Tag Archives: longreads

Travelling

“I have this habit of scrolling through my Facebook wall on a regular basis, I am pretty sure I could find many like me. I halt at all the travel pics that come by, showing the diverse range of places people are travelling all across the globe. It’s fascinating to be honest especially for a guy like me, who has been in constant company with the city Delhi for over four years now.

Apart from my daily hassles to achieve my much needed break from joblessness and achieving that distant dream, I travel. My next statement might be at odds with my previous one, bear with me and continue; apologies in advance. The maximum I have traveled in recent times would be the 45 minute metro ride which I nowadays do often. I know it’s silly to call that a travel but I find that journey interesting and worthwhile to be called so. Before moving further I have to introduce another thing that I love doing, I observe. When I travel with people all around, I find my stories to observe from.
Every person has their own beautifully crystallised universe. Like the young couple leaning on the wall have that passion in their eyes which blurs everything that stands around them. The old lady seated with her son has her eyes stuck at the gate while clutching on to her son’s arm as she rests. And how could I forget that mystery girl who kept smiling as she looked at me, she was beautiful to be honest but she disappeared in the crowd at the metro station. I mean there are so many stories all around that it makes me feel like I am actually travelling. Isn’t travelling about meeting new faces, making new stories? Though I do admit it’s also about remembering the old ones while looking at the sunset from a deserted beach. Crushes alert!

The point I wanted to convey is that you travel when you meet new people, when they share their experiences while you narrate them one from your own. Writing helps here, it helped me. I spoke to many writers from different parts of the country, different parts of the world, as well as different age groups while even going ahead & collaborating with a few. Certain things aren’t different though, be it Lisbon or Delhi. The emotion remains the same, I have realised, while experiences could totally differ. It wouldn’t be strange now if I told you that traveling in time was possible. It happened with me when I befriended writers who were way older than me. Their experiences were something which I could never relate to but I listened, because I felt somewhere that I might be in that position one day. I thought I might prepare in advance.

You might be thinking that I am trying to justify my limitations, you are not wrong if you think so. In my defence though, I would say that I did travel solo one time, but I didn’t get that kick which I thought would happen. May be it was because of the ache my hand suffered due to the selfies I tried to click, or because there were no faces that I met which could have made that trip memorable. It’s always been people for me, it always will be; after all we are social animals, aren’t we? So when I halt at the travel pics, I smile. I do wish I was there to experience that but I am nevertheless happy because I am moving too.”

#TravelingDiary

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The Antagonist

“Humanity, love for a fellow human being, is it some sort of a bargain we have to dish out every time we meet or converse with an another. Does it come out naturally to us or is it forced upon, like the innumerable veils we garb ourselves with. Couldn’t we just enforce a default and forget paying back the goodwill which others generously spend on us. Why can’t we treat it as an economic good, scare and non-renewable, using it only when we generate profit from it. Isn’t manipulation a quality? Why is it seen as a crime? Why do people see me as a misfit when they do what I do but only implicitly? It’s a strange world out there.”

The invisible thoughts flew around one after the other as I finally kept the nib up and rounded the diary back to the shelf. I had bigger things to focus upon, bigger for the moment I was in. It would be my 5th robbery today and the art seemed to flow naturally for me. Despite being only twenty, I already had a high reputation in my circle to live up to. Coming to repute, let me make one thing clear, I am no robin hood, which I think you have already figured. I have no remorse at what I do, nothing whatsoever. Though I do keep my count, the number of things I messed up during previous heists, the ones I should avoid this time. I keep looking for that perfect score, the invisible stature where I would walk in and walk out, unknown, untouched, like I was never there. But anyways that’s the dream.

Tonight, I had circled on the house at the corner, the one with the beautiful garden. Something I haven’t told you yet, I had wanted to become a florist when I was a little kid before I was pushed into our family business. It wasn’t exactly a push, it came naturally to me, may be that’s the reason I started early. Please don’t mind these thoughts; they keep flying by. Coming to the house I was talking about. It had been locked for over a couple of weeks. I inquired around, they all seem to say that it would take another week for the family to get back. That night as I lay inside on the sofa, watching my favourite serial “FRIENDS” on my iPad, I heard a chatter from outside.

“Dad, please open the door. I can’t hold it anymore.”

“Darling, be a good girl. Dad is trying to find the keys.” Tara replied.

“Ah, there it is!”
Ryan opened the door as Arya pushed her father and stormed inside.

