Best man wins. I ‘m yet in the game.

To the most refreshing flower of my garden,

It’s over three months, since I wrote to you for the last time.

You must be little curious to know as to how I have been doing?

Even if that is not the case, I don’t mind.

There is no comfort in complaining on things that you cannot do much about.

Not all the stories I tell need to be heard by people. Isn’t it?

I have a hilarious story to tell you anyways, to begin with.

‘Are you married’ Dr.Updhyaya, a coach who came to conduct a training session for us last month asked me.

‘ Yes .. for the last 10 years’ I said.

‘ Vowww..you look young; what’s your age?’ he seemed surprised.

“Difference could be just 2 years by which either I’m younger to you or older to you” I answered with greatest composure.

‘What do you mean, I’m 45..’ he softly bit his lower lips with his upper teeth, overtly shrunk his eyes and kind of interrogated - as though I was playing a comical ploy.

‘Come January, I’ll be hitting 40’ I answered, unperturbedly.

‘Man.. I thought you are some 28-30’ he smilingly responded.

I defended, ‘…it is just that some people won’t easily accept their defeat and fight an untiring battle to surprise themselves ’

****

I’m posting my latest photograph to show you as to how do I look, these days.

Trust me; there is no makeover, except the sepia effect that a friend of mine who clicked this photograph has treated the snap with.

Tricks of the time seem to have left a little bearing on my looks as much as they have done over my attitude towards life.

I’m nearing forty but not old.

Years have been getting added to life; not age.

Age after all is mind over matter and I won’t mind things that do not matter to me.

Ten odd grey strands of hair besides giving me a mature look offer me an academic reason to claim that I too have grey cells.

Although, I’m losing hair but I’m not bald.

I no more live to earn; perhaps earn to live in categorical denial with the Maslow’s hierarchies.

I haven’t gained the world’s best riches though, but I have nothing left with me to lose. Or, I have not gained anything that I would lose and repent.

Life runs an undeclared nemesis by giving me many unsolicited things by blocking the things that I ask for. And I realize that just I happen to be one amongst the six and an odd billion deprived folks, in this world.

I do not know whether I’m walking or running, but life is in motion.

I no more yearn for long lonely moon nights, but prefer dark nights that assure me a sound sleep.

Amidst many statements that by far are my expressions in doubt, there is one thing that is firm; my endless connection with you.

***

Am I writing this letter to congratulate myself?

No, not really.

I’m truly not in a plight to earn a decorous distinction to my personality that I seem to be getting to know less, as I walk past, year after year.

By no wild stretch of imagination, would I ever call myself even ‘a remotely a perfect man’.

Lack of perfection doesn’t however mean that, the man is bad.

I also want to dare other men, at this moment.

I’m more than convinced that no man was born and died as a gentleman.

Thank god, we saved this world by not letting it to become yet another heaven.

What a misery would it have been to live in a perfect and a pious world with angels clung onto harp?

***

That said, what is the darkest secret and deepest urge yet alive with me?

I think, a saree clad old woman with her well shaped heavy breasts still in place, perfectly covered by a veil slightly revealing her whitish but flat belly as well as her clean and a shiny back, can still drive me nuts. And that’s my dark secret!

Alas.. is there one, meeting the above standards?

I may sound harsh, but many of the Indian women have a desire to have a perfectly toned but a stapled body with rarely visible flab, but have no discipline to have one. One in thousand is the standard.

Thank lord; the high standards in a way, have deprived me of my most investigational crush.

Let me get, a little serious, candid and contemplative.

Actually, what stopped me from being bold is the love and respect I have developed towards Uma, over these years. Take a heed over these two categorical words: love and respect.

Love -because she waited till I returned - to be and to become her husband, sharply defending her belief in an institution called ‘Hindustani Marriage’.

Respect - because she created not one but two lives through her delicate womb and brought them into this tough world. How can any man be so stupid and unappreciative to not to acknowledge such a stirring miracle that many woman create on earth?

Man is no more the same man, once he sees his woman transforming into a mother, less as an object of recreation and reproduction. This thought, seemed to have redefined my standpoint on a woman, generally.

Uma helps me see a different but a simple world and I see the same world, often with complexity.

This difference makes two of us; distinct poles of a battery unaffectedly placed apart, yet united.

The very contrast and the design keep us charged.

