ABHI_CONSC

Camus once wrote that the very thing which gives one a reason to live can also become a reason to die. I'm paraphrasing here, but this is what it meant, in gist. Initially, whenever I read this, I thought, "What does it mean?" I mean, how can something one loves be a cause of one's death? But now, as I come to realize it, I wish I had never read it in the first place. The settling of this thought is very disturbing — so disturbing that it is dead calm, and there is nothing more terrifying than a storm that goes silent within one. We have all loved something once, very deeply — so deeply that we thought of it as our whole life. But there comes a day when it all vanishes, it all breaks, and never returns. Now the same dreams, the same memories, ache daily, and slowly the thing that kept you alive kills you the same way. You cannot die, as you did not live because of that thing. But neither living nor dying seems a rightful recourse from this. The voice that ...

Club-bar midnight, three drinks upright, world swirls like a jet flight. Hands on the thighs and kisses on the neck, sweat on the palms and lips on the neck. Post-midnight, in the corner, still kissing, but somewhat somber. On the table-top, hands on the waist— drinks spill, oh, what a waste! Lips moving towards the lips, locks in and pulls it all in, tongues searching to reconnect, but dissect feels more passionate. Lifting up and locking eyes as they met, both knowing where this will end. In the morning, in the bedroom, waking up, pulling her close. The night has been a wild ride, with animals howling, running wild on the loose. Moonlight dancing on the sheet, making shadows as bodies meet. The night has to end, the stars retreat. The messy room and sweat on the sheets all tell the tale of last night.

कल तुम्हारा दिया हुआ आखिरी खत मिला। ना जाने क्या ढूँढते हुए मैं कमरे के उस कोने में चला गया, जहाँ यूँ तो बरसों से झांकना नहीं हुआ था। यहाँ एक कोने में बहुत सलीके से मोड़ा हुआ एक कागज़ का टुकड़ा था, जिसमें अभी भी तुम्हारी खुशबू बरकरार थी। थोड़ी देर मैंने सोचा कि यह कागज़ यहाँ क्या कर रहा है। फिर याद आया, जब तुम गए थे तो मैंने तुम्हारी दी हुई सारी चीजें घर के अलग-अलग कोनों में छुपा दी थीं, इस उम्मीद से कि मैं फिर अब इन्हें कभी नहीं देखूँगा। शायद यही वो चीजें हैं जो रोज़ रात को खुसर-पुसर करती हैं, इस इंतज़ार में कि किस दिन मैं इन्हें मुक्ति दे दूँ। परंतु मुक्ति तो मैं खुद को भी नहीं दे पाया हूँ, इसीलिए तो यह खत यहाँ छुपा हुआ था, वरना जल चुका होता। जला ही देना चाहिए था, पर जब भी जलाने का सोचा, तब माचिस की तीली से सिगरेट जलाना ज्यादा सुंदर लगा... और यह खत जलाना स्वास्थ्य के लिए हानिकारक, इसीलिए इन्हें मैंने छुपा दिया था। खत को देख कर लगता है कि यह तुम्हारा आखिरी खत था। आखिरी इसलिए बोल रहा हूँ क्योंकि यह खुला नहीं है, मैंने कभी इसे पढ़ा नहीं। तुम्हारे जाने का कारण आज भी मुझे नहीं पता। लगता ह...

"Damn, son, your endoscopy looks like you're either a fifty-year-old investment banker or a chain-smoker — but your file says you're only twenty-two." Those were the words I heard as I woke up, with only a faint idea of where I was, the mechanical buzzing and beeping of the heart rate monitor going off around me. How did I end up in the hospital? The last thing I remember is writing something late at night, and then suddenly there was a strong abdominal pain that gripped me — and after that, all I remember is curling up and screaming as if my insides were about to burst. "Look, son, whatever you're into, these things aren't good at your age," said the doctor, looking over my endoscopy report. I was told I had a peptic ulcer in my stomach, and some ulcers in my mouth. The mouth ones I know — I've been dealing with them for a fairly long time — but the stomach one, well, that was something new. So, like any curious person, I opened up Google and ty...

You loved flowers, but I never bought you one, for I had this stupid idea — stupid, but one I ardently believed in — that why pluck something to show your love, or kill it as an expression of joy or love? Flowers are more beautiful when they are in nature; they bloom, they smile, and they give way to new life. Why do we need to pluck them and give them away — what good do we do for them, if not just make them a showpiece, or keep them safe in a diary or as a bookmark? But I don't understand what joy that brings us. For when I see that old, wrinkled, slowly dying flower, it only reminds me of what I have done to such a beautiful gift of nature — why have I killed a thing of such beauty? People do give flowers — not just a single one, but a whole bouquet — as an expression of love, of mourning, or of care. They believe the flowers put a smile on the face of their loved ones, and that smile is worth it. Maybe all of what we do is an attempt to put a smile on our loved ones...

Do you remember the day we last met? I am pretty sure you must have forgotten about it; after all, we only remember that which we try to keep holding onto, attempting as much as possible to save the moment. One even goes to the length of wishing that maybe time should stop right here, and this moment shall stay as it is for a long time. It was a chilly winter morning when I last saw you. You were not very far from me, but still, the distance was a giant leap. I was scared that if I took one extra step towards you, all this would end or just shatter, as if it was a dream. you walked at your own pace i was right behind just one step shorter. Even after so long i can't help but ask myself, what would have happened if you had turned towards me, and I would see the same hesitation lingering in your eyes? No, I wished that you would have never looked back at me. "Looking back"—doesn't this term kind of summarize most of our lives? We usually say to our close ones, or even t...