world of materialistic possession and physical intimacy. He found love in her slurps of tea while his poems over a few stubs of cigarettes, that’s where she lost her heart. Even twenty-four hours a day were short for the discussions they struck,
the poetries they shared and
the love they felt.
But there’s a thing about love, it has to be taken care of like an infant. You need to express,
you need to talk,
you need to confess,
you need to let go of the boo-boos
you need to hear and above all,
you need to understand the unsaid.
That’s where they lost their ways.

तारीफ़ों से चीख उठता है जनाब का दिल,

उनकी आँखों में देखा है मैंने,

बस जुबाँ पर कभी आने नहीं दी उन्होंने,

भूरे सी डायरी में आवाज़ों को कैद किया करते थे।

Funny, how it took a poetryslam to make and break two hearts.

While one yearned to hear the emotions hidden in the pages of the diary, the other turned blind eye to the silent requests made.

She just happened to lose her soul in their cup of relation so much so that she never realised when she was holding onto an empty cup, where emotions and expressions never had their place.
And for Siddhartha, he lighted up the story like his piece of cigarette, smoked it, let it affect his system and put it out when half finished.

In the echoes of their verses, a few cups of tea and some half burnt cigars they felt so much love that they never knew when the sound of their beating hearts was hushed,
Lub-Dub hush!

Lub-dub Shhhhhhhh!

They were caught, reflected and absorbed in a dark, dingy ally meeting an immature ending like several other incomplete stories whose shrieks still haunt those wandering the streets.

-Dash

Ink and Paper

If you ever comeback,

I’ll be here waiting for you. 

With Those voids and some wounds too.

But this time, I won’t let you

 color my scars again; For,

You are the ink and You are not

 supposed see the paper’s pain.

You’re not supposed to see the paper’s pain.

Like those disclaimers before the movies, I thought my life bears no resemblance with others, just a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person is a pure coincidence. But the paper proved me wrong. The letters scribbled on it mocked at me when I told them my story. And then I realized you were the ink to my papers. 

You came to me like a summer breeze , hot ,warm and making me restless. Your presence was something I had always feared. But slowly, as the summer turned into rains, and it started to drizzle, you showered me with your attention, love and care. And I started dreaming about your touch. Gone were those hostility and those ignorance. You made me come in terms of my past and made me spoon the threads of a beautiful dream. 

You know, we all are like these white papers. Everything leaves an impression. A dot, a line , a tangled mess of doodles, a tear drop or any stain, everything leaves an impression. Even some deep stretched wound of those who are close to us, leaves a mark. Still the paper remains white. Bearing all those scars on its soul, it craves for the ink which would see beyond the white of its heart. You were like that ink to me, Which poured itself on me and covered all those scars, with the color of its being. 

Sometimes I do wonder, Does a blank paper matters to ink , as much as the ink matters to it?Does the ink feel proud to leave its permanent imprints on the heart of papers? Or its just another notch in its belt!? . Does it craves to touch that used sheet of paper, as much as the paper wants to be kissed again.!? Does the colorful ink ever gets intrigued by the blankness of the sheet!? I often wonder, does it know , how much it matters to the paper to bear it’s marks for the rest of it’s life!

Even the paper feels jealous about the other blank sheets. They have what, she lost. Time! They are still pure. She thinks about the other 100 pages the ink had touched . They have what she is yet to achieve. Experience! She compares herself with all those blank sheets and also with all the written ones. Does the ink find them more beautiful than her?Has it told more stories to them?Has the ink ever told them about her?The page wonders, Is she the only one to fall in love with the ink or are there many! It wonders Which page is the ink’s favorite one!. Does it care about the pages as much as they care about him!? 

 Unfortunately,no one asked the ink about it. Had they asked, a new piece of paper could have refrained itself from falling in love with the ink. That’s the fault with the readers. They never ask. They only trust the ink. Had they known the deceptive nature of the ink, they could have tried to listen those suppressed sobs of the papers. The cries which still echoes in the spaces between two words, the echoes which could be heard in the untouched parts between the lines.They could have seen the unrequited love which remains hidden in the commas and semicolons. And could have felt the torments of heartache which are witnessed by the periods and full stops. Had they known they could have stopped the ink from scribbling more and more poems on papers and in return stealing away bits and pieces of the innocence of the page. But unfortunately, no one ever asked, nor they have ever tried to hear.

You know, That’s why I blamed me, the people around me and you, for what had happened between us. The way you touched me to the core, the way you drenched my heart with your tears and the way you made me fall in love with the protagonists of your stories. The way you kept on writing poems and stories about Us and the way you kept on Scribbling the lessons from the past. And the way you vanished from my life, without any bye, without saying anything ,had  left me craving for more . But no one ever cared. Not even  you! You’re supposed to steal my scars, you were supposed to color me with your kisses. I was supposed to take all the burden away from your heart. I was supposed to soak those tears of your bleeding heart. We both did our job. But in between I fell in love and you didn’t. Or was it like you said that you fell in love and left me waiting for you forever!? Had I known I wasn’t sufficient, I would have saved my self for someone else. For someone who after caressing me, wouldn’t have left me . Now see, I’m everything but blank . You will never come back to me. But someone will. Someone will come back and read me again and again. Someone will take me in hands caress those wounds given by you.He will be intoxicated by the way I smell, but would never know I have drowned myself in the aroma of yours.  Someone will fall in love with me. But he would never know me the way you did. He could never leave an impact on me the way you did. He would fall in love ; But not with me. He will fall in love with the girl you left behind. 