She has accepted me just the way I’m.

Though she desires some changes in me, but makes no fuss about the unchanging irregularities. Like all the women, she too has something about her husband rather she wishes away. But she knows that her man like many (any) is a man of few mistakes. She has no qualms over it for she knows that life is like a white space with couple of black spots. When people mark the white spaces with a black marker and ask ‘what do you see’, the immediate response is ‘a black mark’.

Alas, such a wide-open-white space gets ignored!!

Must you have a black mark, at all?

Answer is no.

Because you have one or two marks, do you become characterless?

Answer is no.

The true respect in the relationship surfaces, the moment when the two people in a relationship accept each other not because of similarities in the way they expect, but irregularities in the way they conduct.

Best thing is, she doesn’t have a single benchmarked man, to tally me with.

None truly exist, and she is aware of it. And she has no intention to worship me as a god on earth.

Though she saw me dropping off many of the bad evils and not pick-up new one, the only unsolved mystery remains between us is, your existence.

While she understands that my obsession over you is more literary and not a literal one, what she doesn’t understand is the rationale behind the attraction.

She often wonders whether you exist in real terms as one of my past flings or you are just there in my mind as an illusionary character that I have concocted.

My attempt to convince the objective meaning behind my obsession over you only compounds the confusion. Uma, I and you form an interesting triangle like many bollywood potboiler; let its glory be manifested through its complexity for few more days, not by its relative rudiments.

None should stand before an ocean to count the waves, after all.

With spurts of intellect and abundant stupidity, with dimming mischief and the strengthening obedience, I today am a repackaged item, set to pen few more letters and dedicate them to you.

What makes my pen write is not the pain of my mistake with you, but abundant pleasure that I have had while making mistakes with you.

Am I making one more by writing to you? I do not know and I do not want to know.

I have enough wrongs by my side, but not a single sin.

Best man wins. I ‘m yet in the game,

Un-tired and thriving to play and perfect the game.

A Capitalist Brigade

To my flowing river,

I have two of my experiences to write in this letter to you.

One is about my recent walk on Brigade Road and the observations I have made there and the other one is about the movie - ‘Pursuit of Happyness‘

Here is an attempt to connect two distinct links; the oriental fare of Brigade road with Chris Gardner's memoir depicted in ‘Pursuit of Happyness‘.

Surprised? I have learnt the art of making a line out of dots from you.

Melancholy of not having you & still merriment of not missing you - have taught me to make straight lines out of spaghetti.

This is kind of an extension of my previous letter to you.

After reading this, you may write off my observations as irregular irritations of an aging man.

That’s okay; I have no points to prove but a truth to tell about the evil of a free market that has deranged a social structure by creating an acute economical divide in the society we live.

***

I was walking on the Brigade Road, a fortnight back.

A third of the global poor residing in India appears as a paradox when you walk here.

This road is strictly meant to entertain the rich and the rich only. World has made thousands of spots and streets for rich people to enjoy and interestingly, not a single spot for the deprived ones.

Represented by multitude of diverse sellers together, business on these posh roads is weird; some sell goods to make their lives whereas some sell their lives to others to buy goods for themselves.

But fairly every seller succeeds here; it’s is just that who buys what!

I observed as many as six interesting facets of people on Brigades, this time.

The first set was represented by a band of rich, demure, gracious and courteous people. Though in small numbers, they seemed humble, concerned and a happy lot. Second set of people as small as the first lot, were those who again were rich but seemed less concerned about their very richness as well as the poverty of the rest. Unlike the first set of people they neither offered nor sought courtesy. To me, they appeared to me as an indifferent, unduly impersonal and a self-interested lot. Little more in numbers than the first two sets were the third set of people who mostly made it to riches by a fluke. Their big head, their attire and their body language made things obvious to me that some people just do not know how to deal with money when it comes in plenty. There was also an interesting set of people whose identity was not easily recognized. I would call them a ‘smart’ lot but consider them as ‘a riddled’ one.

One more interesting crowd mostly represented by hundreds of hungry men looked indulging into profane fetish over all the passing by females. Smell of scented women, their mysterious attraction, unintended but complimentary body brushes and lastly but mainly the inviting glimpses of their shiny cleavages; there were enough attributes to put this lot of men into constant carnal calculus.

