animesh kumar

Running water never grows stale. Keep flowing!

Posts Tagged ‘love

The taste of pain

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It’s wonderful. Falling out of love.
Long time ago, people tried hard, damn hard to keep the flame intact, keep the persons glued, love burning, but times are different now, burn hurts, love hurts, they want freedom, freedom of responsibility, answerability. They don’t want anyone to poke them for anything. They are different now, and with each passing moment, they grow more distant, more different. And eventually comes a day when you find them so far away that you wonder if you ever knew them; if they ever cared for you; if they ever went awry so much so that they grew angry over mundane things, like your missing a dinner, or leaving your clothes unwashed in a bucket, or mess of your room, all out of pure innocent concern, love. And then life starts falling apart into pieces, gnawed at by bitter teeth of some past reality, of some past relationship, of some long ago commitment – so what if that commitment didn’t charge you up now, you had made them once, now you owe them your life…right honey? So what if people of your recent acquaintances are left behind on mud of hurt, abandoned in dirt to die slowly, minute-by-minute, in futile trial. So what if they had claimed love to them once, their past loves had to reclaim them, their past had to reign their present, and people of recent past – I mean a month or so old – don’t mean a thing, they were there just for the sake of being, cursed of existence, of desertion.

Initially survival seems a distant dream, gradually you learn to live with all this, convincing yourself with each passing moment that that was just a dream, a hollow dream, an abyss, like a black hole, the more you want to come out the more you are trapped in, and try to keep that dream at bay, far, far away from yourself, just like those people have kept themselves so far away from you, and then gradually the image starts to fade, and normalcy reclaims itself. But it doesn’t happen every time. Sometimes you can not differentiate reality to dreams, and you give in, yield to the pungent taste of what has been thrown at you, and the only oasis – not to save your life, but only to assuage the pain a little with slippery fluid that makes your past slip away, as if rolling down a mountain – appears as alcohol. And you booze and booze and booze, for whole nights, 16 hours in stretch, until all senses of time and space translate themselves into some hazy, dull colors, the events of past seem to lie in some long ago, earlier lifetime, not connected to you directly so that you can comment on them like an spectator, not as a victim; until all your ego, your pillars, your means to exist slip past the present moment and you slouch in front of them, almost begging them, to take you back in their lives, but – alas! – there is no such thing as pity, they just don’t know it, they are as cold as ice, as hard as iron, and you are once again thrown on the streets. This time your ego doesn’t hurt, it can’t, it has become inured to insults, it wants that person, and only that person. It abets you for another try, and you follow it hungrily, hoping to see a flicker of sympathy, and may be love. That too eventually dies out but you keep repeating it as a ritual – sacred out of sheer repetition – and that person becomes venerable to you, almost like a god, you standing out of a temple, and the god shooing you out of the premise. Are you cursed? No, only ignored. Not worthy enough of existence. But, devoid of your ego, you look at your god eagerly, merely to hear him say something, any tripe, any silly excuse, any stupid rationale, and you gulp all in, whipping your tongue out, hungry for more silly things.

Then the god says, love is like a puddle of dirty water, one falls in, one falls out, no one wants to remain in. Great philosophy! Philosophies are for losers, only to keep their head calm, and away from action. Drink in the theory and forget the reality…eh!

“God, but…why are you leaving me?”

“Because I have to.” God replies. And he thinks he is right, have said enough to make sense, and alleviate the agitating brain, and heart of yours.

Well, we morons are not to raise a finger at him; he does what he pleases. And yesterday he had his reasons for it. A long time ago relationship, and a long time ago commitment. He can’t live with the past and the present at once. He chose his past, fair enough, seniority matters, depth ness?, ah…who cares? Whatever. It’s a wonderful feeling, you know, falling out of love. To shatter everything that you held so close to your heart, with such rudeness, and so suddenly, that it takes a lifetime to rebuild them again. Brick and mortar, slathering the ruin, in the last vestige of your once-upon-a-time love story, how can you pick them, each for its respective position and put them again in order? There is no way. No way.

People find different ways to deal with it, to head off the frustration of loss. I do it by boozing, smoking, and of course writing. In distant hope that perhaps god would read it someday, and if any pity has left in him, he would probably let me in into the temple, not to love me – I know he will not, he can not, perhaps he never had – just to share my existence, rebuilding my confidence in life. But can you stop loving god? No. With each heartbeat of yours, your heart would utter only his name, only his love.

It’s like the taste of pain. Wonderful, enthralling, but sordid.

“Here comes your turn, enjoy ani.”

“Yes…yes…thanks honey.” I mumbled, as he kicked me to the hell.

Written by Animesh

July 10, 2006 at 2:14 am

Posted in Diary, Stories

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Love Traps – 4

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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.

