Urban Melancholy.

It's so hard to write right now. Not because she has any dearth of things to write about. Neither because she cannot find the words to write it down. But because her mind is not staying still. Its flitting, between the present and the past with little diversions to the future as well. Its somewhere else, lost in streets of unbelievable passion and quiet submission, where she is hesitant to tread, cluless as she is of what lies ahead.

She started doing so many things today but nothing was able to hold her interest for long. She would then drift off, leaving them in various states of disarray. After weeks, she had woken up hungry, wanting to have apple pie, exactly how her best friend made it. Yet the apples she cut for the pie got tossed into a zip-pouch and into the fridge. The table-cloth she was embroidering for her mom, was spread out half finished on her bed, the spools of colourful threads a stark contrast to the black satin bedsheet. Seeing her unmade bed made her sigh, thinking of those countless mornings when her mom would nag her into spreading a bedcover. Now there was no one to dictate how she lived. She sat on the window-sill and started sketching Chintu, the kid who sold balloons right outside her apartment. She knew his story, had a strong urge to rewrite it, give it less twists and turns and more pleasant surprises. The sketch-pad now lay on the glass table, the incomplete face staring out through the beautifully etched out eyes.


Next to the sketch-pad, her laptop was open, GTalk signed in. She kept scrolling up and down the list, the long list of red and green dots calling out to her. The red dot against her own name with an ominous "Not Available" as a status message, daring anyone to breach the virtual fence and drop by to say hi. As it turned out, no one did. Neither did her fone ring. Its not like she did not have friends or family. Her fone book was 842 people strong, with a good mix of professional and personal contacts. But a long trend of unreturned missed calls and unreplied messages had led people to leave her alone. The fact that she did not have 9 numbers that she could list down on speed dial was testimony to her uncertain social life.


She looked at the stack of books lying on the floor; the entire 'Shopaholic' series her colleague lent her the other day, the hugely acclaimed Booker-prize winning book, the book which had just been made into a Golden Globe winning movie, 'Feluda stories' that her dad had gifted to her... she had planned to go through them this weekend and each one of them had been opened. But listlessly put aside after the first few pages. She scanned through issue after issue of Femina, Cosmo and Vogue, till it had stop registering which magazine she was leafing through.


Finally giving up on everything, she made another one of the jasmine smelling, weird tasting tea that she had started getting used to and settled down to write. And this is all she could come up with....


Silent whispers in lonely nights
Unsaid emotions in loud fights
Dark shadows in illuminated rooms
Evident scars when the camera zooms
Crowds which suck you to its core
Conversations that leave you wanting more
Magic which lies only in fairy-tales
Bright purple polish on her nails
Measured footsteps echoing on the street
Writings where fact and fiction meet
Old wounds that refuse to heal
Strong, firm nerves of steel
Life hidden behind closed doors
Steering a boat without oars

She cant write anymore. Her hands refuse to type. Her mind is playing games with her again. And slowly, very slowly, one teardrop, just one truant drop, flows down her cheek and nestles itself on her neck. And so passes another night in utter solitud.