animesh kumar

Running water never grows stale. Keep flowing!

Another Confusion…

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Morning 3 o’clock!

I am not sure if I should call her. Would it be fine to disturb her at this time of night? Well… I am a part of this universe which has a part in her. Thence, I become a part of her and I share her in my part too. Like my friend DP said:

She is part of me too,
She’s petals, I’m the dew.

In this play, she is not alone; I do have a role. But the dilemma is: would I be playing my role by calling her or would I disrupt the harmony of things written peremptorily.

Long time ago, a king sent a messenger to a distant country with a peace agreement that was to be signed. The messenger, in want of fetching maximum out of his trip, informed some of his friends who had important business dealing in that country. He postponed his trip and sat busy in preparation of new business strategies and orders that could run smoothly in the wake of peace agreement. By the time, he made his trip, it was too late for the peace agreement to be signed; war broke out; destroying the kingdom and the business plans. Here the master says: There is only one important thing in our lives: to live our personal destiny — the mission that was fated for us. But we always wind up loading ourselves down with useless concerns that then destroy our dream.

If this is my personal destiny I must go further in calling her. I am unnecessarily burdening myself with useless concerns: thinking of the consequences, of our connections and even planning to improve things. Why can’t I simply call her? I always try to add a tinge of my own ‘self’ to everything I do or expect others to do. Why can’t I simply admit that by not doing this I myself am losing my ‘self’? I must not let the kingdom be assaulted and demolished simply by exaggerating things and over-thinking them and respiting the action. I must act. I must let the peace reign. I must face up, confront the struggle, and live my personal destiny. It is now or never. I pick up the cell phone and start dialing her number.

The ten digits are like the longest numerical encryption; each digit with its share in the universal blue clouded above me. When one strives to live his own destiny; and when the beginner’s luck period is over; he is put to tests, severe tests. The kind of one I am facing now. It is only at the beginning that you try finding refugee in comfort and think of abandoning the whole stress by giving yourself false reasons and arguments. Once, the initial passing phase is over; and the real battle is commenced; you don’t give up. You endure up till the end. It’s a matter of only the initial phase, and after dialing six digits, now, I can sense the heat of the confrontation. Only four more and I would be at the end; hearing her voice and making her aware ‘how bestial the time is in keeping us distant and apart.’ And I go on. Now only one more digit is left. I can still shun the whole idea of calling her in the middle of this gloomy night. I can still go back and sleep. But, I know, It wouldn’t be possible. The whole episode might have become my Zahir but this is the truth, and perhaps the only truth of my life. Inadvertently, the last digit is dialed; the call is connected; and she is on the other end; which I realize only when I hear her voice – waking me up from my slumber and tearing apart all the hallucinations.

It is the rarest bliss!

I can’t explain how I feel when she is with me. Her eyes fixed upon mine; her face rested upon the cup of her palms; her un-clutched hairs brushing against the air and falling sporadically over her face in false attempts of veiling it from me; her concerned words bridging the gap between us; her restless lips confused in deciding whether to remain parted or glued; her long ear-rings hanging down like a pendulum mocking my edgy heart-beats whenever she tilts her face sometimes to match and sometimes to gripe my words; and a mole resting on the front of her lower neck, abandoned, silent and driving my fantasies crazy; her restless fingers trying to limn something invisible on my soul; her carelessly left half-painted nails fancying the quintessential of my half-met desires. And her nasal rings…Oh! I forgot that she doesn’t sport any nasal ring. I asked her why but that was a secret and secrets are never told. They are like locks we put to safeguard things we want to protect. You can break them, though, but you must not make any such attempt for then you would be disturbing someone’s path to his personal destiny. They are like pillars supporting huge buildings, supporting otherwise unassailable humans.

And she has many more pillars apart from her nasal-ring. Among these pillars she has a secret den where, though, I can’t see anything but can certainly sense the presence of someone. One who always remains there; who scares me; who reigns over me and over her; one for whom she lives; one for whom she (Oh God! Let my words go fallible…) would prefer to die. Sometimes, I leave her there but sometimes, I scream loud to get her back to me. It is this constant brawl that binds me with her and leaves me with a bruised ecstasy – a wounded elation.

It is choice – not chance – that determines men’s fate. Since this was my choice, my fate started being fashioned from then – from the moment I made the decision. And this is not to be waited for, it is to be achieved. So my actions were fashioned accordingly.

What I realize today is: Life doesn’t ask you to perch on a goal and then get stagnated; it asks for movement, a kind of continuation. Its worth is in the motion; no matter where you are heading; the motion would definitely teach you something, lead you somewhere. It’s just how early you accept the tutelage of life. This time, life came up with a chapter upon dealing with battered emotions. And, obviously, like a heeding student, I enrolled to the class.

Amid the morning chill, hearing the voice of someone I could – given a choice – die for, lying idly on the bed, dreaming of all taboo subtleties, of all undone dreams, of her possible words, of her possible concerns and of her possible silence, I am swayed with the rapture. “Animesh, why are so quiet? What’s wrong? Out with it!” Am I quiet? Well… I might be. It’s her heavenly presence that I refrain to cage in words. Things you can’t measure you can never understand. I don’t want to understand that pleasure – I am scared of losing it. Better not to utter and let the barrage flow in its own exaltation. Why doesn’t she understand the words behind my silence? Nevertheless, now, as she has asked, I must reply something, let out something, anything in general, just to keep the conversation in flow, in pretence that everything is perfectly all right.

“Nah! Nothing, just thinking!”

“Of what?”

“Of you!”

Now it is her term to go quite. Sometimes, she behaves in complete esoteric ways. Sometimes, she would quip animatedly “hmm… thinking of me? Don’t flirt at this time of the morning. The sun is still to get up.” and would start laughing. And sometimes, she would go soundless, as she is now, and after a long awkward moment – meanwhile I ponder over what she might be thinking of – she would say “Please Ani, stop playing with your emotions.” in such a pensive tone that my emotions, indeed, start to writhe in pain – something they otherwise never do, or in fact I never let them do.

In any way, she is now predictable. I am just waiting for the sentence – which she is habitual to say, which I am habitual to answer. This time, however, I would answer otherwise. It takes a great courage to change directions abruptly; I need preparation to broach myself perfectly; to prove that the decision to change is right; and for the first time, I wish that the period of silence is deferred.

“It is the emotion – not action – that invents your future. Let me find mine before you desert me. I wouldn’t stop you then. I would not…” I stop with my voice trailing off. She doesn’t answer. She is empty of words. She needs some apparatus to convey her concern or her contempt – whatever might be there. But she is empty. She is agitated, restless, exasperated. Her heavy breathe reveals all. She is flailing in the mud, wishing to say something in refugee, but she is empty. The world is full of words; literature is full of words and other things with even more words; but, she doesn’t have any of them. She is empty.

I know her past; and I understand why she is doing such. Your personal history, sometimes, has such a profound manifestation over your soul that you can’t erase. She has become a puppet of her own personal history. By the way, should she allow her past to get wrinkled and then later on rediscovered? I don’t know. Though, I always want her to do exactly this, I could never convince myself for it. If she does, I mean, if she tries rewriting her history, wouldn’t that be as vulnerable as her present history is? And, if yes, I am certain, that I don’t want anything as impure as that out of her. I want stability – a whole life, derived from her and devoted to her and drifted with her. Am I not myself teaching her to grow unstable, unbalanced, and capricious? Am I not teaching her to abandon love, despite the euphemisms animating the greater love? This is wrong. I must handle it with care.

Written by Animesh

September 5, 2005 at 12:17 am

Posted in Diary, Stories

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