The mind asks me a lot of questions. Questions I have answered in the past. Do all things around me really matter? Do people, do books, do bikes, do all the things I like matter? I don’t know. Perhaps, the inability to see the end handicaps my desire to be happy.
I had been happy once. Like D, I was happy even in unsuccessfulness. I had believed that people don’t change and flowers don’t wither. But those things look as yellow as the pages where they were penned. The wind on my chest, the insects plastered on my visor and the aching throb of an engine between my legs are far away. Even their memories are untouchable.
In the newspaper office here, I am doing what I always wanted to do. Write. Never thought that I would be writing about bikes in a business paper. In the process, I lost my four-year-old faithful steed. Dad could finally find a buyer. Just wish I could see it once before someone else swung his leg over the familiar tattered seat.
Crazy is here. My den feels much better now. Wish she had been here earlier. But ironically, to cut my loneliness she received her share. While I am punching away at the keyboard and the invisible demons in my head, she waits in seclusion at home. Lalon, a guy who Ma has sent from Kolkata to help with domestic chores is her only companion. And I am not sure how he helps her to cope with sadness in my absence.
Have been reading William Dalrymple’s ‘The City Of Djinns’ lately. The book, which supposedly provoked D’s love for Delhi. Fascinating book I must say. In my case, it has solved many mysteries. I feel nestled in a fascinating place, suspended in space whenever I turn those pages.
Recently, I had gifted someone a book, in the hope that it would help her to revive her fading interest in the printed words. But like many memories of mine, it will become untouchable someday.
A very Happy New Year to you, Anne Frank and me.
I had been happy once. Like D, I was happy even in unsuccessfulness. I had believed that people don’t change and flowers don’t wither. But those things look as yellow as the pages where they were penned. The wind on my chest, the insects plastered on my visor and the aching throb of an engine between my legs are far away. Even their memories are untouchable.
In the newspaper office here, I am doing what I always wanted to do. Write. Never thought that I would be writing about bikes in a business paper. In the process, I lost my four-year-old faithful steed. Dad could finally find a buyer. Just wish I could see it once before someone else swung his leg over the familiar tattered seat.
Crazy is here. My den feels much better now. Wish she had been here earlier. But ironically, to cut my loneliness she received her share. While I am punching away at the keyboard and the invisible demons in my head, she waits in seclusion at home. Lalon, a guy who Ma has sent from Kolkata to help with domestic chores is her only companion. And I am not sure how he helps her to cope with sadness in my absence.
Have been reading William Dalrymple’s ‘The City Of Djinns’ lately. The book, which supposedly provoked D’s love for Delhi. Fascinating book I must say. In my case, it has solved many mysteries. I feel nestled in a fascinating place, suspended in space whenever I turn those pages.
Recently, I had gifted someone a book, in the hope that it would help her to revive her fading interest in the printed words. But like many memories of mine, it will become untouchable someday.
A very Happy New Year to you, Anne Frank and me.
