Dear Black, Love White

Dear Black,

I see how it is, with you and me in reality, facing each other in a seamless obscurity named ‘balance’ which somehow is the reason of our abstract parting. This reality, yours… mine… ours, which doesn’t let us be more than balance, which doesn’t let us express the beauty of our imbalanced togetherness, imperfect exquisiteness, I despise it for it is untrue to me. It doesn’t appreciate the myriad possibilities between us, our subtle alchemy. It regards our tryst as something morose, sad, grave, miserable, gloomy and sometimes even blue but I wonder, will they ever try to understand the beauty of our rendezvous? In reality I guess not but probably in some other space where a pinch of me and a part of you won’t be measured on what they call ‘the dullness of a greyscale.’

Our existence in this world is very subjective, the way the world views us: opposite, conflicting, contradictory, incongruous, odd and incompatible. I wonder how our realities are shaped by some conventional norms of seeing, of ‘looked-at-ness.’ I wonder how you can be convinced in these skewed notions of what our reality might have been had we been together. You have always been beautifully deep to me. I want to drown in your lustrous depth. I love your iconic beauty in the handsomeness of the ravens. I adore your delicate youth in the waving curls of a toddler. I still remember what you once said about us… that you appreciate your existence because you feel I compliment you. Why won’t you believe in that anymore? Why do you feel I will lose my identity in your abyss? Why do you feel that your slightest touch would mar my age old earned purity?

Our blend is often viewed as a feeling of sinking, a terribly plummeting silence, a silence of loss and despair… of hopelessness, a burning angst. I wonder why sadness is the immediate companion of our attachment which has now become the reason of our inevitable detachment. I don’t wish to part from you. I don’t wish to meet you in the empty spaces of nothingness. This soundless whining in my head is slowly eating my poise. I don’t wish to be absorbed in the purity of my loneliness where I am only me and not a part of us, a probable part of us…

All these years I have embellished my identity, now I am tired, tired of walking alone with no hand to hold. I had a dream once, of you and me walking together in the subtle silence of a spring afternoon. And midst the beauty around us you held my hand. At one point I looked down and I couldn’t tell which fingers were yours and which were mine. It was like magic! Why can’t I make the world see our oneness like this, like magic? Why can’t I make you believe in the beauty of our something? Do you really believe in the dreariness of our coming together? There are countless hues on the palette, all wreathing their stories with the world, maybe we could evolve our togetherness into beauty for the world to perceive us differently. Believe me. Believe in us. I hate to spend the night all by myself without a trace of you. I hate to pass those nights hugging my knees, thinking they were you. How ironic it is, our union, the world would keep viewing it as lifeless when in the reality of our imaginations, dreams, it will all be the reason for our merriment. The iciness, the sinking, the sickening of our something will never be able to reveal the tantalizing warmth of our fanciful love.

Maybe the shade of our unison was destined to be unworthy of affection. Maybe our union was always meant to express the sorrow of a broken heart or the story of unrequited love… maybe the very purpose of our amalgamation was to remain grey…



(a creative attempt to express what grey means to me)

(published in Indian Arch magazine 2014-2015)


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