Nidhi Katoch blog

  Dear Aman,  I lit up the lamp on my bedside and tried to read a few lines of the letters written by you. Funny, how my life has now been confined to these four walls, where the only sound I can hear is either the page flap or the sound of my own heartbeat. Heartbeats I usually ignore; they don't seem necessary anymore. Everyone in their lives has felt that their heart beats for no one, or no one is there for whom these beats are important. Once, these beats were so important to us, falling for your first crush, listening to some cool band, pranking your best friend, winning a school race, running in a marathon. Seeing myself, it's so hard to believe I once ran a marathon for fun; again, the beats don't matter anymore.  Each day I feel like the walls are talking to me, they weep through their peeling. I once coloured these walls pink for the sake of my love for flowers and balloons, and pasted the paintings I drew, paintings of flowers and seasons. Now my colours are all...

 The day you left, I travelled alone at night for the first time in my life. I saw the moon floating from the car window. The mist in my eyes, half a can of soft drink, and the cigarette reached to my lips. My hands were shaking while I tried to light the cigarette. My head started to feel relaxed, my shoulders loosened, and my body felt lighter. Along with the rising smoke, I closed my eyes.  I'm standing outside the old, trodden house, which was once home but is now just a building. The only person who seems to be happy to see me is the caretaker. Funny! Those who were supposed to be satisfied have closed the doors of their hearts a long time ago. Happiness is temporary, so subjective; we can't really be happy for others, we always listen and believe whatever suits our thinking. Our idea of truth is only ours. My truth can never be your truth. Is there any space where this word happiness truly exists? For societal validation, is this idea of so-called sacrifice essential? Es...

After scrolling the damned phone, I stared at the roof. The fan needed to be cleaned up. It was again the same day, same night, I was again in the same black and white dress. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw the blood stains. When I tried to clean the mirror, the stains were on my dress. The stains started to take human form and come out of my dress. I could not see the face, but it gave me its hand. Holding the hand took me to the river and snow, under the shivering sun. My cold and dry hands. I wanted to understand why, despite holding hands, they are so cold. I think death is always cold, even in scorching heat; it feels cold.  My hair frozen, my lips parched, I blurted a name, but my voice deceived me; there was no sound, only a white sheet in front of my eyes. The hand started to grip my shoulders, weighing them down. If Blue is the colour of sadness, then why aren't the blue skies?  The words, the words, again the same words. When will they stop echoing in my ear...

 I clicked your picture by those wild roses, pink little roses, a vine that covered all our windows. How much I insisted on chopping that off, but you changed the topic every time. Maybe those roses reminded you of your wild days, carefree running by the river, moving freely in the forests, or perhaps they brought the memories of the man holding your hand, carrying the rifle, who protected you. Perhaps!  You picked up your glasses and started reading another Vikram Betaal story. Your feet used to move delicately all over the place, and your hand movements were graceful. You were humming some song from the forest. I jokingly used to call you Katha kahe, so Kathak . Your laughter filled the whole room. The grave inside the bottle stared at me. Why would anyone keep this kind of thing in the bedroom? I used to wonder. But now I understand. You were abandoned, betrayed by your own at a delicate age, then the person holding your hands was taken away by destiny, the little one died...

I was near the place where I was supposed to spend the night, under the wooden roof covered with snow. I picked up the snow in my hand and threw it into the air, in a fake hope that it would reach to someone, I was missing the most. But alas! Deads don't care about the snow or sun. One might find it funny how these places are abandoned by the locals and the void they left in their homes is filled by the tourists or some mad wanderers like me. One old couple offered me a lift, to that place, as they lived nearby and they were worried I might catch a cold, since I don't belong there. As I refused it, I opened my phone camera to see do I looked like I belonged to some other place. Funny! I put on my headphones and started humming some old tunes. Old tunes have familiarity, they have comfort, and we know what the next verse is. I sat on the old bench, which was still wet and cold. My pale naked fingers, black nails looked pretty on white snow. No, I don't think this way. I was ...

 Dear Aman, I'm writing to you and it's again 3 in the morning or the night. Aman, did you pick up your paintbrushes last night? Why? Because it snowed here. I witnessed the snowfall again on this hill. When the people wake up they will again carry on with their day thinking that it won't snow here anymore. It does, but they are mostly not awake. I saw the fox passing by, it stood for a while to look at me but I think I wasn't of any interest to it. It is always late at night when one sees miracles of nature. Well, when it comes to me I'm always outdoors, you know it right? A house, bamboo, and tea garden in front of that orphaned house. Do you still live there? Why do we have so much attachment to things, places or people? Look at me, so far away, still thinking about you. I tried to detangle the bunch of rice lights but in vain. There's a knock at the door, maybe from a friend. He will change the date of the calendar and then will move to the kitchen. I know o...

 I tossed the books, and made space for myself in my bed, Thinking I’ll clear this mess the next day, knowing very well, that I won't do it. I picked up my phone, a few texts from my friend about what was I up to and that I needed to call him back. I opened the list of things I need to buy for the week. Scrolling through the phone mindlessly, wasting a few hours, and then throwing it on the bed. I stared at the ceiling and tossed myself toward the window, the curtain had slightly moved toward the left, giving the path to moonlight to enter the room. Again that time of night when it becomes difficult to ignore my emotions.  For once I wanted them to see the world through my eyes, for once if they would have understood me. For once. A distorted figure. Blood and Tears.  Ashes and smoke. Charred bones. My letters. That nauseous, suffocating smell. Blood and Tears. It felt like the walls were coming closer and closer, soon these walls would merge with the Window. The blue cur...

