Posts Tagged ‘Love Traps’
Ever tried turning a normal stuff into sinister, a benign concern into treachery, a pure love into hatred, may be pogrom?
People do it, everyday, everytime, everywhere, and assert that they are right. Of course, they are – things you do – and if you can defend them, they are right, and you righteous.
But what does the whole essence of whole business of whole life remain then? We take birth, we make birth, and we are gone. Just like that. Mechanical. Robotic. He came, he saw, he went. Why did he come here? To make children, or to make a living, or to make a relation, or to make money, or name, or fame, or home…what? What did he come for? Nothing stays, neither he, nor his creations, his assortments. Nothing. What does he endeavor for then? The whole business looks like a game of puppet. Where the control of our master chip is in someone else’s hands. And we just act; just move here-there-here-there. Who is the director of this play? Who…God? He is the one who makes us feel what we feel, makes us dread what we are scared of, make us want what we desire? He is the controller of my life; my world; my desires. Foolish. Who gave him these rights, these powers? Is there a bigger God than him? And then another big one…then another…then another…and another. Does it stop anywhere? No, not at all.
So, much to my chagrin, I deny the existence of any God.
So, much to my ease, I tend to breach the laws, the codes of morality, ethics, principles and all the bullshit.
So, much to my delight, I live life without any logics, rationalities, expectations, planning. Only on impulse, by whim.
Now, back to my question, did you ever try going beyond the fences, trespassing the boundaries, breaking your image that people have in their heads?
I did. Last night. When I asked her about love. “Is it flat or circular?”
Oh, love again. Can’t you think of any other thing? Who….me? why should I think of anything else…why…when this is intriguing me for…I don’t know how many days…one problem at a time…one…single…the lesser the easier…only one at a time…I will solve love first…then my life…then the world. But first, love. I know she will help me, she has to, who else will if not she…who?
“Certainly not flat. It has many ripples, many ups-and-downs. Can’t be flat. Circular…no. Love can’t be circumscribed. No boundaries please.”
And she chuckles; her benign smile that can alter the course of stars, dripping down from her eyes, in small droplets, held at the edge, between the flickering lashes, glued with kajal and dreams, ready to fall, and then a moment later…air-borne, flowing in the air, her smile flying without wings, by the sheer force of love, of hope, of a life after this moment, of intimacy beyond this distance; fixes her eyes that held several questions onto mine, and incites the dormant passions.
I move towards her…closer and closer…Love is no geometry, it is chemistry. I understand the basic principles in her arms. Here remains no complexity, no weird equations, no rationalities, nothing…only me and her and love…fixed to each other…clung to each other…lost.
She is the panacea I was in search for so long. She is the home, my home.
It is a mistake. Love itself is a mistake. It hides the reality, the cruelty of the real world, real people, real adversaries, and preens the world around us with white, snow white, bridal dreams and fictions. Love is an escape.
“Only love is real, rest is a fallacy.” She murmurs, half asleep.
It’s a strange thing. She is so real, so close, so mine that nothing else seems to be true but only she, yet there lurks a strange notion of discomfort…what if everything turns out to be a dream and…no, it can not be like this. It has to be the truth. It has to be.
Love makes you belligerent…eh?
But sometimes love makes you weak instead. What do you do then when you find no strength to face off the brutal world? Where do you retreat: recluse, solitude, dark, or death? Suicide…hmm?
No way, it’s the greatest cowardice…Why? When I have a right to live, don’t I have a right to die? It’s my life after all…No, the life is precious, you can’t chuck off something precious just like this…why not? I own it. I can make it, I can break it…stupid, once you have broken it, you can never un-break it. You are free, but not as much as to end you freedom. You die, you end everything. Even your freedom to love…Stop it. Don’t preach me. I have had enough of you all.
Death is not free. You can desire it; you can’t claim it.
Love is not free. You can desire it; you can’t claim it.
May be a constant struggle to make things our way. “Isn’t it darling?”
“We will make it…will make it together. Come here…” And she slips into slumber.
