DELHI DIARY (Part I)

                                           DELHI DAIRY (Part I) 

Dear,

In the morning, when I was traveling by the bus to my office, I smiled. It was an eternal smile after a long time. The one-and-half hour journey, which otherwise is always boring, became an eye tweak.

                 

You know, how difficult it is to travel by the bus in Delhi. All kinds of people travel with you. There are those good people. Besides, there are others who, as it seems, hardly bath for months. No doubt, there is water scarcity in Delhi, but it can take only a bottle of water to wipe out the dirt from the face and the nostrils, which wraps these men while doing meticulous jobs.

But, I will tell you the truth that it does not bother me. Men are after all humans, in the bungalows or in makeshift tents.

However, the thing that terrifies me most is the overloaded government buses. If you do not get a seat, the chances are you will be roasted. Sometimes, I also fear to wear white . 

In addition, the bad smell of Gutka-Pan, which is the darling of these people, will suffocate you. And you will wonder, sometimes, ahh!... if  I was a butterfly and living in the virgin woods to never see the face of mankind.  

Now coming back to you. It is not only the first time that you came in my thoughts and I smiled. Earlier too, you used to come. But, this moment was different, because the smile did not brought any tears with it, which otherwise is a routine for me. I can not count how many times you made me to cry while smiling.

You know, time never comes back and the moments which we spent together is also a tale of bygone days. But, sometimes, I yearn for that silly childish you, despite knowing that you are a mature being now , and have left away all worldly comforts. For love is the world’s greatest comfort.

I am sure you will never talk to me or read my letter to you, for I know your delicacy. But, I have no option other than to jot down myself. May be someone, if not you, will read it and draw the lessons of life, of trust, and of truthfulness.  

May be you will say, what thing made me to smile in the otherwise congested bus, where there was no reason to smile other than to wrap ones nose with the handkerchief, because the other guys sitting were smelling very bad, and surely they had not relieved themselves in the morning, and were now finding a good time to vent their anger in the already suffocated bus.

I will answer your question in detail. But, let me just open myself, after all, it has been years that we have not talked. My pen never wanted to write about you, because there was no reason to write you. I know it is a useless effort. What is the fun of jotting down the words for those who will never give a damn to it. 

I had once given you a book for reading, but, later, I came to know that you have given it to someone else. How can I be assured that my writing for you will remain with you in that almirah whose keys always remain glued to you. If you will throw the writing in the dumper bin, how could I pacify myself. You don’t know how much pains it takes to write, and that too when you write delicately for someone who has always remained closed to your heart.

If it may not sound silly to you, I have become a book myself of the tragedies you inflicted upon this not-so-lucky soul. For depriving someone of the love is the biggest tragedy. These Shikwe-Shikayat is useless for you, because you are mature and a grown-up damsel, who  does not pay heed to these things.

Coming back to bus Journey.

....Contd...