Passing Days of Mid-Age- Rivers of Unspoken Grief

The faded afterglow of a life passing through mid-age is also wrapped with an expected pattern of probable uncertainties. The moments that can ignite true spark, are not numerous, neither are those absent. The known gesture of guessing is much too predominant, as shadows of water drops on a glass, marking those hidden threads of thoughts exposed, a naked embarrassment of emotions, flowing in the undercurrent. Often there, a word is greeted with a big yawn, rather than floating along with all those oncoming words. Too many clichés are scattered everywhere, everyway, filling the gaps of the silent love, a hindrance toward eloquence. And along with it comes an unspoken yearning for the truth in love, with words only meant for the special one, for another special day. Within the world on the other side of Arzu’s kitchen window, it slowly starts drizzling, then suddenly the down-pouring rain starts falling incessantly. And in the other room, the wastepaper basket gets filled with torn pages of Mridul’s unspoken yearning. The good gracious God rearranges the weeping hours, the world turns silent with only a random sound of Arzu’s bangles stirring the fish curry, the familiar sound of rainfall tossed on a tree leaf keeps on tapping, perhaps she also hears that, only perhaps. And I just keep my eyes closed, for certainly this is my hiding place! There is a lot to say about unfulfilled destinies in Mridul’s life. With an overwhelming abundance of nitty-gritty details of life, his voice loses necessary strength most of the time, his articulating verbose mumbles often, proving his intended emotions only more complex, fuller of passive nuances. In his lonely unfulfilled world, Arzu is one wandering soul with a lot of subtlety of unspoken anger, and that is something almost expected. Yet, what is not expected is Arzu’s silent responses toward Mridul’s indifference, it is much too subtle, much too devoid of words. Perhaps, one might ponder if she chose carefully to be so, often there is such a narrow escape in reading between vulnerability and indifference. Mridul is quite familiar with her silence, which often leads to a confusing duality in absoluteness. What is not intended might be the only probable meaning, in the most intricate manner. Half of that is resonated in words, half is rested in the eloquence of silence. This almost tickles Mridul, whenever things are seemingly so, and there are numerous occasions he can relate here, and maybe, that is all about that.