Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.


The post below is why I put this up.

Henry

Does anyone know what to write about before the writing's done? For the past two weeks, I have over magnificent hills and gazed at depth less gorges, at gurgling streams of frothy white water and stood transfixed at rivers plunging to great depths over green mossy mountains. I have feigned sorrow at great rusted barely standing gates, once lovingly engraved, now mossy, solitary watchers in the midst of a lush field...roads, half paved, that branch off the highway, only to lead nowhere. Signs that proclaim the existence of non-existent stadia and schools round the bend.
I have tried to get moved by the passing of a legend or the sad proclamation of a student protester as he left home perhaps never to return.

I guess I can't escape being selfish; as most of us. If there is a forced, self important tone ingrained in here, pay it no heed. Do not rebuke the writer on account of that. Rise above me.
Let his name be Henry. He was my friend. And so much more. My laughter. My jealousies...my joy. I was his refuge. His brother. Everything that had seemed important enough to argue about seems insipid now. Insignificant little bits fly about in the face of that torment which announces daily of the rift, the loss of the person.
Henry had a friend. Henry loved that friend. I liked the friend and frequently argued with Henry...over little things about her and him. I thought we were stronger.
Now Henry's bond grows stronger with the friend and I look at them from the edge of the road. Henry cuddled up to me. Henry is cold over the phone.
Henry is not sure if he'll want to spend time with me henceforth. I miss him. Not him. I miss us. I never had a friend as he. Will I again?
I am not sure how I'll react if he stops all interaction. One thing is for certain. I will not blame him. And I hope I'll reach a day when I won't blame me.
I am lonely now. Loneliness has lost its appeal because of Henry. Henry told me today that they had grown closer. Henry told me today us getting close as before wasn't possible.

At the risk of sounding pathetic,I say this, "I loved you Henry."

Realize

It has been a day of realizations. And an unexpectedly irritating Sunday.

Was watching cartoons at 8 this morning.The mystery that Scooby and the gang were trying to unravel seemed childish and insipid. I crave childish and insipid. And then, in the midst of Scooby's atrocious Hindi gibber-jabber, I recalled why I loved him. The song, rather, a song, that used to be a part of every episode...I would sit and bear the torture for that one song...How I loved that one song; How I miss it now.


People who don't receive their calls time and again are irritating. Even if they are your best friend. Also very irritating are the "Missed Call" people. Aaargh.

And as I am typing this out, one of the irritating "I never receive my calls" person did receive my call and it turned out he was sleeping...Being drowsy adds this sweetness to his voice and I can't be angry with him.

Had the most awesome day ever yesterday. A Sri-Lankan friend is in town and we went out for lunch, walked and walked and walked and rounded off sipping amazing tea while watching the throng milling in Park Street...He has come down from Bombay( I insist) and has been travelling across India alone for the past month. Atop a bridge off Patna, the sun setting over the Ganges, he said he had wished there were someone by his side; he had wished he were not alone. Melancholy, yes; but also strangely surreal.


As much as I feign empathy for the cyclone victims, deep down I detest donating money. Biting realization.
Friends can be selfish. Rather, people you call your friends can be selfish. My Lankan friends' friends can't spare an afternoon to see him. And to think the only reason for his being in Calcutta is to meet them...



I find blogging difficult nowadays; signs of advanced age, they tell me.