Sunday, March 11, 2012

Hallelujah

October came this year, and with it, brought you back in my thoughts again. Its pink winter with soft sunrises and fragrant evenings, left you with me... and we talked; we talked in the only way we know how to. For once, the conversation wasn't marred by superfluous polite words that mark gratitude and apology... it was white; it was honest.

It's not with every other month, you see, that this happens. For some inexplicable reason, it's October that always brings you back to me. The other months come with their own nostalgia- January, for example, takes me to my home, back in the terai, where I am sitting under my quilt in the master bedroom;  watching  my father sip his scotch as he makes poignant comments about life in general. February takes me to that bus stop where I used to wait everyday for my school bus- a yellow sloth, rumbling its way, cutting across the thin fog, and in spite of the elements, being so precise with its timing. March and April come with colors- of parakeets, flora, and those butterflies, I keep telling you about. May and June are the seasons of the unrelenting sun, where the blossoming of a lily at the start of the week fills my heart with consummate pleasure; and so does its imminent demise at the end of the week. July and August drench my head with drops of rain and a musty scent rises up my nostrils, and I am transported inside those glazed glass buildings from where I watch the droplets trace their journey on the window panes. September is the month of longing and waiting as the rains say goodbye and winter sends a telegram that it'll be there soon. November is the season of pretty, where I watch, the world play 'hide and seek' with me; using the mist as a  perfect ally. December is the season of brewing coffee beans as their sweet smell pervades my kitchen and I stand with my cup, in my balcony, overlooking the city streets.
But it's October that brings you to me... always...

Do you think it could be because in the languid, mild afternoons of October, the sun shines with the same mysterious smile that you used to? Or is it those colorful clouds- white, grey, tangerine, clementine- that amble gently across the turf of this wide, clear blue sky you associate this month with and which resemble the silhouettes of your hair; the ones that you would playfully twirl in your fingers and make those watching you, wish for an after-life where they have a lifetime to do nothing but watch those beautiful locks in motion, flirting with the wind and teasing it with wanton abandon? Oh! Sheer poetry, I tell you! Neruda would have loved to write a couplet on them! Maybe there is no point looking for a reason; the more I'd search for one, the more distracted I'd become and October, with its 31 days, would pass me by... and I'd miss having that conversation with you. We can't afford that, can we? Time is of essence here, for we only have a lifetime which is just enough for all that we have to talk; I think...

'But what did we talk this time around?', you ask. 
'All those things that we always do, you know', I say. 
'Did we also grab a cuppa?', you ask, eyes expectant.
'Oh sure! We did. How can we talk, without one, eh?', I laugh as if dismissing the silliness of the question.
'Yes.. How can I even think that! So what else did Arthur do all this while?'
'Arthur learnt how to brew the perfect cup of tea. He also read music and created some of his own.'
'Hmmm... did he also write a song for me?', and I see that innocent smile on your face, like that of a child asking Santa for a cherished Christmas present.
I smile back and nod my head; you are reassured. Still you wonder at the back of your mind, how a muse-less me puts thoughts to words, words to music and music to life itself.... I wish I could explain how - for when emptiness becomes your mistress, the pen flows, on its own accord, with thoughts, words, music and thus, life...

One day, you see, I'll let you be, the way you've always wanted to; without conditions and without prejudices. I'll wash off the dust and the soot that you'd have accumulated, because of your wanderlust. No stains; as good as new. And you won't be tainted by all that you've seen; you'll start afresh. From that day, I won't have to wait for October; for when I'll let you be, I'll posses you in my hedonistic detachment; and you'd see the same sun, the same moon, the same stars, the same skies that I do. And everything which is inexplicable and random and variable will become constant, and maybe, perhaps, you'd know why October used to bring you back to me...

And that day, I'll sing that song I wrote for you; and feel oddly good about it.....