A woman I loved is coming for dinner tonight.
So as known, I slept very early, woke up in the middle of the night, lazed around watching random stuff, read random pieces from my diary, sat across the balcony. Having fallen asleep there, I wake up disoriented.
I get up and I make tea. As I wait for the water to boil, I vaguely go through a few random memories of her from the past.
I am thirty one years old, I have been alone for almost three years now, I have dated no one since-the-last-almost-three-maybe-four-years-of relationship/being-together/knowing her. I know her for the past six years. I fell in love with her, yet. She could have fallen in love with me; may be, she did. But, she avoided it. We were almost in an almost relationship, but we averted it.
Sometimes I like to be alone, I come into my bedroom at the odd time of the day, just to lie down for a moment. I Look out at the light coming through my window, it gives me a feeling of solitude filled with hope. It seems the most human thing, i can learn to live with.
I realise how, some mornings never dawn in a man’s bedroom, the drapes of a morning never unfolds till a woman arrives.
I remember a portrait of us together in a friends house. Probably the only picture of us together; me in a white tee and a black shorts after giving bozo, the chocolate lab, a shower and she in her pantsuit. The picture is a testimony of our worlds apart, Yet S’s mom finds that a cute picture, “No two same people ever fall in love”
There are times, I feel so ditsy, dizzy and disoriented. I do take refugee with some of my couple-friends, Three to two to be precise, for they make you feel better and humane. I remember once at a late dinner at their place, I could hear their baby whimpering from the bedroom. I was about to stop my story-telling as she paused for a second and asked me to finish first. I was a bit taken back, She got up as I finished with the anecdote, Winking at her husband V, she said, “I will get the baby, you take care of this one.” I am grateful in life for a few deep friendships that I had earned till now.
Sometimes all I do is sit at my sofa or lean against the counter in the kitchen or even without realising as I open my fridge or when I am about to leave for work, I start to think about the home that I have made in the last lustrum. The guest bedroom, the way the laundry bag is hidden from the view, the way the bamboo plant is kept facing the sun, the arrangement of rugs.The idea of an hand-sanitiser within the reach as you snuggle onto the sofa. The chair right near the front door so that one can ease into it, as reaching for the footwear. In some ways every little precise detail matched the version of you in my head.
At times, it gives me an immense feeling of a home, a family, when there is someone sleeping in the next room, the way I tip-toe across the entire house, the way a door should be closed with a silent hush. Something I picked up from somewhere,
just like this weird habit of mine – Celebrating either a 10,000th day or Eleven thousand eleven hundred and eleventh day of someone, I missed the first. So i planned the latter on April 1st 2014. How I bugged her all day to bunk, just to cancel my plan on the last minute. Yet Fahadh came to the rescue, planned the whole thing, A cake, a box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates, I do have the small video of someone, mellowing down, the welling up in the eyes and a slight smile of mouthing the words, Thank you.
I imagine at times, the house filled with people, the two kids and the dog. As I have this space below the window sill, large enough to fit a small bed for a dog. Of her in the study, pacing deep down in concentrating on work, the kids sleeping, me sitting with the dog, talking to a friend/student. May be its a way that one is growing up without a family around.
May be somewhere a home awaits you, as the woman I loved is coming for dinner tonight.
Here I am back to my blogging life, interspersed with random thoughts, frequents cups of hot fluids, evading abstract memories of fading yesterdays and an impending finished PhD dissertation, nursing myself back to health, like an wounded animal in a battle for survival.
My mind chose this night to recount a few memories, draped in a moon-lit solitude and a flickering candle, I sit helplessly and sleeplessly ruminating over a few hundred moments of what could have been the point of breaking down. Writing could be a wonderful way to exorcise past and to confront the violent ugliness of reality. Its the point in time, when people see that lane of exit of the past, parallel to their actual days of life.
Most times, our lives are never about ourselves alone, it is so more about a few people who do become a part of you and your everydayness of life. It is strange when people decide to leave, all of a sudden. The silence, sullenness, the aloofness, the cold distance, the indifference and all of that together in a single look, word or a phrase, and to realise at a precise moment in time; to be left alone,
” I was certain he would turn my way. He would look at me. He would flatten his ears. He would growl. In some such way, he would conclude our relationship. He did nothing of the sort…
…. I was weeping because Richard Parker had left me so unceremoniously. What a terrible thing to botch a farewell. I am a person who believes in form, in the harmony of order. where we can, we must give things a meaningful shape.. It’s important in life to conclude things properly. Only then you can let go, otherwise you are left with words you should have said but never did and your heart is heavy with remorse, that bungled good-bye hurts me to this day.. But I hope you will remember me as a friend. I will never forget you, that is certain. You will always be with me in my heart…So Farewell, God be with you..”
