Memoir I’ll Never Write

8th August’17, 08:37 PM

I’m on a plane back to Ahmedabad from Kolkata and have the sudden, gnawing urge to write. I’ve to pause the book I am reading- a romantic, dreamy storyteller about a collector of history; through recipes acquired by travelling and living many lives. No, but I have to shut the book and scourge about for something to scribble this on, putting down my styrofoam cup of delightfully, but regrettably cold, Lady Grey tea.

What do I want to write? As always, I’m not sure. The words flow out of me and my hand races to keep up, to record and keep a mark of my scattered musings, lightly interspersed with sparks of epiphanies.

My legs are leisurely stretched out across the two seats next to me, while my back is propped up against the airplane window. I am wearing the same dress from when I had made another trip in an airplane with the entire row to myself. Maybe, this is my “airport dress”.

I brush off the dawning commitment to pattern, predictability and superstition my mind sought to undertake. It is what it is. There are no expectations- I take what I get. That’s it. Shh, mind.

It is pitch black outside my window and I have to twist my head back to observe. The night sight of steady, neverending lights on the ground coming from the hundreds of houses, cars and civilization below as the plane had gained height, were equivalent to the shining constellations in a pollution-free night sky. I had been nearly in tears. Not surprising for an infusion of brain and nerves that have been known to tear up and explode into poetry at the mere sight of muted rain against condensed car windows, as the dull glow of streetlights lining the edge of the highway show through defiantly.

I write these words delicately on a piece of torn tissue folded in half to resemble the ravaged pages of a hurriedly put together book in an attempt to quench my desperate need to write. There have been no resulting revelations or confessions yet.

I fly away in an aluminium vehicle after spending three days with the love of my life, making it the mere- begging for forgiveness- third time we have met. But, we have accelerated faster than the twinkle in his eyes, faster than the one second humanity took to paint its mark of anthropocentrism in the span of the universe. For the first time in my life, I’m unafraid. We’re surrounded by story, and I plan to hungrily live this one out, with Life as the perpetual storyteller.

I have reached the final fold of my makeshift tissue-book and the revelation has poured out of me. The words have cleansed the restless writer in me and I gingerly start to reopen my beautiful, exotic book…

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