Sunday, March 28, 2010


You are reading this and yet you think I talk to someone else, someone who is not you. Oh why you do that. You make me and yet you break me.

It has been a long long while since you asked me how I am and more importantly how I feel? Stop wondering who I am talking to, it’s you. Oh how you break me.

When was it that we had a hearty conversation, shared a laugh? When was it that the wind blew and found us, our faces, us together? When did the world last saw us as friends? Ofcourse you know where I am and I know where you are. But then we also share that infromation about the Dead Sea. When was it that last that you, we, both of us, knew where mine, our, hearts really were? And your heart still refuses to believe that I am trying to talk to you, that I am talking to you.

When was it that we sent words to each other in the mail (call it email if you want). Oh now you are thinking we did that yesterday but there are other you’s reading this as well. Yes, yes, you. You I am talking to. You, who I wish would talk to me the way humans are supposed to. Its time you stop pretending I am not talking to you.

You called. You didn’t call. You sent a word. You didn’t send a word. You did that. You didn’t do that. If you did, what was it, was the message of that thing human enough? To make me feel I was more, more than just needed for a task. Oh yes please do ask.

We ran together. We walked together. Holding, pulling, and pushing each other on the way. Once we made each other. Once you made me. You still make me. And it’s now that you also break me.

When did we stop walking together? When did we stop being together? When did we stop living each others lives? Oh yes, now you are feeling. Yes, I have been talking you all the while. Now you are feeling the pinch.

Now you talk. Well if I can and if I must so shall you and so you must.

It’s the same questions. Ain’t it? It’s been a long time since I asked how you are. It’s been a long time since I asked how you feel. It is I who breaks you.

Oh the sound of mortality. Oh the sound of goodness gracious guilt. Oh the sound of well-preseved deeply-held forever-felt grudges. Oh my echo. Oh the sound of my questions from your mouth.

I ran with you. I called. I didn’t call. I walked with you. I sent a word. I didn’t send a word. I made you. I still make you and yet I break you.

Oh the echo.

And the walls absorb it. And the walls hold it. And the walls feel it. And the walls ask the questions. And the walls ask how I feel. And the walls ask how you feel. And the walls make us. And the walls let go. And the walls make the echo. And the walls make an echo for the echo.

I ask. You ask. And yet we don’t ask and we don’t listen.

We made each other. We still make each other. And yet we break each other.

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Sukhdev Singh is milking a buffalo when I call him. We are speaking after a long gap. His voice carries the same cheerful energy I remember....