RJ aj bollo, bayire khub thanda
Tayi kancher bhitore theke o 'patjhar' dekhche.
Lal, holud, patkele, ki garho rong , ronginer thekeu beshi rongin.
Jano Van Gogh er tulir uddam anchor,jano angul diye rong tule lepe diyeche.
Jodi amon korte partam,
bocher er shara malinno, glani, oboshonnota, erokom bhabe jhoriye dite
protekta pata shesh bindu kanna ta ke chokher kone theke, moner tola theke muche nito.
Kholosh take mele dhortam, sheyi tomar dike duhath tule.
Buk bhore nishash nitam, nitam tomar theke 'positive energy',
Sobuj patay abar bhore jetow amar dal gulow.
Abar banchtam , jemon bar bar tomay bishash kore.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Friday, October 17, 2008
The Story of Four
This is the story of four people whose lives cross for a moment in time that occupies a blink and miss period in the bigger scheme of things. However, for them it became an infinite moment scaring them for the rest of their lives. When I say scaring them, I necessarily do not mean it in a negative sense. I do not want to use the softer ‘touching them’, as the impressions, good or bad, went much deeper.
It all started with an innocuous meeting, was followed by intermittent telephone conversations, then more regular ones that almost became like a bad habit topped with considerable dollop of expectations. It was a friendship that developed from similar thoughts and traits, a friendship that precariously hung on that razors edge that thinly demarcates the concepts of closeness. The relationship not only lasted but flourished, given that both friends maintained an unwritten code of conduct that refused to let a whiff pass by. The fire smouldered, hidden, its glow warming two lives. Maybe this was too pleasant a situation to last.
The other two people, in this story of four, slowly got acquainted. All four of them now met regularly, they laughed, they had late night discussions, and they thought life would go on. Fate, however, decided to step in. In life, we often feel emotions that go beyond the accepted norms of society. How far and how much we let those emotions overtake our logical senses, is decided by our individual sense of appropriateness. One of this people, in this story of four, stepped beyond that norm of sensitivity. Why did he do that is a question that will go unanswered for the rest of the time that they live; But what happened, because he did, is what I will be telling you.
Suddenly lot of things revealed itself in its true perspective. The person who overstepped was surrounded in a ring of fire that engulfed not only him but burnt all the other three. A man of his repute was faced with the ultimate dishonour of life. The woman, who tried to be his friend, fell from the exalted position that she had created for herself and maintained throughout her life. Would she ever be able to regain her confidence when it came to dealing with the world? But what happened to the original two friends, in this story of four? Could the man accept that his wife felt differently towards another man? He had once said he could. But faced with the reality of situations all his original and liberated views fell flat. It was an unbearable situation for him. His pride was hurt. His perceptions about himself were broken. He explained frantically to his friend. He said it is not the thought of his wife getting close to another person that is bothering him. He reiterated that it was her denial of the truth that was responsible for his anguish. His friend tried to understand. But somewhere things did not fall into place. She could almost see through him. She was stunned into comprehension. Her husband’s thoughtlessness and insensitivity had not bothered her as much as her friend’s change. How was she to deal with this disillusionment? How was she to hide her own emotions that till now she had willingly shown to him? Who was the worse off, in this story of four, is debatable. Each one got scared; each one built their own defences. Each one, I pray, will emerge from this, if not unscathed but stronger. But will I?
It all started with an innocuous meeting, was followed by intermittent telephone conversations, then more regular ones that almost became like a bad habit topped with considerable dollop of expectations. It was a friendship that developed from similar thoughts and traits, a friendship that precariously hung on that razors edge that thinly demarcates the concepts of closeness. The relationship not only lasted but flourished, given that both friends maintained an unwritten code of conduct that refused to let a whiff pass by. The fire smouldered, hidden, its glow warming two lives. Maybe this was too pleasant a situation to last.
The other two people, in this story of four, slowly got acquainted. All four of them now met regularly, they laughed, they had late night discussions, and they thought life would go on. Fate, however, decided to step in. In life, we often feel emotions that go beyond the accepted norms of society. How far and how much we let those emotions overtake our logical senses, is decided by our individual sense of appropriateness. One of this people, in this story of four, stepped beyond that norm of sensitivity. Why did he do that is a question that will go unanswered for the rest of the time that they live; But what happened, because he did, is what I will be telling you.
Suddenly lot of things revealed itself in its true perspective. The person who overstepped was surrounded in a ring of fire that engulfed not only him but burnt all the other three. A man of his repute was faced with the ultimate dishonour of life. The woman, who tried to be his friend, fell from the exalted position that she had created for herself and maintained throughout her life. Would she ever be able to regain her confidence when it came to dealing with the world? But what happened to the original two friends, in this story of four? Could the man accept that his wife felt differently towards another man? He had once said he could. But faced with the reality of situations all his original and liberated views fell flat. It was an unbearable situation for him. His pride was hurt. His perceptions about himself were broken. He explained frantically to his friend. He said it is not the thought of his wife getting close to another person that is bothering him. He reiterated that it was her denial of the truth that was responsible for his anguish. His friend tried to understand. But somewhere things did not fall into place. She could almost see through him. She was stunned into comprehension. Her husband’s thoughtlessness and insensitivity had not bothered her as much as her friend’s change. How was she to deal with this disillusionment? How was she to hide her own emotions that till now she had willingly shown to him? Who was the worse off, in this story of four, is debatable. Each one got scared; each one built their own defences. Each one, I pray, will emerge from this, if not unscathed but stronger. But will I?
Thursday, July 10, 2008
After an initial hiatus, the rains are here with a vengeance. Drenched clean of the summer squalor, the leaves hang wet and fresh. The tree outside my window has this bright red flower (in Bangla we call it ‘krishnachura’). The lone cuckoo seems to have lost his sense of time and season, calling out loud over the pitter patter. The parched land lets out a sigh; an earthy smell wafts through. Memories flash by, totally unconcerned of my ability to handle them. Did the earthy smell do this? Or was it the cloudy sky, the water drops hanging on the petals, or the impending reality of meeting ‘him’?
I was stuffing my books hurriedly into the cloth satchel that all of us owned. There was no time to check the routine and everything had to go in. The Wren and Martin slipped my hands and fell. I bend down to pick it up and there beside the open book, lay a black and white photograph. I looked furtively across the room, where baba was reading the newspaper. He was too engrossed in the political bedlam, to notice. In a way good, I thought. I quickly put the young man in his rightful place, at page no 101, and the book in the bag. Just two minutes left for the first bell at 9 a.m., so I had exactly four minutes to reach school, park the cycle and rush in before the 2nd bell. I zoomed out and jumped on the Hercules that two years back had belonged to Riju. He had outgrown it and now officially the battered contraption was mine. I raced the old trusted war-horse across the fields, taking the muddy short-cut. Water splashed and my white kurta immediately spotted the muddy marks that ma would have a tough time with. Never mind, I thought, will handle ma later, when the time came. As of now, I had to make the 2nd bell.
