Nidhi Katoch blog

 Dear Aman,  As I picked up the pen last night, to write another letter to you, I started to wonder if you ever read these or not. The last time when I met you were trying to remove the mole on your cheek. You were so adamant about erasing the memories. I tried my best to make you realize that you can't run away from yourself.  I've seen it, dead do breathe. They might not respond, but when they are covered up in sheets, one can sense they're breathing. Well, death has life. I know it doesn't make sense to you. But it has. It is bound to come to everyone like the different people who come to us at different phases of our lives. It might have emotions too. Acceptance is the hardest thing one can ever do. But when it does, peace comes along with it.  Everyone is living with guilt. Even I'm. Sometimes I feel guilty about sensing the insecurities of people and weaving stories around them. I know our times under the shades of pines are over. And we both have zero hope of

Death has a smell, a weird smell, which keeps you following wherever you go. When I opened the doors of that house, it felt like time hadn't moved a bit here. Except there's the skeleton of a rat and a spider's web. The good old neighbour came to ask if I needed anything. I politely smiled and asked her to sit with me for a while. It was an attempt to make my house smile, our chitchat. She and her lovely son always ring me to ask how I am doing. There's a thing: in villages or small towns, people may be nosey but some of them genuinely care. I was asking about everything and behaved like the same old person, which once I was. I opened the shoe rack, and my boots fell. Her eyes fell on them. She asked me about the last time I went on the ride. 'It's been a while.' She started to reminisce about the crazy adventures her son and I used to go on. How much our coming home late used to annoy them all? Now, there's no one to annoy, no one to scold, no one to te

So finally, after so many months, I again picked up my guitar. I always have had a love-hate relationship with music. It's probably because I sing for a few people. I can hear your interpretation in every song. I heard your voice, sweet and lovely, a faint folk tune. I'm afraid I'm losing touch. Who cares anyway?  My fingers unconsciously started to play a folk tune you used to sing more often. Your life among the woods, stories you used to intricate in your songs. In January days, when time stopped due to winter, our talks were never-ending. I jokingly used to call you a storyteller.  Yesterday your friend called! Her accent had a hint of home. To make her comfortable, I started to talk in pahadi . She was talking about your adventures, your songs and stories, and your first love. I think, I was never the first in your life; that's why you left with your first one. Your romantic nature, despite the toxicity and cruelty around you, still surprises me. You've always