Time would change. The white of the paper would gradually turn into yellow. But the marks on it would still glow in pride. The words signed by the ink wouldn’t fade away. Time could not heal these wounds of the paper, it can only make it grow older with it. After some days, the corners would be tattered , but still those inks would matter. Those words, those wounds now define the paper. The scars she was trying to hide would now become her identity. May be the ink would return to it, after realizing it’s worth, but it wouldn’t be the same old blank sheet, naive and eager. The ink might try to reunite with it again, but that would only deepen the wounds, stealing away all the beauty of those scars. Now the paper knows, they were star crossed lover, for one has to die if they wish to remain together . 
I used to think you to be the journey which  I never fathomed the courage to complete. But those ruffling paper sheets spoke to me  of destiny. Perhaps I wasn’t destined enough to be your destination. Perhaps to you I was the journey you would cherish forever or never. Perhaps the miles that you crossed would be treasured in the space beneath your heart or would never even never cross your mind. Perhaps when you complete that dream story of yours may be , may be some where I would be in the acknowledgement section or would be somewhere in the pile of rejected sheets.Lets just hope that  I at least makes it to the acknowledgement section.But I would be lost in the crowd. That uniqueness of mine wouldn’t matter to you anymore! Would it!?After all ,the story is about achieving the goal and I was not even a mile stone. 
I would not try to make you come back, but I’ll wait for you. Wait for the day when you will come back and see how you had helped me to grow. How those small bits of your heart has now become the Alma matter of my survival. I would like to see that pride in your eyes, in the same time want to see that helplessness of not being able to touch me again. If you ever decide to come back, you will find me the way you left me, but what you couldn’t figure out would be the way I will flaunt my scars. For , I have learnt to believe in the power of being broken . For Now I believe in Scars being beautiful. 

I have crumpled myself. Tried to burn myself. I have leapt in to the ocean and I have flown into The hurricane, but no one had been able to erase those imprints. So I decided to flaunt them. I’m not going to tell them to you, coz you could never notice. Like a paper I haven’t been granted the power to pour my heart out. You are the ink, you are the one to speak. I was the one to get drenched and I’m still getting drenched. I’m yet to make people believe,that it’s not me but you. 

 The first time when I was drenched, it was raining blood from your heart. Now when I make people cry, I rejoice those tears, thinking it to be you. I’m living in these stolen moments, when people believe it’s my story and offer their condolences.

 But you know, I wish someday, they could see it all along. I wish they see the resemblance between the lies told by the ink and see the helplessness of the papers. Some day, I want a fellow to go to that never read  acknowledgement  section and  seek out for me. I believe those colors of the ink would fade in the waves of time. But what about those imprints! I want the fellow to touch those scars and feel how deep the wounds were! I want him to learn the beauty that lies in those scars. I want him to see the voids only love can create. But don’t worry, I would make him understand you. I would tell more about the restlessness ,ink had and how the paper wasn’t enough. I would tell him about your dreams and how I was just another step.

In the mean time I wish for you to see me, smiling and living without you in those stolen moments of yours. I don’t want you to see how much I have suffered. If you wish to come back, come n see how much you had mattered.
If you ever comeback,

I’ll be here waiting for you. 

With Those voids and some wounds too.

But this time, I won’t let you

 color my scars again; For,

You are the ink and You are not

 supposed see the paper’s pain.

You’re not supposed to see the paper’s pain.
But you know! deep down I still crave for your touch. Tell me how am I supposed to forget someone who has made me what I am today!?Does the paper ever forgets the ink which craved it’s story as her identity!? Perhaps it dreams about all those moments and day dreams about the kisses. Perhaps it still wants the ink to see her smiling and fall for her all over again.

I wish I could turn back the clock and bring the wheels of time to a stop. To a stop where there would be only you and me. To the time where you belonged to me, Where there would be no memories and there would be no dreams.To a stop where the parchment wouldn’t be needed to change, where the ink would only tale about the present. Where there would be no complain from the paper and the ink would not crave for more. Where the snapshots would be beautifully framed in black and white with no colors to fade and with no journey to be ended. I wish I could turn back the clock and bring the wheels of Time to a stop. 

And sometimes I just want to move on. To be old , ratteled, withered and to be forgotten. You see, this heart , it never stays at a point. It knows it’s incomplete without you but still it always wants to prove that I’m better off without you. I have been here and I have been there but I have never been at somewhere I belong. This restlessness is not anxiety, neither is love . I can’t define it now. But I know someday it will going to define. Not your imprints on my soul , not the ink on the paper rather the experience we have had and the story we have waven is going to last till eternity and is going to define me.

Yes! The paper has never been blessed enough with the power to express of its own but it will tell stories that will definitely make people to think about the ink. And I might not be a mile stone in your journey but I will be that Cross road which will be the turning point of your journey. A book is nothing without the acknowledgement and you’re nothing without this lost part of yours. So, Here I’m waiting for you to succeed, so that when you come back and look at me I could say, no it’s not you but me. 

From being it’s not me To it has always been me, I have came a far way! In the process of finding you,I have found myself. You’re going to matter me Everytime I breath, every time I die a l’ll but from now on I’m not going to let you define me. It’s my story and I’ll project it the way I want. I’ll not wait for you to come back . I’ll move on and with that the corners of pages will bent and began to fade away and so will the ink . 

DAHAN

I was the moth and you were the fire, our love story was destined to witness the havoc of loss, yet why do I have to face the fire?

“This dushera Burn The Ravan of your life” ,The text read. And my best friend asked me to burn our photographs , of course with a wink. I didn’t say anything, she didn’t pester any further. We watched the Ravan Dahan in silence. She enjoying it, me burning in the flames hidden in the ashes of memories. 

When people talk about the Ramayan name their problems,the society as the Ravan, I often do wonder what you were to me!!? Yes, You had made me a prisoner of your will, a possessive intruder you were to my free spirited life. But I wish I could loath you as much as they loath their Ravan. May be you were the Ravan , May be you were The Ram, I don’t know. Many a times  I have  thought of that too, I have simmered in the agony of the public humiliations when you have failed to take stand for me. I have felt your character spinning towards Ram when you gave more importance to your pride than my virtue. Tell me now, tell me what should I do! Do they even consider burning the Image of Maryada Purusottam for a single time!? 