Interesting thing about this lot is that they neither shop nor eat – they are there mostly to peek at women’s breasts as though they are the faces. No matter what happens on Brigades, well rounded and covered breasts of women continue to be the sole stimulants that pull this crowd down here.

The last and the most easily identifiable lot was represented by a huge numbers -who had more inefficiencies to camouflage and less virtues to flaunt upon.

Hallmarks were - an obscene display of money, youth, fashion, glamour and beauty.

Noshed by imprudent affluence and an inadequate intelligence, this is mostly a young crowd that doesn’t earn money; it just gets money.

Premature arrival of money in many young pockets besides providing them a brash high- has offered an access to all the meaningless luxuries that their plastic money can buy. Pubs unlike western countries are not cheap public bars here; they lend an expensive experiences for vividly tattooed men and melon whiffed women for their invariable ‘hanging around’ encounters.

Meet them at late night; you would come across an astonishing parade of gel haired soulless zombies that speak good English.

Insecure in their relations, insensitive in their behaviors, insincere in their commitments – this crowd is all over Page 3 next morning with the same miserable poses; an intimate hand in hand snap of a hyper rich man with his hip hop woman either with a pint bear bottle or a wine glass in hands.

By this current mannerism and attitude they appear to me as a strange crowd obsessed with the fleeting pleasures with no genuine respect for millions of pitiable lives that live in an abject poverty.

The state of little more grown up and responsible men and women is still worst.

Read this real time news item published on the recent Page 3 of the ‘most read daily newspaper’…. it read like this

“It was a rainy night that April Showers, the annual fund raiser for charity organized by ABC was held. First there was a fashion show, interspersed with dance sequences. Later it was time for everyone to mingle and have good times. DJ XYZ played a smashing set, which ensured that everyone stayed on their feet”

Welcome to all new trips of philanthropy - more the poverty, better the celebration; higher the pain, heavier the delirium.

Imagine what must be happening in such events?

An Armani clad gentleman would present a theme on undernourished and uneducated children.

Few ladies wiping off their oily noses and few gentlemen fixing their tie knots would display situational leadership and suddenly speak like learned epidemiologists pledged to restore environmental justice.

Aristocracy, autocracy, plutocracy, hypocrisy.. people would talk everything until cocktails are ready.

Once the bar is open, the priorities shift to prettiest face, wealthiest man, oldest scotch, tastiest snack, latest releases, largest profit bookings.. and the literature pertaining to undernourished and uneducated children starts experiencing wet bottoms of whisky glasses and the people drinking it.

I have no complaints on the rich people who offer charities this way; they need none’s regulation to give donations, either. They think that they are doing it right and it may be true.

The alchemy of richness after all should yield more money and reach many and I see it, happening.

My contention is only on the way things are done.

Using poverty as a means to parade a capitalist anarchy is not okay.

Pleasure and philanthropy cannot be combined; just the way sins and virtues cannot be combined.

What are they celebrating; their richness or other’s poverty?

Imagine this twist...

What if the prayers are DJ mixed? What if neon glows replace candles?

What if the priest uses abusive words while giving holy water?

Certain things have to be performed in certain ways.

Generosity is an unannounced qualification; one doesn’t seek an aid from Page 3 to validate the virtues.

Generosity is sacred, shown to delight someone secretly.

It is like saying prayers, chanting hymns – done in serenity with utmost sincerity. No pride and prejudice, no words and whispers – just a silent engagement and simple emotional connection.

One must offer a respect to the poverty before one offers charity.

The night when these rich people starve to feed someone, the day when they cook to serve the hungry – the philanthropy would have a new dimension; a new definition.

There is no sense in giving impression to us that the wealthy life adapts richer means for cheaper gimmicks. Time to wake up and smell the coffee –by doing something inversely proportional to what otherwise the majority of richest people do.

***

By the time I returned home it was late in the evening.

I sat and watched ‘Pursuit of Happyness’

I was easily and immediately enlivened by the theme of the movie as soon as saw a struggling man living a tough life of poverty to pursue happiness. This is an inspirational tale of Chris Gardner (performed by Will Smith) and his struggle to live in today's capitalist society. The lightest movie with a darkest music made out of warm acoustic textures, gentle percussions, rhythmic strings and xylophones takes the viewer through a melodic journey filled with struggle and despair. I could evocatively relate to every cadence that the main character of ‘pursuit’ undergoes; the struggle, the failure, the chase, the frustration, the stupidity and some tepid successes that make no meaning in a wholly screwed up life.

