This post has been published by me as a part of Blog-a-Ton 55; the fifty-fifth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. In association with Rashmi Kumar, the author of Hooked, Lined and Single and Jyoti Arora, the author of Lemon Girl.
Because one day, this dancing would stop,
or maybe the instinct will die, you had said,
and you couldn't be more right than that night,
when the terrace became a witness,
to the world of many firsts we were to enter.
there was that tree too,
under the shade of which,
I gave you letters,
hand written and kiss sealed.
What about that shop with downed shutter,
two streets away,
where we met as lovers, reunited and love, rejuvenated,
and sipped tea in the enraging monsoons under the cover of howling clouds,
Oh, who'd forget the drops falling in our tea cups,
and I, falling in a bit of you, wishing you'd fall in a bit of me too.
And running for cover in that downpour,
was the maverick painter,
his canvas falling apart as he runs,
and I run too,
for the fear of him not returning ever.
He has 'us' painted,
though only in half,
before the rain came down,
and that half is you,
and I'll realize,
only years later,
how the unfinished painting was indicative of a future so true.
And that day has come, I reminisce,
when the rain would happen but dance won't,
when you would happen and us won't,
and I wish you had said something else,
if that night had to be the one God heard your wish bells.