My Dearest,


Today is a day of unbecoming.

A day when you have ceased to become my existence and be on your own.

The days remind of the traversed months and the months become an unbecoming. While they unfold each other in a quiet afternoon, you leave one by one.

Sometimes to haunt. Sometimes to never come back again.

But you leave, just like Hemingway’s tale. Just like the ‘Death in the afternoon’.

That afternoon you immerse yourself in work. You seldom laugh, you seldom visit the narrowly built alleys of the park.

You stop going out.

The pen never comes out of the closet. The papers run dry. The handwritings turn ugly and blurry.

The cafes find a writer but not an audience. The view from that tall building, shopping mall, doesn’t smell like suicide.

A car pace up and down the city but without music. Instead, the driver plays a familiar conversation. A conversation long forbearing.

A conversation of unbecoming – long lost in the memories of time.

Failures are no longer discussed, successes are never traversed. In the long alleys of time, they seem to be lost like a beggar.

Night falls but it seldom cries. They do not count the people coming in anymore.

The trees begin to gain their senses. The monsoon is here but they have missed the colors to be. Was it green? Or was it something else?

The train still has passengers but the crowd is devoid of noise. The daily wholesalers come in and out but instead of people purchasing we are left with a commodity on an empty seat.

All things pass by one by one.

That afternoon you remember how afternoons used to make sense once.

Time, when we used to live and not just survive.

Time, when we traveled side by side.

-June 11, 2019

old letters
letters representational image. pic courtesy : creativemarket.com

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