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I know he loves me. My mind which makes no mistake tells me so. He must have met many girls but I’m the one he will chose. He is attracted to me. His mind tells him the same thing. The glint in his eyes tells me he is the one. I know that for sure. Deep down I know it is because he is seeking me and I’m seeking him and that’s why we are attracted to each other.
I know he will find me one day. Or I would have found him one day.
She loves me and she’s just perfect for me.
Really?
His mind vacillated between these two extremes. How can he be sure about what SHE wanted?
Stendhal wrote in “On love” in 1822 about this doubt and said this was what perpetuates love life. For past seven years, he struggled to understand this simple concept which had been widely circulated in the web and in books. He read a lot of books but he hadn’t read the books he should have. How could he have known this? At this point in his life, his mind had only acquired this: a strange ability to phrase the confusion in form of a question, which can be looked upon. Before this, his mind was a complicated Sudoku or tough Zigsaw puzzle and of course, he wasn’t any good at both of those things. So, when he opened the book, he was roughly 200 years late. Better late than never, right? What is love then? Love is like dying while living and living while dying: the moment of bliss will be followed by frustration. This momentary bliss is the life, he seemed to be telling us. He enumerated different phases of love: admiration, acknowledgement, hope, delight, first crystallization, doubt, and second crystallization. If these different phases of love would have followed the same pattern, life would have been easy. He had this doubt that what would happen if these phases either cyclic like life cycle of parasite or these phases were out of order and worse, what if his words might mean a totally different thing tomorrow.
His doubts amplified and frustration grew. He wasn’t sure anymore.
She loves me and she’s just perfect for me.
Really?
His mind vacillated between these two extremes. How can he be sure about what HE wanted?
Old one doesn’t respect present. Old live in past and they forever try to go back. They paint their face with a skin-glowing creams, bleach it to perfection, irradiate it to get the right tone, inject themselves with botulinum toxin injections, all in hope to be forever stuck in the young phase. They flaunt their assets (physical and monetary)which have lost the tone and tenacity. What can you expect when collagen in their muscles takes over in the muscle mass? How can they hide the creased skin of their hands, skin underneath that gold necklace, and skin right below the neck and little up from their silica implanted breast?
They have the money to change themselves completely but their doctor’s warning comes in between their wish and staying alive. They resist the temptation when their doctors inform: too much of toxin can paralyze your respiratory muscles. You don’t want to die of suffocation, do you? They trust their doctors. How can a young dead flaunt their assets? In their loneliness, sometimes they wonder why they suffer: why they didn’t die young.
Their struggle, if it’s with themselves then it’s not the worry, is with their daughters and someone else’s daughters. What hurts them when they look at someone intently and they hear, “Mom! He’s my boyfriend.” They have to reply, “Honey! I’m sorry.” Every day they try to go back to the past, in search of nectar of youth and remaining forever unquenched. Bright, yet empty; flawless, yet yearning; unblemished, yet unloved: they have become a live tombstones in a dead cemetery.
Young doesn’t respect present, either. Young ones are filled with indecision, over-thinking and guilt. Brimming with revenge-love, pity-love, and replacement-love, they are too preoccupied to even enjoy pleasurable sensations. They get hurt easily. To top that, they scratch those wounds which are about to heal: irritation of healing is too hard to handle for them. When you ask them: what are you doing? They take it to heart and reply. “How am I supposed to learn if I don’t make mistakes?”
Someone must have told them that it’s no use wasting the youth on girls/boys, rather you should become something and viola they become psychopaths, sociopaths, sometimes with a seven-figure salary. But the loneliness that lurks in the shadows grows into a full-fledged infection by the time they become something as per social standards.
“Buying company of someone” is a costly affair but at least it’s hassle free and unemotional. It won’t take long to find out that “buying” can’t cure their loneliness. Peace still eludes them like an elusive yet tasty candy. To these souls, old age approaches faster.
Michael Thrusfield writes in Veterinary Epidemiology (3rd Edition) about contiguous populations where individuals of the population meets with individuals of other populations thereby serving as mean to spread the infectious disease. Domestic animals such as cats that are not confined to a house belong to contiguous population. Cats move freely within cities, coming in contact with other urban, suburban and rural animals of their own and different species e.g. Bats.
