missed call

what happens...

to the stories scribbled in the margins of the notebook

to the cardamom pods

to the thoughts which never took shape

to your hair on his shirt

to the footprints left behind

to the statements which didn’t get framed for the lack of right words

to the parts in history conveniently omitted

to the stains of last bit of the hot chocolate milk in the glass

to the tears that end on the face

to the images in the head which could never be depicted on canvas

to the uncompleted line

to the song paused in between

to those who come second and thereafters

to the choices never made

to the telecaller/salesman selling lies which you never entertained beyond the customary hello

to the mail in the drafts option and was later shift+deleted

to the conversations overheard

to the tea leaf from an earl grey cuppa

to the jotted pointers on post-its

to the small talks

to the characters in the play post curtains

to the erased words

to the stranger who helped you when it mattered and left even without a thank you

to the word doc which was not even renamed

to the moments which escapes memory

to the amorphous patterns you see in your dreams

to the colors that fade away

to the hints which were never picked and hence never evolved


to the face that stood out in crowd

to the lingering aftertaste of cocoa

to the interviews/tests you never cleared

to the digits truncated because of rounding up

to the shadows after the sun sets, to the sun

to the defeat where you never tried enough to win

to the censored parts from the movies/auto.biographies

to the originals with more popular aliases and a.k.a (s)

to the dreams which all are a size too small for the real world

to the doors never knocked

to the plan b(s) not acted upon

to the moment which the photograph cant capture

to people who said no in not too many words and then who said it in no words at all

to the point of view never viewed upon

to the outfits tried but never bought

to the old man talking to his daughter over the phone sitting next to you in the bus

to the emotions not conveyed through the wire

to the unfinished cigarette stub

to the beautiful road you on because of the wrong turn you took

to the rain in my purse

to the life you ever wished for but never lived

to not the merely unspoken but the unspeakable bit

...like foucault said, we need to look in the most unpromising places, in what we tend to feel is without history - in sentiments, love, conscience, instincts

"to absent friends, lost loves, old gods and the seasons of mists"

- season of mists|neil gaiman