23:00

23:00

It was just like all the other times she'd held me. Her strong, sinewy, reliably warm hands found the spaces between my fingers, and her deft fingers fit into them like jigsaw pieces. Just like all the other times, I thought her beautiful brown eyes had never looked more so, but I grew to love them more each time. Just like all the other times, I heard her heart beat in a beautifully steady, almost enlivening rhythm. The blood that coursed through her heart gave mine the courage to beat. And whenever she smiled at me, her trademark true-eyed smile, she only made it beat faster. Just like all the other times, our breathing entwined, our beings mingling in each others existence, truly, for one precious moment I could not say whose was whose. Just like all the other times she said she loved me, and to hear her say it made me breathe deeper. Just like all the other times I told her I loved her, and I swore it by all I could swear by, and she laughed.

Heavens, if sunshine were a sound, it would be her laughter. Just like all the other times, I felt our world shrivel and shrink right into the little enclosement of our embraces, and my existence was by the virtue of hers. Just like all the other times, I left my soul to drown in hers, and I knew nothing, but her name, and every vein in my body echoed it. But this time, my heart beat to the tune of hers for a weary last, and as I let my eyes close out the trailing vestige of her face, I felt my being break the fetters of mortal misery and leave, and her desire to live with it.

About 24 hours earlier 

I Amsterdam, it screamed. I couldn't believe my eyes, in a city so strange and alone, it felt like I was meant to be here. The rustling leaves at almost midnight and the cold breeze that hit my face. The chills that were sent down my spine, the people I couldn't contemplate, it all seemed like a destination my life had been guiding me towards. 

My body couldn't resist shivering but I somehow walked down my way to the signboard that read Schiphol. I stood there, stranded for 10 minutes with a smile on my face, radiating nothing but happiness waiting for my ride to the train station. The station from where I'd hop in a train to travel 55 miles to the already 4266 miles I had travelled, to a small city in the interiors, Nijmegen. 9 hours 20 minutes from home I had come here to seek a new beginning. 'A greater perhaps.' How much of a greater perhaps would I be able to seek in a trip that was meant to last 10 days? 

With the thought vanishing to the back of my head, I saw my ride indicating me its arrival, with all the excitement inside of me; I hopped in my ride to begin the second half of my journey. Five minutes into transit to my small city, my phone rang, "Hello", I answered.

"Hey" said Heleen. 

"What's up?" 

"Get here in time. Party at 00:30" 

"I'll try, an hour more, theoretically."

"Sounds good, nerd." She giggled. 

"See you there." I exclaimed and hung up. 

With passing blurry shadows of the greens in the moonlight, I saw thousands, just like every other day, different people. They all seemed the same to me. It is marvelous how they manage to differ though. I sometimes wonder, what makes us different from others, not our looks, not our dressing so what is it that makes the needed difference. Maybe it is the attitude that people generally talk about. I once came across something and it said, "There is no limit on anything. The more you dream, the farther you get." Is this what makes the difference? Now I regret having her as my only dream. 

And why wouldn't she be my only dream. She was like the Northern Pole Star or the Dhruva. When the night felt too dark and the moon never found its way out, it was the star that guided me. In places without any hope, her shimmers extrapolated light that found its way to me. 

As the lights grew dim and the symphonies grew louder, I lay watching million stars in the sky scattered like her thoughts. Where the brightest stars wanted to make her a path that forever glows, she had the eyes for the moon. For the moon, full of scars, was the most orphic. He intensified her glow from the farthest of infinity. He caused tides in her that no one understood, nor did she.

Oh, dear one if I could tell her how magnificent she was, she'd forget what the moon felt like, if I could just for once be comprehensive, would she know she was a sun to a galaxy she'd never known.

And just like the other times, I tried to forget but she grew roots around my rib cage and flowers sprouted just below my collarbones all day I pluck their petals but I have not yet ascertained whether she loves me or not. 

If I were given another chance, I would anchor to you my heart and keep you there forever. I wouldn't let our errors weigh down our ship. I would let my words and actions be the anchor in my minuscule harbor. I would toil and make sure you don't sway away with the waves of the ocean. I'd stand on guard to see nothing hurts you. 

And if someday, you decided to navigate around the globe, I'd stand there, grounded. Awaiting your arrival. Praying to god, to see you sore high in those experiences which set wind in your sails and joy within you. I wouldn't barge in your expeditions if it wasn't meant to be. But I would stand here, unshaken by anything and everything awaiting your arrival.