A vendor’s high octave call in the morning teased me out of the book I had been hooked, from the deepest corner of my house, where sometime I couldn’t even hear the house bell. I had to see him. How could one have developed that shrill in your voice? His bearded face would make me grit my teeth. Wish I had that cursing power like old gods to forever banish him from this locality or banish his voice whenever he arrives near my house.
At that moment, it occurred to me, actually he had been cursed to speak like this in this modern world by gods of house-maintenance.
Death has been raped, as usual, in front of everyone. No one comes to help her. She lay in the center of the road, with her clothes torn and strewn around, naked. Passersby wonder where has building of aristocrats, who ran an NGO for orphan Deaths, disappeared. Some of them glances at her and passes her by. A few of them stands on their ground, unsure of what they are seeing: an image of their mother, sister, or daughter or simply a sex object. Within minute’s time, she will be a sensation. Her blurry naked video will be telecasted on new channels and spread out on newspapers. Then, whatever had happened to her will become a taboo to talk, which in turn make her a taboo as well. She sobs. No one approaches her for a long time.
An elderly gentleman shades her eyes and put his patched coat over her. Then, he pulls her up and wraps the coat around her. As it is fated, she is still bleeding. She lit up, instantly as she has been touched. Fire emanates from the patched coat. A fire engulfs the elderly gentleman. He vanishes from the spot. Naked death walks away, taking the memory of incident with her.
Death’s childhood wasn’t unique either: her parents had been dead before she could understand the word ‘parents.’ The Living took advantage of Death ever since. She couldn’t do anything for she wasn’t aware about the power deep inside her. The blood that spurted out of her on her thirteenth birthday gave her power to burn. She burned down her own hut, her only possession, and the rapists alive. Then, she was ready to snatch the life out of Living, whenever they forcefully bled her, like those aristocratic NGOs.
He gobbled it up: one chocolate muffin after another. His mother warned him that if he eats more of these he would be dark brown like muffins. In this color discriminatory society, he never ate another till he was adult.
When she didn’t drink milk, her mother told her about the fair complexion she would get by drinking it. Since then, she would tell her classmates about the benefit of milk.
“I know what you did. Ghosts who live in our house told me,” His mother said with scary face. She continued. “So if you are hiding something from me, tell me now.” Fear of unseen could never be this great.
God always gives the gifts to those who wake up early. And he remained forever in the guilt of not waking up early, wondering what would he have become if he had gotten up early.
Right next to his brother’s temple, Kartikeya’s peacock ducks down and flies away with a rat. Kartikeya can’t let Ganesha win under no circumstances. Kartikeya had learned the lesson from his previous mistake: the mistake which also reeks for favoritism from his parents. Kartikeya was well aware that what a slow mover the rat is but snatching away the rat would give Ganesha guilt for not saving his own ride. If he can’t protect his ride, who would believe in his boons? How can he be considered auspicious?
Sitting atop a the flying peacock, Kartikeya pondered over the devastating event. Mother and father gave Ganesha everything when he was away. If someone else does it, it’s called cheating. And if parents do that their own son, that’s a sin. The explanation of calling themselves ‘the world’ around which Ganesha made rounds, stink of narcissism of highest level. What’s wrong with them? When did they become so egotistic?
But whenever he started feeling lonely, his thought process changed. He pondered over the righteousness of his parents’ words. Maybe they were right? If they were right, then he must have been brainwashed by the twisted, forever wandering sage, Narada, who came to him and told him just before he was about to finish his journey, “Ganesha has won. Not only that he had been married to two beautiful ladies.” Kartikeya asked, ” How did that happened?” The father of Narada, Brahma, the creator, gave not one but both of daughters to his mutant brother. Not only that by that time, he reached his brother had two kids as well. Now that’s enough.
The re-playing of the event brought back the pain. The pain which had been inflicted upon the rat by the paws of the peacock. The rat’s breath was shallow. Ganesha’s temple was approaching: it was the time to let the rat go.
Revving engine of motorbike with modified exhaust system with deafening intensity
Girls shrieking “OMG” on seeing her classmate the very next morning