Sepia

In late evenings, Basantapur bathes in sepia with a dash of fragrance of cigarette smokes and scalding, strong tea. On most of the evenings, as much I am enjoying the view, the people, the aura; I find myself trying to reconnect to a past that I seem to have forgotten. Almost always, I fail.

The sepia undertone, the cinema-esque Basantapur- with all of it's humdrum, people, smoke and tea, plasters itself in my heart without fail. Just to say that it is enchanting would never do it any justice. For someone who avoids being close to people the whole day, the chaos at Basantapur and it's alleys attracts me like a moth to the flame. The noise is almost quieter there. The chaos almost muted. Like I said, a moth to flame.

But this routine that I've had for so long doesn't seem to have a pattern that I can trace. I can't pinpoint what exactly I am looking for, or what I am trying to remember. But every step I take there is a walk down the memory lane that I don't remember. It's as if the plaster of these evenings have started wearing off now, in chunks. And the cruelest part in all of this is that I can't blame my mind for that. It's the plaster getting scrapped off my heart and I know it. The frayed edges of my heart have built a net for my mind- making it impossible for me to seek beyond the curtains.

...

I wish I could remember what it is that I've forgotten. I wish I could feel what it is that I'd once loved so dearly but now can't find it in me to love again. But maybe one of these evenings, I will remember what it was and fall in love all over again. And this time do a double-coat plaster and splash the walls with all my favorite colors.

...

The walk home wipes out the smoke on my skin by sweat beads. The back of my mouth still tastes of strong tea. The top of my tongue has scalded and is tingly. And again the fresh plaster of the afternoon melts off the walls of my heart.

I will see you in another afternoon, Basantapur.