And once you'd come back, I would anchor you again. Clean the rust off of you, and make you shine and smile like you used to. I'd fix you because somewhere deep below, I know the sea and the ocean don't know you as much as I do.  And sometimes when even that wouldn't be enough, I'd caress you and paint princess on you, only for the sailor to call you by that name in your next expedition. 

And after all this is done, when we would get old and rusty and the sailor would deprive you of the wind in your sails, I would sit there blowing on them till my last breath. And when I will breathe out the last time, I'll wish you to be remembered like every magnificent ship because you were the only princess ruling that sea in your way.

00:26

I had to take a bus to the party and reaching on time was impossible, it wasn’t viable according to my math and trust me I am pretty good at it.

And just in time, pretty girl steps on the bus. A moment later I realize, I have looked a moment too long. There are bad men out there and it's not right to frighten the beautiful. But, she does not claim her right to glide eyes straight ahead by, instead meets my eye, smiles, takes a seat right beside on the other side of the aisle. As if for a moment I was acquitted of the many crimes of my sex. And as quick as I feel that glow, I realize, we've hit the plateau. The sum of rich is slight glances that have to offer, so I turn to her and said, "Excuse me? Do you mind if I extrapolate? Don't be alarmed, the term is mathematical but this need not be arduous." 

"I study science", she said. 

Though momentarily embarrassed, I do not surrender, "Well, I've just entered a study of a future together and as yet unopened seeds has fall onto a ready patch of my maybe gardened heart but I will have to soon disembark so may I follow it through to a projected conclusion with you?" 

"Alright", she said, "Make it your best attempt"

And, so I did. "Imagine we meet again, some days later, remember we haven't spoken, you sit down to read and I leave you be, getting off four stops later. It is somewhere completely different, an antique furniture store and so I am surprised. Your eyes like matches lit by six years old with their parents in the room, I can't hold myself, 'Hi.' You pause for a moment, consider whether to respond, select the long sleeved polo neck of greetings, 'Hello.' I consider concluding it there; I remember you from the bus seems a little too much the thing they tell you not to say. 'I remember you from the bus', I say. 'Yes she says, I remember your hair.' And I think to myself, good, that's a start, yet it could be the end. You having laughed, it having been lighting free, me asking your number, too much like a glass tomb thrown around the rose. An artificial lung keeping somewhat alive yet having no capacity for gossips of joy or a gradual seeping out with rage you save only for those you truly love, so languishing for what may be the last time in your eyes, I ask for nothing, I say goodbye. 

Now, imagine some weeks pass, the arms of my heart ache having carried the weight of our future unbegun, but then we meet again, in a shopping mall. It has corridors as long and wide as chasms between the guarded hearts, the crossing of such divides only possible by the hands that guide, you smile, 'Do you still remember me from the bus' you say. 

'Always', I say. 

The passage of time, two months, the first time, I've spent 72 hours with you and it requires and athleticism of the heart for those born as only children to tolerate another's constant unrelenting 72 hour long presence yet you have stood said coach like and your silence led me to feats miraculous, you make that heart, jump higher, run faster, yet it's propitiations shake off no perspiration, it is effortless. 

The passage of time, two years, now done with our new born ones, we wrestle our age old fears, those things your habit blind spirit will not go when yet there in front of you is your life's first good reason to try, to really try. 

The passage of time, fifteen years, Sunday morning, we sit in a street side cafe, you reading reach for your coffee, brush my hand instead, look up, your hand and your eyes linger then return to the book. Pretty girl steps by, a moment later I snap back, not quite catching but caught by your eye, you smile, ‘Beautiful isn't she?'

'Yes', I say, 'but I've got better.' "

I stop, I have to stop, and it’s my stop. My dream of future story telling done, I gather and look one last time at the girl that smiles, sits other side of the aisle of still redeemable men and I say, "How did I do?" 

"It might one day be a garden.” she says. 

I walked off that bus, with a smile on my face, wondering if lightning had struck me. Downpours of feelings, so much so it was impossible for me to accept it albeit relish it. In spite of failing to conquer over the fortress of feelings, I was smiling, never had this happened before and it’s taking its toll over me, more than it should.

