I sit by myself on a Delhi winter morning,curled up in 3 layers of clothing and a puffy quilt.
The morning shows herself carefully from behind the blinds,as if in a careful melodious rhythm so as to not destroy the lull in my mind.
Any normal woman would call it deserting one’s morning chores like exercising,reading a paper or taking a stroll .
But this to me was meditation and nothing less than that.
To be able to look at my stirring emotions engulfing me in a pot of poetry that didn’t reach the paper to find expression but merely bubbled in my mind-hallowed and awake.
I think of him often in these wee hours of the day.
His smile is like the freedom of a thousand parakeets and when he looks at me,there’s nothing that I would rather look at.
I think of him when I’m walking back alone from the departmental store on cold evenings.
The warmth of his touch lights my heart up like a thousand fireflies locked up in a jelly bottle.
I ask myself if he feels familiar etincelles when I touch his skin accidentally and then realise that maybe he doesn’t.
It’s uncommon for someone like me to think so much about the Northern Lights.
I’d probably freeze to death before It decides to let me see its grandeur..
And yet,I subject myself to the most painful trial of waiting..
Waiting in expectation for a hand that might never take mine.
It’s been raining all day and I love the way these little droplets caress the iron bars of the window. The bars don’t respond to the seduction that the rain offers but it loves the grace of their touch as they threateningly wrap their arms around the metalled body of the window,clinging almost desperately,crying to never let go.
I ask myself if this longing in my heart is a desperate search for him? I ask myself if he’d mistake my love for similar desperation that he sees in other maidens.
In the end,he’ll never know and I’ll never show.
And maybe that’ll be my story.