 In the retrospect of my life, when I think, was it the destiny or the karma which left me in such a state , where the person I thought , I knew everything about, could bear a hundred faces and I would be unable to distinguish the real one. I was the moth and you were the fire, our love story was destined to witness the havoc of loss, yet why do I have to face the fire?

 It was me who chose you over my self respect, over and over. It was me who burnt everytime to prove my innocence Everytime you doubted me. It was me who chose to believe you , to trust you over everything and everyone. It was me who used to seek the solace in tears while you indulged yourself in the royal affairs of yours. It was me who wrote long letters stained with tears, while you read some one else’s stories. Perhaps I was the Sita, now a days, every feminist hates. Perhaps I was the one who deserved to be burnt in the flames , perhaps I was the one who should be buried deep in the earth’s crust. 

But the story doesn’t end here , right. In their times Ram Remained loyal to Sita. But you, You turned into the Ravan again. I wish I were buried , if not in the crust of earth, may be some where deep in the ocean, may be burnt in the lava . I wish I were too dumb to miss those signs. I wish I were too numb to feel the ache of replacement. But I wasn’t. I was a human, a women precisely, I was designed to love more, to care more and to feel more, perhaps in the process to get hurt more often.

 Being in my arms, when you murmured her name, I wish I could stop loving you there. In our anniversary,when you went to visit her, I wish I could stop loving you there. You claimed , you had remain loyal to me, you claimed you had never touched her. Then tell me , honestly ,  Why had you had the necessity to abduct her and bring her to our house? What was she to you!? A ray of hope in the days of despair!? A way to gain the popularity you seek everywhere!? If not anything, tell me , why does she matters to you more than I do!!? 
 In the end I felt like the Mandadori. I was helpless , Even for Sita there was her Savior, in whatever armour he might be. For her at least there was her family, they could rescue her from you. May be like the Ravan, you got the thing you wanted from her. May be in the end you have got your much awaited popularity or whatever it was. But what was I supposed to do. I was  like that helpless lady, who in the end turns a slave to the situations. Who couldn’t un-love the man she had fallen irrecoverably in love with, just like that. She could neither stop him from disrespecting a woman nor she could made her elope. She loved him enough to trust him blindly, but had the good wit of knowing what he is up to. But crushed in between the dilemma of her lacking and her love for him,she burnt inside a thousand times. But no one had ever cared. 

Like that lady from the myth, some part of mine burns inside me every time I watch our old photographs. May be we are not together anymore. May be I am not the one you loved, may be I am now engaged to someone else, but you are still the one I love. The fire in me which burns me every moment, never could burn the memories of our time together. I don’t know who was wrong, you or me, I don’t even know what’s right and what’s wrong. If now someone asks me to burn my Ravan, I would rather burn a hundred times from inside, than letting the only strings of our togetherness turn into the ashes . For someone who has been burning for years, to protect her love from getting burnt, for some one who has been holding on to the fight not to let any one loose , for someone who has been dying every moment to keep her memories alive, this vijayadashmi or any other would never matter enough to celebrate the victory of ram over the Ravan. 

-Nayana🎭

When it rains memories

ସ୍ମୃତି କେବେ ଶୀତ ସକାଳ ର କଅଁଳ ଖରା ର ତାତି, କେବେ ଝଡ ବତାସ ର କଳା କିଟୀମିଟି ରାତି ।…..

I looked at the passing trees. The trees which seemed to be in a hurry to leave me alone. For the first time in a while I decided to peep into the closed window of my heart. Perhaps it was the crowd , the hustle bustle of the station that made me come in terms of my inner demons. As,they say silent nights know our cravings, but the loudest of thunders in the scroching sunrays throws the reality on our face. So, this crowd which I was a part of n of n which in return was a part of me, urged me to turn those pages of my diary. 

As the bus roll down the road, it took me down to the memory lane. Where there were too many of hidden memories. The memories which , when confronted left me in bewilderment. Memories which were like the soft rays of a winter morning, melting all those layers of snow and bracing the skin for a warm start of the day. Memories which sometimes were like the dark nights of the hail storm, one touch of it and everything you knew would be devastated. Some deja Vu and a feeling of nostalgia. That’s what they gave me. All my strength used to vanish at once and I become the old sailor having a broken boat in the name of ship and completely in mercy of the waves of time. I fear this black hole of memories which has the power to make me time travel could leave me in the past too. I have ,there for locked that chamber of my heart and blown the key away in the ocean of work. But I have forgotten ocean never keeps anything thrown at it, it returns it back to the shore. Sometimes with the algal growth of memories and sometimes wiping away the dusts of ignorance. In my case, it was the inorance .

It all had started in a bus jurney. Similar to this. Journey from Balasore to Bhubaneshwar .A journey from past to Future. As usual I had engrossed myself in a book. Distracting my mind from the sadness of leaving my family and trying to suppress the fear of being alone in a new city with unknown people, I was focusing on the wit matching between Marrien and Elnor. I was thankful that my adjoining seat was empty. But then out of no where he appeared. Tall, fair and with an angry formidable look. I read the name on his ticket. Abhigyaan Samantaray. A bulb lit in the back of my head. Abhigyaan Samantaray, Rank 1 of our University Entrance Exam. I gingerly sat looking outside of the window. He came and sat there . The first thing that attracted me towards him was his book choice. He was enjoying the Far from the madding crowd by Thomas Hardy. I had fantasized similar moments good knows how many times. A person with similar taste in literature sitting beside me and we both discussing about the novels and politics. But that day , perhaps it all happened in my head but not a single word came out. 
But we did argue. We argued on the writing styles of contemporary authors and argued over the political issues of the country,but they were not in the way I had imagined. They were heated and he was not the one to lose. We were competitors. He was from Science and me,From Arts.It was not only the Debate stage where we faught . We faught in song competition. We faught in Literary clubs. Two egoistic people fighting for their Postion at the top,we were such an example.  