Was there something missing in my life? At 56, I was well established, known and respected. My husband, bless his soul, had been a pillar of support and encouragement through those tedious years of struggle. In-laws, parents, children, siblings, we managed all. There were tensions, confusions, harsh words and tears. There were moments of joy, euphoria and camaraderie. I had lived a life as complete, as I could hope for. Now, left with myself, my work was the only presence that I desired in my life. Or so I thought. What was happening today? Why was I going back to some insignificant instants? It must be the programme, I thought angrily. I had called up Riju on Sunday, and told him about the television discussion, I was to be part of. It was on ‘influence of western classical instruments and how it has contributed to modern Indian music’. I was not particularly excited about it, when the organisers had called up. I had casually asked about the other participants and came to know that ‘he’ would be anchoring the show. Did I sound nervously excited when I spoke to Riju? Whatever it was, Riju as usual was quick to spot it. ‘My goodness he is still so much in you’, he exclaimed.
My mother used to spend most of her time defending my escapades to irritated neighbours, and of what was left she insufficiently divided between housework, taking care of three kids (thankfully her other two children were model specimens that friends, relatives and neighbours admired) and pampering a much-dependent husband. ‘Rinki is a monkey, all she lacks is a tail’, was what she was used to hearing. ‘Rinki is a monkey’ was what my godly siblings said, when I had exasperated them enough, to break their saintly demeanour. Unperturbed I continued, with all the naughtiness unsuited to a 12 year old.
Today I had woken up quite early. I need not have, as I was to be at the studio only at 11 a.m. After my morning tea, I went though some details I would be keeping handy and referring to, as the discussion went on. I did not feel like having breakfast. I was feeling oddly excited. I sat on the recliner in the balcony, my seat of solitude. I was going to meet him today, in person. All those intense moments of unrealistic adulation, fantasy, passionate desire, that had grown and assumed a realistic proportion, only to be ridiculed and snubbed, came back.
I had seen him, or rather his movie when I was thirteen. He was an upcoming talented name and the Bangla film industry was waiting with bated breath to see him make his place (or be wiped out). I caught my breath, as he looked into his beloved’s eyes. Something flipped inside me. The pain was so physical; I could almost touch it. His eyes looked straight into my heart. I, who was the local tomboy always dressed in my elder brother’s hand downs, regaling in the trousers, when my friends walked around in dainty frocks. I, who refused to grow my hair from the fear that ma would tie it up in the ubiquitous plaits that was the fashion of the day. I, who played with boys in all their rowdy games, never viewing them as more than necessary nuisance, I, ‘Rinki the monkey’, was experiencing a totally alien emotion. What was this feeling?
Just couldn’t decide which saree to wear. Should it be some heavy silk? Or printed georgette that can give me a slimmer look? I had almost emptied my wardrobe, before sense prevailed! What was I doing? I was behaving like a teenager on her first date. This was sheer stupidity, I chided myself. I selected a simple cotton tangail, and looked at the clock. Gosh! It was late! Quickly, getting the rest of myself presentable, I asked Ramen to take out the car.
People at home, thanks to Riju, came to know of ‘him’. Initially everyone smiled, indulging my feelings with a sage nod. ‘It would be over in a month’, said baba. ‘Thank God, Rinki is behaving like a girl’, ma heaved a sigh of relief, now confirmed that my sexual inclinations tilted towards the ‘normal’ paradigm. ‘Rinki has gone mad,’ said Riju with the decided authority of a nerdy 15 year old. But a month went by, a year, then a few years; I turned from a gawky adolescent to a young woman, reasonably good looking, poised and individualistic. Quite a few of the men, with whom I interacted academically or socially, were interested in an association beyond mere friendship. I wanted to get interested. But they all looked mere boys. Where was the man I was looking for? The only man in my mind was ‘he’. People at home started getting irritated, as I refused young men who were good husband material. Baba was disgusted. ‘This is going too far’, was his response. Ma was at a loss. ‘This girl has given me only trouble’, she complained. Riju gave me quizzical looks, perhaps the only person who could understand my emotions to some degree. ‘Do you really think that you will ever meet him, forget getting acquainted?’ was his incredulous reaction. I did not care. I could not see beyond him. What could I do?
I was sitting in front of him. The other two participants had not arrived. The steam from the coffee mugs created a mist before my eyes. Outside the rain was pouring incessantly, drowning the world away. Despite the years the dimpled smile was still so true. He was saying something to which I nodded vaguely, as I remembered those sultry summer afternoons, my room in the attic, the whirring of the old table fan and me with my face deep inside my pillow; my anguished love releasing itself, away from prying eyes.
How could I make them understand that it was not an adolescent obsession? It continued well beyond those formative years when people fall in love quite regularly. I never missed any of his movies, read all the magazines that even as much breathed his name, kept tab on him like a jealous lover, dressed as if he would see me, grew up as he would perhaps like me to be and realised that I was totally in love. It did not matter that he would never know of my existence. I loved with an abundance that was all consuming. My studies did not get affected. For all the while, I was preparing myself; as if getting ready for the day that I knew would surely come.
He would be almost 68, I thought. He wore a trendy pair of spectacles, the style icon even now, I thought, as my face broke into a silent smile. He noticed it. ‘You are smiling, is it something I said’, he asked. ‘No..ooh’, I stammered. He was not happy with the answer, but being the gentleman he was reputed to be, he continued with what he had been saying. I was in turmoil, I so wanted him to hold me just once. This was insane, we had a live discussion coming up, an audience waiting and I for one was not going to lose my cool.
I surpassed the expectations of my family when I went abroad for my doctorate. That’s when I met Rathin. Ours was not a whirlwind romance but a rather unequivocal decision to get married. Riju was the only one present and could just about keep himself from shouting, ‘Rinki the monkey is married’. We completed our studies and our honeymoon and returned home to a life of responsibilities. Riju for one heaved a sigh of relief now that my ‘idiotic infliction’, as he called it, would be gone. I too thought the same. However, this was not to be the case. It did not help that Rathin was a movie buff and to add to it, an ardent admirer of ‘him’.
The discussion went about quite smoothly. It was interesting; we had a knowledgeable audience. Sparks flew, but all for a productive purpose. He was a brilliant actor but not quite good an anchor and at times one of us had to take the reigns in our hands. Once it was over, our producer invited us over to the studio canteen for lunch. One of the participants excused himself because of a prior appointment. We had a lively lunch, all of us high from the success of the programme, and a few beers. ‘He’ was laughing heartily, talking of incidents that would make excellent copy for any writer; teasing our producer for playing safe with staid discussions, such as this, were there was no way one could create heat. In all this banter, Romi, the other panellist and an old friend, suddenly quipped, ‘Rinki has been a fan of yours for as long as I can remember’.
