“You escape the bitter realities in lyrics and music”, echoed in that empty room was a voice from her inner soul, a numbed voice drunk in the haunting tunes which after striking the strings of her favorite guitar in that corner, came back to her and was absorbed in her soul. In the darkness of that emotionless night, where the sad, dark blanket of clouds was visible through the window’s pane, she sulked, a little more into this phase of constant nostalgia. “You’re dead, from inside”, it was nothing but a mumbling voice made by those frail lips.
They always say, you can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness. But she got addicted to a certain kind of nostalgia. A nostalgia which was as pure as a harmless baby in the mother’s womb knowing nothing about the cruel world he’ll have to live afterwards. A nostalgia as carefree as that smoker, puffing cigarette comfortably despite the fact, he’s paving a good path to the grave himself. A nostalgia so strong that it shattered her into pieces, her dreams into so many unfed hopes and traced her back to the train of memories and ashes. Her soul cuddled the past days, good old ones, long ago. And her flesh burnt into the silent tears and crashing fears. In her memories echoed the melodic tune,
“Dil kaheen jab saku’n na paaye ga,
Tum ko aik shakhs yaad aayega.”
A cold breeze of somewhat refreshing nostalgia hit her hard on the cheeks, going deep in her dark soul and numbed mind. She was in love with the time when happiness was reachable and peace lied inside her. Where there were smiles, she genuinely felt and meant, frowns; rare but worthwhile, people, few but honest and all the good and bad, but a life – so peaceful and entertaining. Old songs to old diaries, old phones to old socks, old shoes to old bags, old people to old memories and old happiness and all that ever lived in her past was so soothing. She puffed sighs and few regrets in the silver lining of sadness which blanketed her so well that she seemed to be a part of this unknown melancholy. Moving in this lonesome corner, listening to the heart wrenching tunes, she touched those old letters and diaries’ pages while sipping the steamy coffee. Oh, the combo of “Lazzat-e-gham se aash’naa ho kar, Apne mehboob se juda ho kar” and the joy of hand written notes was so well that she lived those little laughters, once again, which were cherished way back in times, over the phones calls.
It was nothing but a certain nostalgia. A nostalgia too strong for her which would end up having her a lump in throat for hours. Nostalgia for hours and weeks and months and rather it turned into a complete lifestyle. Silently gazing at the stars and the dark, vast sky her wet eyes and cheeks felt the coldness of her inside. She was cold to everything. To life, feelings, emotions, to the little bits and huge stuff – an emotionless puppet. When you start thinking about what your life was like 10 years ago–and not in general terms, but in highly specific detail–it’s disturbing to realize how certain elements of your being are completely dead. They are dead but living inside your memoirs.
The sea and beaches where promises were made and broken along the flowing water. The happy smiles with every bite of cotton candy, the lively gossips over coffee cups in the balcony, the long walks, silent messages, all were now but haunting memories. She took another walk around the room, sipped some more caffeine and lied down over the sofa. The air of nostalgia cuddled her more, softly, secretly and a wave of chilling chronicles went down her spine. Wrapped in beautiful red silk, she quickly stood up, took out her brushes and vibrant colors, the empty canvas and her vacant brain. Played with them, the throbbing shades like her aching heart, the silent room and in it – she was there all alone with this painting, something which will earn her livelihood at the cost of her memories.
Echoed in the air was another line,
“Zakhm-e-dil jab tumhey sataaye ga
Tum ko aik shakhs yaad aaye ga..”
She felt few drops on her cheeks, sipped some more coffee and finally took out her guitar to get lost with it, in the land of dreams and old days. The night was fulfilled: alone in the magnitude of her grief, alone in her aimless guilt, alone even in her loneliness. As they say, “Was I bitter? Absolutely. Hurt? You bet your sweet ass I was hurt. Who doesn’t feel a part of their heart break at rejection. You ask yourself every question you can think of, what, why, how come, and then your sadness turns to anger. That’s my favorite part. It drives me, feeds me, and makes one hell of a story.” But oh honey, the irony, rejection was from life. So then, how you live it?
It was insane. It was disturbingly soothing. She got addicted to this haunting isolation. This miserable state – the certain nostalgia. It broke her. Would tear her apart. But it was satisfying. She felt an unknown bliss, satisfaction it, where she could just over dose herself with caffeine and her paint brushes, guitar and all the stuff from her past with these old tunes. Suddenly in her old notes she read, Only that there were tears. Only that Quietness and Emptiness fitted together like stacked spoons. Only that there was a snuffling in the hollows at the base of a lovely throat. Only that a hard honey-colored shoulder had a scar on it. Only that she held sadness close, long after it was over. Only that she spent that night was not happiness, but hideous grief.
In the sighs & tears, she was as always restless but slept herself to sad lullabies. She knew it was not normal, it was insane, she got addicted to a certain saddening nostalgia…
Echoed the same voice,
“Jab koi pyaar se bulaye ga ,
Tum ko aik shakhs yaad aayega….”