Memento Mori

Last Sunday had my home cleaning day, 

While dusting the book shelves, suddenly one book 

Fell on the floor. It was a book on Rumi. 

The bearded man with a Persian hat on 

Looked old, Ancient. 

Picked it up.

 A piece of paper slipping away from the yellowish crinkly pages of the book

 Catching the sudden breeze from north which came sweeping through the window nearby

 Kept itself afloat for awhile before falling on the floor. 

First thought it was one of those pages of that old book coming loose.

 But then, the moment I opened it, I was transported to another age. 

Way back in the late nineties 

It had been perhaps a similar day of winter. 

We were sitting on a wooden bench at the park adjoining our university.

 I could distinctly remember that face of the prettiest girl I ever met. Her dimpled cheeks. Her long eyelashes. Her milky white neck. And her long fingers which always had shades of red at the end, Her red red nail polish. ' thought to give it to you, your favourite poet, Rumi' She had said. I remembered what she said even after that. ' there is something inside the book, read it only when you go home'. Returning home that day, without wasting a single moment tore open the wrapping and the ribbon with which the wrap was tied. A short note, Not a letter proper, It got no address, No perfunctory signature. Only few words. ' you are a wonderful person. In another life I would love to be yours. But this time I can't disobey my parents. Keep my love with you forever. I will also do the same till we will meet again, if not in this life, in another life, for certain'. I kept reading and rereading that short note written with utmost care in cursive handwriting. Almost like a neat work of calligraphy.