Posts Tagged ‘Love’

Beyond love

November 23, 2018

What a loss!  To dream of a person for life, and then coming to a realization that you don’t dream of them anymore.

You meet her and see nothing has changed except these subtle changes, like you won’t touch her, and she’d keep a distance, and you won’t look into her eyes and stuff.  And then there are things like you tell her of The Milkman and she reads a page and something of it, and she tells you of some Guns and Roses and you know you won’t listen to them any time soon, but there will be some evening when you’ll dig them up and play those on loop.

Some things in life never change.  You loved her and you will love her.  Love acts in ways beyond making any sense; your dreams stop being your dreams and your love still keeps on being your love.

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With you, without you..

May 1, 2018

[Following is a translation of a letter from a collection of letters “तुझ्यासह आणि तुझ्याविना” by Dr. A. H. Salunkhe.  A well-known figure in Maharashtra for his scholarship of Sanskrit and his work in the Bahujan Movement, Dr. Salunkhe is an acclaimed author of many scholarly books.  This collection is one rare book where he wrote about his personal life, his love for his wife, after she passed away of cancer.

To me, this book is even more special.  It was a book I had gifted to my girlfriend, who later went on to become my wife, on 14th April 2007, first anniversary of me expressing my love for her.  Also, having personally met Dr. Salunkhe, I know what a kind-hearted person he is, and bearing a loss of this magnitude must have been very painful for him.  I wish him immense strength to bear with this pain. I also wish him a long, healthy life so that we can get more of his guidance.]

My copy of तुझ्यासह आणि तुझ्याविना

Madhushree,

My craze for books was ever since I was a kid. I know, in the early days of our marriage, because I was crazy for books, you had to put in a lot of planning to buy household things. Many a times, you would create something useful from scrap, but you never came against my buying books.

You wouldn’t forget the story of our wedding ring. Indeed, as a wedding ring, I should have kept it close to my heart all my life. But I couldn’t stay attached to it emotionally. It was not even a month since our marriage that I sold it and reached International book store at Pune Deccan Gymkhana. From that money, I bought Siddhant Kaumudi on Panini’s grammar, Brahmasutra Shankar Bhashya, Nirukt by Yaskacharya, Rigved Samhita, Naishadheyacharit, Shishupalvadh, Raghuvansh, Dey and Dasgupta’s History of Classical Sanskrit Literature, and many such books from there and the stores nearby. In fact, I would have sold even your ring, but it was spared more than once because of your emotional connect to it. I understand selling the wedding ring within a month of wedding must have been real painful for you.

Many a times, I think I shouldn’t have done that. I should have cared for your feelings. But, Shree, what else could I do? I was trying to complete my M.A. in Sanskrit. As an external student, it wasn’t possible to access college libraries. There were no other libraries available. I had no option but to buy those books, and I saw no other way to buy them. It’s not that it wasn’t painful for me to sell the ring. Now that you aren’t here, with that ring in my finger, I could have imagined your presence, could have felt your touch. The pain of selling that ring, something that I couldn’t feel so much while you were alive, feels so much now behind you. But what can I do now but to ask for forgiveness?

But I tell you – I always feel grateful for that ring. Whatever Sanskrit I could learn in my future life, its base was formed on the books that I bought from selling it. If I couldn’t get those books at that time, perhaps I couldn’t even be an MA in Sanskrit; let alone all the achievements in the future. Whatever I am today, it is out of many such times when I crumpled and crushed your feelings. How can I forget this gift of yours? How much restrain you would have used? In that tender age, how could you bear with this craze of mine? Or it was that you were in love with this craze itself? That it was this craziness that kept you in love with me?

Even in the later days, you would tell many times to my friends, “my husband is not married to me, but to these books.” Apparently, it seemed like a complaint against me, but more often it was about immense pride and happiness. If there was any regret, it was very little. You never read any of my books in continuity, but you would say with pride, “I haven’t read any of his books, but I can talk about the contents of any of them.” It was true. You never needed to leave your chores and read them. It was only a printed form of whatever was discussed in the household, and it was natural that you never felt the need to read them.

But one of your complaints really hit me in the heart. It made me feel like a criminal in my own eyes. It is about this incident happened in the last 8-10 months of your life. I was looking for some reference; I was trying to explain something with it. You were sitting nearby. You needed something; you asked for it. I didn’t hear you. It’s not that your voice was low. I was so engaged in finding that reference, I didn’t hear what you said; like your voice didn’t fall on my ears. Your words lost into thin air. I don’t know what you might have felt that time, but it got you, and you said irritated, “my husband can’t think of anything but books!” This went straight to my heart like an arrow. I came out my trance, left books, pen, paper everything and came to you, and gave whatever you wanted. You became calm soon. In the illness of about 18 months, it was only two-three times that you lost your cool; it was one of those incidents. Perhaps that day you could no longer bear the pain; perhaps you could have strongly felt that I should come to you, talk to you, calm you, share your pain. Perhaps you felt hurt seeing me not even listening to you and it brought up that outburst. Of course, you were in all your rights and your anger was reasonable. But, Shree, what could I do? Mine was a hunger of a person starving from a hundred generations. From there, came this devouring, this harshness of ignoring you.