– Life of Pi- Yann Martel.
The adolescent longings of an unrequited love seems much more of a mirage in the scale of pain as one grows up to be an adult. Those winter evenings as I stay hidden on the sides of the wall, looking up on balcony for a sight of her. The exhilarating joys of a puppy love, the rush of hormones, the inevitable shyness even to look into your eyes as we speak. The innocence of then love held a promise of being cared for, with no apprehensiveness. Was it the age? was it the heart? Was it the mind?
Life then sucked too.
The promise of a love and a faith in the togetherness of a tomorrow was quite reassuring.
I vividly remember a new years eve. Following a promise made to A, I began to read my first Classic, Of Human Bondage. Any plans for a celebration looked futile. I was half cursing and sulking at my room-mate who left earlier that evening. I took my pills, covered myself with two sheets of blankets and held a book on top of my chest. It was cold and difficult even to hold the book and worse it wasn’t a book that seemed to move forward as one reads. I remember this place in the book, where an unhappy orphan kid feeling far worse alone and painful as he couldn’t be consoled by his care taker, a barren elderly women who never had a kid. The kid shouts out his vengeance”I hate you, I wish you were dead”. The poor lady who never knew what it is to be mother breaks down at her failure. She breaks down and sobs as the kid reaches to kiss her. “She loved him now with a new love because he had made her suffer”. That was a moment of a sublimeness and I was overcome with such a spiritual feeling. I went off to sleep, closing the book and remember waking up far better in reality.
I knew very little of A’s own journey from her childhood. She married young and got divorced with a little boy even before she turned twenty five. Having lost her father at a young age, it was her mother who raised her; and life can be indeed cruel when you are violently brought back to square one. I knew somethings about her life as she told me, what she had to fight everyday and what follows her like the shadows of demons. I know our lives are not destined to be the same in our adulthood, yet I know, how I once felt close to her as how I would have for a sibling.
At times, life spins a tale, a far fetched joke, taking someone far away from everything they knew and they loved.
I remember writing once in my diary, “Love is an ability. An ability to be humane.” I have had known, what is when people leave, when they grow up and move on. Yet some times, when few memories catch you, so off-guard. A trembling moment of resonance as one sees, when things come crashing down. Stay put. Hold onto your ground. Look up as they soar high and smile, knowing deep down, they are not coming back.
May be. Sometimes they do.
Sometimes this wound occurs at the moment of birth, sometimes it happens later. We are all fixing what is broken. It is the task of a lifetime. We’ll leave much unfinished for the next generation.
Cutting For Stone – Abraham Verghese
It seems like the last time, I wrote anything was aeons ago, I don’t have a faintest memory of ever being committed to a paper and pen in the measurable last seven years of my life. Simple. Life happened. I was not jobless anymore.
I quit Hyderabad. I moved half-way-across-the-country to Shillong, Trust me, if there is anyone reading out this. I shall dedicate more space here for my lives in Hyderabad and Shillong. Moving into Shillong costed me few precious things in life, Yet life moves on and yours faithfully moved on. On.
It all began, when I applied for a post in NEHU and that was in 2012. As the stars favoured me “and, when you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it”. I fell into the conspiracy.
It was not a happily-ever after story. Life’s blues began. The prospect of being a twenty-six year old with a job and the stillness and stubbornness of Shillong scared the living day-lights out of me. It turned out that this wasn’t that bad after all. A new Place, a new Home, a home that I designed and something where I put in all efforts to build.
And all through this, something that stuck in my head was the odd belief that this was all temporary. Something that I had to put up with, till some better greener pastures comes my way.
Yet the truth was, it was hard to resist and at times, easier to accept and fall into the charm of this small sleepy little English town. It was not a perfect place, but no beauty lies in perfection as I knew and learnt.
Slowly I learnt to accommodate and acknowledge my very presence here. But grudgingly.
Honestly, I wasn’t ready to regard the good side, that Shillong and this new life came with. Yet Shillong was nicer to me, I learnt here to not to heed to pretentious people and the artificiality that they naturally come with. I started painfully to carve and define me in the very solitude I was bestowed with.
It was a painful transformation.
