Some years on

I do not love you except…

…because I love you, she completed the line.

I go from loving to not loving you
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire

Her lips moved silently as she mouthed the words along with the speaker. There was a reading going on at her favourite bookstore by an author of some repute, and he was quoting this poem in some context.

Ten years on, she could still quote Neruda with the same ease as she did at eighteen. Never mind that she hadn’t touched a tome of poetry for more than five years. Back then, it was the elusiveness of the meaning that fascinated her. As did the man’s ability to seemingly wrench out a plethora of emotions from the core of his being. The rhythm, the words, the endless contradictions woven together seamlessly…. She could never get enough of it.

A wry smile touched the corners of her mouth. A few years ago, the elusive meaning had finally presented itself…..only too clearly. The contradictions didn’t puzzle her any more. The wisdom that comes with age, she thought wryly. Only that she hadn’t bargained for that much pain to colour the process of understanding.

She rarely took out that box of sepia memories in her mind. Endless walks, endless conversations, discussing poetry, swapping favourite books, sharing ten minutes over a hurried coffee. She marvelled at how some recollections could still make her smile despite the searing hurt that would inevitably follow. How they stayed up talking the whole night beside a dying bonfire during the batch tour. The knowing smiles on her friends’ faces when she told them of that conversation. You only talked? Giggles had followed.

They would never understand. Never could. That just a smile, the way his hand held hers, the pleasing lilt of his voice…. They were enough to make her feel complete and loved like never before. That she had been accepted as she was, with no expectations. That the two of them had placed a meeting of minds above all else. They were an atypical teenage couple.

But they had split five years later in typical teenage fashion, despite pushing their mid twenties then. Pride, and a refusal to accept that each had wronged the other. A reluctance to apologize, an unwillingness to appear pliant. Accepting it now isn't going to help any.

A mental shoulder shrug.

She moved on to the next bookshelf, another bookworm on a late afternoon tryst with her best friends.


In this part of the story I’m the one who dies
The only one
And I will die of love because I love you

She was willing to bet that the Romance section didn’t have a story like hers. One without a happy ending.

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Purple dusk deepened to inky blackness as he watched from his apartment window. A sense of loneliness, his constant companion these days, hovered around all he did. Life didn't have to be like this, he reminded himself. Retrospection made it very easy to acknowledge his mistakes, and recall that he’d had a chance to remedy their rift.

Had.

He would live the rest of his life knowing that he was the biggest fool on earth to have turned away the one person who saw him exactly as he was. Accepted him that way. And loved him for it.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight
To think I don’t have her. To feel I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

Not bad. He could still recall the ‘Saddest Poem’ as Neruda called it. And he could still picture the rapture on her face when she heard it for the first time. From him.

He turned away from the window, a smile on his face. Hurt yet amused. Silently acknowledging that he would carry this burden everywhere. That at the end of it all, he’d have his own epic poem, and nobody to recite it to. That he did not really want to tell it to anybody but her.

Perhaps, he mused, the embers wouldn‘t come to life even if he ran into her again. They had half a decade, a couple of countries, and a distance like several oceans between their minds to contend with.

Perhaps.


I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her
Love is short and oblivion so long

The buzz of a suburban evening bored into his consciousness, as he settled into his couch for another routine evening of TV, newspapers and retrospection.

Perfectly worded, as always, he mused. Chances are, Neruda was once a bigger fool than I was

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Arbit Observations #4

The Goddess is back.

Yes, you may kiss the ground.

Apologies for the no-show have already been made.....So brace yourselves for another dose of asininely arbit observations from my so-called life. What better way to kick off the blogging for this year??

Tsk tsk…. Didn’t your mama tell you that groaning audibly is rude??? Here goes.....

1. You know your life has sucked as thoroughly as it possibly can when

a. Everything that can go wrong has gone wrong
b. When you thought things couldn’t get worse, they just did
c. AND, the only email you’ve received in a week on your personal id is about a 70% discount on Viagra.

