Sometimes you see faces. Sometimes you see souls. Sometimes you see flesh and bones. And sometimes you see the reason. You see the reason and praise it, and sometimes you denounce it. Sometimes it’s beyond logic. Sometimes it’s beyond legitimacy. Sometimes, it is lunacy. Sometimes it is beyond carnality. Sometimes you feel like it’s all a lie, but your eyes tell you otherwise. Sometimes, you meet people and they stay with you. Sometimes, it’s just in your memories. And they make you wild, and thirsty, and leave you mad. Mad enough to cross oceans, to stay up every night, to craft poetry, and to listen to your dumb and muted heart, which never spoke anything but they make you think like the heart is whispering that you have fallen. Sometimes, they dip stones in the ever placid pond of your heart forming endless ripples, which was always as serene as it could ever be. Sometimes, the ripples don’t just remain ripples. They grow into waves. And it leaves you craving for storms. It leaves you lusting after destruction.
Some tales end. Some tales don’t. Some start, and some don’t. Some tales are forgotten, and some are reminisced, for evermore. Like I recollect a story every lone night.
It was a site, where bards from all over put up their creations on display. I read a piece, and I regret having come across it. I regret reading it. And I read it till I fell in love with every single letter of it. I was so entranced, that I became desperate to find out the creator. The curls, the strokes, and the curves were so seductive, that it could make anyone feel like I was feeling. To my amazement, finding the author wasn’t a very backbreaking task. It just took me about a week to find out who the magician was.
I emailed her about how professional she is at it, and how good I felt every time I read it. And she reverted saying thanks within two days. And when she replied, I felt honoured, that I had communicated with such a great writer. And I kept on reading her works and praising her. And she kept on saying thanks and it went on until one day I realized the direction I was heading toward, would someday be something remorseful. And at last it happened. One fine morning I woke up to realize it was love. I know nothing could ever get stupider than falling in love with someone, you’ve never met in person, on the basis of that person’s ability to write good literature. I didn’t know what it was. But whatever it was, it felt good. That was the first time when being stupid felt good. It’s a fact, that after dealing with lies for some time, you long for more. And that was exactly what had happened. I knew it was all a lie, but still I acted normal, and oblivious to the reality.
One fine tipsy night, I emailed her saying everything I felt without fear; Dutch courage, probably. And her response was absolutely unforeseen. “Haha, that’s interesting”, came her reply.
It was after some days of communication when I realized that she had been reciprocating everything. But it wasn’t totally clear. Things went well after that, but not for long. Online dating and all. We met after a month. I told her she would look pretty in a saree. And she told me I would look good in a Pathani suit; manly. And the next day we met, we wore what the other had suggested the other day.
I started thinking about our future, and I was setting records of being stupid. I never tried to know how she felt. I never tried to achieve anything else apart from my own goals. And I was going mad. Mad enough to cross oceans, to stay up nights, to craft poetry, and to listen to my ever mum heart.
The only thing we overlooked that day, was the faith we followed. So similar, yet so disparate. The Gods above were angry. And since we both were lovers of literature, we never wanted bloodshed. Never for a second time did we ever try to meet each other after knowing we would be killed for courting each other, by the same worshippers of Gods of two different religions who preach nonviolence. Religion; the Joker to my Batman. “Religion; created for maintaining peace through bloodshed.”
It was difficult for me as well. I have somehow managed to tame myself. But every night, when I reminisce about the past, I live it. I live every moment spent with that magician. I still don’t know who I fell for: her, or her literature. A ruination, I will always adore.