I was standing in front of the gate, for a moment I saw you smiling but soon you faded. I’m still carrying your photograph in my wallet, only to keep reminding myself how you used to look before going to that damn place only to never come back. I walked for a while in the compound before settling myself on a covered diwan of verandah. I was about to lighten the cigarette, but the thought that you would have hated it held me back. Why was I still waiting for you to open the kitchen door? I could hear your voice in my head. The lilies have grown all over the place with dandelions. I looked at the sky, the sky is always so blue here, I watched clouds moving, covering the sun. My heart is also clouded, whether to take a step ahead or stay on the path, is this place should I settle? Why is it necessary for me to settle when you were here, I never used to give a thought about it. What did you get by settling here, in this house, surrounded by tea gardens? Maybe peace. Whenever I used to ask ...

I touched the tattoo on my chest, your initials which I tattooed after you were gone, to feel your presence in me. But somehow it feels hollow now.  If you ever had known about it you would have been so mad. I looked at the dead plant, I again forgot to keep the pot in sunlight. Am I also avoiding the sunlight, since when had I started to romanticize night? Blurred images of needles…smoke…drips…doctors… chants…cries…broken pens…and that damn colour blue… I lay my legs dangling off the bed and stared at the ceiling fan, I could see my reflection on the fan. Today this tattoo was catching my attention again and again, it had been there for a while now. Why was I trying to feel it now? I needed to bring more paint, don't know what had come over me to paint this room again. The color pink… The phone rang again, how many times I have told them to leave me alone? I turned the silent mode on. Throwing it away I picked up the book lying beside me. Words were also not making sense. A sudden...

When we were sleeping under the stars, lying over the grass on the hill from where fireflies rise, you asked me whether I would return during winter and if I Loved the people who loved me. I found my voice choked. Aman, I hated you so much for asking me these questions at that moment. I just kept staring at the sky without saying a word, pretending I was lost in my thoughts.  You called after the first snowfall of that year, and although you didn't say a thing, I could hear the contempt in your voice. You wanted me to be there, but the snow settled in the corner of my heart, which hadn't melted. Aman, when you laughed while watching the sitcom, and I couldn't even smile, I was so jealous. The whole night we watched the sitcom, you laughed, smiled and kept stealing glances at me while I just stared at the screen. I still feel those ashes in my hand; sometimes, I touch the pages folded by you in my books just to feel like holding your hand. People still ask about you here, bu...

I woke up in the morning feeling heavy on my chest, heavy with all my emotions. I remembered your last words. When I removed the curtains from the window, I saw the new day. But for me, time had stopped long ago. I got a call from a friend—a friend whom I left at half-eaten dinner last night. I picked up the call and promised to meet him again tonight.  I lay down on the bed again. Thinking about what life has become after you’d left. I felt your hand on my shoulder, asking whether I wanted tea or coffee. I replied, “Whatever you are having.”, with a bit of surprise. I saw your body moving swiftly with the music. I didn't remember when I turned on the music. I don't even know when I last heard this old '70s music. I have always thought of you as music. When you left, the music from my soul took its leave forever. I saw my old wooden book rack, which you’d built for me. Mirror on the wall, an old date on the calendar. I've forgotten to change the date again. I promise my...

The last time I saw his face was at the end of June. His questioning eyes were filled with loneliness. I tried to reason that shutting the doors would never help his hauntings. The smoke from the cigarette lit in his fingers filled the room. I walked toward the window to open its panes. I don't know for how long this window had been kept closed. There was a peepal that had grown over it. With some difficulty, when I finally opened the window, it felt like I'd set someone free. When I looked back, it was only me who felt this way. Opening the window symbolises him, memories of his love flying to the far place.  They say eyes never lie, but sometimes people just learn to hide the truth from their eyes. But I knew he was pretending. He offered me coffee, and when I nodded yes, he went to the kitchen to make one. I don't know why I always go to meet him. Maybe I'm also another loser hopelessly in love, trying to pacify my pain by looking at his pain, which seems much bigger...

I stared at the half-finished coffee; the mug had my lipstick stains on it. At first, I had the urge to remove them with tissue, but I didn't know what made me stop.  I sat on the verandah to watch the rain fall. A little kitten came and curled up on my lap. Earlier, when you were here, I was just another person for it. But now it also tries to find you in the sound of rain, in the droplets, in the petrichor. We both listened to the rain falling on the slate roof and slid down with heavy downpours. We had never bonded before, but now this kitten never leaves me alone whenever I'm at this place. How peacefully it was sleeping on my lap!  I had no idea how I would be able to leave it alone here. But this kitten is made for the wild. Whenever it misses you, it sits by your door and leaves. You can't cage a wild bird like I couldn't cage you forever. Even the mental pictures are blurred. You know it had been a long time since I had sung a song. I started to hum with the rai...

Last night, when I heard the rain my mind raced back to the times when rain only meant binge-watching Byomkesh Bakshi. I turned on the heater, the orange hue filled the room. Wish I could turn the blue into orange or pink or red or any bright colour but blue. I saw sitting you over the window, in a yellow dress, laughing over some silly joke, trying to tie up your waist-long hair. When I approached, you were not there. You flew out of the window. You were the child of the Ganges, like a river you all always flowed through every thick and thin. For how long I'll have to think about you. They say I need to settle myself down. Settle but where? What is meant by settling down? If you’d been here, I would have asked you.  Your friend called again. Sometimes I feel she tries to find you in me. We ended up crying together. They may care, maybe not. I do wish badly to start trusting the world again. I'm still figuring out with whom I'm angry. Now every call drains me, I'm afrai...