You do know about my fully immersing in my reading and writing. At home or at some public place, in trains or in bus, wherever I think of something of note, I write it down then and there; it’s what I always do. Even while I rode scooter, if there was something to note, I would stop the scooter, note it and then go ahead. I have been doing this for long. I’m always worried lest I forget and lose that point later. At times, if I forgot to note something and then it got lost, I could do nothing, but to regret that I didn’t note it. If the noted chit gets misplaced and lost, it pains a lot, like I have been robbed of something valuable. Once I was thinking of something while in bus, Hyderabad to Nanded, 7-8 hours continuously. What is the exact nature of ‘self’; a lot of thoughts were pouring like heavy rains that day. I was noting the whole thing in a diary. Later some day, I was at an STD booth in Dhule and lost the diary there. I could never remember those same points again and I lost them forever.

I can’t tell where some thought would occur to me. For this reason, I always take care to keep paper, pen with me. You know that. Even while sleeping, I keep paper, pen under my pillow. If I had to write something, I would pull out my hand under your head without breaking your sleep and note down the points. I have done this for years. Many such points that I wrote after taking my hand under your head are scattered across many of my books. These points occur even today. Even now, I keep paper, pen under my pillow. But now I don’t have to take out my hand under your head. I don’t have to worry about breaking your sleep. Everything else is the same, only you are not here. You are not; neither to dote on my craziness, nor to complain about it. If you had stayed, not only to make playful complaints against me, but even to make serious complaints, or to make harsh criticism, or to protest against me, or even to condemn me, my heart would have been filled with flowers of joy. I would have drenched myself in the showers of happiness. But you didn’t.

[Original letter titled as शंभर पिढ्या उपाशी असलेल्या माणसाची भूक in the collection].

Don’t go my beloved..

May 1, 2018

It’s already past midnight, but I have lost my sleep.  My heart is skipping beats.  I’ve lost my sleep.  I am singing kinds of sad, melancholic bollywood songs to myself.  Don’t go my beloved.. For tonight, do not go..

How does one hold on to moments?

April 29, 2018

How does one hold on to moments? You wish so much to turn them into tiny cubes and hide them in your pocket so that you – checking no one can see you – can take them out and feel them again and again.

How does a gaze, as normal as a gaze, makes you trust in love? How do your lips that seem to detest all music at other times serenade into cute little jingles? How does it happen that the time stop with the caresses, but the clock never does?

The moments fly like a butterfly and I ruminate into times hoping to catch a glimpse on my canvas so that they stay. They never do.

Of shining pearls and a flying peacock

April 15, 2016

Content I am.  With a smile on my face and a glow in my eyes.  That I had just been in a dream. Moments flew on feathery soft wings.

We smiled for no reason but for being happy.  We gleamed.  We shone.  Not like a firefly, nor like a diamond, but like a pearl.  Soft and milky white.

That we rode in parching heat, like it was a breeze of early summer mornings.  That we pulled off the road, so that the time should halt.  That we fell into embraces like how much we belonged there.  That we tasted the nectar like our lips had never tasted love before.

How would it matter what we were? The two eternal souls randomly collided in the complex machinery of existence?  Why would it matter?

That we existed is truth. Like the peacock that flew right above our head and no one else but we two saw it.  If we two had not noticed it, would it mean that the peacock never existed? It did.

You’re a whole life I miss

October 30, 2015

You’re a whole life I miss.
This song I found just yesterday –
This song we never listened together..
It will be one of those, the first among them all, that we will never listen together.

I love you.  I do.
I’m sorry.  I hold myself a lot I won’t say this thing to you.
I am happy.  I am living a life.
I don’t want to be the hope – once again – that  we’ve lost already.

No, this is only today.  I don’t cry often.
I felt like sending you a mail.  I didn’t write that one.
This is what we’ve come to –
Songs never listened, mails never sent…

I know you’ll read this.  I know you’ll cry too.
I really don’t want to make you cry.
I want you to let me slip into oblivion.  I want to help you do that.
And I’m still making you cry..
Can you forgive me for this, ma?

