Today, I am writing the book, rewinding my life in front of my eyes, and pausing each of the scenes to pen them down. The pressure cooker is whistling on one of the Saturdays, where my mother is cooking Rajma – Chawal for me in the kitchen. The romantic music is making my fingers flow on the beats. Mobile phone is kept on silent; I don’t want to affect my concentration.
I stood up and walked towards my cupboard. Few novels lie in stack at one corner; few read and few unread. ‘We’ used to share the best of the romantic love stories; reading together, looking into each other’s eyes when the romantic part in the novel starts. Secretly or unknowingly, I loved this way to reading together. Sometimes, we wished that our lives were so simple like that novel only. She used to kiss me when she read and so did I in my turns. It gradually became our habit to do the same. There had been none of the weekends in those days when ‘we’ didn’t met for reading the romantic tales. Often, she brought some Maggie to eat over. We saw dreams together. We made numberless promises. We loved every morning, because we knew what they were bringing for us. We knew how much we needed each other and we stayed together. Often when I see her, I love myself for the way I felt about her, every time. She used to write her name on my hands, in her cutest way. I loved when she used to drop a blank text over my phone. We walked whenever any of us was sad. She often used to hold my hands when we walked and say, “Until and unless I am holding you, we will make it”. I loved the feel the way we touched. I still can’t stop myself thinking about her. And this is my problem. Thinking too much, for the dreams and for the future, I will never have. Turning over the countless pages of the novels ‘we’ shared, I found a
I stood up and walked towards my cupboard. Few novels lie in stack at one corner; few read and few unread. ‘We’ used to share the best of the romantic love stories; reading together, looking into each other’s eyes when the romantic part in the novel starts. Secretly or unknowingly, I loved this way to reading together. Sometimes, we wished that our lives were so simple like that novel only. She used to kiss me when she read and so did I in my turns. It gradually became our habit to do the same. There had been none of the weekends in those days when ‘we’ didn’t met for reading the romantic tales. Often, she brought some Maggie to eat over. We saw dreams together. We made numberless promises. We loved every morning, because we knew what they were bringing for us. We knew how much we needed each other and we stayed together. Often when I see her, I love myself for the way I felt about her, every time. She used to write her name on my hands, in her cutest way. I loved when she used to drop a blank text over my phone. We walked whenever any of us was sad. She often used to hold my hands when we walked and say, “Until and unless I am holding you, we will make it”. I loved the feel the way we touched. I still can’t stop myself thinking about her. And this is my problem. Thinking too much, for the dreams and for the future, I will never have. Turning over the countless pages of the novels ‘we’ shared, I found a Follow @nitishparnami