I will leave him be...

I find myself writing this on a sleepless night. On the edge of the mountains, staring into blank space. I often see myself making the same mistakes over and over again. I often see myself in love with the same person through the years. Just that his name seems to have changed, or his features seem to have altered a bit. I still seem to want to hold on, and he still seems to want to let go. Love is a strange concoction of emotions. On days one feels intoxicated with the idea of having met the one, or if there is a concept of the one. The heady feeling of falling into a tumble, reaching a peak and probably just downhill from there. Or is it my naivete to be calling it love? 
But come to think of it, why wouldn't you want to let the moment stand a while? If ever there was a moment of standing still and breathing in. Why wouldn't we just inhale? Why the rush to put labels on everything that seems to float by? Or seems to have fallen into our laps. Not that I haven't consistently struggled to let it flow past. But on moments such as these, on nights such as this, I will leave him be. As a memory of a forgone letter that I hurriedly scribbled on the back of a book cover and forgot to give it to him. He stays mixed with ether, nibbling at the back of my head. Maybe all my past and present encounters and walk ins are derived from a patchwork of his battered and bizzare persona.
And yet tonight I will probably just leave him be. Tonight as I sit staring across at the vast expanse of mountains, I will leave him in the confines of his crowded life. Among his myriad spreadsheets, his friends and acquaintances, his cravings and his passions. I will leave him to wake up one fine day, and think of me with a fond smile or a wishful thought. I will leave him to look for me in the pages of my favorite book or among the words of my long lost letter. I will leave him to remember me by the sound of my unspoken name.

The phenomenon of Urban Loneliness

Chronic loneliness is not an unheard of phenomenon in metropolitan cities, or rather in modern metropolitan Indian cities. Loneliness can often be mistakenly for depression. However, the two are quite distinct. agreed, that loneliness on more than one occasion tends towards depression, but the converse might not be true. I am not an expert on the topic, yet here, I will try to lay out a layman's perspective of the persistent problem of loneliness.

To start of with the why's of the subject, why loneliness is so prevalent in our society today? Simply because of the growth of the concept of individualism. Traditionally in an Indian society an individual is expected to always abide by the family wishes. The trend is gradually but definitively changing. Indian parents with their aspirational  motives generally send their children to colleges/universities in the metropolitan cities which is often a potpourri or an amalgamation of cultures. Exposed to the ideals of urbane mannerisms these children adapt and mold to ideas revolutionary to their parent's staid belief systems. Exceptions of open, liberal households are off course present, however they are unfortunately numbered. This gives rise to hitherto unheard of habits, likes and influences such as a cultivated affinity towards western content (in the form of TV shows/movies or more recently Netflix) music, lifestyle etc. Suddenly a young adult finds himself/herself facing or dealing with situations previously unheard of, quite possibly for which a sheltered upbringing had left him/her unprepared.

This cultural juxtaposition often acts as a two way traffic. On one hand metropolitan culture, lifestyle (generously peppered with urban upcoming trends like travel/fashion/blogging/photography etc) tends to expand the mind and help formulate opinions, involvement or drive passions. Contrarily this expansion or exultation often acts as an injection of isolation. As the years go by, and this young adult metamorphoses into a new breed of culturally refined, well read, opinionated and liberal citizen, but the itch of loneliness becomes increasingly pronounced. From the issue of forming everlasting bonds of friendships, to cultivating professional contacts, to the ever imminent question of finding love, every aspect of human interaction goes through several layers of scan or security check. The echo chambers we force ourselves into tend to hold our faculties in a tight grip.

Therefore, is the phenomenon of urban loneliness really a myth? Or is it just an issue evolved out of our so called pseudo intellectual progress? It is hard to say. Research suggests that, the possibility of facing loneliness picks up from the age of 30. Loneliness is often identifies with a general lack of purpose, dissatisfaction with life and living individually in a city almost doubles the risks. City dwellers are increasingly impacted by social fragmentation, noise, lack of control, stress at work, subordination and overcrowding. Loneliness if it persists over longer duration also leads to depression and tends towards self harm or suicidal tendencies. Despite the rapid rise of this phenomenon, loneliness is not diagnosed as a medical condition. Symptoms often help with identification while also mixing it up with depression, anxiety. However, the distinction is often evident.

