Of all things, bright and sad, profound and shallow, clear and muddled, it is our negative experiences that drive our lives, our decision making. We try harder, to avoid such confrontations, such affairs. On a bright, sad afternoon, lying in an airy unoccupied room, I lay on clean white sheets, sighing from pain and fever, full of delusions, dreams gone wrong, friends lost and forgotten. I wanted to write. After a long time, I write. I want to write of profound beautiful things, but they escape me. So I woke up and sat myself straight.
In my mind was a friend, an unspeakably good soul, as troubled as was beautiful. I saw her standing next to any of the decrepit, rundown lanes of Bombay, speaking to a man, I had never seen before. I could tell from their faces and the way they shuffled their feet, that their lives were full of woe. And I am not guessing, I know. Life is an endless string of miseries, if one came to an end of one, there would be another waiting around the corner, and of bearing them became any easier, the next one would strike even harder, leaving us bare and creasing our faces, so that we all look alike.
The beauty of it all is that once we have seen some and even if misfortune came swiftly, first tip-toeing and then like a deluge, we make ourselves believe we knew it all along, hiding away from us, lying in wait for us, so we feel ready for it always. When the clouds of next new trouble descend on us, we feel alone, hopelessly alone and we still feel hopeful of finding happiness, if and only if we could find someone to share our miseries with.
For a moment, I believed that her misery was same as mine and if it weren’t the misery, it surely was the same world we inhabit. A world, which promises so little and consumes your soul, in a manner so humble that you feel like a hero. Later I could imagine her, waking up all beautiful, curls around her eyes, dancing a few steps on her own tune, cuddling a baby and talking to her softly as she drifted to sleep.
I felt close to her as if I was there with her in that room. It was not her beauty, nor her grace that made me want to embrace her, but the deep belief that they shared the same world and that by embracing her, I could make her believe the same. Soon I dreamt other things and when they happened, I realized that my understanding of the woman was coming to an end. Then I got up and saw that the rain that poured was thick and black, like the gutters of Bombay.
It was only later, wafting in and out of sleep, I realized that world is a test of faith and love and understanding. And that one must pay as much attention to books that go unnoticed and those that endure and pay as much attention to those who understand and those who don’t.
In my mind was a friend, an unspeakably good soul, as troubled as was beautiful. I saw her standing next to any of the decrepit, rundown lanes of Bombay, speaking to a man, I had never seen before. I could tell from their faces and the way they shuffled their feet, that their lives were full of woe. And I am not guessing, I know. Life is an endless string of miseries, if one came to an end of one, there would be another waiting around the corner, and of bearing them became any easier, the next one would strike even harder, leaving us bare and creasing our faces, so that we all look alike.
The beauty of it all is that once we have seen some and even if misfortune came swiftly, first tip-toeing and then like a deluge, we make ourselves believe we knew it all along, hiding away from us, lying in wait for us, so we feel ready for it always. When the clouds of next new trouble descend on us, we feel alone, hopelessly alone and we still feel hopeful of finding happiness, if and only if we could find someone to share our miseries with.
For a moment, I believed that her misery was same as mine and if it weren’t the misery, it surely was the same world we inhabit. A world, which promises so little and consumes your soul, in a manner so humble that you feel like a hero. Later I could imagine her, waking up all beautiful, curls around her eyes, dancing a few steps on her own tune, cuddling a baby and talking to her softly as she drifted to sleep.
I felt close to her as if I was there with her in that room. It was not her beauty, nor her grace that made me want to embrace her, but the deep belief that they shared the same world and that by embracing her, I could make her believe the same. Soon I dreamt other things and when they happened, I realized that my understanding of the woman was coming to an end. Then I got up and saw that the rain that poured was thick and black, like the gutters of Bombay.
It was only later, wafting in and out of sleep, I realized that world is a test of faith and love and understanding. And that one must pay as much attention to books that go unnoticed and those that endure and pay as much attention to those who understand and those who don’t.
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