An outsider's view - part III

On and on my saga continues..the story of my life..a tale of immersion and an unending quest for particpating in my surroundings.

Yesterday was a tale of my love, today is all about my dream. Who was it that proclaimed "You may say I a a dreamer, but I am not the only one"? I wonder. Nevertheless, if I were to ever meet this genius, I would pat him on the back, for capturing the single most defining feature about the human race.

We are born dreamers. I can see it in the faces of those around me.
The man in the black suit, with the meticulously detailed trim of the beard, talking animatedly on his phone while gulping large doses of caffeine - you would think he's got it all. He's smart, suave, successful and in control of his destiny. Yet, no one can deny the fact that he has his own dreams. Maybe it is far away from the land he inhabits - perhaps his dream is to not have to talk for a living. Perhaps he wishes he could be far away, living in a boat house at the edge of a great lake - ethereal in it's all-encompassing beauty. Perhaps the only decisions he dreams of having to make is how to cook the fish that he has caught, to marinate and steam or to roast. Perhaps he dreams of satisfaction, of self-contentment and a life less extra-ordinary.

Leaving the man in the black suit to his elaborately fact-riddled monologue, my eyes move on to a little kid stumbling along the road. What could his dreams be? He wants to be Batman maybe. That's quite a dream in fact - to wear a mask and run around town saving the world before bed-time. What's not to like about having dual identities. In such a claustrophobic existence, a multiple identity is just what we need to get away from the annoying conundrums that come as condiments with each identity.

Speculations aside, I return to the prospect of my own dreams. For as long as I can remember, my dreams have been riddled with recurring themes of idealism. My moment of peace looks like a black and white photo of a window-sill that awaits my presence with a warm cup of coffee, while the rain plays an elaborate orchestra of musical delight in collaboration with the glass panes, pipes and puddles of water. My dream requires me to vindicate myself as a good person, who lived and loved true, with all the dedication, loyalty, and passion that I could ever hope to muster. It is a pre-requisite to me finding a place in that black-and-white photo, and the measure against which I will one day value my life's achievements, before I pass into oblivion.

Will it ever be mine? Perhaps. All I know is that life has conditioned me to live with unfulfilled hopes and dreams. There is no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, the closest our day gets to perfection is in it's unbridled and inevitable tendency to adopt imperfections and happiness is the fleeting second of indulgence before we realize that it is transient and begin our chase of the next happiness.

Perhaps this is why we are born dreamers. Because deep down we know it will always be beyond our reach, and have to content ourselves with romanticizing what could be and could have been.
The tramp dreams on...

An outsider's view - part II

Today started as any other day. A day when I loved, and lost, and loved again. Often it is that I wonder, is it the inevitability of pain that draws me to attachment and love? People look to love for salvation, for elevation into a higher realm of happiness, warmth and satisfaction. I, on the other hand, am more used to it tearing my heart apart and pushing me down till I find the next elevator of new love to take me back up again.
I had love. Yet every day I felt a pain. A pain from fear of having my heart-broken, as much as from a fear of breaking someone's heart. For it is not as much the pain of separation as the prospect of starting over again that always had me afraid.
And today was only another one of those days when I would have to contemplate starting over again. She was beautiful, too beautiful. And I was in love with her. This was deeper than yesterday's love, or so I told myself.
Foolish heart. Never realizes that every time we love, it is equally deep, yet we fool ourselves into believing each one is more than the other. Perhaps it is our inevitable unwillingness to settle. Perhaps it is an ironic consequence of us being named the Human Race. Funny. Race - the word itself draws the most obvious reference to running.
Running - the constant state of delirium that we exist in, traversing our self-created benchmarks and milestones, each one as much a product of our disillusionment as the one before it. It is as much a part of our lives as the air we breathe.
I digress. This was supposed to be about my love. This is how it is with us. One moment I am pondering my heartbreak for the day. The next moment I am contemplating the connotations of us being named the Human Race. Running thoughts, ironies abound.
You would wonder how a tramp like me could be in love with someone as beautiful. My base mind perhaps does not deserve to ponder upon the beautiful smile lighting up her eyes and the subtle story lurking beyond her lips. Was it the way she looked at me that suddenly brought the life back in me? Was it the way she spoke, the syllables rolling off her tongue like the loving strains of a pianist in love? Or was it just the way she was - an embodiment of freedom and the promise of life - a promise I had learnt to feign ignorance of.
I had been lying there, at a corner of the street, watching the cars speeding by, people with their constant chatter and their cellphones and fancy gadgets walking by, the distant rumble of the newly constructed subway, reeking of an existence as pointless as it's beginning and end.
And then she came along. Time stopped. The sunshine itself was in an unending embrace with her, and the world seemed to blur out as she caught my eye. For a moment I forgot everything else. All I could see was the flutter of her lips as she spoke and the twitch of her eye as a gust of wind swept over us. She held out her hand. And I wanted to take it. I was in pure delightful wonderful love.
And then it happened. As my eyes took in all that was happening, I realized she was offering me food. A pack of left-overs. The glass palace I had built crashed around me, and the pieces shattered my heart. For a moment I had forgotten that I was not her equal. That Fate had not deemed fit to create me in her reflection. I had deluded myself into thinking she was looking at me, when all she was seeing was a sad, crippled creature who she could bestow charity upon to redeem her own soul.
I thanked her for the food. She walked away, never to return. My moment of love had come and gone. My heart was bleeding yet I knew I had to shut myself off from feeling the pain. I had lost again, and there was nothing new about it.
The sunshine had taken a liking to me it seemed. It caressed my eyes with the gentle touch of a mother I knew long ago. It held me up and wiped my tears. It embraced me to drive away the pain that was aching inside me. I was in love again.