2. The ugly duckling grew up to become a swan. In Andersen’s version at least. In real life, there’s a 99.999% probability that the ugly duckling will grow up to become at best, a verrrry average DUCK. Accepting this fact has freed up an incredible amount of time for me to focus on bigger issues of life. Like the wonderful ambiguity of phrases like ‘Striking looks’ and ‘Unconventional appearance’. Oh yes, Her Royal Duckiness lets out an indignant quack every now and then, but is at peace otherwise.

3. Pointy toed shoes on men give me the creeps. Crrrreeeeeepsssss. I’m talking about the shoes that taper into a point that sticks out ten inches in front of the wearer. Call me antiquated if you will, but my support for the metrosexual man goes only as far as clean nails and good overall hygiene.

4. WHYYYY do my northie counterparts expect me to fall on any and every plate of curd rice/idlis like a starving refugee???

5. Why Zahra? Why not another name? Thought I’d explained that somewhere in this blog. Actually, Thamaraichelvi Kumudavalli and Isabel DeMontmorency St Claude were close contenders. But then I figured that a Zahra by any other name would be just as asinine. Therefore, the name with the least typing effort won.

6. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why Indian men scratch their privates in public with complete abandon. Like, it’s called ‘privates’ with a purpose, right? Mebbe it’s coz of a flawed genetic strain unique to the males of our race. Something like the see-wall-MUST-pee syndrome they already suffer from. Tragic. Am going cross-eyed from all the eye-averting I do during my daily commute.

7. Never do a competent job of anything if you can help it. No more than what's needed to keep your job, I mean. Working my backside off under crazy deadlines, and pulling off the near impossible even once only translates into more loony projects coming my way...with crazier deadlines. Like I want this at 3 p.m. yesterday types.

8. Bairi Piya in Devdas is a pretty decent song, come to think of it (it’s playing on radio as I type) Would’ve been better if they’d shaved off the “Eeesh” bits and taken a good forty seconds off it. Waitaminit….that also means removing the only part of the song I can sing. Eeeeeesh!!

9. And while we’re on songs, I SOOOO miss the hostel gaana sessions. :-((

Words cannot describe the joys of singing Umrao Jaan songs with 3 other similarly challenged AND loud females at 3 a.m., while smirking at the wails of misery from adjoining rooms. (Cackle, cackle) A nice, steaming plate of Maggi at 5 a.m. and my plate...sorry, cup of happiness would overflow. Sigh.

10. I hate pointy toed sh…..Oops, that one’s done already…. Okay, I HATE random and indiscriminate displays of…. Heck, ANY display of butt cleavage. Why, people, why???? Found myself at a crowded coffee shop the other day, with several square inches of ‘it’ on display at chair-level all around (Eeewwww). Guys and gals alike. Somebody help me if I’m missing the point here. Honestly, seeing that the brief is authentic Calvin Klein doesn’t make it any less traumatic.

11. And Dostaana must’ve really sucked yaar. Oh, not that I’ve seen it. Y’see I couldn’t help but think so when all my gal-buddies denounced the movie in unison. When women say that about a movie, despite liberal close up shots of just John Abraham in just his chuddies, then you gotta do a serious rethink. Btw, I’m told his apparel is all original designer wear. Not that I’d know …and not that I think most of us gals would care ;-P

Well, that’s all the arbitness I can manage for now, so breathe easy folks. Am busy pinning up my list of new year resolutions on the wall. Oops, just lost 3 months in getting started.

Zahra, you eeeeediot, change that 8 to 9.

Ahem...

Errr.... I'm back.

And looking verrry sheepish for not having written for a good three months. Fie, Zahra.

This being the first post of the year, I guess I should be doing the decent thing and wishing y'all, no matter how late it is. Hey, we have 9 months and 7 days left, okay?!?!

So Happy New Year (embarrassed grin)....and I sincerely hope that 2009, or what's left of it, rather, will be a rocking year for you. Good luck, cheers and all that.

And before I forget, ze blaawg completed a year of existence sometime last month.....

......so Happee Budday and thank you to all that soul curry and filter kaapi that's brought me more satisfaction than I ever imagined. :-)