Yellow Lights

Books. Pen. Keyboard. And might you add one of the finest scotches and single malts in the world love the company of yellow lights. Under their glow, a new world comes into being. One that is brimming with imagination, conversations, relationships and a million associations.

One can safely say its charm may have been replicated in many visual synergies that one is exposed to in this media age, but this old world charm keeps reinventing itself with every new experience. It shares a personal relation with its inhabitants; it’s where storytellers are usually born. No wonder, many likeminded souls would prefer a yellow light in their study as well.

In this day and age, where encroachment and uncontrollable unprotected sex have made living in large apartments a dying dream, there are a fortunate few who have such space, and more importantly do understand the romance and solitude of a study. With the advent of technology, one is compelled to the modern atrocities of gaming.

I have no grudges against it, sometimes I myself don’t being game for a match or two, but it does not and can not replace the charm of books. With many ‘Game Rooms’ replacing the existing study, it’s heartening to sit in one writing this post. For a change I’ve made Enya my music companion today, and she can be a mood driver – talking purely about the sound here.

I always pictured an old wooden chair in the study or a rocking chair, but to my surprise, beyond a normal computer chair, the room sits one reclining couch – it’s more like 2 reclining chairs kept together. And cuddling in its warm embrace and indulging in writing or reading can be quite sinful.

I unfortunately cannot have the luxury to make my room come to life in such a way, unless I move out and share an apartment with friend/s.

Anyways, coming back to the mood driven yellow lights, there is a fine line between class and crass. Therefore a study is different from a shady bar. Something like a cheap blended whisky and a single malt whisky.

The following is something that the just had coffee, the lights and Enya are bringing out of me:

It’s 4 am. He sits by the study, sketching her nude image. It’s an image he had of her many months before. She is sitting on the edge of the patio, with her hair tied in a braid and resting beautifully on one side of her shoulder, softly caressing her bosom. He sips his scotch and stares at the sketch he made. His eyes are looking for mistakes; it’s a resolute look that’s looking for an imperfection, because perfection will leave him sad and disappointed. He wanted to ensure that there is some flaw, one that wasn’t intentional. He spots a mark near the navel he did not intend; he raises a toast to it and breaks into a smile. He puts his head back and listens to the sound of waves; he takes his guitar and jams with the waves. Music he terms this. After two more glasses, the music comes to an abrupt halt. He keeps his guitar down. He can feel her hands grazing through his hair. She looks at the sketch and betters it by wearing the same look. He looks at her with amazement. She walks towards the sketch, and then towards the patio. He follows her there with two glasses. She takes one. He raises his glass to toast, she stops him. She looks deeply into his eyes. “Bring the canvas. Bring the pencils. And complete me. The glass was missing”.

He takes a swig and smiles.  “I don’t feel like. Anymore”


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