“Careful, the lights…” Ryan stopped in between as his eyes lay upon the lighted iPad in the dark living room. There were series of laughters that were coming out from it.

Ryan went for the lights while Tara went to take a look at the puzzled activity on the sofa. The lights came on while I stood behind Tara with my knife on her throat. Ryan stood startled as Arya rushed and clutched onto her father’s leg in shock.

“Don’t come close!” I shouted.

“Leave her right now. Take whatever you want, but leave her.” Ryan shouted back.
“If I say I also want her then?”

“Joey doesn’t share food” the iPad roared.

“You fucked up shit. How dare you!” Ryan charged ahead.

“Stay where you are Mr. Ryan. Am I not in the position of strength?” As I kept the knife even more closer, drawing the first blood. Tara screamed in pain, her eyes were tensed but she didn’t mumble a single word.

“Please. Leave her! I am sorry, leave her.”

“You sound genuine! So little girl what should I do now?” Ryan kept moving his daughter behind himself. She was inconsolable, crying loudly in a shrieking voice.

“Ask her to shut up. I hate kids when they cry.”

“Please leave her. Take whatever you want, please.”

“Okay. I see you have a point.” Smiling at the irony as the song plays out from the tab, “I will be there for you…”

I took the bag from his hands, and moved towards his car still holding the knife on his wife. I asked her to sit beside quietly. She kept quiet, who wouldn’t when you have a knife on your throat. Ryan was pleading to leave her alone, but I wasn’t yet sure of their loyalty. I heard none of what they said, and whistled past the place with the bag and Tara. Ryan did run behind the vehicle but I think the vehicle was faster, indeed it should be, horse power you see.

It was only in the morning, Tara returned home. She wasn’t her normal self anymore. Though her clothes were untouched and she carried no injury, her eyes screamed in pain, as if something broke within her and wouldn’t possibly glue forever. “Only if they hadn’t returned home that night, things might have been much different, only if”, she thought.

#Tara&Ryan

Thirtieth Anniversary

“She appeared from behind, slowly measuring her steps before she took them. The crowd stood agitated in front of her house while she stood before them, head down. Between her and the crowd stood her father and Ram. The noise grew louder with every dialogue her father and the crowd spoke, ultimately it was her father who had the last say. The villagers returned back to their humble huts but a decision was still not taken. Her father had to approve of Ram which was in no case easy. He belonged to a different region, a different caste, and most importantly even his parents weren’t in agreement with him in this. This made the matters more complicated but Sita was determined. She spoke to her father animatedly, spoke for the man she loved at par with her father. It wasn’t something easily digestible for the village headman, her father, but he heard her patiently while Ram stood at one corner. He glanced at him, but both men shared no words. It was Sita who did most of the talking, only to be stopped by her father to bring Ram in front. Sita looked at Ram with tense eyes, of not knowing what was to unfold now, whether her father would approve the match. It was their decision, together, to marry only if both their families agreed. Now there were thoughts in Sita’s mind questioning that decision, especially after what just happened a little while ago.

The sight of charging villagers with lathi in their hand, standing in unison with their Thakur Saab wasn’t a pleasant sight for both of them. Ram had tried initially to convince Sita’s father but Thakur was in no mood to listen. He shouted at Sita at peak of his voice while the crowd jingoistically held their lathis high to make a strike. Thakur was able to understand the mood of the mob better as one among the mob yelled out, “Thakur Saab, give us a chance we will beat this scoundrel to death.” While yet another screamed out, time and again, “Kill him!!!”. Thakur Saab with a loud and clear voice yelled at the mob to disperse. “It’s up to me to decide. You all go back home, right now.” They tried to resist his words initially but no one dared to go against Thakur. They silently turned back and walked towards their huts.

Finally Ram spoke again, unrestrained as he usually does, it sounded intimidating to even Sita. But Thakur wasn’t the one to be cowed down by Ram’s rhetoric. The discussion turned into a debate with no man relinquishing their ground, they toed each other on every issue. After almost half hour, the men sat down on their respective chairs. This time the talk went more subtle, and humble. It was Thakur who relented first, Ram only realised it late that it was his turn to mellow. By that time Thakur had asked for two large glasses of lassi for one another. They slowly gulped it down along with their over expressive ego. It was dusk when Thakur finally agreed about Ram; Sita was sitting along with her father, throughout the conversation, facing Ram. She hadn’t moved an inch, it was her future which was at stake. Now their dream of being together was finally coming through, Sita let out a big smile as her father ended his sentence with a ‘Yes’.