Even when I was with Rathin, I would find myself thinking, what if this was he. I chided myself for such un-wifely thoughts. Rathin was a good man, responsible, caring. What more did I want? He was a good father, an excellent provider; I was so lucky. Why was I so occupied with a presence that if known would make my world come tumbling down? There was no answer; all I knew was that I loved him insanely.
He stopped in the middle of an anecdote and stared at me, a surprised smile on his face. I felt my ears growing hot. This was so ridiculous. My well-kept secret, shared only with a very few people, was laid out in public and in front of the very person who had ruled my entire being from the day I have come to know myself. I managed a cool smile and said, ‘Romi, he has millions of such fans, who worship the ground he treads on’. He was looking at me with those eyes. I felt all my secrets were nakedly visible to him, a miserable hip of unsheathed emotions. ‘Yes, there are fans but rarely a fan whose books I admire so much,’ he said. ‘You have read my books? You are interested in musical instruments? You know about me?’ the questions tumbled down, toppling over each other, in my haste to ask them. He was saying something but I was deaf to it. The buzz in my ears was pure music, ‘he knows me, he knows me, even if only by name, he knows me’.
Rathin came to know of it. Once, submitting ourselves to our desire, I had screamed out his name. The world seemed to stop. Rathin was very understanding. Oh! How I wish he was angry. He was unaffected. Life went on, as if it never stopped. I dreamt of him more and more often; it was he who made love to me, he who sat by my side, he who read the first draft of my books, he who criticised and commented, he who drew me to him kissing my lips hungrily, it was he who did all that I wished Rathin would do.
‘Of course I have read your books. You were in Brazil for a workshop, right? Will you be writing on African American music, this time?’ he was asking. ‘I don’t know, I have some ideas that are taking shape, but I want to ponder on them for some more time before seeing what direction they are taking’, I replied. Romi had got up to take a call while our producer was busy ordering the dessert. He looked at me and said, ‘why don’t you give me your number? I would love to talk to you more… ’. Everything in my world stopped, as I heard myself, ‘9922……’.
I was stuffing my books hurriedly into the cloth satchel that all of us owned. There was no time to check the routine and everything had to go in. The Wren and Martin slipped my hands and fell. I bend down to pick it up and there beside the open book, lay a black and white photograph. I looked furtively across the room, where baba was reading the newspaper. He was too engrossed in the political bedlam, to notice. In a way good, I thought. I quickly put the young man in his rightful place, at page no 101, and the book in the bag. Just two minutes left for the first bell at 9 a.m., so I had exactly four minutes to reach school, park the cycle and rush in before the 2nd bell. I zoomed out and jumped on the Hercules that two years back had belonged to Riju. He had outgrown it and now officially the battered contraption was mine. I raced the old trusted war-horse across the fields, taking the muddy short-cut. Water splashed and my white kurta immediately spotted the muddy marks that ma would have a tough time with. Never mind, I thought, will handle ma later, when the time came. As of now, I had to make the 2nd bell.
Was there something missing in my life? At 56, I was well established, known and respected. My husband, bless his soul, had been a pillar of support and encouragement through those tedious years of struggle. In-laws, parents, children, siblings, we managed all. There were tensions, confusions, harsh words and tears. There were moments of joy, euphoria and camaraderie. I had lived a life as complete, as I could hope for. Now, left with myself, my work was the only presence that I desired in my life. Or so I thought. What was happening today? Why was I going back to some insignificant instants? It must be the programme, I thought angrily. I had called up Riju on Sunday, and told him about the television discussion, I was to be part of. It was on ‘influence of western classical instruments and how it has contributed to modern Indian music’. I was not particularly excited about it, when the organisers had called up. I had casually asked about the other participants and came to know that ‘he’ would be anchoring the show. Did I sound nervously excited when I spoke to Riju? Whatever it was, Riju as usual was quick to spot it. ‘My goodness he is still so much in you’, he exclaimed.
My mother used to spend most of her time defending my escapades to irritated neighbours, and of what was left she insufficiently divided between housework, taking care of three kids (thankfully her other two children were model specimens that friends, relatives and neighbours admired) and pampering a much-dependent husband. ‘Rinki is a monkey, all she lacks is a tail’, was what she was used to hearing. ‘Rinki is a monkey’ was what my godly siblings said, when I had exasperated them enough, to break their saintly demeanour. Unperturbed I continued, with all the naughtiness unsuited to a 12 year old.
Today I had woken up quite early. I need not have, as I was to be at the studio only at 11 a.m. After my morning tea, I went though some details I would be keeping handy and referring to, as the discussion went on. I did not feel like having breakfast. I was feeling oddly excited. I sat on the recliner in the balcony, my seat of solitude. I was going to meet him today, in person. All those intense moments of unrealistic adulation, fantasy, passionate desire, that had grown and assumed a realistic proportion, only to be ridiculed and snubbed, came back.
I had seen him, or rather his movie when I was thirteen. He was an upcoming talented name and the Bangla film industry was waiting with bated breath to see him make his place (or be wiped out). I caught my breath, as he looked into his beloved’s eyes. Something flipped inside me. The pain was so physical; I could almost touch it. His eyes looked straight into my heart. I, who was the local tomboy always dressed in my elder brother’s hand downs, regaling in the trousers, when my friends walked around in dainty frocks. I, who refused to grow my hair from the fear that ma would tie it up in the ubiquitous plaits that was the fashion of the day. I, who played with boys in all their rowdy games, never viewing them as more than necessary nuisance, I, ‘Rinki the monkey’, was experiencing a totally alien emotion. What was this feeling?
Just couldn’t decide which saree to wear. Should it be some heavy silk? Or printed georgette that can give me a slimmer look? I had almost emptied my wardrobe, before sense prevailed! What was I doing? I was behaving like a teenager on her first date. This was sheer stupidity, I chided myself. I selected a simple cotton tangail, and looked at the clock. Gosh! It was late! Quickly, getting the rest of myself presentable, I asked Ramen to take out the car.
People at home, thanks to Riju, came to know of ‘him’. Initially everyone smiled, indulging my feelings with a sage nod. ‘It would be over in a month’, said baba. ‘Thank God, Rinki is behaving like a girl’, ma heaved a sigh of relief, now confirmed that my sexual inclinations tilted towards the ‘normal’ paradigm. ‘Rinki has gone mad,’ said Riju with the decided authority of a nerdy 15 year old. But a month went by, a year, then a few years; I turned from a gawky adolescent to a young woman, reasonably good looking, poised and individualistic. Quite a few of the men, with whom I interacted academically or socially, were interested in an association beyond mere friendship. I wanted to get interested. But they all looked mere boys. Where was the man I was looking for? The only man in my mind was ‘he’. People at home started getting irritated, as I refused young men who were good husband material. Baba was disgusted. ‘This is going too far’, was his response. Ma was at a loss. ‘This girl has given me only trouble’, she complained. Riju gave me quizzical looks, perhaps the only person who could understand my emotions to some degree. ‘Do you really think that you will ever meet him, forget getting acquainted?’ was his incredulous reaction. I did not care. I could not see beyond him. What could I do?
