A Year of Words, Love and Melancholia

Dear Reader,

There are so many things I wish to tell you and for some reason, I feel I have run out of words today, at least the words that carry the weight of my thoughts at this moment.

My father would always tell me, “When you do not know how to tell a story, start at the beginning.” So the story of the The Indian Bibliophile started when on this day last year, my colleague and my full-time-nonsense-tolerating friend cajoled me into opening this blog. And now, here I am, wiser and stupider over the passage of 365 days, scribbling something she knows nothing about in this letter.

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Writer: A creature that scribbles things witlessly while its brain travels light years into inconceivable universes.

Stilted winter sunlight, the scent of old books, the touch of a warm cup of tea on your lips, the feel of newly-worn socks, and the sound of words—The Indian Bibliophile began as a home to all these images wrapped into one concoction of imperfection a year ago. Perhaps it began with my desire for a shelter, or perhaps it started because I wanted to scribble witless sweet-nothings for this boy I had once loved. Winter does make you believe in love and her thousand possibilities, does it not? Whatever it was, it grew into something more than shelter, something akin to home instead.

There would be words of appreciation for the poems I scribbled in the beginning, even so I could not help but believe that something lacked in them, as if the very soul of the words had long since bid adieu and now only the bittersweet lull of their sounds remained. And in search of their souls, I had traveled miles upon the meandering roads of the city that I had once loved, and now grown to un-love. But as time passed, and as is wont to Time himself, the words came by and the words went by, until the soul became a part of me, and inked only to bleed in bits through whatever I tried writing.

It was personal, this blog has always been so. Some held the memories of a love story that could only happen in another reality, while the others sheltered the fragile embers of a has-been. Whatever it was, it carries the scent of me, meager and unwound as it is, in this constructed and deconstructed world that we bear upon our shoulders as the weights of our respective realities.

They say it is nigh impossible, to open your doors and let the world view your elusive secrets when your blog is a reflection of the words you would often scribble only in the dark envelops of the nights. Yet melancholia teaches you, does it not? That whatever you hold as your own never truly belongs to you in the end. There is no I, nothing is about you, and your words are here to be given, until only they stay even after you have long since turned to dust.

So why does this sentimental, and somewhat childish, need to possess them still remain? Why is there still an itch to be answered, to be appreciated, to be needed, to be wanted, to be adored enough, so that my desire of acceptance is satiated in one form or the other? Because this is not just “my” blog, this is also an impression of the woman I have tried to become.

The Indian Bibliophile is not just me, or you, or the words between us. It does not comprise of the time it took to come to the crossroad where I can pen something that unravels so much of me that I now only have my meager hands to cover whatever I still wish to remain unseen. Whatever it is, it is a story nonetheless. And I promise, this one is just beginning.

So I thank you for reading my words, I thank you for loving my words, and I thank you for piecing me together until the woman I was on December 2016 now only stands as an unrecognizable poltergeist somewhere in the precipice of the past and present.

So I go on, somewhere in the recess between two consecutive waves, in a land where strangers become lovers, and lovers become strangers, until I reach the shores of another year once again.

Love,

The Indian Bibliophile

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Dear Dad

Dear Dad,

 

Isn’t it strange, that we only have a handful of memories as father and daughter, and a thousand more as friends? I am sitting here, staring at a blank word document, as I scribble these words in Calibri, because of course, writers write in Calibri and add an extra dollop of esoteric gravitas with it.

 

Perhaps it was time, perhaps fate, maybe it was sheer bad luck, whoever knows? But by the time you came home, I was already seventeen, a woman, a little chipped at the corners, but still standing.

 

Of the handful of memories I still have of us as being family, my favorites are fortunately still existing somewhere in the celluloid tapes inside a handy-cam cassette. I remember your years in Kosovo, how every three months you would send us a bunch of cassettes, then a privilege really, to own a handy-cam and a Whirlpool microwave, the latter still functioning in our dysfunctional family kitchen in a miraculous manner, and how Ma, my sister and I would sit, cooped up in front of the dilapidated television set, after cautiously connecting the wires of the two machines.

 

I remember your voice, still distant and unfamiliar, as if the voice of a guest we would often wait for, from a time when your appearance at home meant closed books, the utter rejection to study and eating the most delectable meals that Mom cooked, a time when it meant that the clock was not set at 10 PM sharp to go to sleep.

 

I remember how you had shown me the Parthenon for the first time through your eyes, how the statue of Athena resembled Durga, and how you were so desperate to show me the similarities with that tiny little video camera. I remember when you had visited the ice museum, and said that the father polar bear was embracing the child bear, just like you would often embrace me. And I had been young, so very young, that I had not realized your voice breaking a little, I had not realized you had been heartbroken, and I had only basked in the happiness, foolishly, of being the center of attention instead of my sister.