I realised the real reason that I could not like this place was the remnants of Hyderabad that I carried with me,
I missed Hyderabad terribly,
I still miss. I have learnt not to fall into the pit-traps of Nostalgia.
Now the very memory and thought of Hyderabad serves as an elixir to regain my sanity. The places and people, the freedom, the mobility, the teachers of HCU, friends made, friends lost, acquaintances, the trekking in the campus, bonfires, Nalagantla wine-shops, Mehdipatnam, Hyderabad RTC buses, MMTS, share-autos, auto-driver annas, Gachebowli, mid-night strolls in the campus, buffalo-lake, peacock lake, F hostel, H Hostel, Ladies Hostel Complex, SN School, CCL, Friends in the city, coming home, Hostel food, not being bothered about food, not having to bother to remember to buy and stock up and to decide on the next day’s menu, Biryani and the craving for it at midnight and the fact that it will be brought to you by the lovable roommate Sudarshan anna, Hogging of food with Adil and Winny boy, Lazy Sundays, Mess food, Old monk, Booze, bike-trips, Silences, Reading into the night, watching sitcoms all day, The night canteens, endless chais and conversations, the movies, DST auditorium, birthday circle, classmates, roommates, glass-mates, soulmates and knowing that you will never be all alone and friend-less. I miss the camaraderie and companionship that Hyderabad gave. Truth be told, NEHU did not give me any friendships nor it let me, earn any.
I miss a life, that will never be again. I knew When i moved out of home, that on some levels, that I will never be home again. Its just that these thoughts lie dormant at the rock bottom of my heart and when they re-surface, life just becomes a wishful and wistful longing, It is a phase, a phase that phases me out for a while.
A mild-longing for a warm-familiar something, like a baby that snuggles unto the warm-confines of mother’s cloth, my hearts leaps into the nostalgic memories.
I for one, now know that this fifth year of me in Shillong will be a tumultuous year ahead with important decisions to make. I look forward for the uncertainty. Amidst all this, being a teacher with students gives me a fresh leash of breath in life.
Now I have a different level of comfort with the place, A distant and a detached familiarity, at times, the place suffocates me, yet it makes up by springing its hidden beauty. The sight of a mist clad afternoon view from my window is one, worth living here.
Four-years and going, Hoping to see more here 🙂
I knew deep inside me that I will not and cannot love him as how S loved him. Yet my fondness grew aplenty, platonically. He made me grow into the person that I always wanted to. He taught me; how to dribble a ball, climb, swim, trek, to whistle with fingers, tie a sailor’s knot in ropes and Windsor’s knot and seventeen other ways to tie a necktie, something that my children adore in me now.
And, as I always remember being the youngest and only daughter, how it was to be treated a-bullied-yet-the-princess of the world by my brothers. I wish my two daughters would stop constantly picking on their brother and leave him to grow up like, the memory of mine-You.
an anonymous night
two souls delved deeper
in the piercing cold,
hot,the glistening beads of sweat…
in the unspent hour hurriedly,
i searched for a known semblance…
of the crispness in the wild air,
the mud patch of the wet earth,
the whining moon light,
the unmistakable sad tilt of your head…
in the inner sanctum of the dark and coldest night,
embers of romance are still warm,
a flame of nostalgic love will now be lit
for the memories of unmade love…
Does the night still possess the love to serenade the moon?
I don’t have a clue, when I fell in love, my first memory of my love dates back to my six or seven years of age, when I first saw my parent’s wedding album. I regretted being not there and determinedly decided that I would sure want my kids to witness my wedding. Brings a stupid smile now. But, Why not???
Well coming back to the wedding album, It was the pictures that I loved the most, The coarse feel of the black and white pictures neatly arranged in the black charts, beautifully bound gives an almost nauseating nostalgic look which slyly creeps into me, making me feel want to live in the bygone times. It is the frozen memories of the past, well hidden from the Wheel of time.
I go to greater extents and take risks to collect copies of photographs of my people. I greatly pester people for their photos, for which many don’t have a clue why I should go gaga over photos. Believe me I have albums of many with me. Somehow I feel a magical connection of going down the memory lane and reliving them when I see the photographs. When I see those pictures, I see their childhood and adolescence unfolding before me- letting me get a glimpse of all the missing pieces that I had only imagined. They affect me in a strange way; I feel neither sadness nor anger for having missed living with them in their yesteryear lives. For I always love to grow up with people.
