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 Moans of a broken heart have an evocative depth that I simply romanticized and produced some unpublished poems and novels before I stopped writing again.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.