Excerpt from the Journal

Every so often, one begins to feel as though one is living a role; and the incidents which occur seem to be happening to at a distance, in spite of direct involvement. You begin to realise the reason behind the aforementioned distance: Of course it'll seem like someone else's life - that's precisely what it is, isn't it? It is the life of the character whose shoes you decided to step into, not yours.

Depressing as this role-assuming sounds, occassionally, you discover that the recent role you have acquired sits with you much more easily than the last, than any you have ever adopted, for that matter. The sensation is unpleasantly comfortable. Comfortable? Certainly, but unpleasantly so. Because you are so highly unaccustomed to being at ease with and enjoying essaying your role, that this newfound comfort fills you with a wariness which you cannot escape. In fact, you may even cherish your wariness and reluctance to settle into these shoes which fit you like a second layer of skin, and leave you feeling as though you are barefoot. The fact that you don't immediately accept them means that you're less susceptible to the disappointment they'll induce when the fall apart at the seams on their first encounter with rough weather.

Meanwhile, you can't help but appreciate how this character's shoes are almost frighteningly suitable for every occassion. You enjoy wearing them, savour the ease with which they envelope your feet. Gradually, and without you noticing, your suspicipicions about the shoes fall away, and you begin trusting them - the notion which had terrified you so very much initially. However, unlike your attitude towards the shoes of other characters you've played, you don't depend on this pair, even though you have immense faith in them. You realise that you've finally learnt, "matured" if you please, or, plain and simple, GROWN UP. It doesn't surprise you, therefore, when they rip at the heel due to constant use; and you, devoid of any malice or bitterness, put them away in your closet. Why taint their memory by permitting regret to seep in? They served you exceedingly well, after all. The worn and battered shoes sitting upon your shelf taught you to go barefoot, in the skin, and crutches be damned.

'No Time to Wallow in the Mire'

Her eyes reflected the uncertainty which had surged within her at his words. He looked away; fully aware that it was he was responsible for her sadness and, above all, immeasurable confusion.

"Look, you don’t have to fret. I will be there,” he said in, what he would like to believe was, a calm and reassuring tone.

In an inaudible whisper she asked, “Will you?”
But he had turned towards his desk and was readying himself to depart for his umpteenth interview of the day. She sat on the edge of the unmade bed with the familiar traces of disorientation, wistfulness and immense grief in her eyes. He felt her watching him as he strapped his watch on, unplugged his cell-phone from its charger and ascertained that he had his wallet. He fiddled with the money-clip lying on the tabletop. Neer was afraid of being assaulted by Agni’s eyes, afraid of the guilt that would weigh upon him on seeing the expression they bore; and was, therefore, childishly delaying the moment he would have to turn around and face her. His hesitation, however, was not required.

With a jolt of surprise, he felt Agni’s arms around his waist, and her mouth against his ear as she whispered, “My disappointment shall rise to a whole new, irreparable level if you aren’t here in time, Mr. Neer Malhotra.” He barely had time to turn his head in her direction when she had lightly kissed his cheek and broken away with a soft chuckle. As she sauntered out of the room, she must have been anticipating a gaze of wonder upon her back, because she turned and smiled at him, and laughed after blowing him a kiss. Her eyes are surprisingly mirthful, he thought to himself, as he remained rooted to the spot, staring after her in amazement with a dumbfounded (and mildly bovine) expression upon his face. Shaking himself out of his reverie, he lifted his briefcase and walked out the door. “Women”, Neer muttered, ensuring the door was locked behind him and walking towards his car.

(Title courtesy: ‘Light my fire’ by The Doors)