He had once told me that happiness is a task. An uphill climb. Like hoping against hope. Its an achievement often, and not always desirable. That sadist hero! He had let his hair flop on his forehead and swept it away, and told me that misery can be a uniting factor.
People drift apart when they are happy. Everyone is scared to share happiness with others who are miserable. And they are miserable, you can be sure of that.
I dont agree, you know. We can be happy together. I mean people.
Are they anymore? I mean people.
Why explain. Why delay. Don’t go away. Simply call it a day.
I hadn’t said anything in protest. But misery isn’t the objective. Neither is despair. We live in Kashmir, or somewhere where Kashmir is always present. We live in doubt.
Now both are quiet, and he is to leave. He always does.
We are scared of familiarity in Kashmir. The warmth is all for strangers. I leave it at that.
As you leave I can say. Love was King. But for only a day.
In doubt I reminisce about this idea. Is despair the center of our life now or is doubt? It is the center of our relation, of course. That’s how relations with strangers are, full of doubt. Is the blankness of the future, burnishing us now. Our minds and hearts?
Its a warm, regrettably sunny February. His hair is glinting auburn, like autumn air. Its a colourful day, draining the winters and almost spring. He looks at me and then looks away.
Pleading moments we knew. I will set them apart. Every word, every sigh. Will be burned in my heart.