Tag Archives: love

A tragedy in the making

They were afraid. Frightened not of the intensity, not of the ferocity of their love, but of the massive bubble that had encapsulated their lives. The entire world could see through the bubble; a loving couple much in love. What the world could not see, however, was the consequence their otherworldly love had on their lives. They needed each other to complete one another; their individual identities had been sewn in the quilt of other great loves.

Do not mistake me. They had forsaken their precious, separate lives to spend a life together. And it was indeed a wonderful life that they spent together.

But they paid dearly for it.

In their quest to become them, they forgot what he and she symbolized.

The world called what they shared a legendary love. But all they saw was a new tragedy in the making.

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typewritten love

This is how I picture it:

He leans over a glossy, beautiful typewriter, that basks in its vintage glory. He puckers his face in concentration, as he goes over the dozens of requests made by complete strangers. He leans back. He, maybe, sways his head a bit to the left and chews at the end of the pencil he has nibbled at for the past hour, while creativity did its rounds inside his mind. He, then, maybe, just sighs a little; nay, not of exasperation, nor of boredom, but of the inability to choose one of the many requests. He finally picks one that he believes will resonate the most. He straightens up. He mounts the paper on the platen. And, then he starts pecking away at the keys.

The ambiance of the room, where he writes on his beloved typewriter, is fascinating at that moment – the moment when thak thak, the sound of the keys, impregnates the air; the moment when he pushes each key, as lovingly as an artist would paint strokes with a brush; the moment when he  types each word with the realization that somewhere, someone may get inspired by it.

And, once he finishes typing, he smiles.

He knows he has typed something meaningful.


This is what he typed for me.


Thank you for the love, Typewriter.

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Unrequited Love

It is said that when raindrops fall from the skies and the harsh grounds soften, wings sprout from ants’ tiny  black backs so that they may soar towards light and, futilely, attempt to appease their unrequited love …

Oh, how they croon and whisper and dance around the light! Oh, how they admire and cherish and worship light!

Such fascination. Such absolute devotion. Such intractable attraction.

And, so till matutine, till the very first stroke of dawn, they become slaves to light; all time knowing that with the very same light, their fragile wings would crumple and they would come to rest – yet, they persist, yet they linger – until death comes for them.

…. and so no wonder are they perfect embodiments of the concept of fanaa … destructing their existence, as they do, in the pursuit of a unbeholden love.

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Of reflections, shards and broken hearts

He loved her.

Her curious way of kneading her glossy black hair in an elegant knot, her lively hazel eyes ever twinkling brightly with a relish unseen, her fair complexion slightly tinged with rouge – all these attributes being but few things that made him love her so intensely, so irrevocably.

Her beauty was of the rare sort; not one that awes, but one that courts the eyes of the beholder and upon doing so, pleases one immeasurably. Her countenance was, however, not entirely bereft of any imperfections; a blemish on the right cheek, could have looked unseemly on some other face – but, for her, it only served to accentuate her beauty.

Who could not love and admire such beauty?


She was happy and that made him happy.

The cheerful jittery manner in which she knotted her hair, her skipping in sheer happiness now and then and of course, the radiant smile that she shone upon him – it made him feel as if the intense love he felt for her was being reciprocated. That she was happy and even though, he was unaware of the cause of her happiness, the fact that she chose to share her happiness with him despite having countless other friends, ascertained him that he held a special place in her heart.

Yes, one might point out that since he was hopelessly in love, he deluded himself by imagining his affection for her was being returned subtly through happiness.

But, then, love does render one helpless.


She was angry and that made him curse his inability to calm her down.

She raved and raged and gesticulated fiercely; only moments back she had smashed her cell phone in smithereens – the sad pieces of the martyred phone now lay scattered across the already cluttered floor of the room. He wanted to reach out, hold her in his arms, and soothe the upwelling of rage that so dangerously attempted to break her down very much alike the cell phone she had smashed a couple of moments ago.

All his life he had watched her in the moments of solitude she spent in her room – and so he knew. He knew she was incredibly vulnerable; that inside her beat a heart that had been so battered down by failed relationships, so utterly stabbed by betrayals – that it couldn’t possibly weather another bastard dumping her. You can start hacking away at a tree of huge girth and ultimately it would fall down. You can have waves eroding away at a stubborn outthrust of rock and ultimately it would crumble away. But a heart … is just a heart: nothing as momentous as a gargantuan tree or as obdurate as an unyielding rock.

And, it had happened again. Another break-up had come into place. Her heart was broken and it pained him.

His heart ached – but what he dreaded the most was grief that followed the rage.

… and nothing is so shattering as the grief of a heart that has been broken many a times.


In the last moments of her rage, she broke him too.

The ornament thrown in anger hit him squarely in the median – and fragile as he was, he shattered.

He, who had reflected her happiness, her grief, her rage; he, who had been her companion when pangs of loneliness struck her; he, who had loved her irrevocably – was shattered by her in just a matter of seconds.

All that loyalty, that devotion, that concern went down in a smoke – for, he was, but a mirror. An inanimate object that had dared to love the animate; an inanimate object worth zilch, thought incapable of any emotion; an inanimate object that could be obliterated in few seconds.

Yet, love lingered. Even as his shards cascaded down into a heap of debris, his love for her lingered.

She had shattered him, yet he stayed true.


She clutched at him and wept; as if he was the only one capable to save her from the burgeoning darkness of oblivion and self-hatred.

Yes, he was just a shard; a remnant, a pitiful fragment – but, she clutched him. She clutched him, despite his jagged edge, his cracked visage … yet she clutched him.

It was acceptance. His love had been accepted.

Euphoria erupted inside him and he snuggled against her wrist. Her sobs ceased.

Ah, she is comforted. At last. She is comforted by my closeness. He thought.

Her eyes darkened. But, in his happiness, he forgot everything.

Her grip tightened on him. He enjoyed her being so close to him.

She raised him slightly. He felt uneasy, yet thought it unwise to dispel the moment he had longed for, since such a long time.

She did not hesitate. He did not respond.




Image courtesy of: http://www.dreamstime.com

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