In conclusion, the rise of this trend is fairly recent. I have often heard it spelled out as a gap or an issue persistent with our generation. Perhaps it is or perhaps it isn't. I believe that loneliness had always been present as an undercurrent in our society, however, it's foray into the mainstream media is probably credited to the information explosion which is a gift of our digitally connected generation. In an age of Facebook, Instagram, Twitter etc, sharing comes easy and the hunger for validation is more marked. The more digitally connected we seem to be, factual or humane aspects become more impaired. One can only imagine the societal structure in the times of the millennial or the Gen Z, coming of age. Nevertheless, society (not just Indian society) is in a state  of constant evolution and it largely does ensure survival of the fittest. What could we do to hold the trap doors open? Maybe quite simplistically form better or more meaningful relationships. We could dedicate some downtime to ourselves, disconnect from the clutter every once in a while and pursue an interest. Reach out, talk, meet, share. Maybe we could take a cue from our traditional Indian belief system and learn to believe in the concept of constructing a framework of exchange. This would definitely not only be family or relatives, but people whom we come to identify with, over a period of time. Maybe people with similar value system. After all, for us, association does come more naturally. And traditionally so does acceptance, assimilation, tolerance. One simply just needs to reach out.

I was trying to be brave

 I was trying to be brave. To rise above and do what I wanted to do. At that moment, in that time. Brave enough to give up. Brave enough to hold still. To find courage to make the choices I had been destined to make. Brave enough to be lead by hand into a dimlit cluster of doubts. I had wanted to be brave. Calm enough to write down the echoes in my mind. Poised enough to let others read and feel my words against their fingertips. I wanted to find courage to tell her, darling it's time to let him go. To hold her and say that there is life beyond. Trust me and walk on. I wanted to be bold enough to pluck out the tags they put on us. To scratch labels and be free. I wanted to not be defined by who I am, or where I come from. The language I speak, or the color of my skin. By what I do or by the souls I touch. I wanted to be brave enough to just be. I wanted to wander aimless amongst strangers in distant lands. I wanted to be that smiling monk at a button sized monastery far removed from horrors of our world. I wanted to find courage to feel attached and drown in a suspension of sub-optimal gravity. I longed to feel. And yet I wanted to scatter and run when it felt. For the brave really aren't brave. Courage is not to be who you are. The who's of identity are labels just as vague. To be brave, is just to feel. And for just this once, I wanted to feel.

Story of dormant desires

Today is one of those days when I want to write about birds and bees. Of chocolates and vanilla. Of ecstasy and desires. Of forbidden and unhinged. And why not of desires? Of all things frugal and feather light, desires shaped into longings over distances. Distances that melt into droplets frozen despite warmth of skin. The semi amorphous curtain of melancholic evenings fused into bustling cacophony of cocained, hungover carrefours. Why is it that desires remain unspoken of, uncared for, caged and dormant. Desires that graze, desires that nuzzle, brittle and pale. Today is one such day of uneventful outcomes, of uncharted whispers and unfinished mulling overs. A day when thoughts ran amok among the branches and leaves lost color in the burning sun. When dizzy junctions halted into hapless silences, distances expanded into delirious recklessness and contracted into expired ecstasies. Unhinged, unspoken, non repented, intoxicated and yet present. Story of dormant desires.

Uncertainties knocking at my door

There came a day when abject uncertainty knocked at my door. And what did I do? I closed it on his face. Before you jump to myriad imaginings of what came to pass, answer an irrelevant query. What is uncertainty for you? For me, uncertainties are when icy cold fingers clasp my hands and shake me out of my stupor, push me to see realities I would rather not see. Uncertainties are following my beaten down, weather withered instinct. Uncertainties are loosing track of should haves in could haves. When the screens turn a refined and opaque grey, what would you anticipate to retrieve from the debris of bygones? Uncertainties. Or maybe not. So I did close the door on his face. But just before walking away, there came this brief spell of what ifs. I did tiptoe back to where he was, still standing at the ramparts. Was it mystery or flamboyant lack of it that made me want to. I honestly couldn't say. Could I ever be certain of uncertainties that he would bring along? Moreover, would I wish to test the possibilities? Mayhaps, only time would tell. You know when the mountain breeze grazes the surface and spread the chill, it is then that the uncertainties are bound to spill.

