Send Me Away With A Love Song.

We made a promise, we swore we would always remember. It was a beautiful winter’s night in Goa. Many secrets shared, many promises made; we had quite our share of wine and quiet whispers too. Soft kisses and passionate bites, secret glances and not so shy winking. We had our share of memories. We had our time, we had our glory.

This would be my problem with adoring Bollywood films; the perfect version of love and the happy endings, the crazy dancing under the moonlight… I seem to ache for this in my life. Ever time inching closer only to realize that this is nothing more than a castle in the clouds.

There are times when you miss someone. Not in the sense that you want to them back in your life, but more in the sense that you would want to rewind back to just one perfect moment with them. Maybe a conversation, shared kiss, a date under the bright moon, dancing on a golden beach… So much. Five days. Five days gave me a memory of a lifetime. A memory to cherish, protect, yet sometimes miss.

Time is a very strange concept. It makes you wonder… and when you wonder, memories create, and at times, more often than ever destroy. Memories, sometimes you can miss someone just by a thought; or actually, their one thought. Their one thought that would be just You… Well, Me.

The way he used to care about me, the way he used to talk to me, how he would listen to all my stories, and I would eagerly look at his pictures, send him mine. How we would talk into the night; one night when we both simply couldn’t sleep without the other being on the phone. His gentle snores a melody to my ears. My morning voice a comfort to his day. There was a time when one seemed unable to live without the other.

I wonder, what is it about Bollywood movies that makes you want a perfect ending ? What is about a perfect ending that seems so unreal ? Life as a writer, life as a romantic, life as a dreamer… It all suddenly seems to be nothing more than a curse.

A friend advised me once, when you miss, just write.

And write is what I’ve been doing.

Send Me Away With A Love Song.

He read it again and again. He didn’t even have to look at the piece of paper to recognize the handwriting, the words were enough. He held the paper tightly in his hands, it was almost warm, fit perfectly; just like hers once did. He blinked and looked away.

Traffic and cars sped past him. He had stopped the car on the side of the road after two hours of driving and finally decided to open the package that he had been asked to collect from a friend of hers.

He was breathless.

He knew that he couldn’t open it now, not after reading this note. But he had to. He dreaded it, he knew what came next. She had told him once, a long cold night… through tears streaming down her face, her voice distant over the phone. He tried to distract her, made her promises that somewhere they both knew he wouldn’t intend to keep.

I’ll come. On Skype, to Pune. To see you. I miss you. I always remember… I will come to Pune.

He thought about this line of his; his throat clenching, anger rising as he remembered how convincing he had sounded on the phone, surprising even himself.

But something in her voice made him uncomfortable. She slept off soon that night, he stayed on the phone just to make sure; more for himself then her satisfaction.

A few days later, with very little conversation passing between them, and even more promises and tears than before. She called him, her voice sounded different.

He didn’t realize he was holding his breath till she hung up the phone.

I’m leaving this city.

There are too many memories.

It was too perfect, too unreal, us… you… for any of it to be true.

I can’t do this anymore.

I will keep my promise.

I am ending this.

Forever.

Her words stung him, more sharper than the other. It had been a busy day at work, and quickly, he forgot.

And today, there was this box in his hands.

He knew what message it bode. He knew what he could have avoided happening. He knew he could have saved her. He knew it was all in his one promise.

That one promise that he had been unable to keep.

One promise, that changed more than just his life, hers, and all those who were connected to them.

Her grieving parents who were unaware, her tear-stricken friends who never saw through her smile… He had the answer to it all. And she had now left him, them, with all the answers in that one box.

Send Me Away With A Love Song.

She always had a flair for drama. She loved unrequited love stories, but fairy tales even more.

This, is for our time.

It was her handwriting, it even felt like her.

They say a greater sin than to kill, is to destroy, to destroy another soul.

He closed his eyes.

Put on her favorite song, Ride. And opened the box.

Tears flowed down his cheeks, as she kissed him from somewhere far away.

My Multiple Sleeping Partners.