(to be continued...)

An outsider's view - part I

The night loomed over me like a shadow, discreet in it's foreboding...the streets lay empty, inviting the agents of evil to run roughshod over the weak and the unprotected.

Such is life - the day comes with it's charming brightness and deceptive promise of safety. Yet only those who have observed closely know that it is only a precursor to the darkness around the corner. That is the paradox of life - it eggs you on to revel in a hamartia of power, oblivious in your innocent cocoon to the fact that this 'power' is nothing better than a mirage of life in an endless desert of death.

And yet we move on, caring nothing for what we know is inevitable. Life itself is a standing example of it's irony - why else would it culminate in death. "Hope floats best on a sinking ship" - one of my favorite lines, it sums up how I have come to understand and appreciate life. We all have to sink - it's inevitable. Yet the hope that we might somehow, through some miracle, survive - that hope right there, is what we cling to for all we are worth, prolonging our struggle for that much longer.

I am a tramp. I roam the streets in search of a semblance of food and shelter. My journey is my destination and the shadows are my clock. Days are a distant blur, passing me by in unending cycles of bacchanalian stupor. Observation is my pastime - I watch the world from the perspective of an outsider, unbiased by virtue of my lack of worldliness. I see things for what they are, devoid of any past background or future implications. All that glitters is not to be mistaken for gold, the only 'forever' that comes with a diamond is the memory of a hefty price tag, irrespective of whether the love or the partner matches the longevity of this memory.

And so begins my story. This is the veritable Rorschach test which I have decided to hold up in the face of life, and watch as it crumbles into chaotic delirium in front of my eyes. This is the beginning, of the end that I always wanted yet was too afraid to ask for...

(to be continued...)

The Dark Reality Revisited

                      You know how all these brands like Nike say ‘Just do it’, or like some other brand puts it – ‘Do less be More’? At first glance, they seem to embody the rebel within all of us – the part of us that loves to think of ourselves as the underdog, and fantasize about how we can overcome all odds and break free. 

                     However, as I walk past a large Nike billboard with its quasi-war-cry-against-conformity - ‘Just Do it’, all I see is a big man sitting up in a cozy office, minting money by deluding humanity into believing they actually have a say in how their life pans out. I knew that Originality was a cliché, but even I was amazed at how an entire parade of billboards could be so similar in their treatment of visuals or words that would effectively serve as an ego-massage to our innate lust for self-actualization through rebellion. Had humanity really degenerated into such naiveté? Perhaps...

