The Middle Ground

I had turned 25 that year and he was 27 perhaps. We met once or twice before he went to Boston on an official trip. Along with chocolates and other gifts, he brought back 2 stones - one from the MIT campus and the other from a place beside a lake where he had stopped for a bit as his friends moved ahead. "What an unusual thing to gift somebody", I had thought at that time, brain too flushed with mush to utter the thought out aloud. We subsequently broke up quite violently after which I gave away all the gifts I received from him to an NGO. These two stones and his letters, however I kept close, secretly taking them along to which every city I moved to. On some Friday evenings after a long day at work, I carefully extract them from their envelopes, as if unearthing a secret treasure, and read them while Jagjit Singh's heart-wrenching ghazal , "Tere khushboo mein base khat main jalata kaise ?" plays in the background. I am 35 now and he is married to an...

Sometimes poems about rebellion, equality, unrequited love and freedom are not enough. Kundera's lightness of being, Murakami's nostalgia, Auden's lament about unrequited love, Cohen's blues about infidelity and lust are all glorious but the gentle rains outside remain aloof.  The winds seem to object strongly : “These feelings have been felt, written about , and enacted upon stage till death!” Occasionally the leaves of the peepul plead to be written about : “You’ve seen us dance therefore you must write about what we made you feel!” One sultry afternoon after a short, unexpected shower the koel croons one of its original numbers, clearly approving of the respite that the cool breeze brings. They all seem to whisper, “Write about the things that really matter!” The most exquisite tapestry created by the vermillion Gulmohar petals invite me back to the carefree times of laid back picnics spread on blue chequered cloth with wicker baskets full of jam, sandwiches, scones ...