Haimish.

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i’ve developed this new habit 
Where i learn a new word everyday

Maybe because i was starting to feel dumber by the minute 

Maybe because i wasn’t reading anything meaningful 

Maybe because i just wanted to feel like i’m learning. 

Haimish 

It read on the screen

Homey; cozy and unpretentious 

4 hours from now
I would have called you home. 

my own home. 

Where i find solace.

your arms, a safehouse to my aching muscles

your hug, a bandaid to my tearing insides 

In places i did not even know

were once amalgamated 

your touch, an adhesive to my withering self doubt 
but now that i’ve asked myself 

what home is 

it’s nowhere close 

to what being with you feels like 

how you water budding roses inside me

in places i did not know existed within 

how you nourish dulled senses 

i did not know my body could recept to 

how you flourish nascent abilities 

i did not know i had 

now i know you’re not home. 

home does not feel half as haimish as you do. 

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Nostalgia.

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I heard my laptop go pop with an IM that said ” send me one of those speaking stickers ,they get me everytime ” .
And I did, with a message of my own.
” I miss this ” .
We often used to IM on MSN before they shut it down , for nostalgia’s sake. Took us back to the ‘ honeymoon’ phase .

As much as I didn’t want to admit, like every other relationship out there , ours had run it’s course too, but we were catching up to it, which kept it alive.
We often looked for ways to reminisce old dates , movie nights , even arguments to distract us from the now.
I realise that digging into the past to make the present bearable isn’t the right way to live , but what’s a life lived without a few wrongs.

I remember how I used to google complicated synonyms to impress her with my vocabulary . And how I used to talk about wordly topics only because she always did . That didn’t quite change because eventually I just talked about her ,which was as wordlyas ever , because she was – the least to say – my world.

She didn’t do relationships like my older girlfriends or my friends’ girlfriends did.
She didn’t sugarcoat anything, neither did she refrain from talking about awkward & uncomfortable things with me.
Which made me feel lucky in a way, unless she started talking about her menstrual cycle or blatantly started telling me about how she wanted to eat a sausage while maintaining eye contact with a good looking guy she saw in a restaurant.
She also didn’t pay attention.
She never gave anything a second thought.
She was also very pretentiously damaged, to say the least – but she was my pretentious bundle of beautiful damage – She’d often say stuff like
” I’m too busy pre-consciously running in a race , speeding to reach the day I die,Hun. And so is everyone else. There’s nothing worth second guessing around here . ”
And there never came a time when she didn’t catch me off guard.
But eventually I caught upto her, as far as I could , atleast.

I’d like to believe she was as impressive as I thought she was. But then I put more thought into it, and figured I probably just had Aria goggles on. The goggles which put Aria before everyone else, the goggles which made every annoying thing about her seem impressive.

But she just made everything better for me, and I wasn’t going to deny that.

Man scientifically may not have invented a way to go back in time yet, but anecdotes are nothing but a literary form of a time capsule.
There are times when you can’t get enough of something or someone in the past. And then there are times you want to forget and have no memory of.

The month of June in 2013 was the latter.

For a summer I spent every hour of every day with her , I would’ve never thought there will be a time I wouldn’t want to be reminded of it.

A summer when I didn’t know it would be her last .

I would call those 70 days rather beguile.
For I can’t think of a better summer , neither can I think of a worse one.

I can still play the whole incident in my head

It was 3:43 am when I received the call. Like always, she didn’t start the call with a conventional greeting. What is the point of all the Hi’s and Helloes when you know I’m calling to talk to you, why give into inexplicable social conformities when you’ll do just fine without them, she’d say.
” as cliché as this will sound when you narrate it to everyone, this nocturnal & slightly abrasive phone call is to tell you that I love you. I love your mainstream ideas for a date. I love how absurdly expressive you are. And I love how you love me. ”
And she hung up.
I was too drunk in love at that moment to realise how unlike Aria that gesture was.
Or maybe for once I wanted to believe she was thinking about me and that was nothing but a late night love binge.
But my heart knew better.

After 12 minutes of swimming in my puddle of all things sappy,at 3:55 I decided to call back.
She didn’t pick up.
4:02 am – 18 missed calls and desperate voice mails later , my phone flashed an unknown number.
4:38 am – I pushed through the emergency room doors, looking for something I knew I wouldn’t find.
4:50 am – I lifted my head up from her torso and my eyes found the clock, blurred with tears . Her body was cold and stiff, puddled in blood that should’ve been running through her veins.
Her brother rushed into the room behind me and I stepped back.
My head hurt and my every inch of my face was wet and salty. I didn’t cry very often- I actually didn’t cry at all – but I’d just lost the only person who mattered.

I snapped out of that to realise I was crying again. The past year had been one night after the other , with me replaying the incident in my head . I knew it was pathetic, it made me pathetic. and that was the kind of nostalgia I hated.

Unsolved.

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6 different partners , 1 significant life event and over 720 days of undefined friendship, unprecedented arguments and a range of mutual emotions from indifference to infatuation later, here I was , sitting on my bed at 3 am with way more than the appropriate amount of caffeine in my system , mentally stuck in the lounge room 50 metres and atleast 20 sweaty teenagers apart from him.
If you looked at him in a room full of people, his tall structure and brimmingly above average face aside, there was nothing remarkable about him. He’s the guy sitting on the metro floor reading a book you’ve probably heard of with an appropriately disheveled mane . He’s the guy you look up from your phone to see but don’t glance back at again. He’s the awkwardly likeable friend with a rather accustomed sense of humour. He’s as normal as normal gets.

I could say his presence in my life made him extraordinary for me, but then I’d hesitantly erase out the ‘extra’.
He is there for me and he isn’t.
He knows me a little more than I’d like to be known about, and he also didn’t know me at all.
I’d think about him if he hadn’t talked in a while, and I’d also let it go even after months had passed.
He is the pandora to my existence.
He is the kind of puzzle I like with a few pieces missing.

The raging oestrogen in me often replaced the faceless man pining me down on the bed to roughly kiss me to peak the edges of my desire with him, only for me to push those away.
I’d repeatedly convinced myself I was in love with him because not labelling it was too confusing , but I knew love wasn’t the right word for it.
I didn’t want to figure him out, yet I yearned for him to understand me.
I didn’t want to label what we had, yet I craved for him to force me to do so.

What we had- if we had something- was absurd and indescribable but elementary and insipid and the same time.

For he lit me like the streets on Diwali, I hope I was atleast a faintly flickering flame for him.
He was to me like the 0.1% gasses are to the air we breath, not significant enough to distinguish but simultaneously incumbent .

And to put a million raging thoughts to rest, I think he still is the only mystery I prefer unsolved.