When you talk about life, you don’t take things logically, with rationales and reasons and alibis. You take what comes to you, whatever it might be. You move on with un-fought battles, unheard stories and un-thought persons and un-spoken phases. You just move on. Because there is no reason to stop over, even to mull over what went wrong and when. And there is no reason to move either, but moving is always better, preferable since we are taught that way, we are brought up that way. Every fight doesn’t necessarily teach you something, some fights are purposeless, just for the sake of passing time.
Similarly, every relation is not a relation of life, of eternity; some are there just to kill time.
“The moment you stop to think over them, you are stuck, smitten and you are in love – the un-purposeful love that only drowns you deeper.”
“What you do then?” she asked me.
“Where?” she pierced into my eyes and looked intently as if to retain everything that we had with the sheer inertia of her stare.
I looked back, thought a while and moved my gaze away. One more moment and the whole story would have repeated once again. Dying once is okay, dying daily is what is really painful. I wanted to inflict no pain to her.
“That is life. A journey, togetherness, a moment and an eternity, all in one, one in all, everything is life.”
“So then what is love?” she was after her own life, doubting everything that had ever happened to her, or would ever happen to her.
“A concept.” I looked past her, through the window, at the moon struggling to show up to me against the dense black clouds.
“Isn’t life a concept too?”
Moon struggled hard, but the clouds were immense in expanse and strength. One tiny star blinked beside the scene, scared of the clouds, looking on to me for help. The struggling moon didn’t give it any courage, it incited only pity. A fight that could have been avoided but it was being fought. For what? … I stretched my hands but couldn’t reach it.
“You can’t reach to them this way.”
“I know,” I turned my eyes to her, “but isn’t it a concept too? That those stars are only a meter away from you.” I faced her. “A theory. An allusion. Abstract.”
“You mean, love is abstract.”
“Why? Is it not?”
“You know, people used to ask me…all my friends did…the closest ones even…what I had in mind about the person I would marry…I never knew it…never thought of it…see…I have some values…and I wouldn’t go against my parents…and their choice…and…so…” she crisscrossed her fingers against the iron railings on the window and fumbled to gather strength.
I put my hands on hers.
“…so I never thought of it…it might break my image…and if I do…I would break my parent’s hearts.”
One worthwhile fight was discarded. And a useless one went on in the sky. The Moon was still under the shed of mighty and bulky clouds, trying to transpire through them, but only feeble light could spread.
“Choices.” I uttered unconsciously.
“Choices make things what they are. They make or break the future, the imagery, the life.”
She moved her hands from beneath mine and entwined them together, fingers upon fingers, life between life, glued with sweat and love. A ring in the middle finger of her right hand pleaded to be released. But, neither sweat nor love did hear any scream, busy in embrace.
“You mean life is like a game of ‘snake-and-ladder’. And so is love?…Part luck, part toil.”
“No. Love is game of dice. All luck, no toil.” I said stretching my fingers to touch her. But she was far, far…far away of my reach.
Perspiring, I woke up. She was no where. I switched off the wailing fan and went to the window. The moon was free of blemishes, shining intently with a star blinking beside it, praising and longing and protecting its beauty from all external threats.
I was dreaming. A dream of bleak ends. That’s love.
Few hours ago we stared at the moon together, helped ourselves, and now we both were alone: I here, she there.
Each love is a new love. Every time it fills you up with new hopes, new dreams, new life. Where is the flaw? Or is it, in any way, a flaw? Love changes. It starts, it grows, it decays, it dies. It has a full life cycle. If not, then how come you fall for one single woman despite that the world is flooded with beautiful women, some more beautiful than her, some less. But, you fall for one. And you promise to keep fallen, drowned in love, with her, with that chosen one. But, then does it mean that you don’t like other women, or you don’t feel any temptation – a similar kind of temptation that you had felt with this woman earlier – for other women? “Love is like a tug-of-war, a game in essence, with protocols of ego, and temptation, and attraction. The more you fall into it, the less you remain into it.” I said, as if I had the profound experience of love, and then looked back over my shoulder at Jatin. He was sitting behind me and I was driving the bike. He seemed to be lost in thoughts. I shifted my glance back on road.
We had just taken our dinner and weren’t sure of going back home so were driving aimlessly. Since there wasn’t any destination to reach, I was comparatively slower than my usual speed. It was thirty past ten in night and roads were quite deserted. In this time, seeing a girl, that too driving alone, was a miracle. “You punk…move fast.” Jatin shouted from behind. I sped my bike to catch up to her. I wanted to see her face. Jatin was curious too.
