They call me a madman, a lunatic, unfit, unstable and unpredictable, and I guess they’re right. But those memories drift away like smog that eventually clears, but one stays, and as romantic and idealistic as they think it is, or even if it’s just a memory of a memory: a Sepia photograph – slightly surreal – of what was once lucid color, I don’t care, because it stays, and even with age and time, if my mind whitens, it’ll fight the bleach of forgetfulness and remain, and it’s you literally waltzing up to me, the rain pelting the two of us, and the sky brightened now and then by a strike of lighting, which providence allowed us to dodge with impunity, and the moon standing still despite the chaos, the rumble and the natural, raw drill. And you leaping into my arms, despite the rustle and the snap, the crack of branches and the distant car light, making its way through each winding curve, turning and twisting, shifting and slurring, while I twirled you elegantly and then held you, as you tiptoed, outside the motel with its slight gaudiness, but weather, wither and ‘whether’ didn’t touch us that night, did it darling? Because though you’re miles away and we’re no longer in touch, I can’t help but smile at the glint within the shade, the calm within the storm, and the love within nature’s agony, at the slight touch and then hold of your soaked hair, at everything without blanking out, and everything within beating faster when I kissed you in the moonlight on that stormy night.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)