After one of those debate sessions,I was the only girl left. It was getting dark. And it started to drizzle. In my head I was planning ways to get into the hostel in time. Just when I settled for ruuning in the rain trying to get drenched as little as possible, he offered me his umbrella and left me transfixed. Like a thunder bolt, he disappeared into the rains. 

Was it the umbrella carrying his enigma or the rain making my senses go numb, I don’t know,But That crazy angry guy somehow managed to paved his way into my heart that night. I used to admire his wits and prospective a lot. Now when the admiration got a glimpse of the heart lying beneath that angry young man cover of his, it was hard not to fall for him. 
Again, one day I was going to the library.This time I had his umbrella with me. Suddenly the wether worked as the cupid. He was coming out of his hostel and it started to rain. He took shelter under a tree near by and I made a mad rush to him. He looked at me with something unreadable in his eyes. I opened his umbrella and without looking at him went near him. Our Shoulders were touching and he put a hold on his umbrella.
I didn’t know when my wrecking heart became so brave. I was here standing beside a man , a man after my father whom I have started to admire ,fear and like simultaneously. But unnaturally it felt good. I felt safe under that umbrella in an unusual whether. Perhaps it’s his presence which made me feel safer. But what about the butterflies and the picking up of heartbeats. My heart thumped so fast in my chest that I feared he could Listen my racing heart beats. 

We started our journey towards the Library. Everything seemed to be perfect. Even the heavy downpour , the roaring thunders seemed to play an archestra . But then the fate had to do the last dance. With a strong blow of wind , his umbrella bent down and was broken into halves. I was dumbfounded. I was like,”How am I supposed to go now! N moreover how am I going to return his umbrella. Perhaps I have to buy him a new one”. Deciding upon buying him a new one, I looked at him. He was looking straight at me. Raindrops going down his cheeks and making him look younger than his actual age, made it impossible for me to look at him without blushing. I averted my gaze and fumbled a Sorry. When I got to the point and asked him, not to worry about his umbrella as I would replace it with a new one he brust into laughter. I didn’t know how to react at first. It was the first time I was seeing him laugh. He had a rich voice. And when he laugh, it’s like someone had stroke some cords of my heart. It was contagious. I joined him. And within few seconds we both were laughing hysterically without a care in the world. We were at the middle of the road, stuck in heavy rain without any means of protection still laughing like children. He dragged me along with him and we went to a nearby temple. As we sat on the stairs he started humming a slow Melody. Unlike other times, this time we are in the same team. We cherished those moments as much as possible. In the meanwhile he took my dupatta and dried his wet hair with it. 

It stopped raining . A smooth breez was sending shiver down our spins. He took me to the near by tea stall. We cheered to the new found Friendship of ours. Or may be we feared to name this relationship too early. 

After that incident the final semester came . We were too caught up in our own preparation that we didn’t have any time to meet or let alone to engaged in any kind of debate. Some accidental stolen glances and some stolen gossips that’s what I had of him. 

The finals were over. We returned to our home. I never got a chance to confess my feelings for him, neither I got to confront him. More over it was that time , when it wasn’t lady like to ask a boy’s hand for marriage. And when I didn’t know his exact feelings for me, I decided it was better to lock him within my heart. 

In the graduation day , I went to congratulate him with two packets in my hand. One had a black umbrella with his Initials engraved on it. And another package containg my wedding card. 

I told him to open the card. He read it and silently returned it back to me. Then turned his back and started walking away from me. It felt like twisting knife into the flesh of mine. I called him . He stopped. I went to him and asked, “Mr. Samantray won’t you come to my wedding!?” With a faint curve he declined the invitation stating some emergency at home. 

I took the hint and didn’t contact him afterwards. But he was there in my every poem in my every story. I had left my heart to him and now when my heart bleed into the papers it was only to make him alive. My creations made me feel connected to him. My husband used to say, jokingly, if he ever learns about this hero of mine he would kidnap him and strangle him with his bare hands. I laugh with him but my heart skips a beat and within that skipped beat ,I used to pray a little for his longer life. 

But it seemed life was never fair to me. 25years after my marriage,One fine day my husband asked me to get ready to meet his boss who was in the hospital. When we went there, it seemed the time had stopped and I was living a nightmare. Abhigyaan was there. Lying on his death bed. I had no courage to face him. I needed a support. I clung to my husband’s arm. He opened his eyes and looked at us. At first a faint smile touched his lips when he saw my husband but when his gaze fell upon me, something sadder crossed his face and untamed tears fell. From both of our eyes. He asked Swadin,my husband to bring his umbrella to him. Even after 25years I had no problem in those handwritten engraved initials of his. He took the umbrella and with it’s support he tried to stand up. I could not see him struggle . I went to help him. He held my hand . I helped him to lie down. With my hand in his he closed his eyes. He closed his eyes and never open them again. I cried and cried. I cried for how many hours I don’t know. 

My husband did all the rituals. We came home. I went to my study and burnt all those diaries , poems and stories of mine. With the departure of Abhigyaan Samntray a part of mine also left the earth. 

Life was smooth, without any ups and downs. But something was missing. My passion. Though I knew it was missing, I had no wish to find it. Life was monotonous, so was my muse. I never lifted that pen again. 

It has been 15years to that incident. I have never looked into the memories of Abhigyaan again. But today’s rain!! it brought memories and unfortunately this time I didn’t have his umbrella to protect me from getting drenched.Perhaps this was life’s way of teaching me to dance in the storm. 

🎭Nayana🎭

Le Papillon

वो सच्चा था , तोह उसका वजूद झूठा कैसे!!?
वो लम्हे एक ख्वाब थे, तोह मेरी ज़िन्दगी एक हक़ीक़त कैसे ?

(If he was true, how come his existence is a lie? If those moments were mere a dream , then how come my life is a reality??)

