I open my eyes. This is my happy place. I see painters on the road sketching away to their glory. Clarinet players sing in the gardens. A love struck couple relishes their share of candy holding hands. Women wear large hats and big gowns conceiting from the eyes of people what lies beneath. Men wear their pride on their sleeves which at the end of dusk, comes off. I smile at the lilies that breath in the heart of daylight. Sylvia Plath’s story is more talked about than Anushka Sharma’s lip job. Everybody wants to name their daughters Anna or Karenina. The deepest mystery is the wanting to know who the real Mona Lisa is.
Writers are semi-nomadic. Artists are tad bit too grey. The first date kiss happens in a royal chariot, instead of the yellow cabs. People don’t date; they enter courtships. Hookers and prostitutes have no existence because courtesans and seductresses hold a piece of their lover’s hearts. Feelings flow through the pen of a war soldier for his dearly beloved unlike the keypads of an I-phone. Sunsets are for family and friends. Booty calls have no place because making love is all that matters. Laughter and endearment oozes through the warmth of glowing hearts. Children play hopscotch instead of playing angry birds. Opera and musicals consume the masses a zillion levels further than a gooey Yashraj Film. Pianists and saxophonists have ardent loyalists compared to the noisy rap of Honey Singh. Rains make you feel warmer and pleasant. Erotica seduces more than the lifeless sounds of pornographic films. Women dress well for themselves. Grandma’s woven sweaters were more endearing than a Burberry Overcoat. Evenings consisted of drinking wine listening to Mozart on the gramophone. The corset underneath Victoria’s layered gown entices the lover more than today skimpy secret lingerie. The aroma of home-made porridge and croissants fills the corners of the house. There are three types of people – artists, businessmen and the commoner. Shakespeare and Fitzgerald and Bronte have more patrons than Ravinder Singh can ever fathom. I walk along these by lanes in my Mary Jane stiletoes and drink water out of the streams. It quenches my thirst in ways that Kingfisher can never imagine. I feel content and amused and at peace. For a minute, life inspires. This feeling doesn’t imply negotiations or delusions. It doesn’t make me feel like an outsider. I feel at easy. I feel happy.
Intensity is a lost art in today’s world. Charm is gone missing. Vulnerability is a frowned upon tact. Innocence is as dangerous as a mirrored shard. Wishes and wanderlust is as evolving as the constant need of insecurity and desolation. It’s funny really how we try to absorb the world and its ways. It’s scary and intriguing. It’s challenging and yet ridiculous. In this labyrinth of unsaid words and broken eyes, I want to disappear. Pain goes phantom. Heart stops running. People fade away. There’s much more I have to say. I feel too much. I express too much. I want too much. But that’s not the worldly ways. There is this incessant wanting of drowning. It’s not that I am not a good swimmer. But I choose to drown. All I can feel around me is the silence of the atrocious waters and the calmness that comes from within. So much more I could have, would have, and should have. But I am closing my eyes. I am disappearing into my wonderland far far away.
And then suddenly I am jolted back to reality. A notification of his message grabs my attention and makes me come back to reality. My happy place is still there, deep somewhere beneath the sheath of scars and tissues on my skin. But for now, I have to deal with this. Because honestly; reality or fiction you – cannot drown yourself. For now or for later, the water will bring you ashore. It will bring your naked body to where it belongs. And you have to face whatever happens after that. No matter how much you wish otherwise. You cannot escape from pain. And even for a minute if you do, life will always makes room for more