I looked for the wild in vain. It’s not like I didn’t get drenched in the rain.
Or stopped my tears when he left me in pain. Or she, my friend of years showed her blatant disdain.
I did look for the broken branches in the jungle. The ones which were uprooted and chopped. The ones which made my insides go: “hey that’s so me…”
The injured beasts. The half-eaten deers. The legless buffalows. The snatched by a hawk but silent fishes fledgling past a placid stream.
They were all there. Where they were supposed to be. But that wasn’t the wild I was looking for. That was just the food chain. A day in a jungle.
I didn’t find the wild I was so keenly searching. I must be blind. Or maybe I was scanning too hard. In all the wrong places.
And then, you came along. You told me to go wild. I did. You laughed. I shyly smiled. We went wild. It was the wild we dreamt of. Our hair flowing in the wind in exotic places. Our hands entwined before we jumped from the plane. Our heads swimming in blue endlessness.
It was the crazy wild. The filmy wild. And we were happy and proud. Of our wild sides. When the world around us was dying of boredom in the mundane.
Our wild was perfect like the set design in a Bhansali film. Planned and un-planned to perfection.
Obviously after a while, we got bored. Of our wilderness. Of all the things we covered in our bucket list. And you decided to get real with a not-so-wild partner.
And I decided to stay unreal. Still searching for what felt uncontrollable. Indomitable. Fallible yet infallible.
You know what — I think I felt it that day. When I took my notebook and started to scribble. I think I felt it that evening, when I grooved to my favourite dance number in the fish market.
Ya, ya it’s there. My wilderness. My wild. It’s right here. In my paint brushes and my flowing mane. It ain’t coming to you. It’s here. With me. In my unfilmy, unrehearsed moments.