08/02/2016:

I think I saw you today. U haven’t changed a bit. The same hairstyle and the same blue American tourister bag. But no, I was wrong. It wasn’t you. You were like that breeze of Monsoon which brings a lot of lighting and thunders with it. It was Someone else. A student from the student exchange programme. He had a slight physical resemblance with you. N that slightest of resemblance was enough to evoke a whirlwind of memories. He wore a crisp black button down shirt with a pair of grey jeans, a stark contrast to your pull over and khaki pants. He was so opposite of you,yet so similar . He reminded me so much of you that its hard to decide, whether his entry was a blessing or curse!
15/02/2016

I was in the cafeteria standing in a line. A sudden commotion outside caught my attention. Upon peeping a little , I saw my cousin punching someone in the guts. Without thinking anything I handed over my token to the friend beside me and hurried to the scene. The matter was out of the hand and they were summoned to the Dean’s chamber. After a lot of pleading and writing an undertaking they let him go without any severe punishment. I forgot my class and went straight to the cafeteria. As I stood in the line to take another token for breakfast, someone gently patted my shoulder. It turned out that in a rush I had thrust the token into his hand , and he watching me run in such an hurry had bought my breakfast. Silently I took my plate and muttered an inaudible thank you n turned away.

16/02/2016
I know it was rude. But what could I do. I was so determined to hate him and he was making it difficult. I saw him again today. This time in an heated argument with the librarian. God! He had a temper. Upon asking the librarian , I got to know he wanted to issue an book but since he didn’t have any card he can’t burrow it. He said , he needed that book to complete the assignment. Thinking to return the favor I issued the book under my name and gave him .

26/02/2016

It had been 10 days. I saw him daily in the library. Daily in something dark colour and reading some book. I knew he could keep that book for a month . So I was determined not to bump into him before the end of the month. I deliberately avoided him as much as possible.

02/03/2016

It was a fine day. A light rain in the morning and slow soothing breezes had done wonders to my soul. Rather than taking the scooty I decided to hit the road with my foot. It had been so long since I had walked to the campus. As usual there were students practicing their usual sketing routine, perfecting their dance moves, and discussing god knows what. Suddenly my gaze halted on a sketch. It was an oil painting. Someone was finishing the oil paint of two hands. Where both of them were clinging the opposite ends of an old book .Though I couldn’t say were the hands approaching each other or they belonged to two departing souls. It had a medival charm to it. The hands in the focus and the background has black colour with a stroke of red to highlight the mystery.What intrigued me was the lower hand . It belonged to a girl. It wore silvery bangles. And a bracelet having a little butterfly. But there was a mole on the knuckles. Exactly where I have a similar black mole. The painter had his back towards me. But I didn’t need to see his face to know who he was. His stiff back , broad shoulder and the hairstyle reminded too much of you.

08/03/2016:

He was popular among girls. Not as much as u, but I think his deep black eyes, strong sets of jaws and deep set dimples and his aversion towards girls gave him the impression of mysterious guy. He was a good student. Very good I must say. I’m saying this today cause he beat me in the online quiz contest. N I was unbeatable since the day of my joining. To my surprise all my friends wished to congratulate him. And my bestie couldn’t stop describing how he took some time to talk to her. It seems the whole college was dead set on making him some kind of celebrity.

11/03/2016

He was there in the entrance of the library. I thought of going to the cafeteria . But before I could change my mind the librarian called my name. He handed me the book and said thank you. I returned it to the librarian and turned towards the cafeteria. He caught up with me and started walking with me. I excused my self in the way and went to the girls room.

15/03/2016.

Now that he had returned my book , there was no point in meeting each other. But he was there, silently reading in the library or engaged in some heating argument or somewhere just sitting silently and looking down at the pond. Now that he had started mixing up, my friends seemed to mention him in every thing. Ishaan(that’s his name) is this, Ishaan is that, Ishaan said this, Ishaan liked that and blah blah blah..

Why!! Why is it like that??! I was supposed to hate him.why I’m listing to these talks? Why I’m marking his every datail. Why my heart skips a beat when I see him.??

From tomorrow onwards I would make sure not to cross his path.

25/03/2016

It was the last day for submitting entries for the college magazine. We, the team of editors had to sit down n go through every entry. we read. I love reading . So I was shifted to another world. Some one called for the attention N had to descend back to the ground.

Let me show you what you are.

For once look into my eyes

I promise you would see

the deepest desires

and some night mares may be,

You are that whisk of wind

which made a flame out of flicker

Now let me blow you away

In a direction that I chose for u to fly.

A speck of pain in the pleasure,

You are the scintilla

My dark soul desires.

When in the mid night

My lust for Selene overwhelms,

What craves inside my chest

Is to behold a pearl like you

in me, and to let

the rain drops drench the fire.

That rain drop on your eye brows

When descends down to the lips

Making it’s way through the cheeks

The flames again

Take me into their embrace ,

How I wish to lick those drops

And wonder would they taste like

The rain or the rose

or just like yours?

Not a classic piece of art you are,
Too mysterious for that.

You are a blend of colours

Mixing with others,

Yet brusting out as a fire.

You are my modern art

For some easy to understand

But what lies beneath the mask

Is only for me to unearth.

When in those late night

I lay bare my heart to the canvas

Those reflections of

yours under the moon

Hit me hard ,

And push me to make you mine

In those deep dark

mixture of colours and

To paint your cheek

With a rose red glare.

On the canvas when

I let the colors flow

And frame that lovely shape of yours

How I wish to color you by myself

And mark my signature there!

And wonder would it make sense to

Link our hands or our desires

Or our names or our souls??

Let me make love to

You in my own ways.

Let me make you mine

And never fade away.

Trust me for once I’m a

Life time kind of guy

Drench the fire in me

with your serenity and

Give your desires a wing to fly

.

The problem was it was too beautiful to discard yet too bold to be published. There was an heated argument. I was dead set on publishing the poem. We argued and finally it was decided that we would vote. We were only two people in favor of this. But we decided to use our vitto and pressurized others to select that.

