I keep getting comments, e-mails, WhatApp messages and more from people who connect with what I write. Many hold themselves back from commenting on public forum out of fear of being reprimanded for being too bold. One such person decided to inbox me today. There is a reason why I am sharing this, but we will get to that in a bit. Here is an excerpt from the e-mail (I have decided to share only a part of it for a reason.).
“How are you doing this? I have been following you for quite a while. It is like you are writing my story. Every post. How can it be? This is who I am. … Thanks for confirming there are others like me. Thanks for saying it out to the world what I want to tell everyone around me. You are my escape. … Please write more often. You have a gift of knowing how to hold a pen with audacity.”
First things first. I am humbled and touched beyond words. Thanks for writing in. You made my day. I never started writing with a goal; it was and still is my way to get away from the compulsion of incessant thinking. Like you, words are my escape too.
I never thought of my blog as some bold platform to write what comes to my mind, but I now do realise that is how it is being perceived. I know why you would call me audacious. I have received quite a few curious mails asking me if this blog is my story, a friend’s story or a work of fiction. Some decided it is their story. Some decided it is my story. Some decided I am twisted. Some read, got curious, bitched and gossiped to a level that was beyond my mind’s ability to comprehend. A few others are still trying to pschoanalyse me through those words.
I just have one answer for those not-so-happy readers, “The line between fact and fiction is blurred. And good luck figuring out what’s what. Please let me know when you reach a conclusion. Meanwhile, thanks for following my blog with such dedication. All the reading, analysing, judging, bitching and gossiping means more publicity… Bring it on, people!”
And for my happy readers, I don’t see why you would not comment publicly. I would love it if you do. Perception is the stupidest thing to be worried about. So let go and just be!
Words are magic. Write what you feel like writing… Shout, be brave, cry, bleed it all out… just WRITE. Let the words shatter you. Let the words heal you.
In her bid to escape the mundane, she had reached a beautiful quaint town on an unnoticed Greek island. As she was sauntering around the charming little town, soaking in the beauty and peace of it all, she stopped outside a cafe noticing a pair of sad eyes of a woman staring at her from a painting; she could not help but stare back. “Do you like the painting?” a husky voice asked her breaking her concentration. She turned around to put a face to the voice and found a man in rugged light blue jeans and casual white shirt standing next to the pots of brushes and an easel. She responded with a question as she realised he was the artist who created this piece of stirring emotion, “Why are her eyes so sad?” The painter studied the inquisitor’s dewy eyes for a brief moment and then looked at his painting. After a few seconds of contemplation he demanded, “Why don’t you tell me?”
That’s the thing about art and artists, she thought. A piece of art only assures you that you are not alone in your wretchedness. It is always about your interpretation, your pain. It is always about why you feel a connection with it. Be it music, words, paintings, photographs or any other art form. The fact that she could sense the pain of the woman in the painting was only a reflection of her own misery.
She gave a knowing smile to the cute brown-eyed painter, decided not to answer this time and turned to leave.
After a few steps she paused, looked back, winked at him and said, “Efharisto.” This time he gave her a reassuring smile.
I once shared this extraordinarily beautiful quote from the movie “Shakespeare in Love” with him. It was from the sequence where Viola De Lesseps describes the kind of love she wants… The ungovernable kind… The kind of love where your only option is to be ruined or raptured. I did not know then he took those words so seriously. He completely ruined me.
“I love you, but…”
There was always a “but” in his love.
“I love you. Period.”
There was always “madness” in her love.
He wanted a love of convenience.
She knew love was anything but convenience.
At the precise moment where she was giving her friend a piece of her mind about how impractical and unrealistic an all-consuming love is, the universe was laughing its wits out at her. How could she have ever known the universe had a plan and was in fact conspiring to uproot every idea she had instilled into her mind about the practicality of “love”? After all the heartbreak stories of people around her, she’d come to believe people only looked for a love of convenience and that true love existed only in her books. She was on the verge of being proven so wrong. There he was, the universe’s plan… As their eyes met, all she could hear was her pounding heart and the voice from her throbbing head that said, “There you go.”
In spite of it all, there they were. Him. Her. And the magic of the overzealous dark night with their wild heartbeats. There were no words for a while. Both of them were trying to absorb the reality of this moment; the reality that this, after all, was not a dream. Cupping her face in his palms, looking right into her eyes that were beaming with intense emotions he finally said, “In these few moments that I have with you, I want you to reveal your most vulnerable self to me. I want your raw emotions. I want the uncareful version of you. I want you to bleed your feelings… your absolute, unadulterated, naked truth. I want to know if you too feel the unnamed feeling of being raptured and ruined at the same time. I want to know it all.” It was confession time for her. What could she tell him that her eyes hadn’t given away already? Yes, she too suffered the confusion of utter bliss and pain. She too was tormented by the way every fibre of her body called out to him in every waking and sleeping moment. Before getting caught in the web of her thoughts, she decided to put it in the least complicated way, “I love you. You are the definition of my vulnerability, my desires, my fears, my emotions. I will stay consumed by you, because I know no other way.”
It is funny how people in love think they have mastered the art of cloaking… They forget how every time they are with the one they love every nerve of their bodies shouts at the world, “Oh yes, we are lovers!”
It was time again for their late-night tête-à-tête with soft music, some wine and dim lights. What started out as a regular gossip session between two besties meeting after a long time, quickly turned into a serious conversation. She desperately needed to know her best friend’s opinion on the thought that was haunting her for quite some time now, so she finally asked, “Did I disrupt his mundane life? He seemed fine with the ordinary before I barged in. Do you think I have left him muddled up for the rest of his life?” After musing over it for what seemed like ages her friend answered with certainty, “Yes, you did; but in a good way. When you barged in, he got the emotional experience of his life… He never knew he was capable of such intensity, such passion. Now he knows the difference between living and just being alive. You, my friend, are that difference. And even if it is not forever, he is lucky to have experienced the intensity of your love.”
What is pain?
Pain is every time I wonder what could be.