                    The shadows seem to embrace me as I walk past them and through them. A green bench appears in the distance as I walk on. ‘Perfect’ – I think to myself. Just like in the movies – a lonely stretch of road, shadows that live and die around me adding character to the night, the smell of impending rain and now a rusty green metal bench under a flickering light-post, waiting on me, as if egging me on to indulge in a little retrospection.

                         I sit down – the metal is cold to my touch and I am certain that the coating of green coming off on the edges will leave a stain on my white shirt – or should I call it a scar, for that seems more apt, going by my recent experiences. I hadn’t been myself of late. ‘Love’ – as they call it, was the poison that had mingled with the blood that runs through my veins and into my heart. For too long I had been submerged in the darkness, too long had I struggled with isolation, perhaps I had grown tired with it. When love came with its warmth, I jumped right into it, as the fool that is so weary of cold that a raging fire seems a better alternative, in spite of the death it entails.

                        There I was, deluding myself into believing that happiness and love could be my lot. Little did I realize that Love is the card that Irony played to bluff Life into submission. When I did realize, it was all too late. Heartbreak was all that I got for my pains. One moment I was filled with optimism – of starting afresh, of being everything that she needed me to be, of giving her so much love that she would have never dreamt of; the next moment it was all gone, and in its place came pain – pain that started with surprise which soon transformed into denial. I had fortified myself against such emotions. I had taught my heart to be cold, so that I wouldn’t ever need to surrender my sanity to the whimsical idiosyncrasies of a pretty face. But when I did give love a chance, all I ended up with was a pain which I didn’t understand as much as didn’t want.

                     And then came the deeper realization – I wasn’t meant for this. Darkness always was, and always will be my lot – I will always obsess over it. The love and the pain had been a learning process – just to realize how much darkness meant to me. They say we have to lose something to  understand its true value – I’m not much for clichés, but this one seemed to have hit the nail on the head.

                          So there I was, on the Green Bench – the color itself was pregnant in its implication – the darkness was growing in me again. I smiled as the light above went out, it was pitch black now. But it didn’t matter. My eyes were used to it. I got up. Cynicism brimmed over in my mind once again – I felt the strength coming back again. I had missed this…

The Swansong

The silence is deafening
Of the darkest hour of night,
Yet dawn seems so far away
Tumultuous waves of conflict
Lay siege to the walls of my sanity
The cracks grow wider
I sell happiness, without knowing it myself
The cloak of invulnerability
No longer veils me
I stand alone, exposed
A victim of my own conscience
Loneliness is my lot
And the sound of dreams being shattered
Is my swansong

Confessions of a Hopeless Romantic - Episode III

Life went on, and I learnt to deal with the pangs of unreciprocated love. She was beyond my realm. I was the rustic soul who could only long for her company and love; she was the Princess in her ivory tower, wooed by suitors aspiring to be her Prince Charming.

Yet, one question continued to gnaw at my soul – why did she meet me? I couldn’t be so wrong. I had seen something in her eyes – something that looked a lot like love. The days passed by, weeks became months, months became a year. I graduated from college. Not just graduated, I was one of the toppers, and received a job with a fat pay packet for my efforts. Everything seemed new, but my love continued in it’s endless meanderings for reciprocation.

They say first love is the one that stays with you forever. It might not be the last affair you will ever have, nor the longest or happiest. Yet, the memory of it lingers on – shaping our reactions to any and all romantic liaisons thenceforth. First love is also the purest, because it is spontaneous. There are no practiced lines, no preconceived notions, no cynicism – it is naïve, and that’s the beauty of it. My first love had changed me. No longer was I the awe-struck Petrarchan lover, putting my lady love on a pedestal and worshipping her more than loving her. I was real now and so was my love.

It had been more than a year since I had last seen her. Perhaps she had just been a catalyst that Fate had sent my way, to push me out of my stupor of romantic idealism. Perhaps she had been a wake-up call to tell me that real life and real love were far removed from the dreamy world that candy floss cinema portrayed it in.

Yet the impact of it all had been remarkable. My mystery woman had filled up the empty canvas of my being, with the rich strokes of love, warmth and affection – making me more complete as a person. I was happy, from within and without. The jigsaw puzzle that I used to call life had fallen into place with love binding all the pieces together.

