After meeting two forces of nature, the wanderer and his friend, over two different encounters, I was ready for more. I knew my next meeting will be with the wanderer’s friend. I was all geared up, packed in my questions, neatly rested my mind, was all happy.
Just then the door bell rang, my mom went to open the door. After about half a minute, I heard calling my name. I rushed out of my room to the door. It was a courier. I received the envelop and signed the counterfoil.
Walking calmly back to my room, I ripped apart the envelope from its sides and pulled out the letter. It was addressed to me, “dear Bala”. I flipped the pages to see who had undersigned. It read, “Yours, always, Wanderer”.
I felt a cold sweat trickle down my spine, my hands were trembling and were cold. For some reason I was shit scared. It was as if the motifs of this entire episode had started to invade my life, my home.
From meetings in some coffee shop to my home, my bedroom, “The sanctum sanctorum”. It was until now, a just for kicks, bring it on, let us have some metaphysical fun. But now it was in my life. Forcing its way like a gust of wind from below the door.
I started reading the letter…
Last day of October!
Since now you are truly into my story, and are penning it for me I would like you to publish this rapture for me.
“Yuppie! My hunch worked. It feels awesome. Losing as a word has ceased to be in the dictionary of my life. This has primed me up. The meeting with her. One glimpse of her and it felt like love. The same it felt before. Marquee feelings going round in my head.
It tasted like ecstasy for a moment. Like choco-chip muffin. The melting cocoa of love. The boiling pot for that instant. The scorpion of the night sky. She, the “now-for-the-moment” angel with big moom like face, eyes bright as sun rays, smile half concealed of our past. Basically, the works.
The prima facie evidence of heart’s calling. The magic of small moments, the innocent overture of young love. That’s the thing, bamb! Love keeps us young. Irrespective of our recent conditioning. It makes us young, defying age and experience even if for a few moments.
It breaks the occult of time and bondages. It frees the spirit and at once we kneel down and drink out of the ocean of love.
For me, it is a promise that I will never fall out of myself. I will stick to my convictions, go by my heart, abide by its calling, and shamelessly give into its command. And in doing so, feel sane. And hope that one day, just like that, love will answer back and I will be taken.
Now, I am relying on such miracles. These miracles are my norm. The joy of loving each wandering step. Finding a soothing balm in every tiring step. I don’t know if I have choice, or even if a choice truly exists. But that doesn’t hinder me. I carry on, without boundaries, into shapelessness. Rules merit no mention, and rules of the world merit no worldly mention.
The wait is enjoyable. I am liking it. Nice and soft and this time so full of wisdom, especially knowing how it’s going to end. I feel the path ahead, like clockwork, every step, it’s as if god gave me the power to love, and that love gave me the power to control it. But I let it go, scot free… like a bird in the open sky, like a flowing river, like an overflowing giblet of wine.
I touch thee or thy ‘will’ not. For this sweet bitter longing and “up to chance” thing is more fruitful than all of certainties. The anticipation, the verve, the moments, the spark, the ocean of love overflowing into me, like a never ending saga. My heart pounding, just by her presence in the periphery. The shake of my hand as I write this, the thoughts overflowing out of me, but my words failing to keep up.
I wait in pure anticipation… for her, for her acknowledgement, for her to walk up to me, break the code of social and safe conduct and say something, anything. I don’t care. Just about anything, anything at all. God help!
It is a feeling I am sure of more than I ever did. It is the anticipation of love’s response through no less than love itself.
Well as for me it tells me that love is worth all this. It tells me that I am still young; it tells me that no matter what… there is a safe white place for love. Where is there no harm, no fears, no inhibitions, no restrains, no stoppages, no nothings. A place where love and hate don’t collide, no boundaries that divide, no masks that hide, magic and love, all of selfless pride.
I don’t think it’s a waste, no its not. It is all worth it… centum worth. But I also know… despite the fanfare, it’s at best is going to be a fledging moment, post which I will be all alone, stranded.
“But how can I be lost, when I have no place to go”, sooths James Hetfield.
I stay focused and stray for that once glimpse. Please don’t steal it away from me. If it has to come as a clichéd writer’s moment… so be it.
I will wait and let the summary of the world be written at this moment. Steal it boy! Steal it like a breathing populace. Steal the charming by the dozens.”
After reading this letter, I was finding it difficult to picture up the wanderer. He was old, full of wisdom, full of fullness. This was juvenile, young, quirky, like a young kid throwing tantrum for candy and trying to romanticize his craving for it. But what the heck, as a writer I am loving every moment of this. So much to write about, so easy to get a hook, so easy to fantasize and mesmerize.
I am going to take this letter to the Wanderer’s friend and show him what his old buddy is up to.
Before I brush this aside as some clear happy shit, I am tempted to read into the date when the Wanderer wrote this and it kind of spooks me.