When I see my parents wedding album, I get a thousand thoughts. Well, for first thing it is love before marriage, then accepted at last by their parents and an arranged marriage. I wonder how my dad would have felt being the groom, knowing that he would be spending the rest of his life, with the person he loved so much. Did he really think then, that he would have a son, who would be writing about his wedding in a blog? How would have my mom felt? Had she ever looked him into his eyes and smiled with a mischievous twinkle full of love? Did she ever have the clue that she is going to be the mom of a son, who considers himself a treasure of their cherished love and wedded bliss?
Well the photograph speaks, each picture has got a thousand stories to tell, If you’re ever a willing patient listener, listen to someone ramble about their youth and blessed will be you, if they have photographs with them when they tell their tales of loved and lived lives. But for me, photographs are just not the magic alone. It is their youth and more importantly having lived their youth in 70s and 80s which I personally consider the golden/classic/ best of times in life.
I am thoroughly in love with the art and literature of 70s and 80s. Be it the movies/music/pictures/literature/persons/advertisements/Television serials, nothing beats the magic of those times for me. May be the black and white print gives a lived-in authenticity to them, And till my ten years of age I believed that Life was in black and white or in grey in 70s and 80s. I visualize how the mountains, lakes and greeneries would have looked in black and white. I visualize life in the metros, sub-urban, abroad and villages alike. I visualize how people would have spent their young and old life in 70s and 80s.
I feel a tugging at my heart with a painful lump forming in my throat and I sigh heavily till the tingling tinge fades away in me. How much I wish, I want to live my life in such a period. I get jealous at people who have lived/spent their youth in those times. Certain Golden olden movies rekindle my longings and stir my heart, making me nostalgic for the past which doesn’t belong to me, a past I partly own. I smile knowing inside that, though I didn’t live then, I belong there completely.
For the simple reason, I believe life was simpler then, people were inherently good and people had time for life’s little things, everyday chattering were part of life then, people had time for humane interactions; families had time for dinners and for gatherings at terrace after dinner, casual acquaintances was more happening than social networking. Neighborhood and life in government quarters gave people to come-together and rejoice in camaraderie. Life was less mechanical, people certainly had the humane touch and more than anything, people wrote letters. Yeah I know, I whine here. But accept me. Just once in your life, realize what I’ve fallen for. Take a paper and write a letter to a dear one, at least a text mail. You will know the magic for yourself.
That was the time when life was not commercialized. I greatly believe that the art of those days celebrated love, people and the human spirit. I believe I’m made of that and made for that. I precisely conclude I’m a person who still live in the black and white times, pen and paper days. My world still counts in 70s and 80s. I take everything possible of me to make life more momentous and memorable with just people and people around. As I know, I’m born to love and I live now to love.
பருவ வயதின் கனவிலே பறந்து திரியும் மனங்களே கவி பாடுங்கள், உறவாடுங்கள்.
“To those hearts, fluttering their dreams in the youth. Sing poems of life and love and celebrate them. “
No!!! This is not a review of the book, or Am not gonna talk about anything related to the book, There is always a coming back for everything on earth and for everyone… And So for me, for someone who didn’t write anything for ages, It is something little that does the wonder in life,
For I believe that little things matter the most in life.. THE MOST… And I greatly adore/admire/love/respect Arundathi Roy, who christened her book, The God of Small things… Happyness like the sands of the sea is made up of numerous little things, Life is made up of such numerous beautiful little things which make the short while a worth while occasion.
