In the cloudplay on a blustery day and dead drizzling on a stormy night, he came to my mind in shades of greys leaving me in blues. The winds whispered to my ears a thousand memories of him and I sauntered down the memory lane.
Standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to take off, his deadpan gaze at the world beneath his feet, so unflinching, so passive, his glider would unfurl and I would skip a beat, and open my eyes to see him flying, higher and fearless! Those were the times he would forget me….forget himself…..forget the world!
On the moonless nights, we would stare at the shallow sky and talk of this and that! He would warm up my cold feet under the sheets and caress my nape with his soft lips until I fell asleep! I’d wake up in the middle of the night to a balmy view of a thousand glittering lights festooning the hills and his head on my my lap, and I would feel complete!
The dark dawns would keep us in covers for a little longer, and I’d feel melancholic with the thought of letting him go! He’d hold me closer and whisper to my ears- “these mountains that you are carrying, you were only supposed to climb.”
And I saw him slowly and hazily disappear into a thick, dark forest, dispersing into a thousand shades of grey, swaying away with the winds, far away somewhere where he greets me when I’m lost and blue!
Under the star studded winter sky, when people usually don’t prefer walks, he’d go out covering his neck with a pashmina scarf, holding a lantern that dissipated tangerine beams on to the deserted rack, glistening with frost. He would gulp the cold wind that hit his face. Winter was a Vanita art to him, aesthetically pleasurable than the “Ars moriendi” where wreck and decay were symbolic of new beginnings.
He’d return unusually earlier with a face numbed from cold and, the dying embers in the grate would give a crimson flush to his numbed nose. “There’s magic happening outside” he would say to me and I’d look at his now vigorous face and I would acknowledge with a smile. Winter was a sip of vintage to him, a balmy beam on the graveyard, a beautiful death he’d like to embrace. Sitting in his armchair, he would sip the hot joe, putting off the lights and gazing at me with the filtered beams of the lantern, he’d scribble on his diary :
” Do you notice the pride of this winter night, seems as if it has come after meeting you….do you see what benevolence it holds, drags me home a little early to be with you.”
Those slender bony hands
That manoeuvred on and on
Made the cold desks worth sitting on.
So Carefully designed
Velvety, only if I could touch
Filed lustrous nails
Made me go insane.
Trying to gather all my attention
But the talking interested me in no dimensions
As did those hands,I wish I could tell that their charm
I could no more withstand.
So I went to confess, but in vain
The remarkable hands caught me again
My gazing got gullible
It buried me deeper than a sleeper.
He asked me if I needed something?
That gave me wings
But I didn’t want to spill the beans
‘Cuz secretly admiring was my thing.
“Happiness” is to admire
Admire without any desire.
This was something I did fret
But I told it to you,
Now it no longer is a secret!