Sita kept smiling as her eyes remained transfixed at Ram while Ram had his eyes always on Sita, especially when he thought he was faltering in the conversation. Her eyebrows rose in fear every time she felt Ram crossed the line, and Ram toned down the conversation as he saw that expression on her. Those little unsaid things which the other understood by a mere expression became the defining factor of their relationship over the years. They weren’t the vocal kind who held long conversations with the other in the name of romance, it wasn’t their thing. They belonged to a different category all together, the ones who were willing to just sit idly in front of each other, without even speaking a word, and still not get bored. That special was their bond, something which words could never define, something which one could feel but fail time and again to describe. Today would have been their thirtieth wedding anniversary but things never pan out the way they should.

Ram settled down on his usual seat near Sita’s favourite place, the one facing Mount Shalimar. He reminisced those moments leading to their marriage as a tear rolled down his cheek. Five years is a long time, but his Sita Mahalaxmi was not someone he could forget so easily. Ram never tried to either; he lived with those memories, some brought about a smile and some like today, brought out an odd tear. Isha, his only daughter, walked towards him, “Shall we leave, Dad?”. He didn’t reply. She asked again,”Dad?”.

“Sorry!” He brought out his handkerchief and wiped the silent tear gently. Then responded with a low voice, “You go ahead, I will join you for dinner.” Isha looked at her father for a brief moment, then asked Anwar Chacha to make sure that he doesn’t stay for long. And then she left while Ram Shankar sat back on the bench, losing himself all over again in the memories he had created with Sita. But sadly he was all alone to relive them over and over again.”

#JourneyCalledLife

#Series4/many

His friend, Anwar

Fiction

Anwar Chacha, one of the most respected persons of Kullu; known for his charming wit and flamboyant poetry. He ran his family business of textiles while reciting poetry as a pass time; a hobby that stayed with him for over three decades now. Despite being a fifty five year old, he never looked anywhere closer to his age. His daily walks and exercises have kept him hail and hearty, thus keeping the youth alive in his eyes. He was Ram’s best friend since childhood. It was he who helped Ram and Sita get married, that to against parental wishes. It was a scene of havoc then but Anwar had managed the situation quite well, allowing everyone to adjust and return to normalcy. He stood by Ram’s side, rock steady, during the past five years, never allowing him to drift away from his sight. It was a difficult phase for everyone, especially for Anwar who was seeing his friend fade into oblivion. And the worst thing was the sheer helplessness he felt to do anything about it. Anwar would visit Ram every alternate day; most of the time during their meet would be spent in silence with a few exceptions that catered to formal courtesies.

It was the month of September, Chacha had walked in his friend’s office with a glittery card in his hand. His eldest son was getting married this fall, and Chacha was in no mood to hide his excitement. The first card, as both had promised years ago, had the name of Ram Shankar Bisht on it. Bisht took a long look at the card, closely examining every detail and finally breaking into broad smile.

“Faizal has grownup so fast. I still remember his first day at school like it was yesterday. Even Sita was there…” He stopped in middle, to finally smile again as he looked upon his friend, Anwar Sheikh.
“Ram Bhai, it’s okay. We can’t change what has happened in the past but why curse the present and spoil the future for things we can’t do a damn about. You need to move ahead, my friend. You need to.”
Ram got up from his seat and walked towards Anwar, and sat on his knees, looking Anwar right in the eye.

“I know Anwar, I know. But some people get so etched in our lives that he don’t find our existence to be true without them. After they leave, it all feels like a blur, a constant painful blur. But let’s leave that for today. It’s a time for celebration. Our boy is getting married. What more can we wish for!” He tightly hugged his long time friend, while placing his hand over his shoulder as they made their way outside for their beloved walk. It was the first time in five years that Ram had looked so cheerful, he spoke at length about the past, about memories of their children and of course Sita.

A week before the wedding, Faizal was returning back to Kullu from Aligarh, his workplace. He was the youngest professor of the university and he taught Sociology to his students. He was one of the most beloved teachers of the university; there were hardly anyone who despised him, not even by mistake. The last day at work, his students had gifted him a Sherwani for his wedding. It was richly decorated with small red stones while the design was carefully hand stitched which broke into life in patches near the chest till the waist, in short a flamboyant cream coloured sherwani. He loved it so much that he made up his mind to wear that for his wedding.