 I stirred in my sleep, my smile from the night before lingering on as the sun rays gently fall upon my bed. Ishq Wala Love plays in the background. My eyes are shut, but I’m fully awake. Last night coming back to me in flashes. It was a perfect night, my smile only widens. I turn around, getting a little more comfortable inside the big white blanket. I open my eyes a little, the raised outline next to me breathes slowly, deeply… all the fatigue from last night…

The movie, the popcorn, the wine, the dessert… My smile getting wider and wider.

“WILL YOU PLEASE SHUT THAT ALARM!!” She blares next to me from somewhere inside the blanket.

My eyes snap open. I fumble around for my phone, shit! I forgot to shut my 7am gym alarm. My screen flashes “GYM TIME BABY!” as Ishq Wala Love plays on. Many times I’ve been asked why I’ve not kept my alarm something, well more, alarming… But with the lack of a “Good morning baby” phone call these days, I’ve come to realize that I would prefer wooing love songs than gentle cooing on the phone any day. Thus, from Paani Da, to Ishq Wala Love, to Heer my alarm changes almost monthly.

Stretching I turn around, my friend still fast asleep next to me. I look at the yellow curtains, all warm with the sunlight. For reasons I can’t explain, I stretch my arm out from under my comfortable white snuggly blanket and reach out to the warmth. My eyes shut, the warm sun gently kisses my skin. I sigh audibly. I hear a grunt. Then I feel something more than warm sunlight on my hand. I freeze. Sloppy….sticky…furry… grunting…. Oh god. I prayed. With all the courage I had, I peeked from under my safe haven, it was The Dog.

With his huge eyes and lopsided smile he proceeded to lick my hand. I groaned. I turned to my friend, Little B is what I lovingly call her, and asked her to please take her (full grown) “Puppy” outside. A kick on my bum is enough for me to realize she will not be moving right now.

More groaning. As much as I want to stay inside my blanket, I have to get up to wash my puppy-licked arm.

As I walk to the bathroom with this not-so-little Dog at my heels, I think about all the people I’ve been ‘privileged’ enough to share my bed with. Don’t get too naughty…. I’m talking about my best friends and some of their amazing relatives, who may seem shy to talk to, but wow… one should hear their roars once the lights are out!

I decided to make a list of my favorites (or not):

1)     The Sleep-Waker:
There’s Little B. Vaguely I remembered a little stirring in the blanket that woke me up. With half an eye open, I saw her eyes shut, she sat up, took her pillow, then sit still for almost three seconds, after which she lay back down, put the pillow on her face this time and slept off.

My reaction: Sigh. Turn around and fall back to sleep immediately.

2)     The Sleep-Talker:
This one is a not so favorite incident.
My best friend’s family friend from Australia was visiting. Three of us decide to sleep on one bed, (bad decision) with me ending up in the middle (worst decision), just after watching Insidious (WHY?!!)
With my best friend (who can’t be woken up with a blaring trumpet) sleeping next to me comfortably, I turned and tossed to find a perfect spot for me to eventually fall asleep. Eyes shut, lights off, silence in the room….

Someone murmured something. My eyes open.  She’s fair by the way, with curly hair and big eyes (which were luckily shut… or else I would be now writing this from my grave). Her lips were slightly open, I wondered, could it be her.
And her it was. Ranging from a variety of abuses, to questions, to statements… she talked on and on into the night.

My reaction: Put a pillow between us, hug my friend, and PRAY.

3)     The Sleep-Kicker:
I am sure all of us have had/been one of these in our lifetime. There’s always that one little sister (in my case) or friend who just always seems to be a little too sporty in bed (for all the wrong reasons!) And while anyone whose read Fifty Shades of Grey would like to wake up with bruises and sores, this dear fan, is not one of those ways.
With a little sister that kicked more than she slept. I quickly got used to putting numerous pillows between us. She however, managed to quickly change the kicking to punching, to slapping, to finally me sleeping on the floor instead of next to her.

My reaction: Pillows or change of bed !

