31 October, 2021

What’s the difference between psychedelic and psycho? You know?

Eventually, everything is a matter of habit. The things we do, or we do not do, are often because of habit. Writing almost daily used to be a habit. There were rarely days when I hadn’t written anything at all. Almost none. I’d often write in my notebook or on social media. There would be office work…articles to be written or anthems or some promotional material, or some new idea needed to be jotted down. I have had very very few days in my life when I hadn’t written at all. Characters and situations would appear in my imagination at random and I’d jot everything down, lest I forget.

I don't know if it’s a thing of age, where I feel less attachment to imaginary worlds and even lesser to the real one. No compulsive characters, flash of an idea, sudden need to find pen and paper. My handwriting has also become shaky…because I haven’t written in almost two years. 

My writing table is gathering dust, my mind is a cobweb, long conversations with friends on WhatsApp is almost gone. Not writing is a habit too. For days and nights when I feel like writing, I realise I can still sleep comfortably if I haven't written anything at all. Earlier, I couldn’t fall asleep if a thought is stuck in my head. 

Mental and physical exhaustion go hand in hand. Bringing up twins is no mean feat. It’s difficult to exactly explain how my day just disappears…but I can say this with certainty, there is no waking moment that is not spent in rapt attention…toddlers are very very active and they make a play out of finding danger in the most harmless of things. 

I wake up at random moments in night and want to sit down at a table and write. Just write. Simple paper, pen, ink. A cup of coffee near my right hand, on my favourite coaster. And every time I feel like writing, I want to write a letter. 

And every time I feel like going back to writing again, I want to start with you. I want to write a letter to you. It’s good to be continually in love with a muse, hai na?

I get heady with the imaginary scent of paper, the muffled sound as my hand moves across, writing…the soft thud as I drop it in a letterbox…

I wonder if you are awake at this random time in the morning. It’s strange how small, routine things of people we have fallen in love with awaken such curiosity in us. 

Life is strange, beautifully strange. Today as I walked in to fill my water bottle in the kitchen, I saw a bottle of port wine on the dining table. I do what I never ever ever do…I took off the cork and took a small swig of it. Delicious, deliriously delicious. Imported port wine. It wasn’t meant for me. And yet, here I am, drinking wine at 5 in the morning when I’m hungry and slightly sleepy. But mostly Crazy. Writing always makes me crazy, like at this moment I want to take the car and drive very very very fast on the highway. I don't remember the last time I even touched 100kmph. 

Writing makes me crazy. It makes me believe in stupid things. And it feeds the desire to write stories of people crazy as me. Making them fall in love with completely sane people who have no idea who wakes up at 4 in the night and writes. Instead of useless scrolls on social media. 

My memory is a mish-mash of things no one should remember. Because there are so few people in my life, I remember such random things about them. Once, as I entered a friend’s care, I said it smells like smoke and sunshine…which was not poetic, but literal…but it sounded beautiful. Like that warm Delhi morning we had met and had chai and long walk…when it was spring and flowers bloomed in Lodhi gardens. We don’t have a selfie of us…which is pretty stupid of me. But well, I have never been too much of a reasonable person anyways. 

I miss writing and I miss my friends and I miss Dilli and New York…and times when you could just ask for a hug without sounding like a terrorist. 

I miss you. You know. I should have met you, some years ago…in a city, like strangers…had a cup of coffee…without sugar. I should have said goodbye to you. Knowing we might not meet again for the next ten years. Hugged you thrice…or four times…and not enough times. Yet. It feels nice to know, I haven’t forgotten to write. You know what would have been nicer? A letter from you. 


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