I liquidated all my luck and pit it against the verdict—the verdict of living a life not shared with you.
When I had you in my life, it blossomed like a fresh start of a beautiful North Indian spring.
It breathed so joyously that the landscapes proximate to the Himalayas looked pale in comparison.
Every second passed in passionate expectation of a sensory perception—to see you; to listen to you or speak with you; perhaps, even touch you.
It felt as if I needed nothing else. A strange promise of fulfilment looked like a well-nigh reality.
But all this had a short span. The verdict stood against me. My luck ran out though my life continued. The lines of my palm have prophesized a long one.
Don’t feel the pain, O ye, who will never read it.
You have no obligation whatsoever.
You owe me nothing. Don’t even for a heartbeat let your heart sink in the sorrow that I spend my days with.
Now, traveling along different streams with new companions, we will never have the confluence on the way.