These captivating thoughts found their way out soon enough though. I entered the party, saw my watch and it read, 00:49. Told you, I wouldn’t reach on time didn’t I? Heleen ran towards me and hugged me. Overwhelmed by such a greeting, my heart was overfilled with emotions. Emotions, I can’t pen down in words, I strolled through the party as she held my hand and led me to greet and meet with a few of her friends and acquaintance. Now, I am not saying it wasn’t nice to meet them but I really hope I don’t see them again. And a few feet away in the darkness of this shabby club and flickering disco lights, I saw the girl from the bus.

Her eyes glowed in the dark, so much so the darkness failed to accustom the glow. I could see those big brown eyes from the distance, I waited for her to turn towards me and know I was there, right there. Though momentarily she was only seven steps away, it felt like I would have to travel galaxies, fight the untimely black holes and wage wars against aliens hailing from planets unknown. I would fight them with crowbars and bare fists to win her over and walk out with pride, fly through the demolished galaxies sightseeing what my love had done to this universe. But if it had to burn and pay the price for my love then so be it. I felt like a conqueror, the kind you read in history books, the kind Adolf Hitler and Chengis Khan were excluding the single testicle and multiple wives respectively. And when my head was lost, her glimpse got me grounded back to where I was. A stampede of innervations over my heart which had her species written all over it. I pulled my phone out of the pocket, blindened by the sudden illumination, I realized her glow was captivating but not keen on making me stay. I peeked to see what time it was and if I had a message from the one person I was trying not to remember. To no avail of it, I locked my phone, kept it where it belonged in my pocket and with my hands crossing another walked silently towards the bar. Tiptoeing as though drinking to forget one of my genuine subtle ambitions was a crime. It felt as though an envelope of defiance and disappointments aired its path through the million galaxies and to me.

I stood there at the bar, wondering if drinking would make me forget her or shout her name out load because I had seen myself do both and she had the strength to make me do it, make me bend my back in ways I didn’t know I could. If she were a yoga teacher, she would be the best of them all.

Till I could let these thoughts apprehend and dwell in my head, I turned and she was right there, an inch away from me, her nose almost brushed mine and I couldn’t hide the petrified look I adorned in that moment.

“Hi”, she said.

Amused by the greeting, “Hey”, I replied.

“How about this for your extrapolation? We meet here at the club, in a place so shabby you wouldn’t imagine for it to turn into a furniture store”, she smiled

“And yet we meet again and your smile still conquers the only heart I posses, I suppose.”

And in these moments of little things I thought to myself rather out loud, “I hate small talk. I want to talk about how I see galaxies in your eyes and how your touch will make my knee weak in 0.02 seconds and how you got that scar on your knee. I want to know how you found out that green is your favorite color. I want to know about your first heartbreak.  I want to know what home is to you. I want to know about that one time your mother yelled at you when you were 5. I want to know the things that no one knows about you. Fuck small talks, I want to know the things that matter.” 

Befuddled by what had just happened, she walked right past to me, to the counter and called for her shot to righteousness. Spinning her hand on the mouth of the half filled glass, she said, “You want to know what really matters? It’s the fact that you guys don’t see the bigger picture behind our small talk. I wouldn’t have walked upto you in the dark and amaze you by standing right behind your back if the small talk didn’t matter.”

I was baffled by what had hit me, these weren’t those galaxy wars I was waging, this was real, darn real.

“The best picture one could capture is a kid smiling, out of innocence, out of joy. My eyes clicked a picture like that once. A kid, eight or ten years old. He was jumping in glee. My eyes had never seen a sight like this.

He had an incense stick in his hand; he bent down, lit a cracker and hopped. Hopped till the cracker was all out. It was an image that set right in my head.

When I reflect upon that image, I see how burning out a few things can bring a flood of joy.

Life seems like a road trip. It's a bumpy ride, riding through a lot of places, taking the roads we choose for ourselves to a predefined destination. The only thing that can bring us the happiness is burning those tyres out, travelling, through various cities or staying at one, exploring it and only it. But we have to burn those tyres before our fuel runs out, what are we to do with those tyres without fuel?

Question is, what are you waiting for?” she continued. 

Once we've gotten to know each other better and assuming you said, yes. We'd go on

our second date; I'd wait the mandatory three days then call to arrange for us

to meet for a picnic in a forest that is frozen in time. Here, we would be the

masters of our destiny and we would bend them until they were intertwined as

our fingers as we sat, staring off into timelessness. The realist in me keeps

trying to remind me that, conventional dates occur in restaurants and movie

theaters. Fuck the realist in me. The romantic in me reminds me that if we

dream of love, dream big, dream huge, dream titanic whale size because

romantics are few and far between and you never know which romantic may match

your dream.