But it wasn’t meant to end like this – Destiny wouldn’t allow it. One evening, I found myself sitting in the very pizza outlet where I once worked as a waiter. Everyone in the staff knew me, so it hadn’t been difficult getting a seat at the table where I wanted to sit. And so there I was – sitting on the very chair that she had sat on, the first time I saw her. I tried to imagine what she would have thought when she had seen me looking at her. I tried to picture myself as I had lingered with her order a bit longer, just to see her for that extra minute.

I was still lost in my thoughts when she walked in and sat at the table in the far corner. She looked as beautiful as ever. I took a moment to ponder – if I didn’t do anything now, then I would probably regret it my entire life. Would I live to grow old thinking of what might have been, or would it be better to have the consolation that I tried? The decision was made and I made my way to her table. I wanted her to see me as the person I had become – the person her love had built out of me.

She looked up, and held my gaze. It was the same as ever – no words spoken yet so much told. She smiled at me, her lips arching back in that beautiful pattern that I loved so much. Her eyes were twinkling as before – so much mischief in those playful eyes. Her hair cascading down her shoulders, as if in embodiment of her independent and free spirit. I pulled out the chair opposite her, and sat down, my eyes fixed on her’s. My Princess was in front of me – so many times I had dreamt of this moment, so many nights I had spent thinking of what I would say when the moment came. And now that it had finally come, I was speechless.

She spoke in the most beautiful, warm and loving voice I had ever heard, “So you finally want to say something?”

I looked at her, and smiled…

Confessions of a Hopeless Romantic - Episode II

The next morning found me dreaming of her. How could I open my eyes, when all I saw with them closed was her smile? Those beautiful eyes twinkling with life – the windows to her soul. Her lips, like music they arched in a beautiful pattern to open and close together each time she smiled in all her coyness. She was a tease, and a gorgeous one at that.

I started sleepwalking through my days. Professors threw chalk-pieces at me as I indulged myself with her dreams while in class. My boss at Papa John’s asked me if I wanted sick leave. How could I explain myself to them? How could I tell them how much it pained me to spend time away from her? Each passing moment meant one moment less that I could spend with her in this lifetime. Only she could understand. One look – that’s all it would take. How I wished she would sit in front of me and look deep into my soul. How much love she would find there, and what she would say to it?

I was in love, and I was absolutely flipping. I didn’t even know her yet. What if she was already seeing someone? No matter – I would happily endure the pain if I could see her happy. Talk about the tragic romantic. Love was just another word – she gave it a meaning. Life was just a word – she gave it a purpose.

I had heard of guys feeling passionate, full of lust, desire et al. I felt the passion too, but it was too pure. I wanted to sit with her in my arms and look at her with all the love I could find in my heart. I wanted to wake up to her every morning and kiss her eyes every night when she went to sleep. I would stay awake  at night, watching over her as she would lie dreaming. What would I not do for her happiness? Anything.

Yet, all this was just introspection. She remained a distant dream, ever so elusive. And then it happened. It had been raining all day. I had just got over with work. I was walking home, thinking of her, when I saw her again. She was on the other side of the road – she was looking at me. I couldn’t be wrong. The lights reflected off the wet tarmac and lit up her face. She really was looking at me. I couldn’t stop myself. I forgot everything around me, forgot there were cars on the road. I just raced across – my eyes were glued on her’s. When I reached her, I felt my heart would jump out of my chest. She was more beautiful than I had imagined. 

She smiled – my coy princess. I smiled back. So much said, yet not a single word. She turned to walk – I followed her. We went on walking, just the two of us – the rain kissing our skin as we embraced it’s warmth. It seemed as if I was dreaming again - I pinched myself to see if it was real. Yet there she was, I was not dreaming. And so we walked on for a further two blocks, till she looked at me once more. She came close, her eyes peering deep into mine. How could she trust me so? Could she read my mind? She smiled as if to say yes. And then, before I knew what happened, she hailed down a cab, and was gone.

I looked after her like a defeated soldier. Why did she have to go? Why couldn’t I just live in that moment, oblivious to all that was happening around me? Why couldn’t I just grow old in that moment, with her by my side, holding my hand till death do us part, only to be reunited in a higher realm? Why?...