Be it watching a sunset, a cozy conversation over a cup of chai or a little shared dinner, a late night coffee or spending an evening with friends … And when I say friends, It sounds a little tricky… for What is a friend and who is a friend differs a lot in every one’s perspective. Someone who makes you feel good, someone who brings you a smile for no reason, someone who makes you care, go for him/her. Nothing great can define a friend and a friendship … It is often the overstated or the understated…
An unexpected catch up in the canteen, leading to an idle no-sense/no need of a sense/all sense conversation, a small walk the talk/hey am leaving/ hey see the sun/
A path through the dried grass, thoroughly littered with shit and shattered glass, and the tall bushes and tress, a careful walk among the once lush greenery, leading to the lake, the dried patch of the earth, a small make-over place to sit, a amateur flutist trying his level best to play sound and a musical response from the cuckoo or a peacock…. Watching the blue hues turn to the orange hues as the clouds magically sweep the sun home, the birds flying home in the V direction, the frogs croaking in the lake, a duck paddling its way to and fro, a small bird searching for the fish, the buffaloes grazing lazily, three friends chatting over, one desperately trying to play flute, the other playing and singing songs and the third other ever innocently watching the stupid acts of the two guys… One thing leading to the other, a talk about Tamil movies, One animatedly talking about her love for Tamil movies, and how she likes the dance of the actor Vijay *Sigh*,, Hey indeed Vijay a great dancer, but actor….. oh My God……
Then a photo session to follow, Oh! how much I love to click people,,, The most beautiful moments captured in the camera and frozen in the mind and every picture tells a story, how the picture was taken, what happened before, during and after… Listening to the old songs, the English rapp, malayalam Naadan pattukal, the Hindu devotional songs, Suprabhatam, “The best way to,” ….. get up in the morning, completes your friend.. How true, The joy of getting up early in the morning to the sound of the magical muse…. Some things just happen… The accidental meeting, the unplanned act of sitting together and watching the sun-set…
An unexpected Gift(s), The most beautiful thing in life is surprise, and the next wonderful thing is being surrounded with people who surprises you… An Unexpected gift, that too a book, It indeed feels great when someone gifts, and then a long ago requested cloth bag…. I felt so good…. An unexpected phone call, when you were busy sharing dinner, what feel is that when you turn into kids and share food, in spite fighting over the fish pieces and still sharing leaving the little for the sure-late-comer….
And a phone call to talk/share/ramble on about the recent Jayakanthan book read.. The Characters Ganga/Henry/Ranga/Kalyani who teach you what life is, An author with a fatherly concern who teaches you the healthy view of life, a non-judgemental writer, the greatest humanist-ever, and therapeutic words brimming with love. Jayakanathan, You made me a human… And tons of Thanks to JB Ma’am for having introducing this legend in my life….
What more can be asked in life than love, people, books, music and certain other little which you love the most and that makes life the more meaning full… They make you passionate and compassionate enough. What more is needed in life than to live life with love? What more can life be? when you’re surrounded by people whom you love and people who love you?
What more can be asked in life, when you know that life is in the little moments of happyness and life is only when you live, As Anu akka says,”what more life can be, when you have learnt, how to romance life…”
We’re conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware – beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a “small one.”
P.S1.Well I Thank Nikhil for His , Honest Blogger Award that He bestowed upon this Humble Blog And his Cho cho cho chweet words for me
“the tamil payyan-most men aren even half as honest as he is in his space,the longest posts in ma blgroll which is quite superb though you tend to struggle for words thaks to the sheer magnitude of his posts,fun loving,humorous and sexy.. :p).”
P.S2. And if you have noticed I had changed the blog name from Musings to Musings of a true believer. People Who knows me well, Know well about this Incurable optimist too and I believe that I’m a true Believer, an Inspiration from Nicholas Sparks..
P.S3. And, Recently I had been asked by a good friend of mine, to actually confess (anything) in my blog, I remember telling this to a friend, followed by a roar of laughter. But I believe in this still …, “I want to read with my lady-love, A walk to Remember in my first night and cry.” It’s now left to you to imagine, what kind of a man would want to read in his Nuptial Night……
P.S4. This post is dedicated to all my friends who have been with/through me, eternally.
It was a great surprise to know that I was awarded by Ani It was a great feeling to be awarded by famous bloggers and also someone lovely like Ani. Thanks a ton Ani buddy!!!! and also for her kind words of love and comfort.
And I would like to award this blog to the following lovely bloggers.
How much Once I longed for one, that i decided to create one by my own and send it to a friend and ask him to pass that to me back through another.. crazy days,, Then it all happened. The wonders of the people, I met here and their constant encouragement, love and support which made me go on. Without them, I wouldn’t have made out.. Thanks a ton. Love you all.
This is a story, I wrote for my friend’s blog. With his permission, I present the same here. Hope you like this…
Recounting memories of someone is a tiring process, yet there are certain memories, when cherished creates rainbows of myriad hues with subtle shades of different emotions in the mind. It gives the true delight of life, which soothingly embraces the soul. One such memory is Mano anna.
There was no one in the street who didn’t know him, the mechanic Manoharan. Everyone calls him, ‘dey mechanic’. Dad and mom call him ‘mano thambi’. To me, he is mano anna, my mano anna.
I met him when I was six or seven years old. He was six years elder than me.
I am the only child at home. I can be spotted either roaming in the street, fighting with older boys, or in the mechanic shed after my school hours. There were at least a dozen kids and it was natural for us to squabble one thousand times each day. Though I got along well with everyone, I spend most of my time in Mano anna’s mechanic shop. At 15 he was the owner of this shop. Mano anna, unlike me doesn’t speak much.