After I finished watching the movie I sat in silence for a while and did some serious thinking over the pain that the elites of Brigades may have missed by rendering themselves a formulaic life that knows nothing about the sweetness of success which comes after pain of failure.

I sometimes feel that a life lived in dissonance of hard realities and simple pleasures – is equal to a scientist who gets a Nobel Prize without entering a laboratory.

***

Here is the summary.. Nandini.

Millions of people leave their status quo with a hope to challenge the new paradigm to better their lives. Many fail and very few succeed. Life is all about one big chance and its encashment in the right time. A slightest mismatch between the chances versus encashment can either drop us on an all new terrain filled with excitement and anticipation or bring us back to square one through one more round of anxieties and struggle.

Repeated deprival would only dampen the intuitive instincts over a period of time turning most nice guys into a set of hopelessly pessimistic people filled with a perpetual angst over successful and rich people. These are the guys who do not need charity; but a chance. Or some well defined choices.

They do not like invitation to wine and cheese parties; they like interview calls.

Charity can help them live a day; Chances and choices would help them live a life.

A struggled life offered with a late success is much like supplying water to a dying plant; one stroke of nourishment, one mug of water and one pinch of compost is adequate for a plant to have a dare dream of being and becoming a big tree.

***

I realize that many a times life gives us more than what we ask for. It is just that we don’t realize when to stop asking and thus destiny never gets its full blown shape.

My desire on you just contradicts my belief; and I simply hum MJ’s song ‘man in the mirror …’

The village that was not..

To my undeniable charm,

Few of my friends who read my blog on you had some interesting questions to ask me.

Is Nandini your wife?

Does Uma know about Nandini?

Is Nandini comfortable with her subject being discussed openly on the public space?

Are you cheating on Uma?

Huh… several doubts over the only truth.

I simply smiled at those questions and maintained silence just the way you always did, whenever I asked you a single question; do you truly love me?

Kusha --one of my closest friends, called me up today and we conversed about the blog on you, again.

He lives in Paris working for a software company and doing very well in life.

Someday he wants to make a movie and become one more Nagesh Kukanoor of Bagewadi, our village.

The theme Kusha is looking for is ‘things that money cannot buy’.

Hence I suggested our love story.

Imagine about the movie title ‘Nandini’; Chopras would contest for the theme and the name.

***

Kusha and I have many things in common.

We grew up in the same village, went to the same school, taught by the same teachers and did experience identical upheavals all through our childhood.

Born in a lower middle class family, we did not have inherited fathers’ businesses, nor had the agricultural farms to flaunt. The pigmy money as small as Rs.10 per day that our fathers (both have been doctors) deposited into a local bank, provided us a true meaning of money and its importance, quite in an early stage of our lives.

The paisas that our moms gave us were wisely spent over the puffed rice that a vendor sold during the school lunch break. As school going boys, I do not remember either of us carrying rupees with us, any day. The food that we bought - out of the little money we had, though was inadequate to feed us full; but we lived a wonderful camaraderie and had a grand joy that money could not buy.

We learnt simple philosophy at an early stage of our lives; making money is easy but earning it is difficult.

Dealing with Paisa helped us respect a Rupee , while it arrived in plenty.

I believe, we are in good times today.

Our parents do not work for money, anymore.

Mothers make meaningful spending out of the interest that their postal deposits earn.

They also give away some money for religious purposes and feed the poor.

Sons now eat spaghetti, miss the puffed rice, though.

They respect the education that they received in Bagewadi that made them what they are today; men who regard simplicity and poverty.

The grandsons are arguably getting better education than their fathers.

Daughter in laws are merrily making home with the maids around them helping them have plentiful time to relax.

Thankfully the little riches that we have accrued over these years have never denied us an appreciation and affiliation with the life we once frugally lived as underprivileged boys.

In wonderment, we look back and see loads and loads of amazing memories racked on every lane of the little village that is currently being coerced to be some other place than what it was originally designed to be.

As Einstein says, there are only two ways to live the life.

One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.

****

Change is always an interesting subject to write upon.

Bagewadi has always been a sleepy village and my impression about the village hasn’t changed much, over these years.

