A Happy Birthday

Here are the things that can happen after I publish this letter:

1)    People will start feeling sorry for me.

2)    My friends will tell me to be stronger.

3)    I deny everything and call this a work of fiction and I made it up.

4)    If things go out of control, I take down this story and then they will start saying “happy birthday to her” to me.

which I do not want to happen………..

“What if tomorrow the Taj mahal falls to pieces and crumbles to the ground, its remains kissing the dust; will people still admire it for its beauty? Will the history still tell its tale of being an epitome of love?” she always had these uncommon questions. She had a strange habit of talking about dead, damaged and ruins.

I get uncomfortable with such questions. But she never stopped. We occasionally met, but every time we met she had a new question. “what about your grandparents? Do you see them in your dreams?” I nod; flinch from the mention of the dead.

Forgetting is worse than remembrance. Last night, I tried writing about the freckles on your back. Two paragraphs and 123 words later, my memory failed me. Intimacy shatters, your hands leave mine, our legs are not entwined: I lose you again every time a moment chooses to dissolve from my mind. Now, isn't that something?

You checked all of my boxes. You accepted the tar in my body just like you accepted my habit of running my fingers over dust-covered objects. You've to realize that this is rare, almost fantastic to find someone who checks all your boxes. It was as if someone had read my list and made you. But you were never really being much of a believer in fate or destiny or in someone who makes people. You were always a nice, relaxing, life-giving, stress-busting, pain relieving, happiness-inducing companion.

I treasure little things we shared like a post-card you absentmindedly scrawled my name on. the restaurant bill from our first dinner. The pencil I stole from you, with your knowledge. Your family nickname that nobody knows. The fact that you always spelt Nietzsche wrong.  The lame movie that made you cry. Your favourite poem which you told me at 4 am. The dreams you nurse, the fears that plague them and as I pray for my own dreams.

One day, we were passing through the downtown and came across this old building she stopped, stared at it for a long time, completely lost in her oblivion. It was like the demolished building found its lost lover and started staring back at her. “you know, they try to tell us stories. These ruins, demolished buildings, graves of people. They try to tell us something, which we couldn’t listen otherwise. Because with them, their stories too get buried.” I couldn’t understand her poetic language then. All I see is the demolished, the ruins and nothing else occupies my mind.

Tonight, there is a ringing silence in my bed that I can still feel when I'm outside of it. Tonight, my heart has learnt that sometimes feeling homesick has got nothing to do with a house but a person. Tonight, her memories linger in my eyes for so long that they refuse to see anything else. Tonight, I watch her go away again, stiff and strong, but I can hear her insides crumble slowly despite the city's uproar. Tonight, I've realized that we are not looking at the moon together.

No. don’t think that “I miss you”. I don’t miss you anymore. I don’t get shock whenever I hear your name, anymore. The ma’am, who looks similar to you, doesn’t remind me of you anymore. And you know what, I love a girl, here. She can differentiate between my moods just by “hi” the way she hears it. And I love her so much.

Tonight, I want you to know that you left long before the departure itself and I made love to your ghost so many times that it almost felt insane. But most of all I missed you in crowded places, where there are huge signs telling us where the 'Lost and Found' section is. I still find myself quietly walking there, knowing how no matter how many such sections I scavenge, I'll never find the piece of me I left in you.

But now, I want to visit her grave. For, she might be telling her story and this time I just don’t want to see the demolished and the ruins. And want to say her “happy birthday! Shreya. 21 ki ho gyi tum”.

                            

                            तू जो नहीं तो न सही, मैं हूँ यहाँ तो तू है यहीं कहीं |