His train was stationed for arrival at 11:00 P.M at Aligarh. He waited patiently at the station, holding the sherwani carefully in his right hand while carrying his lone suitcase with the other. He looked at his watch, there were another fifteen minutes for the train to arrive. The restlessness, the feeling of excitement was catching up on him. After all he was getting married to his college sweetheart, Noor. It was the time when he wished there was a teleporting machine that existed which could teleport him home in no time. But it wasn’t the case, so he stood his ground waiting. What happened in the next ten minutes looked like a haze for everyone at the station. A few people with religious head bands and swords in hand appeared at the station and what followed next was carnage. No one was spared. The cream coloured sherwani, the flamboyant one, laid at an extreme corner with red speckles all over it. Next to it, was Faizal.

#JourneyCalledLife
#Series 3/many

P.S. Sherwani means a type of clothing worn during marriage; Chacha means Uncle. Both words are from Hindi Language.

 

 

The Movie Effect

“There always is a girl, there will always be one. School was where I found her, but the only problem which remained was that I kept finding her over and over again. If you didn’t follow what I said then try to hear the story that follows a little more closely, because even I didn’t get it the very first time.

Crushes, I know we do have quite a number of them. They come, they make you feel good, then they disappear as we find another. It all began with the movies for me, and it never ended like one though. I was a perpetual newcomer in school due to my father’s frequent postings, and unlike others I liked it that way. Short and sweet was something that I had always come to terms with but the moment she arrived, a new longing broke into life for me. It was different than before, yet similar like the others. Every school I had gone, I found someone connected to, someone who I believed may be right for me. I know that’s a big word for a school going kid but I would blame the movies like I had mentioned before. Anyways, she wasn’t like the others, she was special, obviously she has to be, right.

I saw her waiting under the shade, I believe her van was late to pick them up. She kept peeping into the street corner to find a trace of her van but all she found was me passing a smile at her. It was strange to be honest when I think about it now but that’s what I did then. It went on like that for days before I finally spoke but she turned the other way and walked away. I tried again but the same response. I tried yet again but the response remained unwavered, even on the last day of school. I didn’t know what to make out of this, and that’s when the movie industry went into a transformation.

That’s the time I came to know what stalking really was, that’s when I realised what might have turned her off. I finally understood that sometimes it was okay to let it go than to pester around just to prove a point. I evolved but never moved. Three years later at a school get together I found her again. Like always I smiled but this time I walked away after that. It took us another three years, and a few reunions to finally get speaking. But when we did, unlike always, was special. It wasn’t the cliches I had grown up with but it was just a casual yet fascinating talk about movies between two. We joked around about the movies of the past, we played those lines and deliberated on them equally before we finally bid each other goodbye. She was standing their waiting but I didn’t have the courage to ask her number, I didn’t wanted to become a creep again, I really didn’t want to. She finally left with a smile on her face, and I stood there completely lost. I tried to satiate myself that I would meet her soon and may be get her number then. But that never happened, at least for the next four years.

Coincidences like our movies aren’t that common in our lives, it isn’t the small world they portray it to be. We were already seeing other people at that time when we met at a common friends wedding. We laughed about how we should have been in touch and made it a point to remain so in the near future. The texts kept coming in and going out, we developed a mutual trust, a sense of camaraderie between each other. In short span of time we gave away our deepest and darkest secrets. But we weren’t in the right state then, we had commitments to be kept and one fine day, she called up and we decided to lay off for a while to figure out what we really want. That’s the most hardest part to be honest; it’s the time when you know she is the one for you but you can’t do a damn about it. It wasn’t that I didn’t love my girlfriend that much but this was kind of different. We decided to honour our relationships to keep our conscience intact but they eventually got battered down in midst of artificiality that I think we tried to impose. It took time to get over the guilt of letting down the ones who loved us for our own selfish sense but when we did, we met again and we never turned back after that.”

 

The First Night

Marriages are mostly arranged in India. Mine was no different. It was in the fall of 1999, I had been working for a civil consulting firm for the past four years and was ready to take the big step of marriage. I had a failed relationship when I was in college; the heart break had left me shattered for years. I just didn’t have the courage or the excitement to move on. The pain was pretty intense initially but it waned way with time, slowly bit by bit. Now when I was ready to get hitched, a small part of me became curious, the one which badly wanted to fall in love all over again. That’s when Tara happened to me. She and I had met only a couple of times before we got married. We didn’t get a chance of getting to know each other more, it was only after marriage that we realised how perfect we were for each other.

