A musical undoing

Music has a way of undoing you. Over time, you are able to put yourself together. You are already grappling with changes and the ones that will take place, and one song is able to tear it all apart. And just when you are at the brink of taking a leap, there you are finding pieces of yourself once again. For some, this is an on-going search and for a lucky few, they are able to do this in no time.

Some days, I really want to shake myself. This behaviour seems too unrealistic and unreasonable. More than to others, you owe yourself some opportunities. And you cannot let some music, which is laced with memories, take them away from you.

It is not necessary that re-establishing ties with a He and She will restore everything to normalcy. You long for that time and not those people. And there are times when you will fancy a conversation with those people, but why give the baton of your peace to someone else?

Thinking these ‘what-if’ probabilities about this He and She might just cost you an opportunity, which could do with some attention. They have crafted their happy beginning and you are yet to begin your story. So where will your loyalty be?

Let the river of nostalgia flow with all its might. It is not necessary for you to wash your hands in it all the time. Create the flow of your story than overflowing in someone else’s memory.

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A letter to someone not-s0-valuable but deemed to be important

Sender’s name 
[Disha Khemchandani]
Apartment name and number 
[Like hell]
Street name
[I am]
Area code
[Going to say so that it finds me once again]

Recipient’s name 
[Nostalgia]
Apartment name and number
[It]
Street name
[is]
Area code
[Omnipresent]

Subject: Declaration of hate

Nostalgia, 
Hope you are not doing well.
I hate you. I cannot imagine that I would have to say this, but yes I do. Since the time I have understood what it is like to feel you, and to have you lead me towards all those walks down the memory lane; I have just been on a downward spiral. You are the anchor that ties me down to every memory that drills a hole in my heart. 
No, I don’t want you to recreate that coffee shop scene when I cracked a ‘joke’ and He no. 1 sat with a still face, while I sip on my Frappucino now in 2016. No I don’t want to remember that hospital where dad breathed his last, while an ambulance goes past by me in 2013. No I don’t want to think about the simplicity of the 90s with you twirling to the tune of ‘Ho gayi hai mohabbat tumse’, while I am trying to make sense of my professional life in 2016. No I don’t want to think about the perfection and organisational skills of He no. 2 while He no. 3 struggles to arrange the perfect date. I am just happy that He no.3 is the only person, who accepts me and I don’t want you to ruin something that is shaping up well. No, I also don’t want you to creep into my typos and give me the impression that the misspelled name is the right one for me. 
Nostalgia, you are a witch. You will find your way from the deepest of the holes and chant the choicest of the curses to again put me off-track. Like you always do. 
Nostalgia, you are a message in a bottle, which nobody wants to find on an ‘off’ day by the beach, while he or she hopes for a better tomorrow. 
Nostalgia, you are a letter, which I will never post. But I will make a boat, and sail it, hoping that the universe listens to me. I would want it to put some reins on your horses. And in the next world, it should place you on one of those planets that are never discovered and only theorised in books. 
Yours. Never, 
D

Home

He leans back on the arm-chair,

A cup of tea by his side;

Untouched.

Nothing in the newspaper

That can shock these wrinkled eyes.

He looks at the walls;

He looks at the clock;

With every space filled;

His house still feels empty.

Memories of his home

Attempt to fill the void in his heart.

The blank white walls of his house;

Take him to his colourful aangan in Sindh.

His smartphone beeps with a message

“ Taakhe chetichand ji vadhayun”;

The smartphone’s lit display

Reminds him of his mother’s colourful saree.

The way its colour would bring out her eyes;

The purchased Lolas are placed on the pan;

Cold and without their real essence.

A bite into it and he reminisces the aroma

Of the ones his mother made.

Their fragrance would wake him up;

And he would charge towards the kitchen

With tiny steps and the biggest smile.

His nightmares are memories of his home;

When he wakes up in cold sweat

All he can see are blank walls;

All he can feel are forced stories of the present;

Refusing to co-exist with the memories

Of his once and always beloved home.

The Date

She had put on the lovely white dress. Its virgin like feel was always a private joke between them. The smoky eye look was thoroughly messed. Perfection does not come easy. Punctuality was never an issue with her, but she loved to make him wait. An anticipation filled smile was a great start to a memorable time. Continue reading