28/03/2016

I opened my social networking account after a long time. Ignored all the 56 notifications. Ignored all those friend requests and went straight to stalker mode. Opened your profile. As usual you have uploaded loads of pics and many of them had beautiful faces in it. Some I knew and some I didn’t. I searched every girls account who had been tagged or had commented. But to no avail. I was still not sure if you are single or have been committed lately.

In a distrust state I logged out.
11/04/2016.

I was in the library, deeply engrossed in a romantic classic. I heard someone dragging the chair in front of me . Out of curiosity when I spared him a glance , I was looking into two deep brown set of eyes. His eyes were not exactly black like yours, they are brown at the outer side and gain deeper color towards the inner side. I found myself binded by those hypnotic eyes. He sat down and slided our college magazine towards me and pinned me under his gaze until I averted mine.

Silently I took the magazine and skipped through the pages to find that poem, and when I found it the under signed name was Ishan Roy . I looked at him and found myself burning under those intense stare. Then he asked “WHY” first silently , then again rephrasing and controlling his temper , “Why Meghna , Why?. In the past month you have been avoiding me like plague, and suddenly you were against the whole pannel for me. You didn’t even accept my friend request and here you are offering me favours over favours . You are a brilliant student.look at you! You are a piece of art. You have everything going for a girl. Smart, beautiful,intelligent, and what not.I have been unable to erase our little moments from my memory. And I have been inquiring every one about you,stalking you and what not. Hell I have been crazy enough to write poems. I have never been this desperate , n I must admit no one have ever avoided me the way you are doing now. Do u know how it feels.!?” With that he took a deep breath and continued” Thank you. Thank you for helping me. And if my presence troubles you that much , I promise I would never let you complain again. Perhaps I was stupid enough to wave dreams about us.”
With that he stood and walked away. I had a sudden urge to cry. It felt more like a stab of knife in the heart . I didn’t know when along with those stolen glances, silent eye contacts, those oil paints and this poem I was loosing bits and pieces of mine to him. Thats not it, I was also loosing some pieces of your memories too. N what had he said “Do I know how it feels?”

I wanted to scream , “Yes Ishaan, Yes I know how it feels to love someone, to do everything in your power for that person and to never have them reciprocated , or else to notice. I know Ishaan how it feels to see your dream shatter, I know how it feels to get hurt every night and yet to repeat all those things in the morning. I know more than you would ever know. And when I’m telling you believe me , I know . ”
But that was not my style . That had never been. I sat there like a statue and broke down silently. History repeated it self. The same library, the same date, the same me and heart break.

He forced me to take a difficult walk In the deserted memory lane …

17/05/2012
Our 10th board results were out. I was on the cloud nine. 96.7%!! It was more than I have ever dreamt of. Every one was happy.

I ran to your house. You came out laughing and hugged me tight. Yeah we did it Meghna we did it. You told me you got 95%. We took admission in one of the most prestigious junior college of our state.

12/06/2012

New Class and New school . I was afraid to death. But you were the confidence I never had on me. You told me in your casual manner there is nothing to fear when Rishav is there . I smiled , a small disheartened smile. You always had that power over me. You were the only one who could make me smile at any moment.

11/08/2012:
You were always crowded . You were an instant hit in the girls and a good mate in the boys. I was too busy in my studies to get noticed by anyone else. I felt like the distance between us had been increased. Actually thats not the way it was. We were exactly where we were before, but the space in between us had been crowded. But you always did find a way to reach me. Those little talks over our route to hostel, those small small gestures in each other’s special days, made me see you in some special light.

24/06/2014:

We both have qualified the entrance. I was more than happy. But when I went to you I saw you were already boozing with your mates. It hurt Rishav. More than I would ever care to admit . I didn’t know the reason though, It was a tie. I was torn between what to be worried first, that you were descending down to the path of self destruction or you put someone , before me, for the first time. Absent mindedly I found excuses to cover up your deeds.

25/06/2014

You called me . You sounded angry. You said I had started avoiding you. That you have waited for my call till 2 in the morning. May be u had. May be I did matter to you. But I was still disappointed. I didn’t feel like telling you. I just smiled. But to my amazement you said , I didn’t seem happy. I don’t know how you cold read me so right. I asked how, then u said “Idiot Meghna look at your balcony”. There you were , standing in your white pull over and deep green khaki, with as usual ruffled hair and that mischievous gleam in your eyes. I was dazed. You came over and pulled me into a hug. Like a putty I melted against you. I asked about yesterday. You mentioned partying with your friends. But that didn’t involve any description of girls in half drugged state , or boys putting shame to every sane man with their rich vocabulary. I thought you were enjoying in your style and didn’t want me to go into the paranoid state.

11/08/2014
It was the fresher’s day. We have been asked to wear Saree, n you have been order to wear kurta Punjabi. You were looking like a model in your deep green and golden kurta.

Seniors asked you to propose someone. You came to me and went on one knees, took my hand, kissed my knuckles exactly at the black mole and asked me to come to the dance floor. Before I could realize my heart was stolen by you. I didn’t knew whether it was The golden saree or the spot light or those slow romantic songs,or your touch made all my walls break and gave you full access.
Later that night I watched you getting high and being all cosy with other girls. I was like no one . You didn’t even acknowledge my presence . While dropping me off u asked me not to get bothered by tonight. I didn’t knew if it was for the proposal or the other things.

25/02/2015
A lot has been changed in these days. Our circle, our interests , our defination of enjoyment and perhaps the way we view people. But one thing was constant ,my love for you and your care for me. Days have passed by, I have grown to be nerdier , you have grown to be cooler , we still talk , we still study together , we still fight with each other and still fight for each other. That day in the cafeteria you have beaten the shit out of the guy who had commented on me. That gesture was sweet, but I don’t know why do I search for the old rishav who would have made the guy apologize me through his witty retorts.