…and life?

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.

Written by Animesh

May 14, 2006 at 2:06 am

Posted in Diary, Stories

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surprise…surprise…’I Love you’

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“I love you.” He said, “I mean I love talking to you.” oh! But things were conveyed, said, and the mask was discarded.

Surprise…yes…else how would you lose your heart beats; how would you find yourself flummoxed over a relation that is only a few days, or rather few hours – can I say, old yet few lifetimes seem engulfed in it; how would you lose your control to control your thoughts, feelings, rationalities, and all your expedient plans for your life, your future and end up falling in love with a person you barely know, except of some kind of illusionary connection, attachment screaming: you-are-made-for-each-other. This is how miracles happen. This is how you are taken by surprise and thrown up, upbeat, buoyant, among those sparkling, blissful stars. And you realize – yes! – this is what you were waiting for so long, for all your life, passing through so many mundane day-today-ness that you had almost forgotten about it. So, a miracle was needed. A surprise was needed.

“Life is made of crisscross squares. And every cross has its own rule.” When you cover a long distance in just few hours, blink-now-at-moon-blink-again-back-on-earth, as if some infinitely powerful gadget has ordered time to stop, or as if you are made less aware of time as it passes by, whatever may it be, you lose the sense of time-and-space when you travel such an expeditious journey and finally in the end, you see things your eyes wouldn’t believe in, you feel feelings your heart wouldn’t give in, and the world would turn hazy, its eyes drooping, limping upon you, as though it hasn’t slept for nights awaiting your arrival. This is a strange thing to happen. But what else would you call a miracle then? Her world had roads, infinite roads, never ending, from one stop to another, all brief and straight, and today, after her long journey, she, anticipating yet another road to cross hers, grew little weary about losing grip over her own life. She had to make a decision, and making a decision is dangerous. She continued, “You have not seen me, do you realize it?” Why so many strange things were happening to him today? What realization could he achieve, had he seen her? How did she look, or how did she walk, or how did she dress up? Realization is a strange concept. Ah! “You haven’t understood me yet.” What else could he have replied?

Love, where it spawns, scatters a vague delusion around it. You wouldn’t understand what’s going on with you, so to ease you, love projects a special melodramatic show and you fall into its trap: make-believe trap. Besotted as they were, now for the making of love was on, they had to collaborate. The tongues were to slip, the covers were to unveil, the desires were to fly – the forbidden was to set free. Now there was no escape. Things started to swoop down on them, and they were dragged along. And words, those enchanting but interdicted words, came out, in shed, hidden behind a mask. And after a while when all covers matured redundant: “I love you.” He said, “I mean I love talking to you.” oh! But things were conveyed, said, and the mask was discarded.

It took her a while, however, to divulge the sudden spurt of her heart beating. And by the time, normalcy reigned again, she was in love. In spite of never having seen him, or talked to him, or heard his voice, or known his disposition, or read his past, present, in spite of everything that should have been done, as rules say, as the love-tomes say, as those deified lovers say, in spite of un-normalcy, of breach in traditions, she was in love. Love doesn’t ask what-where-how-why-who-when, it just takes you over and things are set. Just like that. Straight and simple! Until then silence prevailed above the fogged suddenness.

And after a brief pause, soundlessness, because a great many words, puissant words, efficacious words, capable of altering the course of stars as they fix their path with other stars, potent to make a life, were imminent, she replied, “I love you too.”

Surprise…was it a surprise?

“When did it start?”

“The day I read your poem for the first time, there was something terribly appealing, and I wished they were written for me.” It was now safe for her to travel back on time, and watch her past unveiling before her, telling tales of that turmoil she was in few days ago, revealing that feeling, that moment of utter confusion, that longing, that desire, that hope to herself, and find peace in the newly found love of her life. “I prayed it to come true.”

“And it did na?”

“Oh! I can’t express it, this is wonderful.”

And a story spawned from the there….

Though they say, everything is preplanned, peremptorily written, still, life doesn’t come to us like in a play a scene comes to an actor performing on stage, life has different rules; it takes us by surprise. That’s why life is alive. For so many years. And love too.

Written by Animesh

April 27, 2006 at 2:03 am

Posted in Diary

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All of a sudden lights went off and the hot summer night seemed nearing him. The dark glued, the sweat enveloped; the trails of little past lost. Trickles of sweat, his own sweat, came out not after a heavy toil but…just came out, made their way from every ups and down, every curve, every possible bending of his body, going nowhere…still going, like the trails of his past. Going nowhere…still going!

He moved sideways. Their entire course changed. He could control the flow of his sweat. But his past? Nothing could move his past, unyielding past, a stubborn sap, his past. Even the Dark – the great egalitarian – now, when the electricity is gone, with his own sweat drowning him, with his eyes turned mute and deaf, this Dark, this indifferent Dark is hiding everything from every other thing – could not hide it.