If I actually sit to do this, I am sure that I would have a list that would reach 100. But of course, there are those who have a league of their own… The ones who wake up screaming, the ones who sing Happy Birthday at the top of their lungs at 3am, the ones who end up cuddling by your side in the morning, the ones who snore louder than any lion heard, the ones who curl up into a giant ball at the edge of the bed, the one who snuggles and loves to wrap themselves all around you, the ones who sleep on their backs in the ‘dead’ position, the ones who sleep with their mouths open as flies dance around their drool wildly…. And so on and so forth.

Lucky for me, I’ve always managed to find interesting people to sleep next to. As for me, I’ve been told I cuddle, snore, curl up into a corner and am popularly known to steal blankets and pillows and anything else that gives me that little extra warmth.

Here’s to more interesting bed adventures in the future, until then, it’s just me throwing this dog out of the room, locking the door on his dear face and curling up inside my big blanket of warmth.

 

 

And there’s another kick on my bum.

 

Sigh.

 

This Generations Meena Kumari.

He said, “You’re addicted to pain.”

My friend said, “You’re getting obsessed with tragedy.”

Another said, “Stop with the unhappy endings.”

It was only when a close little friend sitting in a big crazy city messaged me that something stirred up within me, “You’re like the Meena Kumari of this generation.”

Immediately, I threw away all my work and decided that I must find out more. So online I went, and Google I searched. There it was:

Kumari gained a reputation for playing grief-stricken and tragic roles.

Her life and prosperous career were marred by heavy drinking, troubled relationships.

“Tragedy Queen”

Poet.

I didn’t know why, but I was smiling. I think I had had found the solution to a question that I was simply not asking.

I have always believed in signs, at times, I plead guilty to searching for them in dark cloudy skies, but there are days, such as the ones I’m living today when the air is electric, and the smile on my face contagious. It comes in the form of an old song filled with memories on my Shower shuffle playlist, or when two pigeons sit and peck at each other lovingly on my sunny balcony, or sometimes even a little more pronounced, a message.

Just when I was giving up on the words of Coelho, and his belief in the Universe, I decided to make one last wish to the Universe, and see if this one comes true. Three hours later, there it was… My sign.

Yup, I am the Queen of Tragedy. And this is my role in the world. Modern Juliet, with thoughts of her lover(s) till the sun sets. A romantic who believes that soulmates and significant others are tied by the ankle with a single red thread, who spend their entire lives searching for the other. This is who I am.

Meena Kumari.

I’ve always believed that words heal; or at least take away the pain, if only for a moment. But as I go back and read my past blogs and old letters, I’ve come to realize very important facts about me and my writing.

1)     I’m a hopeless romantic.

2)     I love tragedy.

3)     Music does not do me good.

4)     Memories written do not do me good.

5)     Cupid hit me in the face many times, all the time with a brick.

6)     I hated romantic endings.

7)     Romeo and Juliet CANNOT be together.

This is Me.

I thrive on love stories that have agony, thirst, passion, infidelity, tears, burning hope, fiery kisses, hurried love-making, angry outbursts, violent sex, letters filled with salty tears, lyrics that painfully strum the chords of the heart, the mind that can never forget, or forgive, hurt, the urge and longing to touch, secrets and betrayal…. So on and so forth goes my list… If I continue, I am sure the adrenaline rush will leave me sleepless and tingling…

I’m a dreamer, a writer, a lover and a believer.

I run away from people, cities and love. My recent wanderlust moment has come from nothing other than the fact that I was suffocated, I forgot how to breathe, and I wanted to find a place I could drink a glass of wine with the lights off, maybe a candle glowing somewhere, Calvin Harris & Alesso feat Hurts – Under Control on repeat, surrounded by old sunny pictures of Goa and an endless stream of tears.

And that is exactly what I did, sans wine (dry-less state – pun intended), and half way through my sexy outburst (for I was clothed in black satin) I started laughing; the tears of sorrow soon became tears of absolute madness. I laughed and laughed till my stomach hurt and the song reached its end. I got up, switched all the lights on and shut the music.

Meena Kumari, I told myself, it’s time to grow up. It’s time to laugh. It’s time to forget about Romeo climbing up the window (8 stories is waaaay too high) and watch movies, travel the world and love thyself.

Next morning:

Bombay – Seattle. 14th December 2013.

It’s time to fly, with that absolutely gorgeous smile of mine.