I was sitting in front of him. The other two participants had not arrived. The steam from the coffee mugs created a mist before my eyes. Outside the rain was pouring incessantly, drowning the world away. Despite the years the dimpled smile was still so true. He was saying something to which I nodded vaguely, as I remembered those sultry summer afternoons, my room in the attic, the whirring of the old table fan and me with my face deep inside my pillow; my anguished love releasing itself, away from prying eyes.
How could I make them understand that it was not an adolescent obsession? It continued well beyond those formative years when people fall in love quite regularly. I never missed any of his movies, read all the magazines that even as much breathed his name, kept tab on him like a jealous lover, dressed as if he would see me, grew up as he would perhaps like me to be and realised that I was totally in love. It did not matter that he would never know of my existence. I loved with an abundance that was all consuming. My studies did not get affected. For all the while, I was preparing myself; as if getting ready for the day that I knew would surely come.
He would be almost 68, I thought. He wore a trendy pair of spectacles, the style icon even now, I thought, as my face broke into a silent smile. He noticed it. ‘You are smiling, is it something I said’, he asked. ‘No..ooh’, I stammered. He was not happy with the answer, but being the gentleman he was reputed to be, he continued with what he had been saying. I was in turmoil, I so wanted him to hold me just once. This was insane, we had a live discussion coming up, an audience waiting and I for one was not going to lose my cool.
I surpassed the expectations of my family when I went abroad for my doctorate. That’s when I met Rathin. Ours was not a whirlwind romance but a rather unequivocal decision to get married. Riju was the only one present and could just about keep himself from shouting, ‘Rinki the monkey is married’. We completed our studies and our honeymoon and returned home to a life of responsibilities. Riju for one heaved a sigh of relief now that my ‘idiotic infliction’, as he called it, would be gone. I too thought the same. However, this was not to be the case. It did not help that Rathin was a movie buff and to add to it, an ardent admirer of ‘him’.
The discussion went about quite smoothly. It was interesting; we had a knowledgeable audience. Sparks flew, but all for a productive purpose. He was a brilliant actor but not quite good an anchor and at times one of us had to take the reigns in our hands. Once it was over, our producer invited us over to the studio canteen for lunch. One of the participants excused himself because of a prior appointment. We had a lively lunch, all of us high from the success of the programme, and a few beers. ‘He’ was laughing heartily, talking of incidents that would make excellent copy for any writer; teasing our producer for playing safe with staid discussions, such as this, were there was no way one could create heat. In all this banter, Romi, the other panellist and an old friend, suddenly quipped, ‘Rinki has been a fan of yours for as long as I can remember’.
Even when I was with Rathin, I would find myself thinking, what if this was he. I chided myself for such un-wifely thoughts. Rathin was a good man, responsible, caring. What more did I want? He was a good father, an excellent provider; I was so lucky. Why was I so occupied with a presence that if known would make my world come tumbling down? There was no answer; all I knew was that I loved him insanely.
He stopped in the middle of an anecdote and stared at me, a surprised smile on his face. I felt my ears growing hot. This was so ridiculous. My well-kept secret, shared only with a very few people, was laid out in public and in front of the very person who had ruled my entire being from the day I have come to know myself. I managed a cool smile and said, ‘Romi, he has millions of such fans, who worship the ground he treads on’. He was looking at me with those eyes. I felt all my secrets were nakedly visible to him, a miserable hip of unsheathed emotions. ‘Yes, there are fans but rarely a fan whose books I admire so much,’ he said. ‘You have read my books? You are interested in musical instruments? You know about me?’ the questions tumbled down, toppling over each other, in my haste to ask them. He was saying something but I was deaf to it. The buzz in my ears was pure music, ‘he knows me, he knows me, even if only by name, he knows me’.
Rathin came to know of it. Once, submitting ourselves to our desire, I had screamed out his name. The world seemed to stop. Rathin was very understanding. Oh! How I wish he was angry. He was unaffected. Life went on, as if it never stopped. I dreamt of him more and more often; it was he who made love to me, he who sat by my side, he who read the first draft of my books, he who criticised and commented, he who drew me to him kissing my lips hungrily, it was he who did all that I wished Rathin would do.
‘Of course I have read your books. You were in Brazil for a workshop, right? Will you be writing on African American music, this time?’ he was asking. ‘I don’t know, I have some ideas that are taking shape, but I want to ponder on them for some more time before seeing what direction they are taking’, I replied. Romi had got up to take a call while our producer was busy ordering the dessert. He looked at me and said, ‘why don’t you give me your number? I would love to talk to you more… ’. Everything in my world stopped, as I heard myself, ‘9922……’.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
An Experiment
The London ‘Tube’, a survey says, is the place where majority of Londoners fall in love. Creative pick-up lines such as, “I forgot which way I was going, which way are you headed for”, abound. Other than a place to build your repertoire of pick-up lines, snooze and make up for incomplete sleep, or a thousand other activities that travellers do, it is also the hatching ground for love, young or old. Having said this, the obvious question is ‘why so?’ And the obvious answer is how else do you expect human beings of opposite sexes (and same sexes for the differentially endowed) to behave when put together in a room on wheels, the doors to which open at long intervals and from which you will not walk out, unless it is your preferred destination. So, obviously people fall in love, travelling the same route, with the same faces and at the same time.
The same logic perhaps holds true for ‘office romances’, touted as the most ‘in’ thing of modern work hours. So, basically when two people spend quite some time together, there is a high probability of the possibility of their falling in love.
Now, suppose as a matter of research, spouses (not swapped but ‘officially’ own) are placed together, under congenial laboratory conditions, can same results be assured? If so, then what an ingenious way to bring that glow back in marriages that has lost their shine from over-use or under-use! The only point, however, is if only spouses agree to be put together.
The same logic perhaps holds true for ‘office romances’, touted as the most ‘in’ thing of modern work hours. So, basically when two people spend quite some time together, there is a high probability of the possibility of their falling in love.
Now, suppose as a matter of research, spouses (not swapped but ‘officially’ own) are placed together, under congenial laboratory conditions, can same results be assured? If so, then what an ingenious way to bring that glow back in marriages that has lost their shine from over-use or under-use! The only point, however, is if only spouses agree to be put together.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
The Sweetness of it All
What goes around comes around. The saying had never held so much meaning as it does now. It’s uncanny the way every action, every thought and every word is getting repeated. The same cycle of emotions, denial, rejection, anger, heartbreak… how ironic. Whatever I had said one day, all that someone had complained about, all my justifications and all their judgements are getting repeated. The only difference is today I am at the receiving end of what I had doled out one day.