But it pacified it. Helped him in deferring the real confrontation. So, he loved the Dark. He loved what it made out of him. Made out of her. She was more ‘mine’ while in dark, he thought. The other truths, the other men, lay cornered. He loved it enveloping him, his existence, his love, everything. It was his ally. It hid his enemies. It was his friend.

He asked her once, “Do you love dark?”

“Nahin,” she replied, “I love the sunrise, the sunset.”

“But, after the sunset, it’s all dark. Isn’t it?”

“May be…whatever, I don’t like it.”

She probably misunderstood the Dark, saw it as a cover to the light, to the future of her, to the possible paths of her, but not as a balance, not as a friend, not as a pacifier, not as an ally.

He tried to make her understand. “It’s pessimistic,” she said.

“Seeking peace is pessimism? After all the fighting, a desire to return home is pessimism? Returning to your loved one…is it pessimism?” His confusion – ah! the confusion. What does he think, that Dark is his home, his lover?


The eternal silence. They say, words never get lost. Uttered once, uttered for all. But only words, not an utterance devoid of words. Not a gaze of her deep oneiric eyes. Not a tender movement of her svelte fingers against him. Not a light brush of her silky hairs on his face. They are not the words, they will be lost. But silence? It will remain. They are wrong, when they say, the beginning happened with a sound, ohm. It must have been the silence. The uncontaminated sound.

Between them, there was no contamination, no pollution. Between them, there was no sound, no word. Only little vibrations. Only little love.

She moved sideways. He listened to the ruffles, imagining the wrinkling crease of the bed sheet under her, cloths around her, hairs, falling on the pillow, layers in layers, like the stratum of river flow, violent, enraged, yet serene, calm.

She hissed, Ani, sounding dreaded.

Dread of what, he thought, of the Dark, of him, of their connection, of what? He couldn’t figure out except palpable quotient of fear.

She continued, “I like dark when I glimpse rays of hopes, serenity, calmness, when it supports me after a long tiring day. But it’s dubious, Janus-Faced, scissoring you from both sides, it takes away the sun light, I hate it then, it blanks my vision, I hate it then, it takes you away from me, I hate it then.”

“Dark is dubious, manipulating, like men. It is human.” He replied.

“I love holding your hands in dark, walking in a blind sea with you beside me, my head on your shoulder, my fingers holding yours, and you taking me away from…”

“…familiarity.” He finished.

She looked up at him, ensuring; now for the light had come she could see what his eyes held in themselves. Light brought back the reality. Fiction lay back. With familiarity returning back to them, they would now feel safer, at home. Unfamiliarity tempts you, but doesn’t retain you for long.

The tempting of unfamiliarity was not yet done. Some stones were still undone. Now perhaps was the time to tackle those unfamiliarities, to turn those stones upside down.

“Who did you write your poems for?” She asked, gasping on the first word, releasing on the last. In a kind of an ancient rhythm, poignant, concerned, ready for the answer, whatever.

“For myself perhaps…for none perhaps.”

“You mean that there is no girl behind them?”


“I thought…I…anyways…”

“No. nothing.” He replied curtly, smashing those stones back to conceal the real point.

Written by Animesh

April 16, 2006 at 1:55 am

Posted in Diary, Stories

Tagged with

A Difference

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“What is it that keeps you tickling all the time?”


A stare. A confusion. A blank.

‘Lust is only skin deep; love is profound.’ They say in holy books.

You lose your sight, your vision along the path, but only if you retain the burning flame, retain the fire in you; you will reach your end. But how to keep that flame flickering? How to keep it alive?

“With a belief in your future, in your prospect, you can segue from nadir to zenith like you do in a roller coaster, smoothly, easily. And this keeps me on.” I smiled.

She winked at me, confusion flailing in her eyes, fingers glued together, hairs brushing against the vortex wind by the fall, face straight, lower lip part between her teeth part dropping outside, and the ecstasy drove me awry. Isn’t it her black, kohl eyes, her svelte gesture, lost countenance, divine beauty that steers me all the time? Isn’t it she, who keeps me on?

But truth is not always a truth, at least not always eligible for acknowledgement.

“Why are you staring at me like this?”

Because I loved her. Because I lusted her.

Love? or lust?

What’s the difference?

‘Lust is only skin deep; love is profound.’ They say in holy books.

She moved to gape at water falling steeply from the hill, all the way down to meet earth, happily, wistfully, obediently – destined to demise.

Like I do. To meet her.

Do I fall? Do I rise?

Or do I just travel at level?