18/03/2015

Now It seems you don’t find it comfortable to talk to me in front of your friends. I understand your dellema, I’m from the group of girls who burry themselves deep in the book, does all those stuffs In the library, teachers pet type, and you were one of those for whom every thing comes easy. But I didn’t complaint. I was more than happy with our study sessions, with our weekend trips, long drives everything. I loved you that much. I still do, it’s just that I was not happy with what I’m getting. May be love makes us greedy, may be I was being unreasonable. But what about instincts? I could notice your diversion of paths whenever you see me, I could feel your apprehensiveness when we talk in public, I could feel it to my skin. And as per your wish I started to melt down into the shadows. I started stalking you. I noticed my comments getting no replies on your posts. Unfortunately we , those who remain in the shadow have an ability to hear the untold, to look beyond the covers and to read spaces between the words.

11/04/2015
I was in the library , I watched you going with your friends to collect some books. I followed you and sat behind you. I heard you being accepted for the foreign exchange program. You showed him the letter which had arrived a week before. I couldn’t belive u hadn’t Informed me. I couldn’t control anymore. I went to him and sat. His friend took his farewell . I asked “Why!” Then controlling my voice , “Why Rishav, I was okay with being in the shadow , I was okay with not meddling with your life.I was okay seeing you flirt with other girls. I was okay with our weekly day outs. I was okay cause o thought everything between us is okay. I thought I ment something to you. You are leaving the country yet you didn’t bother telling me”

You replied in an aloofed voice , I hadn’t told anyone. Not even my family. I was going to break that in our dinner . And common Meghna, don’t be so naive. We are not in a relationship, I’m not answerable to you.”

Though he uttered those words with his playful smile, they stung me in those places which I never knew existed.

In an attempt to hide my tears I stood up. You held my hand . For the first time in months you asked me to stay. But The noise of my screaming heart was more powerful than your pleas . I looked at the book in my hand and read out the quote aloud.

“When you are

a bit less blinded,

Am a bit less naive.

When you know

what being sensitive means

and I have mended my ways

with maturity,

We would sit up all night and talk

Perhaps would talk the whole day along

That’s a promise

I would trade my heart to keep

But until then ,my friend,

(Let me love you and live.)
I couldn’t complete the quote and rushed out. I broke down .

11/04/2016

Calenders has changed. People has changed . My life has changed. Yet time has brought me again to the place from where I had started .
Rishav or Ishaan , two sides of a coin , completely different yet so alike . I wish there Was something in-between in the tossing of coins, for I couldn’t care more who wins the toss ,but in the end Its the coin.It has to live with both the results.

12/04/2016

I have to be honest with him. Atleast he deserves that. But to my surprise he didn’t even turn up at the college. Why is it like that, we miss a person when he is not around, and all we do in his presence is to lurk in the shadows.

24/04/2016

He was at the pond. Looking down at the water . Throwing stones into it. He was throwing stones, and then waiting for the ripples to die down and then again throwing one into the water. I waited for some time. Then I took a stone and threw it , breaking his presence pattern . He muttered a curse and looked at me. I went to sit beside him. He stood up, but I caught his hand and made him sit down. This time I started the pattern . He just looked on.
“I love someone, else.”

“So?”

“I can’t love you”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Both”

“You are lying”

I looked at him perplexed and he continued,

“I know about Rishav”
He never ceases to surprise me
“I can tell you that you were in love with the idea of him , not with him.”
I smirked and started the stone game again.
No one would ever understand my love, my wait, my crave for Rishav. May be what Ishaan knows about Rishav is enough for him to judge my love , but what he didn’t know was we had a history of 10 years to back us up. The girl He is in love with is Rishav’s undoing. Rishav was the confidence I never had on me. May be in later years their equation has changed, but in the end they are the variables needed to make an equation. Like an one dimensional point has no equation, I was dimensionless without Rishav.

I stood up to go. Ishaan let me. He threw a stone, without waiting then the threw another, then other and other.
When I turned my back he said silently, He might come back, he might get around and love you back , but tell me one thing Meghna, can you forget all those shadows and dark hours you put together to have a single glance of him? Can you get past all those avoidance which made you doubt yourself!? I hope you could. I sincerely do. Cause if not, you would be burdened down by the consequences of your choice.
Once again I was wrong. This time not about you, this time it was him. It seems he could see into my fears , my insecurities and my love.

02/01/2017

Soon it was time for Him to board the train back to his home. Sitting by his side had become a daily routine now. He understands the ripples between the water, he understands the stones on the path, he understands the wrinkles on the forehead, he understands the gap between the stanzas.
He still painted. He painted water, he painted smoke, he painted fire , he painted lilies, he painted daisies, but in the middle he never forget to paint butterflies.
He still wrote poems, he wrote about desires, he wrote about love, he wrote about souls, he wrote about bodies, he wrote about flowers, he wrote about pearls but In some stanzas he a always used colors.
To day I got a mail from you, telling how much we have to cover on your arrival which was just 2 days after his departure.
Perhaps this was the moment of oblivion. I felt a brust of two opposite emotions at a time, yet none of them were potential enough to make me smile or make me cry. I just sighed. Perhaps thats what happens with a coin . It has to carry on. Perhaps thats what life is all about. A cocktail of emotions and a deep sigh .

30/01/2017

Ishaan and I were sitting on a bench on the platform.
“So”

“So?”

“He is coming, then”

“Yeah,he is”

“And I’m going”

“No, You are not”

“What!! I can’t get a refund now”
(We both new what you actually meant. I smirked at his attempt to make it easy, but good byes are never easy. Are they?? You keep telling me there is something good in every goodbye. May be there is. But there is also a bye in it.)
I said, “Oh come on, we would be in touch”

He just got up and stood. I dragged his hand, but unlike last time, he dragged me up.
Keeping my hand in his , he started saying the lines
“One day

One day we would talk ,

We would talk the whole day and

Perhaps all the night along,

But I then my friend

I wish you would be a little selfish

And I would be more persistent

When there would be no Rishav to wait for

And only we have met a life time before.