I do not feel any anger, but there is a strange sense of satisfaction, as if I have been absolved of my sins. My tears have wiped away my wrong doings, in a way no amount of punishment could. How light I feel! Every day, each action is like a stab in my heart, the pain so sweet, as it fills up the veins mixing with the blood, choking me. I am not a sadist, but this gives me so much pleasure; as I thank God for this opportunity to redeem my pile of guilt, I feel a little frightened. I am ready to take more, so that the equation is balanced and there is no leftover to affect the people dearest to me. Please God, let the account be balanced and closed, never to be opened.
The funny thing is being on both sides of similar situations, I took such a long time to accept that change was inevitable, all that was there was then and all that is here is now. I took such a long time to realise the tell-tale signs. Was it denial? I do not know. But now the way things are, suddenly I jerk up and sit straight, and see everything so clearly. Why is it that when we are on the receiving end of a situation that is to our disadvantage, we always ignore the inevitable? How clear it was to me when I was sending the same signals. How I loathed the person who never seemed to understand what I was telling, quite clearly through my actions and words.
This had to happen, what had gone around had to come around. It’s a balanced world. No action can go without a reaction. How grateful I am to be able to go through this torture, for this opportunity that destiny had handed out so benevolently.
I do not feel any anger, but there is a strange sense of satisfaction, as if I have been absolved of my sins. My tears have wiped away my wrong doings, in a way no amount of punishment could. How light I feel! Every day, each action is like a stab in my heart, the pain so sweet, as it fills up the veins mixing with the blood, choking me. I am not a sadist, but this gives me so much pleasure; as I thank God for this opportunity to redeem my pile of guilt, I feel a little frightened. I am ready to take more, so that the equation is balanced and there is no leftover to affect the people dearest to me. Please God, let the account be balanced and closed, never to be opened.
The funny thing is being on both sides of similar situations, I took such a long time to accept that change was inevitable, all that was there was then and all that is here is now. I took such a long time to realise the tell-tale signs. Was it denial? I do not know. But now the way things are, suddenly I jerk up and sit straight, and see everything so clearly. Why is it that when we are on the receiving end of a situation that is to our disadvantage, we always ignore the inevitable? How clear it was to me when I was sending the same signals. How I loathed the person who never seemed to understand what I was telling, quite clearly through my actions and words.
This had to happen, what had gone around had to come around. It’s a balanced world. No action can go without a reaction. How grateful I am to be able to go through this torture, for this opportunity that destiny had handed out so benevolently.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
What If...
Standing there in front of her, I went back all those years. I was deliberating; I did not know how to answer that simple question, “how r u?” I wanted to say I was fine. I had a lovely wife, children, and a happy life. But somehow her question was not looking for these answers. I could feel it; she looked at me with those searching eyes, trying to answer the unanswered. I remembered those eyes; from years that were so far back in time that they seemed to belong to someone else.
That evening we had found ourselves, alone, in her room. I was going away the next day and she said she wanted to show me something. The rest of the household resided in an expectant hush, waiting and hoping for something to change. The day before, I had said no. No, to a marriage proposal that had made its way across the myriad channels of relationships that linked her to me. She had not believed it. She, who was the belle of the ball, the cynosure of all eyes, every young man’s dream. She had chosen me and I had refused her. I, who was practically an out-of-town nobody, still struggling to juggle my studies and a part-time job. As she sat before me, I knew she wanted to ask me all that was going like a storm through her confused mind. I felt a little afraid. I was not very adept at handling women, far less situations as delicate as this.
She looked at me, her eyes searching mine. It was then that I gathered up all the courage to tell her that my circumstances did not allow marriage, at least not at the moment. “Tell me yes, and I will wait. I will wait against all opposition. But I need to hear it from you.” At that moment commitment was the furthest thing from my mind. And to be fair to myself, I was not really in love. Or more correctly, I really did not feel anything that can be akin to the extreme emotions that one usually associates with love. How could I commit? I had to think of my younger siblings, who were still in school. My father already retired, pulling a decently sized family on the strength of his pension and my meagre earnings. I told her it was not possible. That she should find someone more suitable to her status. She sat there, still looking at me, her soulful eyes still searching for the unanswered truth, if any.
I came back the next day. I left her town, never to return again. And I left her memories, never to think back. At least that’s what I had thought. But, what remained were those haunting, searching eyes. Later on, I had thought many times, what if I had said yes, what if I had asked her to wait, what if…
Now as we stood, facing each other, once more those eyes were asking me something, hoping that the answer would be different from what my face so easily reflected. “I am very happy. I have a lovely family. After all this commotion is over, I will take you home to meet them.” She had come to attend a cousin’s wedding and I happened to be the cousin’s friend. We had met after ten years. We had never been in touch after that day. Our distantly related families thought it best to keep us from each other, lest our marriages be affected by even the whisper of a past association. “How are you?” Before, she could answer, I knew it. Her eyes said it all. “Well, I have a rich husband and a good life.” “Are you happy?” The moment I asked that, I regretted. What right did I have to ask if she was happy? She had wanted happiness from me. She had made no bones about it. And here she was standing here, in front of me, stripped of her poise; her emotions disarmingly at my mercy. It was so plainly there in front of me. How can I be so cruel? What did I expect to hear? Why was I looking for the unanswered “No”? Would that give me some sort of satisfaction? Would the feeling that someone’s happiness was and is in my hand, make me feel like God?
No, that was not it. I was not that sort of a person. I wished everyone a happy life, just as I wanted my loved ones to be happy. I just wanted to flow along with the rhythm of life. I had not done any harm to this woman in front of me. The woman, whose eyes were still brimming with so much of love, that it made me look away. We stood there, as time went by, each in our own thoughts, each in the other’s mind, each thinking, what if…
That evening we had found ourselves, alone, in her room. I was going away the next day and she said she wanted to show me something. The rest of the household resided in an expectant hush, waiting and hoping for something to change. The day before, I had said no. No, to a marriage proposal that had made its way across the myriad channels of relationships that linked her to me. She had not believed it. She, who was the belle of the ball, the cynosure of all eyes, every young man’s dream. She had chosen me and I had refused her. I, who was practically an out-of-town nobody, still struggling to juggle my studies and a part-time job. As she sat before me, I knew she wanted to ask me all that was going like a storm through her confused mind. I felt a little afraid. I was not very adept at handling women, far less situations as delicate as this.
She looked at me, her eyes searching mine. It was then that I gathered up all the courage to tell her that my circumstances did not allow marriage, at least not at the moment. “Tell me yes, and I will wait. I will wait against all opposition. But I need to hear it from you.” At that moment commitment was the furthest thing from my mind. And to be fair to myself, I was not really in love. Or more correctly, I really did not feel anything that can be akin to the extreme emotions that one usually associates with love. How could I commit? I had to think of my younger siblings, who were still in school. My father already retired, pulling a decently sized family on the strength of his pension and my meagre earnings. I told her it was not possible. That she should find someone more suitable to her status. She sat there, still looking at me, her soulful eyes still searching for the unanswered truth, if any.
