Wednesday, February 15, 2017

Nostalgia for the past

It was a time of Love and Innocence. I now remember them in sepia tones of longing. Don't we all wish for time turners? I mumble another unrealised wish, as the bus hops on the potholes towards the street bustling with life and concealed with memories. Many a nights, drenched in the vanilla of the moon, love and rain, we had spoken about life and nothingness of it all. I was a cynic, too rooted in the past and traumas. And you, you were always the anchor that kept me rooted in the present, always convincing me that there was more to life than nostalgia for the past.
I want to know what you think now. Whether remembrance tiptoes it's way back into your life today. But then, you are a different person now and once a person changes, does anything remain of the one we knew? You smile a little too hard today. Is it because you do not remember? Is it because you no longer care? Or is it because you know that I have this thing for nostalgia. I do not remember you as someone who would cause pain to me, but then the silence of all these months suppirts the contrary. Who knows? You are a different person now.
The slow dance of remembrance covers my eyes. Your's gleam with lightness and freedom. I remember the temple bells and the auburn evenings when the feeling of love had first sank in our hearts and we had declared it to each other with passion and innocence. Like I said, it was a time of innocence and I have preserved yours in sepia tones of love and wonder. Yes, wonder. Because I always thought you would preserve something of the person you once were.


I have drowned myself in coffee, whiskey and verses. You have found company, happiness and all that perhaps I must have failed to provide. Tell me, why is it that the one who loves is always the one that is left behind. Why is it that the one that feels is rewarded with pain?

I remember your words. Now a box of lies that were used to show the world that you did not commit the folly of falling for an emotional trainwreck, a difficult one, an empath, a poet hung up on details, a writer who has a nostalgia for the past. Perhaps, with her words, she trapped you. Perhaps, you made her up inside her head. Perhaps, you were kind enough to not keep the broken,  waiting.

The details, the truth, shall always remain unknown to the world. Your madness, your love, your innocence shall always remain our secret, concealed in characters, verses, poems and prose. The tragedy of being a loner, you say. The glory of being the one with a heart big enough to forgive your betrayal, I believe.
The truth remains concealed behind my silence and love. Something that means nothing anymore. But had meant the world at a point. And I still taste it like regret, like a fool every day.


You belong to those Sepia toned frames, to those evenings and nights when we had spilled our hearts out and rained kisses on each other, as if making a sacred vow. Putting things in perspective, I now feel that it really was too good to be true. I hadn't noticed until today that there are cracks on the edges and the frames are beginning to rot.


I wonder if we catch a glimpse of each other, will you wave at me, smile at me or turn your face and pretend that there is no such thing as nostalgia for the past? I will probably put on a straight face and run to the nearest wine shop, grab a bottle of whiskey and try to blur the difference between love and lies, to make the reality a little more bearable. You will bury yourself in your phone and Twitter, and remind yourself that our history was never ours, that I do not exist but for the ghost that resurfaces only when the skies are auburn and the distant sound of temple bells echo inside your new house. Soon, I will cease to be a ghost either. You will forget the structure of my face, the creases on my cheeks, the smell of my hair, the color of my eyes. You have already replaced the taste of my lips, the warmth of my company.


There are some lovers, some goodbyes, some regrets, some questions that we carry with us all our lives.  Perhaps we make peace with the new way of life. And we smile a little too hard when someone asks us why we are not longer the same.

_Ayushee Ghoshal 

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