Connecting the dots

Today in a roomful of strangers, with lights dimmed out, I connected the dots. The missing link of a question that has been gnawing at me ever since. The proposition that not everyone you meet in life is going to be the one relevant. It is perhaps simplistic, to say that there would be some who would rather spend their lives with irrelevance. What if today I question as to how many would really know me? If I had to write a phrase for my eulogy, what would it say? Would my tombstone just rather read, "In search of the elusive concept of happiness" or would it be in celebration of an existence well lived, paths well trodden, touches well felt. How many would know of your, "one that got away". Impact and stories are often intertwined like tireless attempts at shaping an outcome. For a lover of wordplay and allegory, meaning often bursts forth in the most unexpected corners. In the midst of a work session, in the arms of an abject stranger or intoxicated among the group of lost friends who swore by each other, once upon a time. And if you're fortunate meaning dwells in dropped phrases, stories reside in echo chambers.

Broken jar of salt peppers

A broken jar of salt peppers. An oversized suitcase of baggage. Melancholic and morbid. When I open my eyes, I would often want to shut them off. I transit from places or people, leaving behind shards. Incapable of drawing a straight line. I would blabber, incoherently or talk in circles when nervous. Those are my walls of glass that I build about my psyche of an adolescent mind. On occasions I would not make sense and on moments of clarity, everything would spring to a stark pattern of objectivity. Time often stops when one stands at a juncture of indecision. Seconds would morph into hours, and I would slow down into an unintelligible silence or would patter on to appear sound. As derelict as transit sounds, what does it entail really? Transit would be the idea of holding back and letting go. Of losing oneself in another. Of patterns and crayons. Transit would be perception and doubts. When I fade from one picture and fuse into another, my losing would be transit for another.

Simple joys in life

Today I thought I would think about the simple joys in life. Those once upon a time I had it in the palm of my hand moments. The simple pleasures of making paper boats and watching them float away in glory. Or the saturated afternoons, locked in a room reading the newly minted books, my father would buy for me. The oversized raincoats and strappy boots I would don to hopscotch around in muddy puddles. Or the tadpoles I would chase with the blunt end of a twig. I would think of how my humpty dumpty, happy child of a cousin, would blow the whistle every time I dozed off with my homework untouched, in a garden chair. Of how I loved wearing mismatched long socks in winters, put my feet up and cozy into the crumpled pages of my latest story. Sometimes I would read, sometimes I would write, sometimes I would sketch. The sky was still infinite, the horizons unscathed. I would listen to recitals of the impending storm or play dumb charades with my mother. Today I thought I would deviate from the mathematics of it all. Today I felt, I wouldn't calculate in anticipation.

Happy ecstasy

As the days go by, I tend to think about indecision and pause more and more. Not that I hadn't the day I met him. But even now as I contemplate to give him a fixture in my pages, I wait and trotter around the edges. Not that he warrants oblivion or deserves obscurity. He is too bold an image for my mind to erase. Yet still his mystery intrigues me. Unknown entities are not a part of my world, yet on odd days  of tempestuous vigor, I am known to take matter into my hands and plunge into the icy cold waters. Today as I pause to scrawl my scattered ramblings on the pages of my journal, I am uncertain, if I will ever see him again. And oddly enough I want to. I want to touch that skin again, run my fingers through his hair. Whisper my dormant desires into his ears and feel him move unconsciously in his  sleep. I want to see his droopy eyelids close in forgetfulness and then open in lazy ignorance to break into a relaxed yawn. He is wickedly conscious of the effect he has on me and the desires he arouses. If only wanting could end in happy ecstasy, each time my mind wanders, I would be in heaven by now.

All these years...

If I confess today that all these years and there is a tiny part of me that still misses him, I wouldn't be lying. I do. I don't know where he is, he is somewhere around but even after all this time, his yearning knocks against my chest. Like the first day I saw him, a zillion years ago. Like water flowing under the bridge, time has happened to flow away. So much of it, in such a broad gauge. But every time someone turns around and asks me, if he still exists. I say he does. In a heartbeat, in a blink of an eye. At that moment, in that space, he does. In my reality he always does. Life is moving at an unsteady trotter. Each time I see him now, he seems a little more faded. As if quantum of time is eating away at his particles. As if a bell is tolling at an impending ending. Maybe it is time to drift apart. Further still, more distant, into the emptiness of carefully crafted oblivion. I sometimes wonder, how would it be living in a cocoon of unknown. Living like polite acquaintances amidst cases of feather light voluminous history. To get up one day and remember him as an ache that fails to subside. To admit to him to be a bygone.