Looking for you.

Someone came looking for you.

Because you are the signing authority for monthly vouchers. You are a roll number. You meet deadlines. You are seat number twenty-eight. You are the guy to contact if anybody needs to borrow a pen, a pad, a pencil. You are a mobile number in the phone book. You always have cigarettes on you. You are a designation on the visiting card. You are the guy with a good music collection who doesn’t mind sharing. You deliver work. You are the girl who sits in the extreme left corner of the office, just next to the coffee machine. You are the sort who will drop people home. You are the second last name on the appraisal list. You are a back up for work. You are the new joinee. You have the dictionary in your drawer. You have contacts.

When was the last time someone came looking for you, just like that?

Excess baggage

Your train leaves the railway station on a limpid, blue afternoon. Quite the opposite of your state of mind. You sit by the window staring outside, bearing wind in your eyes, asking yourself only one question – will the thoughts you long to leave behind, ever leave your side? The train paces up. More questions now. Why don’t the thoughts slip by as briskly as the town you are leaving? Like life outside the bars of your train window, why can’t everything just go blur? The train comes to a gradual halt. Oh hell! What you desperately wanted to leave behind has travelled faster than you. As you step down, your thoughts are waiting to grab you, in the form of the early morning sun, a certain shade of blue someone is wearing, or the smell of musk - all unforgettable associations. You wanted to leave your baggage? Unfortunately, the only thing that got left behind was the railway station.

Joys of forgetting

There was once a time when I religiously remembered all dates. Birth dates, anniversary dates, date of joining work, the date when I left for my first lone trip, break-up and patch-up dates. And many such dates of days that I held in high importance. And then, life got busy. Work took over. And I started to forget. Slowly, each of them began to fade from my memory. Initially guilty, I have finally come to what I feel is a mature conclusion. It’s perfectly alright to not remember dates. Because all they call for is compelled celebration. I, on the other hand, prefer to celebrate moments now. Instances. And thankfully, no moment is time bound, date or day bound. Like tiny fragments, they live in various little corners of my mind, jump out anytime and bring me to an honest smile whenever they like. What’s interesting is that anything can spark them off. Rain, fragrance, or a walk through a certain lane at a certain hour of the day. Like free spirits, my best moments return as memories at whim. Dates? They should just sit pretty on annual calendars.

And the show goes on.

Unrequited. Less of a word, more of a philosophy. The idea of incomplete is in fact very appealing. An unfinished conversation, a question that was repeatedly asked but for some reason never got answered, a message that has not been reciprocated, and a glance that awaits another. A trickle of rain leaves behind hope that maybe next time the sky will pour its heart out. Letters at least keep you waiting for the postman. Something will come. Or may be not. What you certainly gain is uncertainty. And that remains. Why seek complete? It means the end.

I was wrong.

And I thought I would never lie. And I thought I would always hope. And I thought I was very patient. And I thought I would never compromise. And I thought I would only make friends. And I thought I would always be on time. And I thought I would let go. And I thought I would never repeat myself. And I also thought nothing would replace my old note pad and fountain pen.

Then.

Looking back always has more romance than looking forward. That’s why none of my conversations are complete without anecdotes of my childhood. Of the downhill run to school with many kilos of bag, a burden I never felt. Of plucking wild flowers on my way back and lovingly leaving them to dry in my notebook. Of the fact that I had dry red cheeks. Of my home knit sweater often getting stuck in bushes that ran parallel to narrow trails. Of my many narrow escapes with nature. Of roaming around aimlessly for hours, with leaves, flowers, pebbles for company. Of being free.

The other way round.

Winter is thick with memories of incidents that never took place. It reminds me of moments I have never known. Amid avenues with trees that wilt and welcome, I have relived what I have not lived. In the whiff of cardamom I have wistfully smiled. And in the first hint of fog and untimely rain, bouts of nostalgia have overcome me. Will experience now follow the memory?