He is very soft spoken, who never loses him when dealing with people. He can be always seen working, with those grease stains all over him. All he knew in his life was his mechanic shop, his motor bike, his Bible, his harmonica, his volley ball and his few friends. He had an elder sister, who was studying in Chennai then. He earned and spent everything for her. And Whatever he is, to me, Mano anna is my good friend, a brother and my first male companion.
I spent my childhood days in his company and grew up with him. My parents never objected or had problems with this. My grand-ma didn’t like me spending time with mano anna. There were times when she was rude and shouted at him for no reasons. I appreciated my parent’s efforts to pacify her, but every time they fail miserably in their mission. I had no problems over anything. I hate my grand-ma for her constant surveillance on me and her endless preaching on how-to-be-a-girl. I remember her constantly telling me that it is not good for a girl to have friendships with boys. I can very well understand my grand-ma. To her, her views and perceptions were right and hence she was reasonable. But I never personally believed in all that she told me.
I passed out of the school and took admission in the college. When I was in second year, mano anna got his sister married off .Things changed between us. He didn’t like me spending much time in the shop, rather never encouraged me. But he and our relationship remained the same. He will come to our home once in a while to help my dad and my mom in their usual chores. There was this one thing that I always wonder about him. He never went further our sitting room in our home and even when my mom insisted on eating with us on any festivals, he never accepted the invitation. He would always excuse himself and get the feast packed to eat in the shop with other workers.
And my mom for every Easter and Christmas would specially cook spice stuffed oil brinjal, puliogare, drumstick curry and pappads for him. I could only smile pitifully for him at the very thought of seeing him miss all the wonderful non-vegetarian feasts. I loved my mom more for what she has been to him in all those years.
When I was in Mumbai, I got his wedding invitation. I couldn’t attend his marriage for some reasons. I met Mano anna lastly in my marriage. He was there with his wife and his girl child. It felt good to see him after a long time. His child was six years old. He had named her, ‘Avantika’. I remembered my childhood days with mano anna. I met him, first when I was six years old.
I couldn’t help but smile with tears for all that Mano anna had given me in my life- including my name for his daughter
Now, two decades of life went turning me forty five. Life blessed me with two boys and a girl. Whenever I see my eldest son and daughter together, I’m reminded of Mano anna and me. I can now tell my grand-ma that my relationship with mano anna gave me a healthy view of men and women relationships. It helped me to trust men and understand that they are different and not bad. He taught me how important it is for women to be courageous in life. And I teach my kids responsibility for I’ve seen what it is to be responsible even in one’s young age.
I remember those days of my life, when I’m in the mechanic shop with mano anna, busy in his work. The only emotion I remember of Mano anna is how I cried softly when I first listened to his harmonicas magic. The only memory that lingers in my mind is the expression in Mano Anna’s face as he wipes the grease in his face with the back of his hand.
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Three decades back, I saw him and her for the first time together. Guess they were just friends then, Honestly No idea, what they are now. But had they known what fate had in store for them, she wouldn’t have loved him.
She wouldn’t have known him. She wouldn’t have allowed herself to let him near her. She wouldn’t have let herself charmed to his charm. She wouldn’t have fallen in love and He wouldn’t have risen in love.
I knew then, Life had other plans.
They met. They loved to know each other. They spent their individual selves to nurture their oneness. They grew up in each other.
I saw them again. He, her and her friend. Her friend unknown what was between them and unaware where their lives are heeding. He, willingly unaware that she is leaving him and she unaware of his love for her.
I realized then. She cannot be blamed for fate’s folly. She wanted to make it easy for him. She loved him. He let her go to make it easy for her.
I saw her on the day of marriage, her hand being taken by another man with the whole of their family witnessing the wedding. He missing the event, yet present obvious in her thoughts and memories.
She lived with him in her thoughts and he lived his life witnessing her life, being happily lived.
I saw her again that day, standing with her daughter, holding her hands tightly as she held his hands tightly on the day when they called their life off. Tears rolling down her cheeks- the sole-soul witness to the love in her heart and air filled with memories of their days together.
She, bidding him her already bid-adieu on his heavenly departure.
It drizzled outside. It stormed inside.
I, a dead man walking, stood there, having lived my life, watching him dying his life, her living the death and their love living the life they hadn’t lived.
P.S. Written on a sleepless Night 08.11.2008
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