She looked beautiful. Her shapely, slender, lithesome figure proclaimed this too loudly to resist. She wore white salwar-suit, high heel sandals, and long earrings dangling by her ears. I couldn’t see much of her, part due to bad light and part due to her awesome figure that ceased every effort of minute observation. I raced my bike until I reached hers and drove parallel to her for some time. This gave me an opportunity to scrutinize her in more details. She was in sleeveless, stainless white kurta. She had a Titan watch in her right hand that perhaps meant that she was left-handed, and her palms were garnished with fresh brunette ‘mehnadi’. She sat straight that gave her the commanding position over her bike, stymieing any equation of correlation between her and the machine. She was commanding the machine. The machine roared under her as though even after yielding, it had some vestige of individuality, of self pride. But she was ruthless and her bike had succumbed to her prowess, only growling its grievances intermittently.
I crossed my bike around her to make her notice our presence. She did. She looked right at me, staring right in my eyes, her short but decisive gaze scissored through me, and in a moment I understood that she wasn’t any game there; rather I could become a prey if I insisted much. But I threw this thought away. I respect women who respect themselves, who aren’t vulnerable, who aren’t weak, frail, but I never go after them. Not that I dread this feminine confidence – rather I appreciate it – but because I don’t see any hole to break the dam through. They are the complete women, full and content and at ease with themselves; there is nothing for me to do. They don’t need men of my kind. They dominate, and I hate being dominated.
The moment’s stare was enough to write further story. And I was obliged to pen it down. I followed her, maintaining a sacred distance, close enough to register my presence, far enough to retain the gap – the distance, the nexus, the possible hope, the possible encounter.
We had scaled around a mile or so when Jatin said, “Dost, we must talk to her.”
“Yes” I relied back, still in contemplation, trying to figure out how. “Will you talk? I will stop her.”
“I can. Certainly I would. But I need a place, a good place…you see…this would be my first encounter of such kind…and I don’t want to ruin it…that too…you see…only because I did not choose a right place.” He said more to himself than to me.
“What do you mean by such kind…eh?” I jutted my sudden anger over him.
“Today you multicast a quotation, remember? Women need reason to have sex, men need only a place.”
“But, you are not going to have sex with her, at least not right here on M.G. Road.”
“No. certainly not. I just want to appreciate her beauty. You know…what you feel…you must say.”
“hmmm…good.” I said and raced my bike again to catch her.
She veered towards Rajwada. Perhaps she was retuning home. But this time in night, I mean at eleven o’clock, this was a bit strange. “This is Indore boss.” Jatin defended as if this were a normal thing.
This side of the city was not very urban – at least not in terms of people’s behavior and attitude towards lone girls. Soon two bikes came between her and me. I could see their vulgar eyes leering at her as if they would macerate her soul right there on the road. She sped forward and so did those punks. They chased her and passed few salacious notes. But she wasn’t vulnerable, I knew this. She didn’t move a bit and drove off them with her same decisive command that took over her bike. I wasn’t sure if she realized our presence. But we guessed that she did. Men are unquestionably optimistic, and in situations such as this, their optimism grows leaps and bounds.
“How long would we chase her?” Jatin asked me.
“See. There is one thing you must understand and appreciate.” I said saintly as if preaching him.
“What is that Guru ji?” he quipped.
“That there is one thing, and only one thing, that is absolutely yours. That you are entirely responsible for.”
“No. Dreams are junks. You hide your failures behind it. You harbor your imaginations in it. You are not responsible for what you are thinking; but for what you are doing.” Jatin went silent, pondering what it might be. I continued.
“Your efforts. They are the most precious among everything that you have got. Never let them go in waste. Harness whatever you can from what you have invested.”
“so…what are you going to harness out of it?”
“Her home.” I said and peered at him. He smiled back.
After a long time, and another two or three miles, she suddenly stopped by a phone booth. I thought the end of the story has come. Eleven in night…and this girl is going to call someone. It was weird. I couldn’t decide what to do and drove past the shop…only to return back from the next lamppost. I had decided that I had to talk to this girl, no matter how, no matter where. But I had to. A decision is a decision after all. And one must respect what one has chosen himself.