One day in another life, in another world, I would wait for

It’s a promise, I would trade my soul to keep

With each line he took a step away. And with each step he took a part of mine

His train left. I watched him dissolving into the smoke. I listened him voicing the unsaid. I felt him cutting my soul and taking a half with him. That moment I felt like the Meghna I had built over the past one year, in the absence of Rishav. I was back to square one , with only the part that had loved Rishav. Known only Rishav . But what to do with the time, the memories on which he had left an colored imprint of his bare soul.

01/02/2017
I was at the platform waiting for Rishav. But my fingers were fumbling with 10 digits, which every time dialed responded with “the no. doesn’t exist anymore”.

There was no trace of his social networking account. There was no address in the College profile, other than his college name. I had asked a lot of students from his college,but none had given me any solid information. Like he doesn’t exist. Like he was some one from the smoke and melted into it.
Rishav got out of the train and hugged me tight. And with a sound kiss on my forehead told me he had missed me.

08/02/2017

I hadn’t told Rishav anything about Ishaan. And surprisingly enough no one had never took his name in front of Rishav, like no one ever talked about Rishav in front of Ishaan.

Rishav Took me to his home. And his mother made us sit together. He now proudly introduces me to everyone as his fiancé.
Life is fine. But oddly enough Rishav had gift me a charm bracelet having butterflies on it.
It reminds me of me,of him and of you. It tells me as beautiful as a butterfly may be, it never stays caged. It reminds me every ugly duckling, insecure caterpillar has a beautiful future and every beautiful butterfly has an ugly past. It reminds me of the colors life had to offer. It reminds me how fast the colors change. It reminds to live in the moment. It reminds me never to forget him.

“वो सच्चा था , तोह उसका वजूद झूठा कैसे!!?
वो लम्हे महज एक ख्वाब थे, तो मेरी ज़िंदगानी एक हक़ीक़त कैसे?”

(If he was true, how come his existence is a lie? If those moments were mere a dream , then how come my life is a reality??)

🎭Nayana🎭

Letter to Gregory House. 

Love,
Someone who truly misses Vindaloo curry.

A/N- Dear readers, am sure most of you have not watched [H]ouse MD. It was a very, very famous TV series a couple of years back, five to be precise. Hugh Laurie played the protagonist and no one else could have done justice to the character. It has shaped various lives and one such is mine. It made me realize the value of life and several others. The final episode of HOUSE aired some five years back but the aura of the show still has many viewers hooked and captivated.
This is a small tribute to House in form of an open letter to Greg. All this is my own content, however, some are [H]ousespired and the use of any kind of abusive words is not meant to hurt the feelings of the readers. And yes, Hugh Laurie wasn’t harmed in writing this piece. We love Hugh a lot!

—————————————————————————————————————————————–

Dear Greg,
So here it is. Not that you really show that you need this but trust me I can sense you smirk and raise an eyebrow as you ready yourself to read this letter.
You can save the energy of racing your gray cells at the speed of light (which technically you can’t), you read the envelope and it says from anonymous but it also freaks you out and you really want to know who I am. So without much ado, I am a FAN. You have loads of them and there’s this possibility that your house is full of the fan mails, let alone from the patients you have saved. There’s so much to ask and talk but let’s talk about your eyes. There’s something about your eyes, those blue ocean deep eyes. They sparkle differently, there’s this sapphire luster radiating when you get a mind-numbing case! The soft sparkle when you used to see Lisa every day at the hospital and you two did really hit it off, oh come on, I know whatever happened didn’t end well while it should have but get over it, though am confident the “Moving On” thing should have been pretty much the same except for racing the car into her HOUSE. See you play equally well as a noun and not to forget the childish one when you hear someone say porn!

By the way, how’s your love? No it’s not about WILSON, it’s about those tiny capsules you took on a daily basis, the very reason which awakened your feelings for CUDDY and the reason she left you. It’s weird what a tiny thing like VICODIN could do, let alone humans! Convey my regards to your boyfriend, you might have pulled up a thousand stunts to get rid of him but he’s like a boomerang, he returns to you. Because he knows YOU need him more than HE needs you. Am pretty sure you still make some really beautiful girls think he’s gay so that you can get under their pants but you continue to fail in doing so.
Lastly, I hope your leg pains really well and you are coping, dealing with the pain without the Vicodin. It has been five years now, long since you are gone. I miss you and so do a million others. I am still looking for the land where you vanished leaving the rest of us in tears!
I can proudly declare myself “psychotic” as soon as you reply to this letter. I know you cannot turn water into wine but you have and am pretty sure you are still saving lives in all possible ways, you can. And here I quote directly, “Everybody Lies, the only variable is about what”, so you may mark some of my comments to be true, even if they aren’t.
Love,
Someone who truly misses Vindaloo curry.

– Smaranika Dash

Mother’s Love. 

It’s more of a protective shield she casts on us, it’s there even if when she isn’t around making sure no evil can penetrate that shield of love and compassion.

 A/N- This is a very small tribute to all the mothers around the world traveling through lives of three mothers of the magical world. Hogwarts has portrayed several characters each of them having a life-long impact on all our lives. So this a little something for the Mother’s Love.

 
An invisible feeling which you can’t resist describing as beautiful, lest talk about the irony!

It’s something which was there when we were inside them, month after month and yet after all these years when we have reached our adulthood it still remains the same.
It’s more of a protective shield she casts on us, it’s there even when she isn’t around making sure no evil can penetrate that shield of love and compassion.

——————————————————————

This kind of love is universal, be it a red head pureblood or a blonde one. She knows what we need, she knows what we are going through, she helps us getting over tough situations, she offers a meal when no one around cares, she saves us even if we are the nemesis because she knows the side she supports is wrong, is bad, is evil.

And no mother will ever want a child, even if it’s not her own blood, to suffer a death, death will fear.

——————————————————————

Even if he isn’t able to make it through, there is Mother’s love in heaven too.

One mother reciprocates the gesture of another by taking her twin into her arms and treating, caring and showering love in all possible ways just to ensure he feels like the Burrow, it’s not much but it’s HOME.

________________************_______________

~ Smaranika Dash