“ah…Animesh. You and your thoughts. Now what is it?” she shot suddenly finding me lost in her revere.

“Nothing… The body and the soul. Are they really apart?”

“Yes. Body is only skin deep; soul is profound.”

The circle is complete.

So body is lust; soul is love? Now, what drives me?

The body or the soul?

The lust or the love?

Written by Animesh

March 31, 2006 at 1:43 am

Posted in Diary, Stories

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(The) Valentine’s Day…!

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I wonder how and when the commercialization of love had begun. I tried google with “valentine day history” and – voila! – There were 22,300,000 results. Good god! This day is utterly popular.

Long ago, there was a king Claudius – II, in ancient Rome, before the advent of Christians, who believed in pagan religion and had outlawed marriage for the soldiers of his army, in belief that single made better soldiers. Valentine, a priest, didn’t conform to the idea and helped lovers to marry in secret. Discovering this, the king ordered that Valentine be put in jail. There the saint fell in love with the blind daughter of the jailor and sent her a letter, in the evening of his life, that ended with “from your valentine”. Some people say, the tradition begun from there.

However, this is not the only school of thought. “The History Channel” has sumptuously opened a special enlightening section upon it.

Whatever be the history, the present of saint valentine is glorious…never mind the clashes over his past.

People are exchanging tokens of love, all in the name of him. Does it bother us? Or does it hinder the growth of our society in any way? This is the matter of concern. Not who was saint valentine.

How many kids in India know why do they celebrate ‘diwali’? Instead they look forward to lights and crackers and sweets. When we don’t bother about it, why are we making so much of fuss over the festival of love?

Is it only because we have to oppose westernization that we do it…eh? So, that means, we as a society are not yet matured, not yet opened up, not yet ready for the globalization. Isn’t it?

When I was in the sophomore year of my engineering, something ridiculous had happened. I, with my Valentine (or say girlfriend, or love, or spouse, of anything you want…we are no testy about nomenclature) went to a restaurant where after a while Bajrang-Dal guys stormed in. They picked up a random couple from the lounge. They made the couple stand in the middle on the hall, and then, the boy to prostrate in front of a Goddess image, and the girl to repeat loudly – “boys of my age are like my brothers, including Naresh”. (Naresh was the boy.) Then, they called few more couples and soon left for other rendezvous-points to infiltrate their so-called-moral-preaching-and-political-power over lovers of tender age, and of inchoate understanding. How good was that?

Fine, they say that this is a kind of westernization, but do we not wear “underwears”, “briefs”, “trousers”, “shirts”, aren’t they too belong to the western world. Why don’t they fight for their kid’s (westernized) school uniforms? Why don’t they order every man to wear “kuccha” and “dhoti” and women “sari”? Aren’t they dubious and parochial in their approach?

The more it is suppressed, the faster it grows.

You suppressed sex – now see around you, what have you made our society like? Every one is after it. On roads, at homes, everywhere. Men have nothing but sex on their minds – why? – because they are forbidden to practice it, because sex is bad, because sex is perversion, because sex is dirty. Had sex been so dirty, why the hell your gods have created it in the first place? They would have made us beget the way mosquitoes do. Females would lay her eggs, and males would spread their sperm over them. And – hurray! – you have a kid. But no. we actually enjoy sex. There is a pleasure in it. The way they present sex makes sex what it is deemed today. Sex itself is divine. Why not then Bajrang-Dal fellows burn Kamasutra? Why this text is commemorated with such holy piousness?

There is a conspiracy behind it – conspiracy to make the pursuit of happiness an evil exercise. And the similar is happening with lovers today. Come this 14th February, they would again venture onto streets punishing every person they find endorsing love.


Why have they forbidden us for everything that we enjoy, or might enjoy? Why such interdictions?

Alas! I don’t see any reason but a tinge of cowardice. They are scared of opening up. They fear that they wouldn’t be able to stand. So it’s better to defer the rain than building a roof over their heads.

Anyways, you guys continue with your plans. Nothing much would they be able to do. Remember, they are the cowards.

Written by Animesh

February 13, 2006 at 12:51 am

Posted in Diary

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with 15 comments

Does love begin?
Does love end?
Does love die?

No! They say.

Love is everywhere, everything.
Flowing through times,
through hopes,
lives, and shrines.

Love is eternal, they say.
Love is immortal, they say.

Is love an illusion?
Like life, a confusion?
Or, is it real?
Endowed to men, in seclusion?


Love is revered, they say.
Love is hallowed, they say.

Love is all, they say.
You can’t understand, they say.

Love is not for me, they say.
Yet love wouldn’t die, they say.

It’s irony, I say.
It’s blasphemy, I say.

Written by Animesh

January 30, 2006 at 12:42 am

Posted in Poetry

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