Flashback

The danger of private languages is that they alienate people at large.

I have a series of private languages in my kitty. I am a collector, if you will. Spinning stories aimed at being understood by only one person in the world is what I’d like to have as a career choice.

What can I do? A private audience gives me a kick. A hushed theater with only one seat occupied, where the echoes of my feet reach the person like loud, self-sufficient screams, turns me on. Makes me want to give my best performance every single time.

I like an empty stage, the sprawling wooden space lying bare till the soles of my feet decide to own the cold floor.

But I am broke today.

My set of private languages has gone mad. Words are bubbling up from the silent, stagnant pond.

“Mango Dolly….you remember that?” I remember the expression in your eyes when you took my clean hands in your dirty, muddy ones. You looked and looked, with eyes that were seeing a wonder for the first time. I was someplace you never reached though. But then, I never let you know that. Yes, I remember mango dolly.

My books I sold for you. Because I wanted money to come meet you.

Reaching you in the nights, trying to talk. The French beard. The days where I would have accepted every flaw in you, covered them up with my strengths and never let you know what I was doing.

***

Once every few months you say “Apna dhyaan rakhna”. The only three words exhaled in a breath at the end of every chat. Chats that are mostly silent, speak of irrelevant things or die down because I do not have the energy to hold them up. The only souvenir of that one summer where you reached to the deepest part of me effortlessly.

“Hey beautiful!” I miss that. I can hear it every time anyone else calls me beautiful. I’m glad it doesn’t sound the same. I miss the smile in that greeting. I miss that grain of pure happiness.

“Oh man! The exam was baaad! Life sucks! I could have done so much better…sigh! I have to face my mother…” I miss that sense of worrying about things that matter only if you let them. Only, he never realized it. And he has gone silent now. A deathly pale has tinged all the memories because I’m afraid I sucked the life breath out of you.

“Kill me…oh kill me” Words I would die to hear again and again. Words I would love to hear before I die. Words I will never hear again.

***

Soft warm cotton sheets. The AC. Closed doors and night time talks.

“Oye! Totally!” That got me out of something. That nickname allowed me the use of my self after scraping away at walls of frozen pain. It allowed me to step into the arena again.

“I got this shirt I painted myself.” Basketball freak. Threw a stone at me. I wore that shirt at nights, soft, white cotton with the work of his hands all over the gentle fabric.

At basketball practice with aloo-gobi and others every Saturday evening. A dreamy joker, a ferocious romantic without knowing it, a kind heart proud of his sense of humor.

***

Sitting on the floor on a blue night, leaning against the door to the balcony in the middle of summer. “I really liked that poem.”

The night did not end. We spoke and spoke. I had never heard such a gentle voice. Not met such a kind heart. He used to smoke a pack a day sometime in the past. Nandi Hills. There was a time I wanted to go there. That desire has dried up and turned to a thick crust over a part of my heart by now. I only have the memory of you opening the windows of your apartment because it was “so stuffy” after your roommate and his girlfriend had finished with their business.

I never regretted anything, but I cannot help being tormented in small measures whenever I think of you: that I broke off such a beautiful private language.
There was a thermos of tea. A flat tire and a long, happy drive on a road I love in the car I love. I still remember the eyes. The pain in them that beautiful day in the university. Sigh.

***

I was never looking for you. Too busy nursing myself back. I wrote to you though.
We met. I saw the twinkle in your eyes. I still see you smile light up your face. I haven’t seen it in a while though.

Our language sputters. Simply because I am not ready.

***

Oh, but I was ready for you. I was so ready for you I practically opened all the doors. Practically.

Maybe that’s the difference.

***

But it is not going to make a difference. My set of private languages has gone mad. Each memory sparkles in the clear summer sun to agonize me this one day.
I have never shied away from stopping anything I knew needed to be stopped. Why now?
Both private languages get twisted when taken out of context. I trust in the goodness of people. I doubt my own goodness though. Some say its under-confidence. I say it too sometimes. Makes things simply understood at least.

***

Potholes. There are many.

And I have a black cloth tied to my eyes on an adventure course with the end a few meters away. Slowly, definitely I will fall.

If not today, tomorrow. If not tomorrow…you get the drift.

I believe I will fall as long as I am unable to close my eyes underneath the black cloth.