estrangements of this kind should not steer the heart towards depression\feelings of annihilation\whispering agitatedly to the severed finger nail- "shit! i am left without moorings!"
for this kind of estrangement is for the good...good and necessary for the Theatre of the Glorious Future, good in joyous anticipation of that one breezy twilight-sharpened eve when arm in arm, overlooking the world in miniature, we would gush- "see! it was all for this day! hurrah!"
but who sits younder and whistles like a crude street urchin?
ah! Time of course!
see how she knows it all...knows it and sticks out her tripartite tongue (note how each is of different size and speed...strange, no?)at me....at us. and i cannot punch her back.
for she ridicules the future, ticks off the precious present and gives a rat's arse for the past.
"what we had is good....so, it would be good in the future too..."
but what of the Now?
of the Now that would now bifurcate, one belonging to you, the other to me; each like penfriends, writing with the urgency to tell all, and yet, missing to mention that careless nibbling of a Marie biscuit while scribbling vigorously....to tell all.
and so,we would miss out on witnessing each other grow...
send me in the details...that you will, with all the earnestness of a man overfed and bursting with the habit of growing with another self.
so the details would come...come flying through all the surrogates- the cell phone beeping, the mail box jingling, the letter-box bursting....to tell all...sigh!
and just like that, my world would become a picture postcard in your world- all the while, Time sneering at the subtle contradiction between the static, one-dimensional nature of mine against the vibrancy of yours.....and vice versa of course!
but hush! remember, these kinds of estrangements are for the good!
good for the heart to grow fonder perhaps?
i do not know. joy of the spic-and-span nature with its associating lucidity evades me. i feel little joy.
to say "i miss you" sometime in the future....to fall into the habit of saying "i miss you"....stinks of nothing but a putrid blend of lost time and touch.
what i would touch then, would be papery nothingness....a replica of life....a replica of you....but not you in life itself.
(yet and yet, i am proud of you anurag for you made it through TISS, one step closer to the realisation of your dream of living up to the oft-abused title of 'the argumentative Indian'. this post should not depress....that is so not the motive....it just asserts....you know what.)