Craving to write something. Since ages now. But there's nothing clear inside - as of now. Everything is jumbled up. Or not. Perhaps I have unraveled everything there is to unravel and hence, nothing is left to talk about, to take out. I have numerous drafts now saved by dutiful Blogger, yet none is complete. For when I am happy, its difficult to write here.
But I try.
♥ ♥ ♥
The bravest thing in this world is to fall in love.
And she did it too. We all fall in love, so how could she be any different? Not once, not twice, but thrice. Her first love was the love of youth, that beautiful intoxicating time, when you yearn all day long for a glance. She would wait all day just for his one glimpse, and sometimes, he would smile.
That innocent love, unrequited love. That naivety, when she believed that nothing was impossible and he will come for her one day, take her away and they will live happily ever after.
Yet he never came. She cried for hours in front of the idol she worshipped, begging for him, promising endless fasts and prayers. But her God just smiled down at her. And in the end, she consoled herself with the thought that it was perhaps penance for some sins she committed in her past birth.
Her second love was the one her parents married her off to. It was like a duty, something you subconsciously know since your birth. Love thy husband, worship thy husband. And so she did, dutifully trying to erase all the memories of her first love. He became her first lover, her God and her first child.
He brought breakfast in bed for her. Sometimes with a flower from the garden. She slaved over cooking his meals, looked after the house and made sure the kids were always polite, always presentable.
It went on well for a while. But for her. And him, too. She put him on a pedestal, and he tried hard to hold ground. She wished for more romance and love, soft whispered nothings, that look in his eyes, and praise for a favourite meal. He tried. But it was never enough. Never could be. Love and expectations. Such a silly combination.
Never try to love someone.
Bitterness filled her heart as years flew by. He stopped trying, and its always easier to hate than love. Easier to see the mistakes, the wrinkles, the over cooked food, the disarranged furniture. Easier to see the lost youth, the constant grumblings, the lack of finesse. Easier. And bitter.
It had to happen. She fell in love again.
He wasn't soft-spoken. He never told her she was pretty. But he sang ghazals and recited poetry comfortably in the middle of a conversation. He criticised her. Yet advised her. And she listened. Yet fought with him. It was good - the constant verbal duels - a way to all that was pent up inside. She never spoke sweetly with him, but always made tea the way he liked it - without milk, always made sure his favourite egg-curry was prepared whenever he came for dinner. And he in return, looked at her everytime he sang that line from her favourite ghazal...
She wanted to bottle such moments, like perfume. To be opened up when life is in its autumn and nothing seems more beautiful, more cherishable than a bottle full of untarnished memories. For memories are so gullible, so unreliable.
...and now, when autumn was glided away softly, and winter has wrapped her in a cold embrace, all those memories crowded around her, warming her heart like golden fireflies...