So, if you're the kind of romantic that's willing to fly on a magic carpet, speak to

ancient whales, frolic in frozen forest tinkering with destiny or go out to

just the nines to grab a bite to eat and a little buzz of red wine. Doesn't

even need to be red rose or white is fine. But, if you're that kind of romantic,

then start a fire, lay out some blankets and maybe our smoke signals will reach

each other and will hate being romantic together.”

I stood mocked by my dumbfound brain. I felt something run down my veins and no it wasn’t just blood this time. It was inexpressible. I mean I’m supposed to be the sort of guy who keeps talking and entertains everyone but here I was entertained by a thought so intimidating, everything else felt futile. She stood there like a huge tree, rooted to the ground immoveable even by the heaviest of storms that could consist of pleads and thoughts the world thought to be great. For us, it was a battle of the brain than the body and nothing could help me here let alone the crowbar.

I looked at her, gazed deep into her empty eyes and said,” And why are you here then? In this shabby outlet of a country club serving cheap liquor to people even cheaper and traitors to their soul?”

“I don’t know”

“And yet you talk about the bigger picture you see every day? Does the night blinden you to everything your brain fathoms in the day?”

“Yes”

“Then tell me, oh dear one, what is it that scares you?”

“The fact, that I would encounter someone like you one day”, she started walking to grab hold of her jacket and disappear in the dark sulky night.

“And yet you encounter me one night, the one you most dread.” She kept walking, not even once did she turn to see what she was leaving behind, a mark on a soul that wouldn’t diminish in a lifetime.

The only good thing about that night, she didn’t say goodbye, there was still hope, hope that I would see her again, if not a unique furniture store, a museum would do too. Among those relics so precious and antique, we would walk through hallways. She would pull her hand away from mine and run through them, making me chase silhouettes, only to end up in a corner, where I would hold her waist, and kiss her forehead and laugh in the silence of the rather empty museum. I would walk off to see something as fascinating as her and she would shout my name in her shrill voice to seek my attention and I would turn in a blink of an eye. Only to smile and feed my fascination of the mural on the wall. She would then hold me from behind and breathe near my neck, sending a string of ants down my body, making me numb. Oh, if it was real and this could be my greater perhaps.

I stayed back there, getting blacked out, joining the simpletons. The kind who come there to forget about their issues and just for those many hours feel relieved.

A chain of parties, tons of drunken nights, a string of one night stands. Life is the epitome of meaningless. Yeah, it does seem fun doesn’t it? Partying with friends, getting drunk every now and then, hitting on girls who don’t have an ounce of self respect.

It’s nothing but a defense mechanism. A defense mechanism from living life. And I mean really living. To have dreams and aspirations, to have someone to love, to have people to share your memories with. Gulping down 10 shots of tequila with your buddies and getting wasted all the time isn’t exactly living. Having meaningless sex with random girls isn’t living. 

Partying with different people everyday isn’t living. It’s called fucking up your life. Yes, sure it seems cool. It seems stud. And it is, but if that’s your definition of living life, trust me you’ve lost your way. If that’s all what your life is about, trust me you have to change. Do you know want to know why me and people like me do this constantly?

Because we are clueless. We don’t know what to do with life. We drink away the sadness and drown in our own misery. I wish I was passionate about something.

The blue in the sky, the sunsets, the sunrises, the rain, rainbow, fireworks, city lights, the tender smile of a child, the exuberance of a puppy, a good book, a good movie, a good kiss, the list can go on. The simple yet extraordinary moments in life seem nothing but ordinary to me. Most of you lie awake at 3 am thinking about the person who broke your heart. You cry, weep, and bleed out your pain. I do that too. Not because of heartbreak, lie awake because I haven’t found a person to love.

We realized we were empty inside when all the meaningless hook ups and parties didn’t satisfy my yearn to be loved. We want to feel something whether it is joy or grief, but we can’t. Life is ordinary without meaning to it..

Great cities and art and music; genuine beauty. And you can have all of it if you just start living. You don’t want to throw it all away by being afraid. You don’t want to be so deep down under that you can no longer feel.

1:57

Tracing my drunken steps to where I had begun this journey. I tried making sense of everything that I had seen in the past 3 hours; and I couldn’t infer anything. All my analysis and science went for a toss. Screw you, Newton.

