N - New

New as in the new year, when I, yet again, am handed an opportunity to better my life, correct the mistakes I made in the last year and do better than I did the last year.

New as in new stationery which I have been getting excited about since forever – the smell of new pencils, the headiness of markers, the freshness of new notebooks to be written on with the crisp nibs of new fountain pens filled with fresh royal blue Chelparkink. All stored carefully in the pencil box/pouch of the year, bought specially for the year. 

New as in new members of my family – new kittens, puppies, bright-eyed and cute, learning the ways of the family and remaking old rules and eating from our plates despite everything (sorry non-animal lovers if you were grossed out). Bringing in new rules of curfew and food.

New as in a new relationship that lets me relive the butterflies of my first love, only in a whole new way. Learn new things, having new fights, doing new things together – looking at myself, my flaws that make me human, with a new pair of eyes.

New as in new books, the smell of new print, new words I learn, new stories, new possibilities, new plots – a world of new waiting for my mind to explore, waiting to enthrall me.

New as in new friends who you get to tell all your stories and embarrass yourself in front of, bond with and learn about – all leading to a point when you cross over from them being just friends and start calling them your own.

New as in a new project with your name all over it – full of potential for you to reach out and grab, to prove your mettle, achieve the ultimate goal of being irreplaceable in a corporate world which revels in being able to replace everyone.

New always means another chance. New always means starting over, starting afresh. New means another shot at getting it right this time over. 

I have decided I love new. 

 

Silent Night - III

Part II

24th December 2013

I brushed away the annoying wisps of hair from my face as I squinted in concentration - the tails of the white shirt that I was wearing fluttered in the wind as my pale legs shivered in the cold and my fingers flew over the keyboard as I churned out another scene for my protagonists.

I was sitting on the white patio, overlooking the solid-looking mountain on the backdrop of the clear blue skies. Wispy looking clouds scuttled by and the occasional eagle soared high – peaceful and silent, the place fostered the writing bug in me and stoked the fire high, to fill pages and pages with scribbled words, beautiful words.

It had been a year since I sat on the floor of the bridal suite, a year which had seen me change completely as a person – so much so, nobody from my past even recognized the person I was now.

That random girl you see in the café with messy hair, book in hand, absently sipping on hot chocolate? That is me. That is the me who took a long hard look at the life she was living and was shocked to realize that she had been making the very same mistakes that she had once vowed not to. 

I had relegated loved ones to a prison in my heart, not allowing myself to love, not letting myself feel their love. I had blamed the walls I had built around myself on my past but as I read Justin’s letter, I realized that I had become the opposite of who I really was – a dour businesswoman who cared more about what I did than who I did it with.

When realization dawned, I made an instant decision, I called my manager and transferred power of attorney of my company to him. He was shocked, he called it a whim, a result of the recent heart-break I had faced, but I managed to talk him into it – I still thank God mentally for giving me the sense to hire Sohail for today, I’d be truly lost without him.

As to what I wanted to do after relinquishing the power that had gone to my head and changed me, I sat back in my bean bag and let the tiny flicker of a lost childhood dream play hide and seek with my thoughts – I wanted to write.

As a child, I’d spent hours stitching together the right words to frame the perfect sentences that told stories that came to me as I wrote. I’d won every competition in sight because what I wrote was far beyond my age and that was what made people take notice and scared me at the same time.

One day, my stepfather found and read one of my stories and whispered in my ear, “You want to write, eh? I can’t wait to see you try and fail so hard that you will forget every word you know. You'll always be a failure, I hope you know that” sniggered and walked away. The child in me was so traumatized by such a small incident; the fragile self-esteem broke once again in his hands and I never tried to write again.

And that is exactly what I decided to do to show the ghosts of my past that I was still the same person. After I amended the mistakes I’d made, found a quiet cottage in Siliguri that was picture perfect and settled down, I wrote again.

Now, I was telling my own story. I was penning down my first book and what started as yet another romance novel, found me drawing deeply from my own story, catharsis in a way, brilliant semi-fiction material in another way – it was all I could do to not rub my palms in glee when I realized my own life was so dramatic, it would make a great story.

I was almost done, all I needed was a fitting climax to the fine filigree of emotions that I’d managed to weave into the black words that showed up in contrast on the stark white Word doc.

With the annoying wisps of hair out of my face, I tapped a finger absently on the mousepad as my mind worked furiously – where was I going, how did my story end?

That was when I heard him sneak up behind me before he could say ‘boo’, spoiling his plans to startle me. I looked up at his smiling face, a good morning if there ever was one, I thought. 

To be continued...