While mud, farms, wells, religion, bullock carts, food, fairs and festivals continue to help the village preserve its superb splendor –unemployment, politics, caste, poverty, sloth, slavery, debt and dependency have collectively pushed the village back into the ages.

That said, there also have been changes-mostly the changes that the digital divide has forced.

I see an emergence of a debatable Xgen today, in Bagewadi.

The Xgen boys do not play Chapa, Vattha, Gothi, Chinni-Dandu; they are hung on the mobile games.

Every 2 amongst 5 boys in Bagewadi own a mobile phone that also has pre-loaded games, besides many things that it needn’t have.

Unlike ‘who got the highest numbers of Chapas’, the Xgen boys enquire ‘who got the ‘Final Fantasy VII’ without saying so as they cannot.

They do not run behind the sugar cane lorry anymore, nor do they run away with fistful groundnuts stolen from a nearby farm. They have sufficient pocket money that they do not know what to do with. Hence they end up buying what they are not supposed to; ringtones, tobacco, beer and sometimes condoms.

As far as education is concerned, I do not think that any boy or girl has a correct answer for a simple question as to why are they going to a school or a college, everyday?

The house making Xgen women are glued to television soap opera that by far is the best thing that has ever happened to Indian womankind besides the clearance of a Woman’s Bill in the Indian parliament. The daughter’s story at nine, mother’s story at nine thirty, uncle’s story at ten, neighbor’s story at ten thirty – and she has her day’s last television show at eleven ; the mother in law’s story. This is the most prevalent kahani in many houses at Bagewadi today that has pushed even many sober husbands to sleep in denial of sex.

Our Xgen men are no less culprit.

20 acres of land is not a hygiene factor for men anymore because the land is divided between three brothers and one of the brothers is most likely bankrupt since he has sold half of his share to spend on his ‘good’ habits.

But the Xgen bankrupt brother would still have few things to flaunt on; gold rings in his fingers, a thin gold bracelet on his week wrist, a gold plated Sonata watch on his other wrist, Charlie scented white cotton shirt with a Reynolds pen and a set of Ray Ban glares define the attire of the Xgen broken guy.

Unfazed with his tobacco stained teeth, his swollen cheeks, his puffy eyes and his pot belly - the Xgen bankrupt brother doesn’t mind writing off a part of his left over property to by few more bottles from the vineyard and a company of few more young girls.

It is just that he doesn’t know how to say ‘my name is Bond.. James Bond’

While one HIV patient in the making is guaranteeing himself an ICU in the near future, his Xgen elder brother is busy working out an association with a political establishment. He is busy in rallying, lying, lobbying and talking. He too has mobile phone with dual SIM cards but has no time to speak to his wife and children. His children go to English medium schools and he proudly defies all his friends who left Bagewadi in search of a good life.

Bagewadi is changing, but it is changing for bad.

Mansions are rising, meaning is disappearing.

Walls are getting erected, fondness is dipping.

Farmers are there but the farms are depleting.

Schools are there, but are reduced to mere political dens.

Teachers are teaching but index of their books is thinning.

Students instead of the school notes are exchanging the latest sleazy MMS clippings.

The temples are getting renovated, but the gods are being driven out.

The whole new generation with no quest for knowledge and with no zest for a wonderful life has turned Bagewadi into a hopelessly muted village.

***

I and Kusha can only pity the decay today and sigh with a vacant note ‘things that money cannot buy’.

Our fulltime engagement with our own lives has undoubtedly made us selfish. Our cynical standpoint on people has certinly reduced us to a set of perfect hypocrites with no power to reverse a change that has swept our village in a wrong direction.

The only sob is, the good that has come to us did not go to many.

Do you know Nandini.. what has not changed is my fascination for you.

I’m glad that with the changing time my relationship with you only got constant and better.

A tale to tell

This is my fourth attempt to liven up my spirit of writing - and possibly the last one.

I was 10 year old while I wrote for the first time. My mother cut all the written papers and kept them to bundle the tablets for the patients that my father has treated.

Second attempt to write was relatively easy. I wrote after life’s biggest infatuation came to an end when a girl whom I believed in love with, dumped me off by giving me an honor of ‘younger brother.’ Moans of a broken heart have an evocative depth that I simply romanticized and produced some unpublished poems and novels before I stopped writing again.

I stopped writing because another woman came into my life to heal the bleeding heart; heart stopped moaning and so did the writing of a pen.