The first night together is always the most awkward phase in any arranged marriage. I remember Tara walking in with the trademark glass of milk in her hand. Her hands were shivering as she placed the glass on the table and sat right next to me. We both were nervous and we both didn’t know what to speak then.

“What do you know about me, Tara?” I passed a line to break the silence.

“That you work for a consulting firm and you’re a talented civil engineer.”

“About my personality, my character?” I stressed. Her eyes moved curiously towards me.

“I think…that you love speaking a lot. You didn’t give me a chance to speak back then when we met.” She had a sigh of relief as she finally muttered those words. I on the other hand was a little shocked but pleasantly happy. She was finally speaking up and it was my turn to reciprocate.

“You had those curious eyes stuck on me, just the way you have them now. Every time I finished a statement, your expression remained the same so I thought you were expecting more. And so I went on!”

“You have a nice voice Ryan. It felt like I have heard your voice somewhere. It was like a deja vu for me. That’s why that expression I believe.”

“Thank you. That’s a first. Where did you hear me before?”

“Do the math engineer. Where could our lives possibly intersect?”

“I had attended an event in your college. But I don’t know whether you were there in the audience. We were staging a play and I was the narrator. That’s the only connect I can think of. I moved to Delhi, and you to Bangalore.” Still thinking where else she could have heard me.

“Do you remember the host for the event?”

“I don’t, to be frank. But there surely was a lot of hooplah by my friends about the cute host. I on the other hand was busy on my phone, narrating every detail to my ex.”

“You are bang on. But I didn’t knew that I also got compliments! I was too scared of my saree, I had worn it for the first time.” She paused for a while, then continued as she passed me the milk and picked up an apple for herself.

“Ex? What happened, if you don’t mind?”

“Not a problem, it was a long time ago. We broke up after college. Long distance doesn’t work in my case. To be honest it took me time to get over her. It was one of the most difficult periods of my life. I had so gotten used to her company that after we fell apart, I found no one to share them with. My stories, my emotions, I just couldn’t handle them.”

“Then how did you cope?”

“I don’t know. But one thing is for sure, time does heal. I found my voice through my blogs, I tried to showing my emotions in open. I slowly tweaked my quality to become more of an extrovert. It wasn’t easy but I had already made up my mind to make things work. So I think they finally did.”

“That was deep!”

“I have a habit of going deeper in conversations. Hope you don’t mind.”

“I am similar on that note.” She added.

“Tell me your story? Boyfriend?”

“Where do I start?”

“That seems like a long list!” I tried my humour but all I got was a blank expression from her. She sat down near me, after placing back the jewels, with a dead pan expression, looking straight at the wall in front.

“No Ryan. Akash was the only one.”

“What happened then?”

There were tears that started to appear. She spoke slowly and finally uttered, “He is no more.”

“What? How?…Sorry.”

“It was three years ago. There was a car accident, a lorry had rammed into his vehicle. And I didn’t see him again.”

“I had just spoken to him an hour before then. I never knew that it would be our last. I never knew that.”

“I am sorry Tara. I really am.”

“Don’t be Ryan. I am okay now. He is the reason for me starting my NGO, “Rakshak”. It deals with implementing better rules and infrastructure for road safety. We are working with the government to get the Act together, and if brought in & passed by the house it would be revolutionary Ryan.”

“I now remember. I saw your interview in “The Hindu”, Tara. You have wonderful ideas lady, I hope your dream succeeds.”

“Thank you Ryan. Won’t you be supporting me?”

“Always will, always.”

“You still thinking about Akash?” She enquired.

“Yeah. See I will try making one thing clear Tara. I won’t try to take the place what you have for Akash; I won’t ask or compel you to forget him. He is part of you and I respect that.”

I could see her eyes get moist again; she had those curious eyes back on me. She wiped away the tears and made herself comfortable on the sofa.

“Come here Ryan. Are you tired or can you narrate a story to me?”

I smiled as I sat to her left, and narrated the story I know the best. Her expressions, I could never forget them, they were the most beautiful ones I have ever seen. She had her giggle going for her, and I saw her finally the way I always hoped her to be, smiling. The conversation went long; we moved from one story to another but managed to keep our curiosity burning high even after the exhausting talk.  That night we shared a sofa, like all friends do. She dozed off on one end while I on the other. We woke up with a smile for eternity in our eyes but never knew that we would end up divorcing each other eight years later.

