স্বর্গের দেবতা...নাকি হাত বাড়ালেই বন্ধু... :)

At times I think I shall stop writing about my dreams. Stop writing about anything for that matter, how I feel, what is going on in my mind...become that edgy zombie who just gives furtive glances in the hope that somebody thinks she is alive after all, and then, being let down, closes her eyes in pain.

I looked so pretty today, that amid 24*7 work that organizing an international conference generally means, when I hurriedly stepped into the rest room just to tie up my hair, I kind of gasped at my reflection. And there's supposed to be no joy in my life. Lot of stress, yes, but no happiness whatsoever. Mom's not well, the maid has burnt her hand, and my picnic trip had to be cancelled because of the reasons mentioned above. At night, after a long and tiring day, I just look on blankly at the UB Reader, mostly with burning eyes, and hardly manage to read a few pages before I fall asleep.

Then what keeps me alive, what makes me look beautiful? Just the curious dreams, like the one which I had this morning. I don't know what work I do, it is a complex with a lot of buildings having dome shaped ceilings. A very rich place, I guess, and a high security one over that, because a lady (who seems to be in the support function) sends a security guard on an errand, and is amply scolded by some senior staff - "you have any idea how much we pay those guards? They should never be sent away"... Well, amid this setting, I seem to be the only idle person, apart from the gentleman who sits with me. We sit all day, huddled together, often we doodle on some random exercise book, and chit chat on meaningless things. I get this sudden urge to tell him,  "tu mera hero (you are my hero)"... I create a lot of suspense and say, "now I am going to hide a top secret in my next doodle, and you are not supposed to look...", and then plan on drawing something elaborate, where these words can be hidden. But I catch him looking on, and stop midway and scratch up what I have written so far. He gets to know I am angry and tries to seriously close his eyes. But my courage is all gone, I just write his name this time. I nudge him to open his eyes, and he throws up his hands in exasperation. That's just my name!...he exclaims. I keep blushing...

I wrote something like this the other day, as a message to my university seniors, whose smoking habit makes me sick to my stomach... " Dear inconsiderate smoker, I was born a non smoker and so were you. It is a matter of choice that you started smoking subsequently. Don't blame it on the regular stress that life subjects you to...or for that matter your addiction that you can't overcome. I accept it as your choice that you can't give up on this habit. But at the same time you should also accept that smoking in public is prohibited in India. I SHOULD NOT be subjected to the stale air you breathe out. I respect your right to smoke. You should also respect my right not to passive-smoke. "

I was sighing to myself, to think, she is head over heels in love with an apparently non existent person who used to be a chain smoker when she knew him.

I told you I must stop writing. Life has become illogical. This can't be written about, this is utter madness. But please, before I die, can I just have one more walk with him? Holding hands, all wrapped up in colorful woollens, just as dusk sets in? Please God, just do this much for me, life would then not be such a terrible, pathetic waste...