parting....

The clouds were dancing in the sky; too much were the heavens in love with the earth. It was raining. I was returning from college. My stubble was out of proportion, my hair out of shape.I was envious of the freshness that the Gods had sprinkled around; searching for a similar freshness in me.
My hair had become everyone’s worry. Some were too kind to call them nice, while many others were too honest to dislike them. I had to do something about it. I had grown them for ages, I never wanted to part with them. They had become my identity, a reason why I looked at myself into the mirror, a reason I would enjoy my bath. I also liked to believe then that they also represented the careless, wanderer and nomadic artist in me. But that’s what only I believed. Others giggled at the thought.

It was romantic for me to imagine some fingers running through the duck tail I had grown at the back of my head. I always thought that it must make me look sexy. “What a disbelief”, don’t you think?

I landed up at the barbers shop on my way home. Our eyes met. With hair as long as mine he was blushing to have found a custumber to get hair re-bonding treatment(some kind of expensive hair straightening). I did not want to disappoint the loyal friend in him, but the greedy foe in him was too mean for my pocket. As I asked him to cut my hair short, I could see his smile turning upside down. I felt two contrasting emotions at one moment. Guilt and pride.

I sat on the salon’s chair, the mirror intact on its place and inside it I saw myself. Too much I was in love with myself to not make faces; smile, turn , pose. I raised my eyeballs upwards. My forehead was a playground of facial viral warts. I have to get them cured”, I said to myself... Later...
I saw my hair for the last time. I thought of changing my mind. But then I thought it was too late. I thought I should just let it go as let them go.

Thoughts triggered my mind. Different thoughts. I lived them all. Good ones, bad ones, sad ones. Consequences of how those will comment who do matter, and how those will react who don’t.

I got them cut. Short. But parting was tough. Been there feeling.

Few evenings later, I had to get my mandolin repaired. My mandolin; my company in my aloneness, the joyous song in my sorrows, the beholder of a promise made to teach it to someone dear, the friend indeed, the attention seeker, the cute little music in my hand, the eight stringed friend of mine was now 6 stringed minus one key.

The man at the music instruments shop, told me that it will take him 2 days to repair it. I asked him what it would cost me, the reply came, “eksaw pacheees”. Thinking Rs. 125 was too less for getting my friend with a fret repaired, I thought it was a good deal.

Couple of days later when I went to collect it, it was still getting repaired. The man at the counter making faces in disbelief that it was difficult repairing it. He asked me, “ kitna purana hai ye?”

I thought… I raised my palm to count on my fingers. Class 4th,5th.... 12th, plus three more years…. 12 years. “ barah”, I said. “ abi kisi tara se mei theek kar deta hai, par mai bolega aap naya lelo”, his hand still trying to cling the new wire on the board as my mandolin lay flat on the table, just like a patient on the bed of a hospital. I did not like the thought. Unfortunately I knew exactly why.
I picked up the mandolin with a new cover. Cleared all dues and left for outside. It was still raining.
For how many more days will it rain?
For how long shall the freshness remain?
Till when will my fingers comfort the strings
Which amplify the songs that me sings?

Till when will I have to part
How often will this break my heart?
From when will I learn to be numb
To the needs of my emotions
Till when will I succumb?
Parting is really tough. To be continued…