I came back the next day. I left her town, never to return again. And I left her memories, never to think back. At least that’s what I had thought. But, what remained were those haunting, searching eyes. Later on, I had thought many times, what if I had said yes, what if I had asked her to wait, what if…
Now as we stood, facing each other, once more those eyes were asking me something, hoping that the answer would be different from what my face so easily reflected. “I am very happy. I have a lovely family. After all this commotion is over, I will take you home to meet them.” She had come to attend a cousin’s wedding and I happened to be the cousin’s friend. We had met after ten years. We had never been in touch after that day. Our distantly related families thought it best to keep us from each other, lest our marriages be affected by even the whisper of a past association. “How are you?” Before, she could answer, I knew it. Her eyes said it all. “Well, I have a rich husband and a good life.” “Are you happy?” The moment I asked that, I regretted. What right did I have to ask if she was happy? She had wanted happiness from me. She had made no bones about it. And here she was standing here, in front of me, stripped of her poise; her emotions disarmingly at my mercy. It was so plainly there in front of me. How can I be so cruel? What did I expect to hear? Why was I looking for the unanswered “No”? Would that give me some sort of satisfaction? Would the feeling that someone’s happiness was and is in my hand, make me feel like God?
No, that was not it. I was not that sort of a person. I wished everyone a happy life, just as I wanted my loved ones to be happy. I just wanted to flow along with the rhythm of life. I had not done any harm to this woman in front of me. The woman, whose eyes were still brimming with so much of love, that it made me look away. We stood there, as time went by, each in our own thoughts, each in the other’s mind, each thinking, what if…
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
On The Journey
I could see her as she made her way up the rough terrain. She seemed to be competing against herself, trying to leave the group behind. Look, I can make it faster and better, she seemed to be saying. It was not as if I was part of the group either. But, what happens in journeys such as this is that you start together, and you try to keep together in a bid to end together. It’s what nature, particularly when the going is tough, does to you. So it was with us, the motley group of people, on our way up the tough mountain trek to attain spiritual salvation or to celebrate with nature’s glory; each to his own.
I had noticed her, rather her long hair, which lay plaited like a thick black snake, literally long enough to encircle her delicate waist. Was she beautiful? That’s a question for the beholder to decide. I was caught in the black depths of those far-away eyes. Now, before you get any thought about my desirous intentions, I have a point to clarify. She was a woman, a rare species in the given circumstance, a defiant image of shy boldness, her face a fleeting image that did not give you time to consider her beauty. So, it is, but obvious, that she stood out, in that stark landscape.
Now, why I noticed her was a little more and beyond these obvious reasons. At times, we had stopped at precisely the same instant, within a metre of each other, resting on the rocks that lined the deep gorge. Though this sequence of events was random at first, it became more planned, as the group thinned along the way. I had the feeling that she was trying to keep an assuring distance from me. Not too close to send any signal, yet not too far to risk any danger.
I was feeling quite tired, and stopped at the first tea-stall that had appeared like a divine intervention, after what seemed like miles. I watched, as she made each tired step around the bend in the road, her flushed face set with dogged determination. Slumping on to the rickety wooden bench, she looked up. Our eyes met, and those dark pools melted into their depths. Quite a novice in matters that concerned women, I hesitated thinking of an appropriate reaction. By the time I smiled back, she had turned away to order her tea. We sat sipping the milky concoction. Back home, this thick variety would not be taken sportingly, where tea meant flavour and liquor. The tea was quite hot, and as she blew into it, the vapour rose like a mist and veiled her face. She did not attempt to speak, and I was left with my unspoken words. I wanted to know her name, ask her why she was alone, and where she had come from. She gazed across the valley to the faraway mountains that stretched along unending, range after range, as far as the eye could see. I did not want to interfere in her solitude.
The tea-stall owner seemed a more agreeable person, and I started talking with him. I noticed that she was listening to our conversation. Since, I had heard at the bus stand about a short-cut that would be much faster though more rocky, I asked Mangu Lal about it. “Han sahib, hain na! Ap thordi age jao tow, bayen taraf thodi chadai mein ak rasta gayen hain. Ap aramse ek der ghante mein pounch jayenge. Par apko us raste mein khane pine ka kuch milega nehi.” Considering this bit of information, I was tempted. The rest had revived me a little, the smile of those dark eyes had created a ripple and I felt a little adventurous. Suddenly I saw her getting up, the empty tea cup and the two rupee coin was placed on the table. Before I could give my money, she had started. As I walked to catch up, suddenly I was plagued with the though that she knew I would rush after her. Her confident steps, as it vanished round the next bend, resounded with the knowledge that I would follow her.
She turned back, hearing me call out to her. I had to shout, as she was about to take the right-hand road. Seeing me hurrying up to catch her, she waited, blinking, as she faced the sun. I tried to organise my thoughts, as I walked towards her. “This left-hand road would be faster. Mangu Lal was saying. I am taking this way. Would you like to come?” She hesitated, as if letting the information and the proposal sink down to the depths of her realisation. I felt confused. Was it such a big decision? Then suddenly, she shook her head to signal a negative answer, and took the longer, familiar, well-travelled path. As I took the up-ward turn, I saw her vanish around a bend in the road. I felt low, not because she had not come with me, but because her eyes had clearly said that she did not trust me or my intentions.
As I trudged along, I found myself trying to reason out the thoughts in her mind. The situation presented itself to me, as she would have seen it. A man asking her to accompany her on a lonely road, in a desolate area; it was unnerving. I dismissed the thought, as I slowly got immersed in the surrounding beauty, the trickling waterfalls and the stray wild life. I reached in little more than an hour and went straight to the lodging house.
Next day I saw her, as the long line of devotees meandered along the narrow path. I adjusted my camera, as I focussed on the beautiful snow-capped peaks. Suddenly she was walking beside me. “Hello. I was planning to start early morning, tomorrow. Will you come with me?”
I had noticed her, rather her long hair, which lay plaited like a thick black snake, literally long enough to encircle her delicate waist. Was she beautiful? That’s a question for the beholder to decide. I was caught in the black depths of those far-away eyes. Now, before you get any thought about my desirous intentions, I have a point to clarify. She was a woman, a rare species in the given circumstance, a defiant image of shy boldness, her face a fleeting image that did not give you time to consider her beauty. So, it is, but obvious, that she stood out, in that stark landscape.
