The last few years

The last few years have been some of the hardest in my life. I have experienced peaks of both joy and sadness. I struggle to remember who I was 6 years ago, how did i look so young and happy. I have smile lines now on my face. But my skin looks fresher. Apparently hair is growing back again as well. I remember reading this quote that said that the person who you choose to be will affect every cell in your body. I cant imagine how true it is. The last few months have felt like someone has punched me in my stomach and as if i am carrying a hole inside me all the time. I have cried so much the whole of last year. I feel pathetic in some ways about how i have allowed myself to be treated. Roaming the streets with this lost look thinking this is the last weekend after which i will be single again. Weekends used to bring this dread and sadness with me. The sunday yoga class in the afternoon used to remind me of the sunday evening before school started, when my homework used to be incomplete and i used to dread being found out. I didnt sleep properly because i used to be scared that i will take too much of the duvet or i would toss and turn loudly or worst of all accidentally touch his legs or his shins which was very painful for him. He liked to be wrapped up in the duvet from all sides, spread vertically because taller and bigger and i would be sticking to my side of the bed trying to take little space and then he would hug me and put his whole body weight on me. It was so uncomfortable, i could not breathe and my back would become stiff. In the little space that i had as it is I could barely move without waking him and then i was expected to enjoy being spooned and held. every night which became very few towards the end as he would prefer to be alone in his country home with the bricks and the tractor and the tiles and the cement and the grit, i was expected to stroke his head from the back in a very specific angle and then massage his broken back at certain angles and keep pressing and stroking his back until he fell asleep. I was to continue without expecting my back to be stroked in return. And then if by mistake i took the extra duvet to cover myself while his back was exposed, all hell would break lose. In the last few months, he would ask me to cuddle him and say how much i loved him. I just could not bring myself to do either. The guilt of not doing this , guilt of not showing physical affection - how it haunted me. I cried thinking that if i had hugged him enough, allowed him to kiss me and allowed myself to say that i loved him more than what he credited me for then maybe the events of that night would not have occurred. I have never been kicked in my life before. But then maybe i gave the impression that it was ok to be physically aggressive. i guess that i will never know now. because its been 6 months since i have seen him or heard from him. in his last message to me he had said that he wanted me to stop harassing him and for me to leave him and his family alone. Not hearing his voice and not being able to speak to him has been one of the hardest things for me to do. One of the first things that he said to me was that he would always have my back, that he was the rock that i could lean on. I used to joke with him that he is my rock of Gibraltar. And now that rock is gone. My yoga teacher said that in order to cope i must be a distant observer to the part of myself who hankers after him and his affection. The part that was so so desperate to just get his attention. I was so desperate in the end to just somehow win his mother's approval and for him to say that it would work out. I think in part I drove both him and i mad. i was relentless but that was never a reason to have been kicked. I remember lying on the floor , crying and thinking that there is no use in shedding a tear as no one is coming to pick up. He had said that I have crocodile tears and he thought i was exaggerating. His version of that night's event was whatever happened was "my perception". My perception. The second time when i was kicked, i dont even remember. i just remember falling on the floor and crying and noticing that my toe was scratched and bleeding from the side. I asked him to fetch me band aid from the bathroom and he wouldn't go. I saw him sniffling and felt that perhaps he was too embarrassed with what he did and i forgot about my toe and was comforting him. he said don't touch me and stay away from him. and i was apologising to him and next morning asking him if he would speak to his mother again and ask if she was ok. I was really so pathetic. And the amount of co-dependence. just the thought of not having him around me used to make me lose my appetite. And then one day suddenly after all the drama, he is just gone. There are days though when i miss him and miss his smile and his self assured demeanor. I miss the man who I had met 6 years back in the cafe who had asked me with full vulnerability in display if I would like to consider him seriously. The man who went to great lengths to woo me and who wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. But that was not to be. Now I need to focus on building myself again, piecing myself together and try to look forward. My parents love me and have been very supportive.  After 6 years of listening being constantly told to find yourself someone who makes you happy, find yourself someone who is Indian, find yourself someone who is your own age group, find yourself someone, finally I am by myself again.

Old homes and old streets

Today I dreamed of my old house in Bangalore. I have dreamt of my old bedroom many times. I remember the balcony in my old house, the large bedroom, the mattress on the floor with the lamp beside it that I would switch on in the evening and read in its light as the night grew all around me. In my dream I returned to the street where this house stood, I remember the big tree outside the house whose branches gave the cover and shadow to the balcony. I am picking up the pieces that I had left behind, picking up the bits that I did not pack. There were pictures and open trunks and cupboards that I was sifting through. Later I went for a walk in the neighbourhood through the old trees and the old houses. I was searching and smiling in the dream.