Of what it could be…

January 6, 2015

It’s not that he never cries, but when he does, he usually knows it’s coming, and he keeps feeling like he can stop it if he would really try, and then it makes him feel kind of guilty to cry even though he can “not cry.”  It makes him feel fake.  But when he cried this morning on hearing her voice, he knew it was not fake.  He still tried to stop it, and he did actually succeed, but still couldn’t stop sobbing.

It was the first time in years he had not heard her voice for so long.  He was used to starting his days with her voice, and it was her voice he was used to go sleep with.  He was so accustomed to it, it never occurred to him that he may have to live without it some day.  And still when it came to that, he did reasonably well. He plunged himself into his tasks – building his bridges back.  “Enjoying life is so subjective,” he thought.  He started forming new definitions of enjoying life, and of life itself.

But when she called this morning, past a few awkward moments, he saw nothing has changed – he is the same he, she is the same she, and it still could be the same “us.”… It came so suddenly – tears rolled down.

Of an infidel morning..

July 2, 2014

Such infidel thoughts in this circumspect world – and you’re being watched from everywhere. I’m missing a girl whom I shall not! But is there really something that “one shall not even miss someone”?

I was reading Slow Man by Coetzee this morning. Paul – my protagonist, a man of 70 with his leg amputated – pondering over his feelings for his caretaker Marijana – while she is dusting his books. Paul tries to find an exact word for his feelings. If he has to choose one word, he thinks, it would be admiration. “Can desire grow out of admiration, or are the two quite distinct species?” Paul thinks.

I, suddenly like a twinge, thought of a girl whom I had fallen in – principally an admiration. Whatever it was, it kept floating between admiration and desire – more towards admiration. What was it that I admired, I know not. Not really intelligent – someone whom I would put in “average” range – someone who makes mistakes in spellings and words and gets confused between convince and convenience. A beauty she was – no doubt absolutely gorgeous (so much that I once in my thoughts had named her Georgiana), but that must not be the reason. Was it her innocence? Perhaps it was, at least for the first few days, but later it was more of her reluctance to fall. I knew she admired me – a lot – and hence perhaps more cautious to let it not move up to desire. Sheer reluctance! Perhaps, it was no more an innocence.

My days were counted. As such, I was kind of taking a liberty to indulge, knowing it is to end on a fixed date. I weaved my days around her. I knew it was cruel of me trying to break her reluctance and I was still doing it. I knew it was best of it to leave it unsolved, and I was still trying to untangle it – only such that it does not get solved indeed. I lived my days between a yes and no – between admire and desire.

With an abrupt end, it started to fade away day by day. It was never to the stage where I could text her and say “I miss you” – in fact, never even where I could text her anytime I want. So when I was reading Coetzee this morning and was thinking of my Marijana, there was no question of me letting her know about it.

Then it started raining today – first real rain of this monsoon – making the weather kind of romantic when you see it out of the windows – and I set myself afloat, let myself flow…

The full moon of Buddha Pournima

May 15, 2014

Then he went out, walking on roads. This is one thing he enjoys. He walks with his own thoughts, with ear-plugs in, often playing no music.

“Will it ever be the same?” He thought for a fraction of moment, and felt a half tear behind his lashes. But he was calm again soon. “It is for good that it happened” he said to himself.

He started the music – something classical – he was listening it for the first time. It was beautiful – Raga Tilak Kamod – he googled. “Beautiful..” he said to himself – again felt something like a tear under the eyelid.
He stopped for a panipuri, and kulfi perhaps. He likes the feel of sweet, cool, milky kulfi after the hot panipuris. panipuri and Kulfi is a routine.

“She’s a beauty!” He looked at the veiled girl having panipuri there. “These girls with hijab look good eating panipuri”, he thought. Was he staring at her? The girl – who seemed standing alone there – walked past him to her boyfriend standing a little away. “Hmm”, he thought – “these girls with hijab don’t seem married.” He always thought hijab means married.

The panipuri-waali lady knows him by face, so does the kulfi-waala. He paid for the panipuri/kulfi, and again went on walking.

He was a little calmer now. He knew it will be difficult – the consequences will be long-term rather than immediate – over a relationship in one evening – he knows it’s not that simple. There will be many such evenings and he will still have those half-tears. But does that matter?

It was getting dark – he started walking back towards home. Ustad Bismillah Khan playing Tilak Kamod in his head. He looked at the sky. The moon was bright. “It’s Buddha Pournima” he thought.

He had seen many such moons – different phases of it. On the ninth day of Chaitra – when she was sitting right in front of him and the moon was exactly above her head. The crescent on the dawn of Dhan-trayodashi – while he was talking to her on phone. “Different moons, different times..” he thought.

But this moon was different. He somehow never noticed it earlier – the full moon of Buddha Pournima! He didn’t give it much thought, and started walking back to home again.

A shair for me

December 29, 2013