Skip to main content

Love, loss, and longing Part I

The walls were blue; a shade darker than powder blue I think. It was his choice and so it had to be blue. The paint job though was haphazard. Another one of his ideas for sure. He was always trying to prove he could do it all. Asshole. Now the room was freshly painted, yes, but uneven. The brushstrokes were crisscross or horizontal at places. Very typical of him. Surely he would have forgotten the pattern each time he took his cigarette break.

There was no easy way to do this. The confrontation could not be avoided for long. Things had simmered over days and now… before they burnt down everything, she had to come to a decision. The old dank hallway ahead seemed endless. The lone bulb on the third door on the right-hand side was on its last leg; it would die out soon.

The only light that distinguished this dump from a bottomless pit was the entrance. Taxis zipped by and hawkers hollering for their wares added a sense of normalcy. Unlike the silence within, this din was welcome. It was a sign of life thriving. Yeah, real people lived in this dump too but their souls had walked out long ago.

She took a moment to steady herself. The stench of sweat, smoke, unwashed floors and grime collected over a century muddled her mind. The rickety wooden staircase should have collapsed ages ago. It was a wonder it had survived so much through the years. Each year they would bet on it - this would be its last year but no… though narrow, creaking with each step, the weather-beaten stairs had stood the test of time.  

She climbed three steps and stopped. She needed to have a plan. She had to be firm. But here, in this dump, she could not concentrate. God! Why did it have to be this place? WHY… could they have left and moved into a place that had a view? She had pleaded, she thought back. Her tears meant nothing to him.

His insults and sneers brought tears to her eyes. She had given it all to this so-called relationship. But enough was enough. She could not carry on this farce, this one-sided love affair.

Like the shade of blue, his smoking was annoying. But he cared two hoots for what others felt, especially for her. He was not in his room but she could feel him in every nook and cranny. Half-read books, clothes, papers and cigarette butts lay strewn everywhere. Chai glasses, a couple of bottles and chappals decorated the room.

Although bright blue, the room stank. The stench of regret, of betrayal, of lost love and facades, engulfed her. She couldn’t cry though. She was reserving her tears for the big fight. She would wait today. It had to be done.

To be continued…
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A book review – Whispering Paths

The first time I interviewed someone for an assignment, the piece came back with a remark which read – ‘MOTS’ needs flesh, i.e. man on the street needs flesh! Whatever that meant, confusion was my first reaction to it. However, with writing and then rewriting the same assignment over, and over again, I realized that I had to add character or rather more ‘meat’ to the story. So what is my point here? I am trying to say that when someone asks me to read a new book or try a new author, I am generally wary of them. Why? Because I do not want to read through the book like a zombie because there is nothing (in terms of ‘meat) in its story or the characters!
But (There is always a catch, isn’t it?) Whispering Paths by Sneha Subramanian Kanta is different. Her debut publication has already put her in a league of writers who are out there to tell stories; stories that touch a chord deep within us and haunt us (in a good way) for time to come. Stories that a reader can relate to, feel the pain, …

What you get when you get a Dog...

Of moist wet noses and itchy ears, Pinpricks as bites and scratchy burs.
Ticks and twists, trips and tears, Licks and nips, and soulful stares.
Of woofs, barks and soft growls, Ruined furniture and empty food bowls.
Of smelly poop and slippery pee, Cuddly hugs, kisses and so much glee!
Of sleepless nights and dreamless mornings, When endless walks in the park become your calling.
Of wagging tails and adorable paw shakes, Shedding hair, rollovers, and shakes.
Of crashing dins and chasing leaves, Bring one home and you’ll never grieve.

#Sorry not sorry

I feel sorry for ‘Sorry’ – such an abused term. When you come to think of it, it is just a word, right? It holds significance in some instance and at times, it is a mere excuse. But we humans absolutely love it as an excuse, don’t we? I use this term a lot; I mean a lot! I think of myself as a kind being, and hence, if I happen to push or ignore (deliberate), I say ‘sorry’. I say sorry for things that may not need a ‘sorry’. I say ‘sorry’ to people I am not really feeling sorry for (don’t read this the wrong way). In short, I say ‘sorry’ a lot like I have already admitted. It is my ticket to moving on, a ticket to redeem myself for mistakes and sometimes, tinged with slight sadness (maybe).

But is ‘Sorry’ the right word? Mean, is it even appropriate? Like they say, first you commit the murder and then say sorry. What is the point of it? I would say nothing. Sorry – the term originated from the West Germanic term Sore that evolved to Sarig, meaning pained or distressed. It is also known…