Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Who are we?

I have the world's most terrible cough. What's making matters worse? The terrible smell of paint that is dawning all over my house. So much for freshly-painted doors and windows! I am going to live like a hippy when I grow up. No, I am only half serious about that. But general attitude towards life is going to be bohemian for sure. I cannot deal with the never ending complexities and obligations of the urban, civil world. Point being, I loathe the smell of paint. And petrol. And the smell of wet mud, I'm sorry, is overrated.
You love the smell of petrol.


You know it's weird but when people go away, they never completely fade away. When I say 'go away', I don't particularly mean in terms of life and death. I mean it in the sense of when people go away across time, space and distance; both literally and figuratively. They never completely fade away. They remain and reside as memories. As stories.
Things they say or do often, almost secretly, stay with us forever. Each time we go the restaurant they frequented or wear that pair of shoes they adored, we're reminded of them and the things they did or said. It's their story entwined with ours. It's fascinating, really. Life, as we know it, could be seen as this series of intersecting lives, incidents and events that unfold free of any external control to deliver itself to its completion. Doesn't it completely suck, this missing of people/things that aren't around? One can't ever completely 'get over' someone/something ever. There are always these remains. There are always these leftovers. Trying or thinking otherwise is pointless, if you ask me.


As 'Inception' like as it may sound, but isn't it like we're living a dream?
Someone else's dream?
It's freaky alright but is it completely hard to believe?
I think it's a tad bit too arrogant to believe that there isn't even a slight possibility of it. Hence, what we leave behind are our stories. Less memories, more stories.


It kills me a little more everyday to anticipate your departure from the Delhi Airport. I am contemplating coming to seeing you off on the D-day. I have been through this before, it's equally hard each time. 
This time, most.
It's almost amusing, but right now the things that strike me the most about you are the times when you were most vulnerable in front of me. Contrary to your belief, you've always been the intimidating one, not me. Even though it's going to make no difference at all, starting today I am going to finish my food a lot quicker. Even though it sounds super cheesy, I am going to miss you each day.


On the days that I miss you more, I will wear your perfume and smell pretty all day.

The little lives that we lead, the little deeds we do, the little thoughts we think; all this and more-

What are they? But, are stories.
Who are we? But, are stories.