Each time I begin scribbling, in
the thought of reaching onto you, I stop midway, pushing myself into a pool of
infinite thoughts. Most of them are simply the rushes of the days and nights
that we lived in solitude and the refreshing peace, away from the lights and tantrums
of the city. This place where I stay now resembles the settling aura of
composure which you always longed for. When the clock strikes past 11, as the
lights go down from the adjacent rooms, I find it difficult to restrict my
thoughts racing past all obstructions. Most often than not, it’s you, the
center of my emotional ride inside. This time it is no different. Perhaps, it
shouldn’t be different, ain’t it?
There have been scatters of rain
last night. A long awaited relief from the scorching heat. Prayers and
offerings in the state did not go in vain after all. The foreign visitors here
are amazed to have witnessed the drops. They eagerly wait for the further
showers. This place has something that isn’t but definitive; some emotions that
gets inside us right from the day one of the stay. My treatment is going jovial
than expected. I’ve managed to build a rapport with the therapists, junior
doctors and the support staff here. They’re more than glad to serve me with all
grace. It feels like home; and sometimes, even better.
I’m yet to have my medications
for the morning. That can wait, I suppose. This flow in which I type is a
rarely met phenomenon. And I want to keep doing it as long as I can. Or rather,
until I go drained out. The sound of the keyboard being tapped frequently in a
rhythmic speed is an amazement to listen to. Sometimes, my words actually dance
to its tunes. And when it stops, the mind goes blank, and pauses for infinite
seconds. And when the sound resumes, it is like I start breathing again, after
being caught in a dark breathless cave for long. I give out a sigh of relief
and type again.
The room beside mine is occupied
by a French couple. They seem to be in their late twenties, graciously in love,
I must say. There’s no pretention, I watch. There’s no compulsion, I see. We do
have conversations once in a while. They love books and when I told them I’ve
read Kundera, they were astonished. They were quite generous to introduce me to
a couple of wonderful French writers. I think that is where we struck a cord
and it’s nice to see them talking without a halt on what they love to do. They
love being in Kerala, they tell me. Since the last six years, it’s been a
routine, the visit here, they say. I’m more than surprised. My state has a
glory indeed. It is just that I don’t identify its true worth. A certain sense
of guilt passes through my heart. Faintly, though. But then, what I’m more in
awe is the fact that they’re totally into each other. I’m not sure what happens
behind closed doors, but on the outside it seems like, they’re the happiest
couple on earth. It’s beautiful to watch a man and a woman totally engulfed
into each other, more than ever in love; one of the most pleasant sights to
look out for.
I can hear the thuds and hush
outside. It’s beginning to rain again. What more do I seek for, this precise
moment? The drops shall turn heavier before long. And the skies shall grace
this place with thunderous showers, I simply hope. I’d want to see it all, the
way it gets intense and heavier. And if I’m to sit on this chair any longer,
I’m certain that it is not going to be worth it at all. So my dearest, here’s me
taking your leave until we meet next. Let me move out of the closed doors and
see for myself what the morning has to offer. Wish me luck and write to me at
the earliest. For, here’s a heart longing for your words of warmth, since the
day it heard your voice for the first time in that cold misty afternoon.
Love,
Prayers.
Prayers.
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