Now, why I noticed her was a little more and beyond these obvious reasons. At times, we had stopped at precisely the same instant, within a metre of each other, resting on the rocks that lined the deep gorge. Though this sequence of events was random at first, it became more planned, as the group thinned along the way. I had the feeling that she was trying to keep an assuring distance from me. Not too close to send any signal, yet not too far to risk any danger.
I was feeling quite tired, and stopped at the first tea-stall that had appeared like a divine intervention, after what seemed like miles. I watched, as she made each tired step around the bend in the road, her flushed face set with dogged determination. Slumping on to the rickety wooden bench, she looked up. Our eyes met, and those dark pools melted into their depths. Quite a novice in matters that concerned women, I hesitated thinking of an appropriate reaction. By the time I smiled back, she had turned away to order her tea. We sat sipping the milky concoction. Back home, this thick variety would not be taken sportingly, where tea meant flavour and liquor. The tea was quite hot, and as she blew into it, the vapour rose like a mist and veiled her face. She did not attempt to speak, and I was left with my unspoken words. I wanted to know her name, ask her why she was alone, and where she had come from. She gazed across the valley to the faraway mountains that stretched along unending, range after range, as far as the eye could see. I did not want to interfere in her solitude.
The tea-stall owner seemed a more agreeable person, and I started talking with him. I noticed that she was listening to our conversation. Since, I had heard at the bus stand about a short-cut that would be much faster though more rocky, I asked Mangu Lal about it. “Han sahib, hain na! Ap thordi age jao tow, bayen taraf thodi chadai mein ak rasta gayen hain. Ap aramse ek der ghante mein pounch jayenge. Par apko us raste mein khane pine ka kuch milega nehi.” Considering this bit of information, I was tempted. The rest had revived me a little, the smile of those dark eyes had created a ripple and I felt a little adventurous. Suddenly I saw her getting up, the empty tea cup and the two rupee coin was placed on the table. Before I could give my money, she had started. As I walked to catch up, suddenly I was plagued with the though that she knew I would rush after her. Her confident steps, as it vanished round the next bend, resounded with the knowledge that I would follow her.
She turned back, hearing me call out to her. I had to shout, as she was about to take the right-hand road. Seeing me hurrying up to catch her, she waited, blinking, as she faced the sun. I tried to organise my thoughts, as I walked towards her. “This left-hand road would be faster. Mangu Lal was saying. I am taking this way. Would you like to come?” She hesitated, as if letting the information and the proposal sink down to the depths of her realisation. I felt confused. Was it such a big decision? Then suddenly, she shook her head to signal a negative answer, and took the longer, familiar, well-travelled path. As I took the up-ward turn, I saw her vanish around a bend in the road. I felt low, not because she had not come with me, but because her eyes had clearly said that she did not trust me or my intentions.
As I trudged along, I found myself trying to reason out the thoughts in her mind. The situation presented itself to me, as she would have seen it. A man asking her to accompany her on a lonely road, in a desolate area; it was unnerving. I dismissed the thought, as I slowly got immersed in the surrounding beauty, the trickling waterfalls and the stray wild life. I reached in little more than an hour and went straight to the lodging house.
Next day I saw her, as the long line of devotees meandered along the narrow path. I adjusted my camera, as I focussed on the beautiful snow-capped peaks. Suddenly she was walking beside me. “Hello. I was planning to start early morning, tomorrow. Will you come with me?”
The Ritual
He was working in the field, when he sensed her going towards the makeshift shower. Without turning his head, he could tell that she was picking her way carefully, wary of the rough gravel. Her anklets were whispering, as if afraid to break the quiet of the morning. Carrying her fresh clothes in one hand, the other hand swinging her tightly plaited hair; she made her way, furtively glancing in his direction. This was their daily ritual.
Her hand tentatively drew the curtain, in an attempt to block out the bold rays of sunlight that struggled to make its way through the crack in the door. She could see his strong arms; brown and wiry, as he deftly cut the bamboo into long strips. She knew he was watching her, his eyes hungry, a look that made her shiver in excitement.
Taking off her clothes, she remembered she had to hurry, there were people coming home. Her hands, however, did not show any such urgency, as her fingers moved caressingly over her body, taking off each piece of garment in a languid movement. Was he watching her? Shameless fellow. She moved her eyes close to the crack. He was no where to be seen. Where is he? Did he go away? Her eyes searched the sun-swept fields and suddenly he stood up, from where he had been bent down in between the bamboo shrubs. He faced her, as he stood there bronze in the golden sun, the sweat drops glistening on his bare chest. She gasped and moved away. Had he seen her? Did he know that she was looking out for him? Her body scorched hot even as the cold water ran down.
They had finalized an alliance with their son, the people who had come the other day. She was getting married today. As she walked towards the shower, carrying fragrant oil in her hands, she looked out to see where he was. He was not to be seen. Maybe he had not yet come. She was a little early today. She decided to oil her long stresses while keeping an eye on the crack of the door. A thousand golden rays spilled in unapologetic ripples over her bosom as she untied her blouse. Where was he? Why was he late? Had he gone somewhere? Perhaps, another woman? She couldn’t bear the thought. But why? Why was she waiting for him on her marriage day? She herself would be gone in a while, never perhaps to see him again? So, why was she holding her breath in anticipation? Why was she looking out for him?
Her husband’s cousin was coming today to help with the harvest. Her husband was not keeping well and they needed an extra hand to tide away the busy months. She looked up from where she was filling the water pots, as the horse drawn tanga stopped before the house. He was standing their, as bronze, as wiry, and as strong as she remembered him every night. The future no more stressed out like an uninterrupted monotonous line, the ritual would continue.
Her hand tentatively drew the curtain, in an attempt to block out the bold rays of sunlight that struggled to make its way through the crack in the door. She could see his strong arms; brown and wiry, as he deftly cut the bamboo into long strips. She knew he was watching her, his eyes hungry, a look that made her shiver in excitement.
Taking off her clothes, she remembered she had to hurry, there were people coming home. Her hands, however, did not show any such urgency, as her fingers moved caressingly over her body, taking off each piece of garment in a languid movement. Was he watching her? Shameless fellow. She moved her eyes close to the crack. He was no where to be seen. Where is he? Did he go away? Her eyes searched the sun-swept fields and suddenly he stood up, from where he had been bent down in between the bamboo shrubs. He faced her, as he stood there bronze in the golden sun, the sweat drops glistening on his bare chest. She gasped and moved away. Had he seen her? Did he know that she was looking out for him? Her body scorched hot even as the cold water ran down.
They had finalized an alliance with their son, the people who had come the other day. She was getting married today. As she walked towards the shower, carrying fragrant oil in her hands, she looked out to see where he was. He was not to be seen. Maybe he had not yet come. She was a little early today. She decided to oil her long stresses while keeping an eye on the crack of the door. A thousand golden rays spilled in unapologetic ripples over her bosom as she untied her blouse. Where was he? Why was he late? Had he gone somewhere? Perhaps, another woman? She couldn’t bear the thought. But why? Why was she waiting for him on her marriage day? She herself would be gone in a while, never perhaps to see him again? So, why was she holding her breath in anticipation? Why was she looking out for him?
