I was not he.
If something is increasing with each passing day that has to have a meaning, meaning that is profound and deep and which is rooted somewhere far deeper than our eyes can chase, and our understanding can decipher. And then begins the great saga, and written then is the history.
I was not he. Still, I could peep into his heart and see how he feels a particular feeling and reciprocate to that, when he fell there in front of her, decrying himself and his ego and whatever remnant of self-respect he was left with, openly, in front of everyone, of her, of himself, and when he bent down to his knees and folded his palms, entwined his fingers, I felt as if he was about say a prayer, but no, there was no god in front of him, no temple, no pundit…that wasn’t a prayer, prayers are never said with tears in eyes, with such an afflicting pain in heart and so much plead in voice, he was not praying, he was begging. Yes. That’s what he was doing – begging for her, to her.
I cried. Yelled at the fullest of my voice.
Blinds don’t listen.
Later, when she was gone, I carried him in my arms. Still in the failure of that moment, he couldn’t understand what happened. And what was happening. He thought he was dreaming, in the night, in the dark night, in the darkest of all nights. There was no dawn lurking, no sun lingering, no light, no hope, only darkness, stark darkness…all bleak. All bleak!
I felt as if I was inside him, as if all his nerves and wires touched me before they reached his brain, his pulses were mine, his blood mine, his failure mine.
That was a strange connection: connection that didn’t connect anything, but didn’t even leave anything unconnected too. Strange mathematics.
He needed to talk. He needed it so damn much, so damn urgently, and he kept looking at the roads and trees and passersby. But never at me. He was probably ashamed of himself. Of the act that had disgraced his existence. Of me being a witness of that act.
Did he need consolation? Or rewards? Or just a chance to rewrite his past, his history?
But talking is not always an easy game. Especially when you have so much to talk about and you don’t know where to start from. There is no single point to get into, not a single opening, not a crack, not a hole, no doors, no windows, nothing to peep in through, but only the desperate urgency to get inside the trap and vent your feelings out for the external world to look at, to laugh at, to make fun of.
Sometimes you want to be humiliated. Sometimes you want to be segregated, castrated.
I couldn’t start the long due conversation, and kept driving. The breeze blowing in through the window kept my head cool. And suddenly he found a crack, like it rains in otherwise sunny day, suddenly and abruptly with no pre-omen, no pre-sign, and jumped onto the thread, “you know what it feels like?”
“yeah. Like hell.” He looked at me, his eyes flooded with self-pity, his hands fixed on his thighs, clutching as if his legs were a prized possession which were sold in an auction and soon he would lose them, as if his legs were his love, the last remnant of what he was when the first day he saw her, the first time he talked to her, the first evening they went on a ride, the first night he took her out for a dinner, and a few moments ago, when he threw himself on the ground before her, begging and pleading, on his knees, his legs had held him, close to earth, close to himself, to his love, and now he would lose them, any moment, to an unknown future, unplanned life. His grip tightened. His look fixed more sternly. Lost somewhere between this world and the void, in the space between me and he, in the thoughts of love and loss, he was pinned.
All I had for him then was pity.
I hated such moments of self-denouncement. And I hated him for this.