Many years back i was in a similar situation, I didn't know who i was. It took me so long to break out of the relationship, I just couldn't decide and I couldn't take the decision to break away. I just remember how confused I was and I was angry all the time. When I finally took the decision to break away, I took out time to work on myself. I started practising yoga and found an anchor to keep my mind at bay. And found out that I was desired and became physically stronger. 

Yesterday in my dream I visited that house where I had learnt what it meant to be free. It is so strange to have that dream make me realise that feeling again. Today I am terribly alone but terribly liberated at the same time. I don't breathe in fear of doing something wrong or of being suspected of any wrong doing. I had forgotten what it felt like to walk free. And that dream reminded me of how I had felt months after I thought that i will continue to feel miserable but later learnt to be free. Yesterday in my dream i was nostalgic and smiling and clutching at those memories. 

Today I remembered what it was to be free and not to live in constant fear. I want to remember this feeling of walking free again of not looking over my shoulder of not thinking that I am doing something wrong and remember to feel the wind in my hair.

Home

The more things the more they remain the same. I was going through old pictures of myself today and realised how much I used to travel earlier. Realised how much leeway I had during my Bangalore days. Looking at the pictures of my treks to the western ghats made me so nostalgic. But even more nostalgic were the excerpts of the gmail chats with my close friends. The chats reminded me how miserable I was in some of my jobs and how happy I was doing my own thing whenever I could. The best find undoubtedly has to be the audio recording of the pilot that I did for my radio audition. I don't sound half as bad as what my selector made it out to be . I was so hungry for life. So hungry to experience things and just lap it all up. The smile on my face in my old pictures is so genuine. But after reading my chats on gmail which date back to the last 10 years, there is one thing that is common and hasn't changed over the last decade. I have been so homesick. I have longed for the familiar and the known. Longed for the sights and smells and the food from my mom's kitchen. That longing has never gone way. The longing for home is trapped in the memories of my books , my study table, my small collection of posters and other memorabilia.
I realise that I have moved apart from so many people and so many connections over the last few years. I dont know if my choices have been all right. I dont know if I should have taken the more conventional road of marriage and family life. I just took the options that life threw at me. The last one year was very very tough. Dad fell so sick. And I took so much time to adjust to my own personal life.
The dynamics at home are very different now. There is a lot of overt politeness and righteousness that has to be displayed.
Reading my old texts on gmail chat reminded me how closely I was attached to my school friends and how much further I have now drifted apart from them now. The need to move to new cities and having to reinvent and make new friends and adjust to a new city life has taken its toll over the years. I feel as if some corners  have been chipped away.
The last 1.5 months have been spent in a lockdown. I know that I am going crazy.  I miss home like never before. I have daily phone calls with my parents but it just never seems enough. I get tired of doing the same routine over and over everyday. These days I long to see more people on the road who look like me.
The city feels very alien. Especially when I have to maintain a distance of 2m from the other joggers and walkers.
I guess what I miss most in this city is having friends. Especially girl friends who I can talk to and share everything with. There is no community here and sometimes it feels as if the burden of living is too heavy on my shoulders.
I looked so young and chiseled in my photo from 2016 when I had just come to london. I feel as if so much has changed since then. Except for one thing  that I  still cry when I leave home...

Recap

Few things happened.

The brother got married. I am not the wise elder. I have a designated duty which is to be seen and to be present but not to advise and offer opinions. I am the one who could not get it right on time. But I must be bared with. I got so tired from the effort of not showing it, from the effort of keeping it up. It was so exhausting.

I underwent a minor diagnostic procedure . Alone with a oxygen pipe for comfort. I was naked and cold and scared. I had to come back home and pretend that I was ok.

I was dating an Italian. He ghosted on me. It is tiring. I am tired of selling myself, tired of being cool. It has such a high price. People disappearing hurts. And men think of me as an exotic experiment. I am a brown skinned person from the Far East. How cool it must be to friend me or date me. Gives so much of credo to the person doing it. Except that it sucks for me. I am so done with telling the same stories over and over. I don't know what is worse, having a voice or just silent assent.

My grandmother died. I was millions of miles away. The house won't be the same again. I dream of my grandparents. In the early morning waking hours. An association with home is lost. I am homesick. I long for stability. I long for a home of my own. I want my parents embrace. For someone to say that I am doing ok. I have been so tired lately.

