the anniversary threads have started everywhere; edits, gifs, vms, write ups pouring in.
now why can't i say thread without my mind flying to a dori. gosh. don't tell me he's going to rip that thing... but he has...
and rat a tatta a tat. the little beads... no, they're pearls... they scatter. i hear them in my head. her eyes are shocked, then terrified, then...
he stares at her, the darkness in his eyes, the darkness all about him, the sheer lightlessness of him. surely he is not the hero of this show...
she whimpers, turning away, but then she pulls at another thread. it's a shiny one. a gota ribbon wrapped around her long plait; and her hair cascades, covering her back, she turns and looks at the man. a story begins in her eyes.
a thousand times they've done this before my eyes. a zillion times in my head and heart... my dil and dimaag, and perhaps in my toes and fingers and ears and nose too, certainly in my throat.
and now he's standing in his office with a fixed stare. what's that shining thing on the desk?
and she's picked up a broom, a jhadoo, and dancing with it.
who's that woman the man can't walk away from. why does she limp?
why's the girl so thin and vulnerable looking? and really, what's with the tight churidar and crooked plait... and mojris.
wait. is that a goat walking about in the house?
how did that man and the girl reach the cliff, and did she just grab his hand and laugh? did he look at her in a sliding sideways glance. did he smile? no, he couldn't have.
now they're by a poolside. she's falling. but he never lets her. why are my toes curling?
a sweet looking man saves the girl. yes, he must be the hero.
no, he isn't.
the man in a suit is sitting in a cafe trying hard not to laugh. the girl in the turquoise blue churidar is tearing a packet of biscuits with her... teeth. she's affronted by all the hard work they make you do to get a cup of tea.
he's lifting her up in his arms, but she has just pushed him, and pushed him again, and told him exactly why he is a terrible terrible man.
he is that.
he has done some trick and is wearing a black waistcoat and shirt now, as the spot light picks him up. she's in a flowing green chiffon, her hair hanging straight to her hips, and i don't really care if it's a switch. my stomach is tumbling most alarmingly as he floats up to her, something in his eyes. why, oh why do they use slomo so well, my brain is trying to think... resist this whole thing. but i know, there's no point trying. no point.
she's in a red red chiffon now. and he has stopped dead in his tracks. he wants to tell her she is nothing, he is in command. but why is that song rising and distracting him so.
what is my name, he has asked her with a mean superior look, he's going to give her hell. have you forgotten, she wonders...
welcome to hell. no, this man cannot be a good guy.
she's giggling as a ring tone goes off. no, she is not such a good girl.
she is saying sorry, holding her ears. a feeling is rushing through his eyes.
it's sunday. she is falling on an orange beanbag in the middle of a store room, he's flying, trying to catch a little idol.
the dupatta flies and covers his face. and lingers... and passes gently.
he's telling her she looks like a delhi auto rikshaw.
he's telling her... get out. he's yelling, shut up. he's thundering how dare you. she's asking him if he's bought all the daring.
she's flung hot tea on him. he sits there, his chest red, his face still.
they're talking by the window. about stars. how did they even get here?
she's running to him in a hospital. he's screaming into the night.
she's walking backward by the poolside, he looks mesmerised, as he walks toward her. his hands come slowly up and land on her cheeks, his thumb strokes her skin. large brown hands, so so gentle. her lips tremble.
why are there goosebumps crawling up my shin even as i write this?
he's standing at a terrace door, the light is slowly going out in his eyes. he's dragging her up the temple steps. she is looking at him, her eyes helpless. the bells clang, the winds howl.
top shot. he's standing on a paved floor, looking up. shades one. the pigeons fly. she watches him.
she's tied her hair in a loose knot, and she is cooking outdoors. he walks up a verandah, a smile on his face. she is in orange. he in brown.
she thinks the room belongs to the goat. she has just told om parakash ji aka op that they were playing blind man's bluff.
they're fighting on a terrace. he is hugging his girlfriend, and a tear slips out of her eye. she's telling him she couldn't put orange juice in his shoes, because it wasn't available. his lips are lifting in a strange way. he's smiling. at her. yes, he is.
he's just said hi to her. he's told her he wants to talk to her. he's holding her dupatta, and reeling her in. she's doing a mudra, he's staring. she's thrown him onto her bed and covered him with her quilt. her aunt thinks it's her sister. she's asking her aunt, after doing all this you'll go to sleep, won't you.
he's told his cousin he'll help him crack this... deal.
she's told him she's going away. to lucknow. forever. hamesha.
she's sitting in his cupboard.
she's walking down a ramp in green and gold. he opens his eyes. he sees her for the first time.
she closes her eyes. hey devi maiyya, protect her.
she's whirling away, tripping, falling.
she's opened the door, dressed in gaudy saree and gold. he's right in front of her. a woman in gaudy gold behind. in pink shades.
it's raining. he's come out of nowhere and caught her. she clings to him. he walks out in the rain. i am right. i am not wrong. he doesn't care about her or any girl... koi faraq nahin padta.
she's drawing him close, he's rolling over and his body covers her. she's in jet black and they lie upon a white sheet.
a pink lehriya dupatta flies up and touches his face. he's looking at her... that helpless thing in his eyes.
she's walking slowly down the path, hum theek nahin hai, she says to herself. she's not okay.
fairylights glimmer, wrapped around a thin girl in green. brown hands extricate strands caught in her pompoms.
i am walking toward sheeshmahal. the flutter of pigeon's wings. there are memories in every pillar and arch, every withering wall and moss covered stone. and a mystery. a mystery that will perhaps never be solved. i gather the pearls, slowly, one at a time, and look at them closely.
the pigeons fly out reach for the skies.
a very happy anniversary to all of you.
i made this vm a while ago, in a fit of, what else, missing ipk. hope you enjoy. here's to hamesha.
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