This world has always been too mechanical with emotions and bonds like tasting love was always meant to bring bitterness at some point or the other.
Shedding tears for people slipping away was never normalised and somehow was always termed impractical.
But wait,if they slip away like the grains of sand making their way out from the spaces between your fingers did they ever even belong with you?
Sometimes, just sometimes, it's okay to shut the door on people we love because if they were right,they wouldn't be standing on the other side.
It was never difficult to love someone you hardly know.
It just takes a lot of courage to love someone you know you cannot live without.
Again, you don't think I'm being practical right?

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It always felt like we were walking through the reel of time imprinting shadows like a movie dressed in black and white.
No,It wasn't scripted.
Real.
Real Love,as raw as it could be.
Our episodes didn't really go like it was perfect but most of the times I could not look away even when you slept on random video calls after arguing for sometime and somehow it all added up like scenes to making a movie.
Polaroids.
Negatives.
Charcoal Black strokes and we still had colours stuck to our cheek folds trembling with goosebumps.
So many goosebumps and you still believe in us,don't you?
You and I must be brilliant visionaries because there's so much drama,less endings and more beginnings in our story.
Calcutta.
Colours.
Food walks.
Buying a 150 rupee vintage sunglass just to complete our aesthetic pictures and an overlapping Love story.
Oh,the innumerable times we've talked about parting ways or the times I've held your hand way too tight because I'm so scared of losing you.
I hope someone,somewhere still wishes for a Love like ours.
We are exhausting,immature,disappointing yet classic just like movies made in monochrome and you love movies without colour just like I love you,Raw.

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In this world, people never even stop looking for things that they already have.
We can see overlapping relationships, too many heart breaks, a larger box of yellow pills beside their pillows hiding shrieks when they've been disloyal. All you wanted was a person who would stand there satisfied with you in their life and you can't even ask for more.
Most people have to go through this trauma.
I swear, I can't even explain how lucky I'm to have this soul as a piece of my existance. To the world a grown up man, to me the boy who still cannot sleep without my face looking through on video call.
To the world a man as grave as a Judge, to me the boy in shorts who cries like an infant during fights.
To the world a lost soul, to me the answer to every possible question.
Just Remember,
I'm not losing you either.
365 Days and I can still give up Chai and Biryani for you.

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Probably, those moments were like grains of sand falling out of time onto moist cement that patiently waited to bring it all together,Permanently.
Those hugs like you named them 'The Art Of Absorbing Power' was so much more than just feeling your flesh against mine.
It was like the longer they continued, we were picking ourselves up from tornadoes of the past and building a home in each other.
Trust me, if someday looking straight into your hazel pupils I started pouring my heart out, you'd cry knowing how deeply a soul has fallen only for you.

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I left my soul on the streets of Old Calcutta,
running through the smell of broken spices in thickening tea to that one distinct voice in the afternoon rain who had bits of me drenched in them
and as I returned they had all turned back retreating towards old cafes with cassette-radios mumbling a pastel soft voice in between a coarse shrill of Tagore's glory and like the smell of a burning cigarette I stood there like aesthetic ideas resting on corrupted static air somehow holding on to the earthen pots, old buildings and narrow lanes sticking to me like they were possessive about my non-existing adventure.
'Hi,
I'm a non-resident bengali and Calcutta is my only Nostalgia.'

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'Dada, jhaal debo toh?',the man asked while mashing the potatoes in a little stall on the streets of Kolkata.
It was five past six that evening and he was already staring at the watch which was somehow holding on with its torn edges of low quality leather.
His little Nokia handset had too many notifications that day and with every yellow blink he quickened his speed.
It was his last batch of preparation of the day as he was found apologising to everyone for shutting the stall so early.
Washing his hands in an unusual manner,he did not want to stain his best clothes.
Sticking his feet carefully on the rusted chains of the old bicycle, he rushed with a laminated sheet of paper in his pocket.
In front of an old missionary building of ancient Calcutta, he stopped and pulled out a little comb from his pocket.
At first, the Guards did not allow him inside but then he was called for.
While resting himself on a wooden chair beside his wife and daughter in the huge interview hall of St. Paul's Boarding and Day School when he was asked:'So, what do you do for a living?',
the only thing that came out from in between his lips was:
'Ami Phuchka-wala.'

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You came down like a drop of mist when I was nothing more than a feather caught up in the wind.
But, ain't I still flying?
I know,
you'll keep meeting the wrong people.
I know,
you'll look for everything real in their pretence.
I know,
you'll keep pushing away the worthy ones.
My Darling, the habit of looking for beauty among beasts,
and forever in temporary people never fades away.

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She was lost like a city that could never sleep,
and I,
stood there like a pearl of light that could never say goodbye.

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Someday,
over a sip of lukewarm water decolourising tea leaves in dried earthen pots,
on the ruins of the Ganges,
I'll tell you how it feels to see the sun setting in someone's eyes.

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So knowingly,
we look for feelings that we know are going to destroy us in the end.

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