Third attempt was stopped as recent as 2 years back, someone suddenly appeared to object my writing - and I was off from it till today.

For the last few months I have been constantly thinking of writing again and wondered who is that woman I need to knit my writings around this time; thus Nandini was born.

***

After all why do I need to write?

Write again?

What is the motivation.?

My answers to the above questions are illogical and here is the story.

While majority of men near their forties, they become dangerously real and honest.

They realize what an ugly animal one is in the mask of a man.

Their hollow beliefs, ambiguous values, depleting lust and altering priorities - invariably reintroduce them to a world where reality alone prevails; nothing else.

It is this phase where men are not afraid of confronting with the truth.

There comes a lurking dichotomy; in the name of truth they find many things inconsequential to their lives. The rising cholesterol, falling stocks, growing wealth, thinning spirit, irritating politicians, over weighing women, useless neighbors, grinning strangers.. reality becomes so routine to men.

Hence they get into a constant search of something that excites them.

And that’s how new hobbies pop up; F1 race, grandslam, golf, god, philanthropy, clubs, religion and many things.

Some succeed. And some fail just to rediscover a new hobby.

And they say ‘possibly the last attempt’ precisely the way I admitted in the beginning.

For those who aren't attracted much to sports - either reading or writing comes as a default hobby.

I find writing as an interesting hobby since writing warrants the writer to deal with truth as truth, a phenomena that men at forties are comfortable with.

That said, I’m never making a statement that men become icons of truth. But in this phase of life, even the most celebrated liars become a bunch of respectable rascals.

I think I’m precisely at a stage where I want to tell some truths allowing all my unexpressed feelings, the unwritten words and those untold tales through a medium of an iconic character called Nandini.

Hence the writing.

Do you now understand as to what I meant by a lurking dichotomy?

***

Nandini … you are the central theme of my writing and I now need to pull you out of the closet to tell the world who you are? But how would I articulate our relation to a world that treats love as an affair? How would I convince the world that insanity is the best form of being in love with someone, eternally?

You are someone whom I know since my formative years; I have grown old with you while you have always stayed young with me. And that makes two of us; incredibly intimate souls in an enduring obsession for each other, forever.

Amongst several women that I got myself attracted to, none could arrest me in their emotional prison the way you could.

Not all the time you undressed before me - merely to arouse me; you were so gentle and graceful that your taught me to appreciate all that is naked and true.

You are the first woman I made love to without being watchful of your nude body, yet experience a finer contours of your softest body. You taught me what to expect out of a woman’s body as well as how to respect it.No wonder why woman’s body is a temple that men surrender at.

You are the first woman who made me kneel down before your compelling womanhood allowing my manliness to celebrate its loss.
And what a festivity it is?

Victory after a defeat with a woman is such a divinely experience ; but alas… most men refuse to acknowledge a simple truth.

You are not a gorgeous woman that every man aspires to have. That said, you are certainly not an ordinary woman whose company that any sensible man can afford to deny.

Foolish are men if someone tall, lean, fair with a very clean and a shining skin cannot captivate them.

Nandini..your only projection is grace.

Sensuality is not in your large breasts; it is there in your wide eyes.

Spirit in you is best seen not when you vivaciously fill words in the small sentences you make; but in the curt silence that you observe for a long time.

You look profusely desirable when you look at me with those deer like eyes and just nod to say something by saying nothing at all.

Nandini.. here is yet another attempt to indulge into something beyond the business called life; an effort to tick the weakening ribs of my romance and restore the glory of small things that I undeservedly missed while walking on the smallest lanes of my life, without you around.

This is one more try to rekindle a dying obsession for someone who never existed for the world, yet lived within me as a semblance of a killing grace and finesse.

You are the soul of my future writings and thus a sole addressee too.

Whenever the winter places the silence sleep next to me, whenever the autumn wets the long roads and whenever the summer empties the notes out of a song – I would write… I would write to bring you back to take the lurking sense of emptiness away from me.

My letters to you may sound contentious for few.

Don’t worry much; think that some odd people just do not have a sense of appreciating the odes.

Don’t worry much; this is not going to be a disclosure of our private association but a celebration of life that we have not lived.

This is going to be an attempt to relive an eternal bond with someone who has never been mine.

Join me to celebrate an occasion called life.

I'm beginning again.