Her husband’s cousin was coming today to help with the harvest. Her husband was not keeping well and they needed an extra hand to tide away the busy months. She looked up from where she was filling the water pots, as the horse drawn tanga stopped before the house. He was standing their, as bronze, as wiry, and as strong as she remembered him every night. The future no more stressed out like an uninterrupted monotonous line, the ritual would continue.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Hey! It's Just Another Story:-)
She did not remember when she fell asleep. The pillow was wet with tears; the pillow into which she sank her face, every night, trying to shut away the pain. It was so physical, this pain; it felt as if someone or something was twisting her heart. She moved her hand over her chest trying to lessen the pain. She wanted to sleep, fall into a slumber that will take away all the memories, so that in the morning she can wake up with an empty slate for a heart. But life usually was not so kind. It did not let you use an eraser quite so liberally.
Why does it happen sometimes that you are faced with a situation that you have always dreaded? She was not prepared for this, nor was she waiting for it. She was there, whiling away her time away from the noise and chaos, in this sleepy corner of the world. She had not gone out holding her heart on her hand. She had not asked anyone, nor permitted them, to have a peek, discover what they wanted to discover and then pull her along. She was laughing through the labyrinth of life, just as she had promised herself that she would. She could'nt help when a disquieting feeling engulfed her, from time to time. But everytime she rose from that, fighting, gasping, but live and kicking. She had learnt to take care of her emotional needs.
It was then that he came. Like a messiah. She saw a friend, a person who had time for her. Her days took a new turn, waiting for the hands of the clock to reach that position when the phone would ring. She would finish all her work and wait for that time. She would keep everything aside and wait for that voice. She would dread the time when he would say bye. Time would fly. The seconds, minutes and hours would merge into a dream, removed from the reality of time and space. All that mattered was feeling each other intensely across the invisible barriers of the world.
She often wondered, now, why had he come all of a sudden? He of all people, who had the most satisfying and content life, as one can ever hope for? There was no void in his life that needed filling up! Why did he wake her from her slumber, why did he make her want to flow against the tide, why did he say to her, “tell me once, what I want to hear.” Today, every moment she remembers that one single line, that soft oh so soft voice, and all she is left with is her own tears.
They were both burning with the heat of desire, a passion so overpowering that all barriers seem to crumble in its force. It was a ring of fire that beckoned, with mesmerising intensity, even if it meant lives charred for eternity. There was no way either of them could escape it. So, it happened one day. As they came close, fate took over. An insignificant instant from the past, a story of indulgence that left nothing in its path, came between them. Was she trying to be honest? Today, as she looks back, it feels like the hands of God. But she saw that light die in his eyes. As he moved away, she knew she had lost him.
Why was a physical encounter, without love, so important to him? He had loved her, had he not? She had trusted him, had she not? No, he did not go away, which perhaps would have been easier. But he moved away, sheltering himself behind a wall of work, responsibilities, ethics and morality, unreachable, shunning her like dreaded disease.
She complains. He explains. Love is a one-way traffic, if “I love thee what’s that to thee?” He tells her that there should be no expectation. He tells her anything can happen in the future. He tells her that even if nothing exists between them from this moment, can they not live with what they had? All so true, all so sage, all so logical. But she can’t understand such profound thoughts. If all this is true, why did he risk what he had? Was it all a game, played in the spirit of adventure?
Did she deserve this? The question haunts her all the while. She is grateful for these moments they shared. Grateful? Is that the right word? Many years back, someone had said, “love is an illusion.” She had thought, what a cynical idea! Today, it seems true. To be in love with the idea of love. The expectations, the fantasy’s, the waiting and the wanting are somehow more pleasant than reality.
The day he said that he had lost everything, she knew that he meant his family. That day something died within her. The will to flow against the tide.
Why does it happen sometimes that you are faced with a situation that you have always dreaded? She was not prepared for this, nor was she waiting for it. She was there, whiling away her time away from the noise and chaos, in this sleepy corner of the world. She had not gone out holding her heart on her hand. She had not asked anyone, nor permitted them, to have a peek, discover what they wanted to discover and then pull her along. She was laughing through the labyrinth of life, just as she had promised herself that she would. She could'nt help when a disquieting feeling engulfed her, from time to time. But everytime she rose from that, fighting, gasping, but live and kicking. She had learnt to take care of her emotional needs.
It was then that he came. Like a messiah. She saw a friend, a person who had time for her. Her days took a new turn, waiting for the hands of the clock to reach that position when the phone would ring. She would finish all her work and wait for that time. She would keep everything aside and wait for that voice. She would dread the time when he would say bye. Time would fly. The seconds, minutes and hours would merge into a dream, removed from the reality of time and space. All that mattered was feeling each other intensely across the invisible barriers of the world.
She often wondered, now, why had he come all of a sudden? He of all people, who had the most satisfying and content life, as one can ever hope for? There was no void in his life that needed filling up! Why did he wake her from her slumber, why did he make her want to flow against the tide, why did he say to her, “tell me once, what I want to hear.” Today, every moment she remembers that one single line, that soft oh so soft voice, and all she is left with is her own tears.
They were both burning with the heat of desire, a passion so overpowering that all barriers seem to crumble in its force. It was a ring of fire that beckoned, with mesmerising intensity, even if it meant lives charred for eternity. There was no way either of them could escape it. So, it happened one day. As they came close, fate took over. An insignificant instant from the past, a story of indulgence that left nothing in its path, came between them. Was she trying to be honest? Today, as she looks back, it feels like the hands of God. But she saw that light die in his eyes. As he moved away, she knew she had lost him.
Why was a physical encounter, without love, so important to him? He had loved her, had he not? She had trusted him, had she not? No, he did not go away, which perhaps would have been easier. But he moved away, sheltering himself behind a wall of work, responsibilities, ethics and morality, unreachable, shunning her like dreaded disease.
She complains. He explains. Love is a one-way traffic, if “I love thee what’s that to thee?” He tells her that there should be no expectation. He tells her anything can happen in the future. He tells her that even if nothing exists between them from this moment, can they not live with what they had? All so true, all so sage, all so logical. But she can’t understand such profound thoughts. If all this is true, why did he risk what he had? Was it all a game, played in the spirit of adventure?
Did she deserve this? The question haunts her all the while. She is grateful for these moments they shared. Grateful? Is that the right word? Many years back, someone had said, “love is an illusion.” She had thought, what a cynical idea! Today, it seems true. To be in love with the idea of love. The expectations, the fantasy’s, the waiting and the wanting are somehow more pleasant than reality.
The day he said that he had lost everything, she knew that he meant his family. That day something died within her. The will to flow against the tide.
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