Nostalgia

Nostalgia; he calls himself. He comes visiting me almost every other day. An unannounced and unexpected visitor. Knocking at the door of the mortal mind, his blaring yet subtle knocks are unlikely to go unheard. He visited me this morning as I sat at by the window, holding my cup of tea. The heat sliding down my throat, I suddenly remembered June mornings back home. Raindrops pranced on the window pane, as my mother dished out plates of piping Samosas and cups of steaming coffee. Cheer dressed the four walls of our home as we spent the morning bonding over coffee and conversations. Oh, how I craved the warmth of home as I sat in the room of my hostel, dunking the solitary biscuit in my now cold tea. Suddenly, he wrapped me in his arms. The warmth of the memories engulfed my being. A tear trickled down my cheek. And then, a smile graced my face. It would be summer in two months and I’d soon be home.
The other evening, I was taking a stroll in the park, along the coast. The sky was painted in sunset hues of crimson and orange and the grey sea was slamming the rocks. Dusk was about to descend. And then, I saw us sitting on the rocks. My fingers locked in his and his arms wrapped around me. As we watched the sun go back to the horizon, I wondered how each time after a day of struggle and work, I’d go to him, to see my sorrows and demons cleansed by his love. And I’d recover again, like the sun rose each morning, radiating light and joy. Now, he was gone. The man I had loved with every fiber of my being. I sat on the rocks by myself watching the sun go down, left with the remnants of an old love and a broken heart. Nostalgia; he visited me again. This time, he held my hand; Pain, chaos and memories spiraling through my veins. The touch left me with a stark realization; I had to move on. I had to walk past my brokenness. I alone possessed the strength and courage to fight my battles. After all, even the horizon is imaginary. I had to continue to shine like the sun, in the depths of winter or in the darkness of despair.
 Knock, knock. I heard the knocks again one night as I surfed through the channels on the television. I stopped, when I saw Popeye playing on a channel. This time, we watched the show together. Laughing contagiously as Popeye outdid Pluto again and I recollected how my mother tricked me into eating spinach as a child, even as I wondered why I didn’t grow magical biceps like Popeye after he gobbled the tin of spinach. Last night, I lay in bed. Sleep was a distant visitor. After having silenced the cacophony of my thoughts, I put on my ear phones and tuned into the radio channel. I waited for sleep to come and visit me. Instead, my old pal came on a surprise visit again. Doris Day crooned to ‘Que Sera Sera’ and suddenly I remembered my father running his hands through my brown locks as a toddler, singing me to sleep. ‘Que Sera Sera, what will be will be...’, he’d hum as I locked my arms around his belly, head resting on his chest and my ears pinned to his heart beat.
And then, my friend left for the night. Kissing me goodnight and covering me in a blanket of warm, peaceful thoughts as memories lulled me to sleep.