Heleen in the meanwhile caught up with me, tapped my shoulder and as soon as I turned, I saw her smiling at me, radiating a glow I wouldn’t forget for a lifetime. I captured that moment, just like a child would of firecrackers lighting the sky.

“What’s up?” she said.

“Nothing”

“Oh, come on, I know that look, how long have we been friends now?”

“Nothing; it is easier to make peace with it by myself rather than seeing pity in your eyes for me”

“Fahad”

“Okay, tighten your seatbelt to an emotional roller coaster that is only going down.”

She pretends to have done it and sat right in front of me.

“And then there is life; it is all futile, whatever we do it is all like the gyroscopic effect. It seems like to all our doings in life, there is a gyroscopic effect. We tilt and bend ourselves to achieve something, to gain someone and then something so natural happens, that it creates a gyroscopic couple and the moment you stop bending, the effect gets back at you; and you’re nowhere but square one; desperately searching for a way out of the debris of a tower you once wore pride of. It is just stupid; no matter what you do; it seems like you’ll be pulled back to your square one.”

“No, I don’t second that; if life already had a plan. I am sure it wouldn’t get to a person like you.”

“Like me? Am I really that bad?”

“No. really that beautiful. Now, I am not talking about how you look or anything, ugly. I am talking about what you really are, and somebody must be really stupid to not see that. And then the funny part; sometimes it does seem you are the male version of me with a lot of philosophy, I suppose.”

“Okay, that is one good way of convincing me.” I continued, “There are different types of people, categorized on different criteria. If it were about receiving compliments, I’d divide them in two. One- who sportily receive it. Two- the ones who don’t know how to receive them. But there are moments when things you don’t believe in turn into things you start believing in.” I looked up in that moment and she hadn’t flinched even once as she stood there smiling. “I stumble across you, as pure a soul I could encounter, your beauty isn’t just a pretty face, a melodious voice or a perfect smile, it is what you hold within. Little do you know, your aura is Elysium on Earth? If there were words to describe you, I would lay them all down in front of you. But, for the failure of my words and the limitations of my dialect, I will have to settle for my thoughts that only exist in my head. Only recently, when I was amused by how similar we are, did you help me realize that I’ve been carved off a beautiful soul and what disrespect would it be to not believe in myself.”

“We often believe Gods and Goddesses made us of their spitting image, I am sure you were made in the image of a beautiful Goddess.”

She stood there staring deep into my soul, exclaimed after a moment of silence, “You stand corrected, the Goddess was made in the image of a beautiful me.”

2:05

And for the first time, I was glad that time wasn’t passing by. In this moment time didn’t seem like a variable, it felt like a constant. Not constantly changing but constantly complying with my needs, I felt indefinite and inhuman. Not in a bad way though, it just felt as though, I was the time keeper, the creepy guy from Alice through the Looking Glass, yes.

It felt as if I had decided not to sail through the waves of time and just stand still, enjoy the beauty of now, the present that was given to us, meant to cherish. And for certain the world seemed like a Disney movie.

“I hate being a romantic. On nights like this I start a small fire in the intimate living room. Spread out the blankets and watch the flames dance as they ward of the silent ice cold evening. The romantic in me wishes you were here. The optimist in me knows you'll arrive soon. The pessimist in me thinks I should pour a bucket of water over these logs. The realist in me knows that I still don't have anyone to share the now, roaring warming flames that are selling the fireplace with. But the romantic in me pushes on. I hate being a romantic. I have thought of how I'll fly the Arabian nights on a magic carpet with you and I know magic carpets don't exist. But, for you I would steal Einstein's knowledge to build some kind of levitation device and I would implant it in one of my mother’s Persian rugs and we circle the world, twice. No, thrice because once isn't enough time for us to spend together. I want to take you out for dinner; I'll even wear a bow tie and arrive at your door step with a box of chocolates and red wine. The romantic in me can't be satisfied until you're satisfied. So, at the risk of sounding vulgar, I'll make you the main course because you can't be a gentleman until you carry on eating after the dessert but that's for after the very date. For the first date I'd take you to the ocean and read converse with the whales and learn their secrets of ancient titanic love. We'll love in the depths of the sea and uncover the mysteries waiting for us, the mysteries of you and me.

I looked at her and continued, “Please let this be a part of your eulogy for me or put this on the tombstone of my grave, I know it’s rather long and absurd but it’s the only mark of me being a writer or maybe the inspiration of becoming one."