It's a Heartfelt Story

Wandering, aimlessly trying to fall in love with the idea that you love me. 
Chaos came and went with each passing breath we took. 

Because loving you was beautiful. 
Because loving you was madness.

‘Bhaiya’ he played with the collar of his shirt, ‘how much time more before the jam finally breaks?’

‘Apun Bhagwaan dikhta hai kya?’ the auto-driver frowned looking at the rear-view mirror, ‘This is Mumbai – the place is known for its jams.’

‘Okay!’ he actually smiled at the sudden bashing, ‘so you mean to say, half of your lives are spent in the jams, do you?’

The frowned look again. He knew the question had gotten on the driver’s nerves and he simply loved this act of turning the tables around. His lips traced a wicked curve, looking at the driver’s eyes.

His hands then moved quickly through the sections of his brown coloured, worn out rucksack before finally feeling the texture of his diary; he took it out – the Eifel adorning its cover page accompanied by a sparrow, almost double the size of the tower; the handmade papers inside, half filled with black ink and the other half, off-white naked.

Travel Diaries

Each time I share a smile with a stranger, a part of my soul loses itself to gain a part of his, in a way, and we find closure in one another.

Read the title page – a thing he had read about twenty five times till this very breath and the other pages, an odd twenty times each. But today, he was looking into visiting those parts of his heart that had long been owned by this gorgeous girl whom he was on his way to meet.

He turned random pages and stopped at a particular one...

I’m at a local breakfast house of Udaipur, struggling with the half cooked omelet and the extra-sweet tea when I ask this tiny princess standing in front of me to call her father.

‘Dad’ she shouts, ‘uncle is calling you!’

Yes, she calls me uncle and I’m super annoyed. I haven’t aged a bit and may be the entire look of overgrown beard and over the top black shirt makes me look old enough to be called an uncle. Or maybe, kids these days are just over smart.

She has caught my eye-brow jig and is imitating it. She’s dressed in a floral top and a golden scarf covers her head, complimenting her fair complexion.

‘Uncle!’ she teases me once her brows are tired dancing.

She reminds me so much of Arima – the same complexion; the same I-wouldn’t-let-you-win attitude; our childish games; those mystic eyes – tiny almond shaped but hazel and deep, running straight into her heart.

God I love her!

The pages turned again, more rapidly, as he held on a smile on his face...

At a local cafe in Paris, sitting beside a blonde who’s glued to a book that is clasped tightly in the fingers of her hands, resting on her arms. Just as her geeky glasses start to slip of her nose, she closes the book, sighs, puts them back and gets back into the world of the blue paper-back. Isn’t this Arima? The childlike innocent face struggling to keep up with her own demands and easily annoyed by the extreme pressures of the cruel world? The blonde looks at me and smiles.

*poof* *poof* *poof*

I see Arima all around now! Paris’ coffees’ work better than Old Monk.

Blank pages ahead, he went back around five dozens of pages...

It’s dark. The flash light of my mobile phone throws off a modest amount of light and it is a big distraction. I’m in the Talala village of Gir Sanctuary and we’re in the middle of the forest, walking deep into the unknown; the dry leaves crushing beneath my sneakers compete the beats of my heart – the heart wins when it comes to decibels.

A lion has just crossed us and the local guide wants us to follow his path. I’m the first and only one to agree; we move.

I try calling her but her phone is out of coverage. One last love you please dear lion!!!

He smiled at his silliness – all his life he had been a runaway, making fun of romances and at this moment, he found himself drooling over someone he hadn’t seen for a year. He closed his eyes and drifted down memory lane...

I’m all drunk – it’s a friend’s birthday party and he has arranged for plenty of booze; free alcohol has always been the topmost dream of a man but now, this girl poses a tough competition to mine. Yes, there she stands, looking at her watch and asking her mom to calm down, over the phone – it’s 11:06PM and she is already late by an entire six minutes.

She walks towards me, ‘time to leave’ she smiles and her right hand stretches my way as my arms are already wide open, begging her presence into them. She shies away and I smile, shaking her hand; my friends laugh at my hopelessness.

‘I’ll w-alk you home’ I stutter.

‘You’re drunk’ she eyes me, ‘don’t worry I’ll manage.’ In vain, she’s arguing with a rock.

I spend the best eleven minutes of my life – swaying with the breeze. It isn’t the alcohol, I know for sure for I’ve been a drunkard all my life and never in my life have I been on the other side of self-control. The hair running in criss-cross waves, playing with the envious winds; her magical eyes make me want to plead for pardon to SRK, he no more seems like a clown singing those idiotic songs at amazing locations, just for the eyes; her mystic smell-

‘Where are you lost?’ she lets her hair fall on one shoulder as I almost faint, ‘we’ve reached.’

I shook hands with her and waved her good-bye.

‘Ayaan’ she recites my name better than Shakespeare’s poetry and walks on to give me a hug – this one gesture makes me want to leave all the things in this world and settle in those gentle arms, for the rest of my life...

‘O bhaiya!’ the auto driver gazed at him, ‘don’t you wish to get down? Your destination is here.’

‘It indeed is’ he smiled.