The summer is back again. The days are long again. It is green everywhere and this pressure to be happy and sun tanned and of holiday plans to be made. I am tired of fitting random people into plans to make them work.

I see people around me getting settled more and more. I am caught up in this existential trap where I don't know if what I do is worthy enough to justify where I am right now.

these torturous summer days

i hate summers. i hate watching couples walking hand in hand. i hate this sultry summer heat which makes me sleepless at night and makes me long for someone to sleep next to. i hate watching couples lie next to each while soaking sun in the park. i hate watching them kiss. i hate watching them enjoy the proximity to each other bodies. i jog next to them pretending as if i cant see them. as if in front of me lies nothing but an empty road. empty road lined with trees that hide everything. but these trees provide shadows and comforts to the couples lying under them. i long for the winter days when these parks would be empty again.

i lived vicariously for a month. now it hurts. it hurts so bad.

On the plane to delhi

This is a trip back home after 7 months of moving out of my home country to London. It feels strange to pack for journey back home. Strange to embrace the old "normal" life. in the plane I saw the movie Lion again. It made me cry again. I could identify with the young boy in the movie running around to find a place of comfort and security. I feel lost just like him. Running into nothingness. Trying to embrace strangers. I am an outsider in the city that I now live in. My language doesn't help in building any bridges. The men that I meet have nothing of interest to hold me back.

I am flying back to the hot land. While in the flight, I am making a list of things that I want to see in Delhi . I am now on my third glass of vodka. A bit tired and have a headache. I met a French guy before leaving for home. I like him. But I don't think he is interested in anything other than the mere physical act. I want to tell the French guy about the French movie that I am watching on the plane. I liked the part where the female protagonist asks her husband, who she thinks that she is in a loveless marriage with, " why didn't you tell me the truth" and the husband replies saying "because I wanted you to live and see it through". That's what my life seems to be about. To just to be able to see it through. I like it when the French guy hold my hand. He is white and I am brown. Indian brown he says. His hands are always warm and mine are always cold. He has inspected every inch of my body. Intimacy can be funny. We measure the pressure points by massaging each other's shoulders. He is familiar with every curve of my body. But lines are drawn the moment that I exit his apartment.

Musings of an evening

Yet another evening. The cloak of music helps to feign ignorance about the happenings around me. They say that destiny happens when you least expect it. At this moment I could long for nothing more than a warm hug and an appreciative smile. 

I have been thinking about the loss of language a lot off late. The only language that I know and feel competent about is now an impendiment to making conversation. It doesn't matter how many ways that I know to express myself if all that does is to draw a laugh from the people around me. It feels odd when the jokes are not funny enough when said out aloud. The effort taken to enunciate every vowel out loud robs the joke out of any remnants of humour. At times it feels like being back in the high school.

I am sitting in a coffee shop reminded of the conversation that I had with P. She mentioned her friend who would go to coffee shops and cry from loneliness. At least I am writing and not crying.

I remember saying to a friend that I alway keep a 30% margin of going wrong with what I wear. Though sometimes it goes more wrong like it has today.

It felt very strange and awkward to sit across a friend and watch her as she got ready for a date while I got ready to pack up and go home and sleep alone. There was a pinch in her infectious energy. I felt very odd when I saw her make out with a boy who would have asked me out if I had not pushed my back to his face. At that moment I wished if I could just disappear. I felt like th outsider that I looked. 

The choices of meal options to be chosen in my last trip had to be the trickiest. I know that I have never cared about meat but when the whole perception hinges around how well I order food and distinguish one form from the other, It made me feel so out of depth. It made me realise how much I missed travelling alone . It is lonely but it gives me so much freedom to choose the form of food that I want to have and the places that I want to go to. 

Singed

I wish we had never met. I wish that you had never responded to my messages. Why did you have to remind me about what desire felt like? Why did you have to show so much interest in me? Why does distance have such a big role to play between two individuals? Why does distance have to determine the course of the future? Why can't you and I unite under the open sky and walk as one? It is unfair that I pine for your attention whilst you drink away with somebody else. Your melodious voice still rings in my ears. I long to hear your voice again. Why did you always have to call me an hour too late? An hour which is so difficult to spend now. I had forgotten what this fever had felt like. What this unending pulsation of the heart had felt like. I threw you off but I can also cushion your fall. If only you would give me the chance to do so. Why did you have to paint those words into my head? I can forget the voices, forget the names, forget the faces but these words stick. These words have occupied the vacant space in my head. These tenants won't vacate so easily. This languish does not leave me. It has me in in thrall of you. What do I do about songs in my head? The songs that I wanted to play for you. What do I do about the smile that came on my face with the mere mention of your name? What do I do about the longing desire to run my fingers on the nape of your neck. Yes, I m good with my hands. And they ache to act. I am smitten. And I had forgotten what it felt like to be like this.