There was a pan shop beside the telephone booth. I steered my bike there and parked abruptly on the pavement. The shop vendor threw an alienating peek at me. I stared back at him. Eyes are the windows of you inner soul. They manifest your strength.
I purchased a packet of cigarette, lit one, and stood by the bike while kept my eyes fixed at the booth.
“What now?” Jatin asked me. I remained quite. I didn’t know what to do, or what to think. Soon the cigarette vanished, leaving us at a point where making a decision becomes urgent.
I lit another cigarette, moved its tip up in air, as if proclaiming a solemn word, and said, “If she doesn’t come out until this one, we would go back.”
Meanwhile I was thinking what to do. Suddenly I thought why not to go into the shop and find out what she was doing there. I threw the half worn cigarette, waived my hands at Jatin: “I am going to make a call to your cell”, and paced hastily towards the shop.
The booth vendor ushered me to an empty cabin. Voila! She was in the next one. She sat wearily on the stool, talking to someone with the receiver pressed between her ears and shoulder, while her hands toyed with the key rings. The ring was utterly feminine. A red colored high heel shoes whose back was stabbed with a round key hook. She didn’t seem to notice me. But I kept my stare at her while I dialed Jatin’s number. I wasn’t able to listen in to her conversation, but her gesture told me that some bickering was on. I slipped more towards the glass wall, but the sound didn’t transpire. Instead, her glance did.
As she looked at me, I locked my eyes with her. Her confident eyes met mine. I could feel my own vulnerability then, but fixed my stare nonetheless. I had to make a talk and this was a good ground work. She moved her eyes back. She had recognized me. Perhaps she had noticed me miles back. Or perhaps I was just meekly optimistic. Whatever, our eyes kept locking and unlocking and then again locking, as if they were in a temple performing a sanctified ritual.
She stood up abruptly and left the cabin. I followed. She stood by the counter. I approached her. I paid the bill and stormed out, ignoring her, as if I never chased her, as if I had come so far only to make that stupid call.
I returned back and stood by my bike. She came out too and started dismounting her bike. What you have decided, you must do. Else, what is your decision for? You are as worthless as your decisions are. You must respect it.
I fumbled towards her, uncertain of how to broach my sentences, where to start, how to start. Once you make up your mind to do something, things fall in places automatically.
“Excuse me, mam!” I paused to gauge her reaction. She looked up on me, and retained her poise on the bike, balancing her astonishment against the weight of the machine. I looked deep into her eyes. Mysterious? …I don’t know…but deep for sure. I continued.
“I am following you from Palasia because I couldn’t keep myself from you beauty. I come to say you that you look unbelievingly…disbelievingly…incredulously beautiful.” I stopped for a while, lowered my gaze to respect what I said and what I had felt…and slowly raised them back up to her eyes that were benignly looking at me, surprised, nonplused…and uttered with torn, departed, gasp, “Thank you.”
She was bewildered. Still for a moment then contorted her lips, made a slight awkward emblem, and then smiled. Her smile was innocent, free from malaise or contempt or mockery. That was plain, pure and pristine. She repeated my last gasp, almost imitating me in rhetoric, “Thank You.” and slid her bike past me and scooted forward.
madiralaya jane ko ghar se, chalta hai peene wala.
‘kis path se jaon?’ asmanjas mein hai wo bhola-bhala,
alag-alag path batlate sab, par main yeh batlata hun,
rah pakad tu ek chala chal, pa jayega madhushala.
One of the characters in Bertold Brecht’s play “The Good Person of Szechuan” tells us about true love:
I want to be next to the one I love.
I don’t care what this will cost me.
I don’t care whether this will do my life good or bad.
I don’t care whether this person loves me or not.
All I want, all I need is to be close to the one I love.
How romantically romantic! Subjugate your life for a single temptation, and cease all other temptations that might appear to you once this one has passed. And people brand it as pure love with all their gumptions possible. Ah…fools.
On one hand, you say, love makes you grow, enriches you with wisdom, enlightens you…and on the other hand, here…love is stopping you, stymieing your growth, obstructing your path. And you endorse it as “pure love”.