I got up from my seat as I saw her coming. It felt like she hadn’t aged at all, the twinkle in her eyes remained alive for me. Though we did have our share of grey hair, but a date was a date. That too after ten long years since we separated. I decided to narrate what I knew the best, and she was all ears to the old story of mine which she had heard enumerable times before. Her curious eyes remained the same, even after eighteen years since that night of our marriage. So I began.

#Tara&Ryan
#EpisodesOfLove

Letters

Letters, the hand written ones, were something that kept our relationship going, despite the mess that long distance was turning out to be. In the internet era with fast paced devices at our disposal, we still relied on the postal services to communicate. She had left for America a couple of months ago, while I was stuck at the national capital with my pesky job at hand.

As every normal guy, I hated my job and dreamt of something big that I was meant to achieve only to find myself in midst of constant nagging in my friend circle about how big a writer I would become. While she had it quite figured about what she really wants from life, what she wants to become, and where she will settle. When I met her for the first time, she was dating her perfect guy and was part timing at a reputed publishing firm in Delhi, and the moment my eyes met hers, I knew it right then, that she is way out of my league. She had these thick glasses with the most pleasing smile anyone could flaunt, and a persona to encapsulate anyone near her proximity.

The meet was in a small cubicle of hers, I had gone there to inquire about her boss, the famous Tanisha Rai, the publishing mogul to know the status of my novel submission. After weeks of persuading and turning up at her office only to find a blank no at my request, I returned dejected and less confident about being a writer ever. As I was about to put up my chequered tie, a corporate office melodramatic tool (aka Comet), to turn up to the sales executive job the next day, I received a text “I read your work, it’s really beautiful Ryan. Don’t worry, you will make it big one day. Try other firms, Mrs Rai has her hands full and wouldn’t give the importance this novel deserves. Take care, Tara. (P.S. This is not a corporate gimmick to keep your heart :P)”

The texts went on a spree from there on, that’s a story for another day, but things finally led to a date at apparently a restaurant which later became our favourite for years to come. That night of our first date, we ticked our many firsts and one of them, the most modest one, being was pulling an all-nighter. We spoke for hours together; bid the other goodbye for a straight 6 times to get our sleep for the morning shift we had, but the conversations kept us abuzz, making the clock go on snooze forever.

That was three years ago, and now as we faced the dilemma of long distance in our minds, we searched for the glue that would make us stick no matter what. We had our minds rolling to find that, and weird things came up to our mind only to rest on something that got us started the first place.

Three years ago, the first date

Tara: Do you handwrite all the stuff? I saw your copy of submission; it was a Xerox of a handwritten one.

Ryan: When I really love something, I ink it with my pen. I somehow, believe if I am really interested in a topic, my ink won’t be scared of shedding and would make no mistake in foretelling the story I behold.

Tara: I like that. I do the same actually but not just for the love of writing but the paper creases and the smell of paper make me feel special. I don’t know why, maybe I sound a little stupid there!

Ryan: You don’t. You won’t believe my love for handwritten pieces started from the letters of my parents during their college days. They spoke how they used to write their feelings in a tiny sheet of paper and send it across to the other. They said that the paper was enough; it conveyed the emotions they swelled within them.

Tara: Do you still have them?

Ryan: I do, but I have been made to promise to open them when I meet someone special.

Tara: That’s sweet…really sweet Ryan. So did you meet anyone?

I smiled as we kept our eyes engaged and it’s been three years since, we had that box with us but never dared to open it; always getting scared about whether we were all ready for it or not!

We didn’t open it even on our last day together, before Tara flew away to the states. We heard our share of stories about long distance relationship, and we didn’t have the courage to challenge that long held view. The next day at the airport when I went to bid her adieu, I placed a letter I had written for days on her hand “Tara, I don’t know what I am trying with this letter, but I think this would be our glue that would make us stick. Take care, and do write back. I would be waiting for your reply.”

She had tears in her eyes, as she clutched on to the letter and disappeared among the crowd, leaving me with a shattering pain to accompany. It was a week since she left, that morning when I walked out I found her letter at my doorstep.

The End.

#HappyNewYear
Photo credit: Fountain Pen by Antonio Littorio (The Power of Words)