Alas! I continue to burn.

Home

what is home? a bunch of keys that i have been in possession of that open a lock which i know is home. the bunch of books which lie stacked neatly in a corner on my book shelf is my book mark for my home. the building of mortar and bricks changes after every couple of years. the bend of the street leading to the home changes after every few years.

the lack of permanence is unsettling. My memories are divided over the cluster of years that have been spent in each house that I have stayed in. I sometimes get nightmares about the room where one of my landlords used to stay. It is a recurring image of that house.

My home is not a memoir of my growing years. It is more a marker of where I stand in the present. I feel more affinity towards the suitcase that carries my things each time I go back to my city and to my  house.

Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to watch the tree grow that my mother had planted in front of our old house. I wonder what happened to the eucalyptus trees outside one of our houses. Would they still sway with the wind? Would they still cast their shadow above everything? Those trees have long been chopped off. But my mind still holds the memory when I tried to touch the silvery bark in the hope that I would never forget that those trees existed. Those trees were home for me.

In my current rented accommodation , I scatter familiar objects such as my lamps and books acquired over a period of time. They are my anchor. More than the building of bricks and mortar which houses me. As I get ready to vacate yet another house and and move to yet another dwelling, I will carry these same objects to maintain the string of continuity.

My house will change again after the past 4 years that I have lived in this city. I will carry with me my memories of these last few years and my collection of paintings. Move to a new place and create yet again a semblance of home.

in my head

i want to talk to you. tell you everything. tell you how my day went. how i fantasized about you kissing me. how good it feels when you laugh at something that i have said and answer sarcasm with further sarcasm. i feel a connection, albeit an imaginary connection with you.

i know that i don't exist for you. but when you respond to my messages in the middle of the night, i wake up from the sound of the ping. eager to talk to you lest i lose you again. you remark on my sleeplessness but i m sleepy eyed from the want of talking to you.

i look forward to meeting you and talking to you. the other day i imagined how it would be to lie next to you, cuddled in the curve of your body. and then waking up to the smile on your face.

the futility of these thoughts dont escape me. but i m helpless at the prospect of having found someone who understands me or even the illusion of it. i want to see your beard. you look rather good in it. i want to run my fingers through it. run my fingers on the back of your neck.

in my head there is a picture of two us travelling in your car. you are dropping me back home after what has been an eventful evening.. we have laughed, eaten and enjoyed our wine. we listen to the music in your phone. you remark on my wistfulness and i answer with playfulness. the night goes on and never ends..

we have lived in the same city for decades but our paths have never crossed. i wonder about what if they did.

while you drank away

why do i continue to run after things that are unattainable. i can't buy your affection or draw your attention or provoke a reaction. it stands for nothing but maybe thats a lot. its been an year yet not one thought about me crosses your mind.

you don't have to wish me like an autobot. you can pick up the phone and wish me in person like a human. 

i miss the shared laughter but the conversations seem forced now. your gaze is shifty as if you rather wished that you were elsewhere. i try to tell myself not to believe in nostalgic nonsense but the memories draw me in. they are unescapable. 

you find my friends funny and likable but i repel you like a plague. or so it seems. my attempts at calling a truce failed. you don't want to look back and thats ok with you. but in my shrinking circle that means a lot.

i try to escape this vacuum and vortex. but the offhand references to your pictures bring it all back. i hate to say this but i think that i m a bit jealous.

Lull

A big lull. My head strains to remember images. Streaks of sun rays passing through the clouds. Moss soaked stones. Long walks in lake covered by mist. Innocent faces learning how to whistle.

The constant beat of tabla thumps in my head. Steady, slow and constant. It is a brisk lonely walk. Everything is a futile effort to break this noise in my head. Even the momentary silence is attracting noise. Wish everything was as simple as this flawless melody of a song. This effortless flow of one beat into another, one rhythm into another.

The images wont stop floating. Symphony of wind instruments at the biggest concentration of minds ever. This followed by a walk in the Harvard Square.

