Life Is What You Make It by Preeti Shenoy

Author:Preeti Shenoy
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Romance, General, Fiction
ISBN: 9789384030629
Publisher: Westland
Published: 2014-09-04T18:30:00+00:00

13

A stop gap relationship

Writing to Suvi, seemed to have awakened in me another kind of monster—that of writing. The amount of relief and satisfaction I felt after writing to her, had succeeded in giving me a feeling of re-assurance. It had helped me in keeping Abhi's memories alive. I could not write to Vaibhav about Abhi as I had never mentioned Abhi to him. I toyed with the idea of telling him everything starting from the beginning. Then when I thought about it, I felt he would never understand. So I wrote instead about my course, my college, my life in Bombay and my new found love for running. I also wrote about the colour coded way of remembering notes that I had discovered. I wrote in detail about the cultural festival but I left out the part where I had danced on the parapet. When I had finished, the letter ran to about 16 pages. I was satisfied and thought it would be a nice surprise for Vaibhav. I decorated the sides of the letters with hearts and tiny drawings. Then I added a few stickers too, left over from what I had used on the photocopies of the notes that I had distributed in college.

I was filled with a sense of impatience and urgency, like never before. Everything that I was doing had an impelling sense of having to be done immediately. I could not comprehend the reason for this, but if I wanted something I needed it immediately. It was now, now and now all the way that dominated my entire psyche and which kept me going, like a speeding train.

I was filled with so much of energy that I did not know what to do with it. Running around on my morning jogs, studying, devouring books, making huge amounts of detailed notes—I continued doing all of it with a burning frenzy. Nothing helped to expend it. My reserve was endless.

On many days I did not sleep at all. Thoughts raced around in my head like a colony of busy ants which had found a pile of food. I was filled with an almost coercive need to capture these thoughts somewhere. I bought a notebook and began writing in it. They were mostly poems. Wo rds flowed like never before. I filled page after page with poetry about various things. On the left side of the book, I made drawings to go with them. I would sit up night after night, writing poetry. I would write about ordinary things, I would write about fantasy, about love and longing, about angst, about smells and sounds, I would write about the rains in Bombay—in short, I would write about anything that caught my fancy. I would use clever puns and rhymes. Sometimes the poems wouldn't rhyme at all but they would capture the essence of what I was trying to say. I would manipulate words and come up with what I thought were brilliant analogies. I thought my poetry was beautiful, sensitive and clever.

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