 

And then you came home, came home to your family, your visit did not beget a festival, a birthday, a grand celebration, because why celebrate the homecoming of family? Why, indeed. I was fifteen, the first time I had been so angry and disappointed at you. It had been a trivial reason, really. Something about you not being around on my birthday at a town where you were then posted. And I had been sad, a little distant, and unhappy even at times, cuddling mongrels in your bungalow, when you had sent the biggest rohu I had ever seen. A fish! A fish, because you knew I was really a kitten with mangy little claws and I could only be calmed by the tastiest fish in the river. I remember you coming home at 11:45 that night, just 15 minutes until Christmas would set in, and I had not noticed how exhausted you had been, as I finally decided to cut my birthday cake in your presence.

 

But one evening, somewhere between eighteen and nineteen, you had found me broken, crying, wallowing into depression little by little, and cried with me. And perhaps, on that evening between eighteen and nineteen, we became friends, as we crossed the threshold of being father and daughter. I remember the words you always say, that I am your God-gifted child, and most of the times, I do not wish to believe a single word of it, but sometimes, just sometimes, it feels good to be considered a hero instead of a sub-plot, doesn’t it?

 
I have had many heartbreaks ever since, I have cried buckets over failed love, failed happy endings, failed bliss and failed identities, and you had embraced me tight, not even wanting to put my broken pieces back together, and been broken with me.

 

I am not your ideal daughter, far from it. I am unpredictable, irrational, impulsive, too headstrong and stubborn for my own good, too lost in the grand narratives of life to actually concentrate on a single person in life, until you shake sense into me, before sanity leaves the building again.

 

I have been troublesome, tiresome and a handful. Also, I promise you that I have no intention of being perfect in the near future either. But I am glad you do not try to fix me, I am glad you do not try to fit me into a box, I am glad you see me as the unsuitable wild child that I am, and I am glad you love me as the imperfect little goblin that I generally am prone to be.

 

I am glad, Dad. I am just glad to have you in this post-apocalyptic narrative that I am often forced to call my life. And I guess in my own way, I love you as much as you love me too.

 

The Indian Bibliophile

Of Stray Leaves and Crumpled Pages

I should say your name.

But then again, what’s in a name? Right? Wrong.

When all is said and done, the sound of a name, the stray odour of a forgotten love story, the quiver in a pair of lips as the past thwarts in between, the littlest things begin to matter. You become a miniaturist.

So, hello Old Love,

I have come to your doorstep. I have some words to say. And perhaps I shouldn’t call you ‘love’, when the story I started was left unfinished. For a minute there, I want to take my pen, draw a line in between a page, make a border between you and me, and write the reasons why we remained unfinished.

For a minute, I want to do the ordinary thing. Because ordinariness is safe. Because predictability is home.

But when you a have a stark-white page that peers into your soul, sometimes, just sometimes, you want to do something extraordinary.

And so you scribble. You cut, you write, you bleed, you melt, and then, you become words. There is no red pen in the corner of my page anymore. I won’t correct my words. I won’t look back and see the mistakes I have made. After all, I never did that for you.

So let the words hold flaws. For even love, as beautiful as it often is, is flawed. I used to see that beauty. Now, I just remind myself to smile again.

There are the nights though, deep into the bosom of darkness, when I let myself fall a little more than I would let myself in the transparency of daytime.

When I would curl up in my bed, my pillow in my arms, and I would close my eyes. And I would see you. I would see us. Perhaps you and I would smile. Do the most ordinary things, sit for a breakfast, or I would throw a stray piece of paper at you, with its undiscovered trove of words inside. In my fantasies, there is always daylight. And maybe that is enough to make me remember that I have drifted a little further off from reality.

I would bleed tears after, or words instead. I have come to love the words more now. You see, when dawn cracks into the night, light filtering into my room, I like to be reminded it was never a dream.

Seasons change me the most, though.

Summer colours, the yellows and the oranges, the purple hues in the dying hearts of sunsets at riversides, and the slows kisses in winter, azure and purple playing with one another, until the sky itself becomes a confused infinity of grey. It is beautiful, oh so, beautiful, that it almost breaks my heart.

I lose my track often, as I do now. I write to you, and instead I lose myself in the montages of unmade memories. It is a new habit I have developed, to love things that are incomplete, unmade, forgotten, abandoned. Fallen leaves, crushed flowers, crumpled papers, broken quill nibs, I find a strange love for them, growing each day inside of me.

And in loving them, I, too, fall into pieces, brokenness and halfhearted remembrance lingering as effigies.

 

There should be an end here. According to the laws of words, I should scribble lies with ‘yours lovingly’ or ‘yours forever’. But I am mine, only mine. I collect all these fallen pieces of me, stick them with glue and watch them break away again. But there are still all mine.

So until I find some of me to share with you, in fantasy or in reality,

Farewell.