The tabla kicks in again. "Brisk Lonely Walk" plays again. This melody is what is holding me together. Preventing me from collapsing into abyss. The mind is laden with bullets that I wish someone could remove surgically because I don't have the will to extricate them on my own. The mind wants to rest. But restlessness is a big battle to be fought and won.

Nothing can stop the onslaught of tomorrow. The only thing constant in this mayhem is this stream of sitar flowing into a violin flowing into a tabla.

I want to sleep. Sleep with a mind so exhausted so as to eradicate its ability to talk and think.

Fighting the cold

frustrated and angry. i know that i m not getting younger. i am aware that my once black hair are slowly finding more of grey to give them company. it does not get easier. i m waiting for this famine to end. its getting dark and its getting cold and the night seems longer than ever before. my eyes though want to defy this phase and don't fail to look around to spot the odd one out who might want to share my eccentricities.

i m lost in this world. the sidewalk is slippery than before. the slush is thicker than before. the shoulders brushing past me are cold. the gaze is questioning and unwelcoming. even the crowd can't envelope me in its midst and i stand out as the only outsider in a group of regulars. the tongue stammers and halters. and i try to make myself understood in a voice as loud as humanly possible and in an accent as neutral as possible.  the walks are long. but the sights are soothing. my heels hurt from so much walking but i dont want to stop lest the stillness gets to me.

sometimes the only way to get forward is to keep walking. to keep fighting the cold and numbing out the areas that pain and hurt. i can't wait for Godot.

Logic

you said that in your equation, 1 plus 1 equaled 2. but that 1 changed to 2 or 3 long time back. you ride on logic when your basic assumption, your basic premise is false. you said that both of us were attracted towards each other and always had sex (or in your words made love) every time we met. hence, it had to be true this time as well. this tautology is false.

my actions are not complicit in or with the thoughts running in your head. my sharing the same couch as the one you are sitting on does not mean that i m biding time till you prop up the decade old statement, "come closer, i want to kiss you". i m not uptight. its my body language telling you that you are crossing my comfort level. your proximity is making me uncomfortable.  i m not your whore who you summon according to your whims.

and for the record, i loathe the statement, " i want to make love to you". what are you expecting here, rose buds to start blooming? you marvel at your logic but your logic only takes into account constants. it ignores the variables. my refusing to "make love" to you does not mean that i m doing that because I am seeing someone. it simply means that i m sick and too tired of doing it. of being thought that this is the only thing that i m really capable of doing.

and any time that i might have been on call  with you or texted you,  its not a booty call. while its true that a reason and rationale is what i really strive for. but sometimes and may be too many times its this limited logic of yours that really strips me off my sanity. and, i m not a schizophrenic. my logic might not be as sublime as yours but i don't make believe things.

Travelling Hangovers

 i love travelling. i love the liberation that is there for offer. i can sit in a motor boat and believe that i am chasing the sun. i can disrobe on the white beaches with only the rays of sun to bother me. feel undisclosed in a disclosed location. abandon the teeming billions that are left behind ,and that inhabit every minute of my life, the moment i board the plane.

what is it about casual romances? does a huge age difference really make that big a difference? dancing with strangers is fun. Especially if those strangers turn out to be suave and interesting men. The moments that give promises and projections that trick the mind completely and whole-heartedly. the abstractions cloud out the reality giving a fluffy touch to everything that i do.

noticing the sun set from the 64th floor of a building. salted pistachios and olives along with bitter vodka with the lights of the city just coming into focus from the heights of the stately tower in the city of the night dwellers.

touring the freak shows of the likes of the goblin market. playing abacus and hammer games at the bar table with shots at stake. smoking a cigarette with a beer in hand and pretending to be a causal observer. sex is a mere commodity here. women are up for grabs like meat pies or chicken loaves. nothing has a cost or a premium or a value. you are valued only if you trade in money.

but there are also vistas for those who care to notice. even if you are fully clad in a burqa with only the eyes unveiled. the emerald green waters are there for all. the bare white arms join the ones that are chestnut brown in the waters that are blue as sapphire. songs in Chinese language are cheered upon and new bonds are forged.

Unpublished Drafts

Is it loneliness that bugs me? Having lived alone, the parts that i have enjoyed the most have been the ones that have been spent in transit. I wake up with dreams of my ex-boyfriend messing with my head. Its not pleasant. Maybe its too much of listening to the song Creep. But there is something about the remixed version done for the "Social Network" that really resonates with me.

Definitions

A word. It excites me. It brings me back to life.
A look. A look of appreciation, of understanding , an encouragement to share more words. A look is what I hark for and after.
A smile. An easy smile which brings a twinkle in my eye and leads to mirthless laughter.
A sense of danger is what I want to surrender to and feed the vulnerability to. The hurt does not matter and neither does the disfiguration. The fear is not the fall from the edge. The fear is the endless wait on the precipice. The fear is not of the disjointed sentences or the groping for words. The fear is of waking up and being unable to speak.

visiting old selves

i wanted to hold it. feel the last whiff of the cold wind on my bare skin. i wanted to remember the bone numbing chillness. the complete defenselessness against the harsh winter. i wanted to get lost in the fog and float in the mist.

i walked with the cold December wind in my hair and with a cigarette in my lips. the fog faded everyone out. i felt the iciness settle on my finger tips as i tried to take another puff. the chill crept into my very being. numbing every thought and every feeling.

i tried to breathe and saw the warm circles of air being eaten up. the burning end of the cigarette was the only beacon of light in the darkness of the night. the hissing sound of the burning cloves absorbed my senses and sweetened my frosty lips.

it was the beginning of my trip back home.

Nike. Just Do It

Its 3 am in the morning. My eyes have never felt heavier. The alcohol drugs my mind and senses. I talk less and laugh more. I make the connection with my eyes and sense a willing smile and an inquisitive glance. Eager to take a ride, I agree to venture out on a drive. In the midst of the drive, under the pretext of being co-travelers, he asks me if age defines certain parameters in life for me.

We reach the destination. He stands in front of me with his face close to mine. I can almost feel him on me. Soon he roves into regions unexplored. My eyes unable to focus any longer shut out on the reality. I am floating in the air with the dizziness caused by the absence of ground beneath my feet. His stubble leaves marks on my face. And his perfume lingers on my body. It passes like a haze.

We leave. And then I hear him sing. His full throated and raw voice reaches out to my numbed senses and I cant stop myself from making a contact with him. I want to touch to remember the embrace. The hands that make music and bring a life into an instrument stroke mine..

It ends in a haze. I have only the memory of voice and touch and remnants of perfume to remember him by. He had asked me earlier in the evening if I believed in the brand Nike. It said just one thing, said he. That was "Just Do It"

First Date

Its so difficult to put yourself out there. Mark yourself as available and then wait for the judgement to be passed. You are to try to smile to hide the anxiety and excitement. You are expected to come up with witty answers to hypothetical questions. There is a lingering gaze that you cannot return hence you look away after every few seconds. You would love the conversation to just flow instead you realize that the speed of your finishing your drink is faster than the speed at which the words come out of your mouth. There are comments on your good looks. You try to reciprocate but find it hard to say the same things to the other person. You talk about the common passions and the possibility of discovering new places together. It thrills you to see the readiness with which you can make a companion of this stranger.

You are told that you are too shy because what you have not been able to do is to meet that unending gaze. It hits you hard when you realize that you have suddenly turned into porcelain. That suddenly you are so fragile. There is that touch of his fingers brushing yours back. You want to soak in that feeling but you are not able to express because that gaze still lingers. You want to retort with the same flirtatious remarks but are not able to understand what holds you back. Its time to pay the bill and head back.

He holds you close to him as he escorts you to his car shielded by an umbrella against the rain. The moment you sit inside the car he cups your hands. You are trying to make sensible conversation but at the same time try to stall the time. So that he can hold your hand longer. You want that fuzzy feeling to go on. You reach the end too fast than you would have liked to. You realize that he wants to go one step further but something holds him back. You can hear him breathing hard. Breathing in your perfume. You try to give the signals too. But they are too weak to reach him. He just hugs you and gives you a peck on your cheek and you are away.

The moment the car vanishes, you crave for the attention and missed opportunities. You blame yourself for being prudent and not making yourself available. It hits you hard when you get a message that says that you were too shy to take the peck on the cheek as a hint for what could have come. Maybe you should have had those extra drinks as suggested by him to lose the inhibitions. You wonder at the missed opportunities and reply back by saying that the chances should have been taken by him when they were to be had. You further send more messages describing what you would have liked to happen. Even more messages are sent by you when you have finally flown back to other side of the country in the hope that something would elicit a response.

Except for silence nothing happens. You sit in your apartment going over the whole sequence again and again, wishing you could change the end as it came. You stalk the social networking sites to see if he is woken up from the slumber. But there are no signs of activity. The phone no longer flashes with his name on it. Utterly loser like and miserable is how you feel. You have a gnawing feeling inside you that probably being alone is how you will end up to be.