11 Weeks to go! 11 weeks till I leave India, and move further away from the remnants of the shards of a broken dream than I've ever been. But, the more important consideration, I believe, is when I leave, do I just leave or do I leave it all behind? Or may be even parts of it? It’s all confusing, I know. It’s about me after all. And heck, I’m perhaps the most confused of the lot. But that does not matter, does it now? Sooner or later the music stops, and you have got to sit down. So, will there be a chair left for me to sit down, or is this just another city for me to stand my time out in? I honestly don’t know. But I do fear the worst. And the tragic part is, the worst is really the best, or so I feel.
As I go about wrapping up my work in India, making sure all lose ends get tied up neatly before I leave- packing my clothes, sorting through stuff, getting all the paper work done, formatting my computer (which won’t be going along with me), ensuring all my tracks are erased, throwing out the old beer and rum bottles that have accumulated under my bed, sending thank you notes to the people I will, hopefully, never see again, thanking them for being such incorrigible pain-in-the-ass and providing me with endless inspirations to get out of here, and letting my fish go free in the lake- there is an overwhelming sense of foreboding and loss. And I am not the patriotic kind. Hell, all I’ve ever wanted was to get out of here. But it is not about the place, I suspect. It’s moving away from the memories of the only thing I hold dear in this life, that’s so scary. The old streets where ‘we’ had once walked, the old temple where we used to meet... going away from these scanty remnants of my broken dream terrifies me beyond imagination. It is quite fascinating really, this absolutely unprecedented phenomenon! By themselves, these structures, these dirty streets do not represent anything substantial to me. Yet, over the last six years, whenever I have been in town, I have re-visited these places thousands of times. Looking at old things, thinking of old days, asking myself the same old question over and over and over... Those drudgeries of heartache that have kept me alive and on my feet, while slowly numbing my senses, they look at me with reproaching eyes, stunned at my betrayal, shocked that I could even dare to think of leaving them who have been witness to my euphoria. Isn’t it strange? How what’s keeping a man alive, is also what’s slowly, inevitably killing him? But what can you do? What can you do, when you are irrevocably in love with someone who, as far as you are concerned, has transformed into memories and fantasies? When you are so incurably and passionately in love with one who was, as she was... who isn’t anymore meant to be loved by you, and yet you are in love with her, having never fallen out of love with her, or as you knew she was? Tell me, is there anything you can do? Are you to be blamed for incorrigibility, are you to be held guilty of masochism, when what hurts you most is the mere idea of giving up the memories that make you scream and howl inside? When you love someone without demanding to be loved in return, when you have absolutely no claims for reciprocation, when you resolutely refuse to come in the way of her happiness by stepping over your own desires to reach out to her, when all you hope for is to feel the love inside you, feel it all way, feel the deep seated pain in your heart, and know that you are alive and that though you had thrown away a diamond for a stone when you were young and scared, you have at least come to realize some of what the heart is, and how it hurts when you are careless with it, are you to be condemned for clinging on to wreckage of a dream? When you are terminally in love with someone, and the only thing you can give her is your silence and distance, and that kills you slowly, how can you bring yourself to regret dying, knowing full well that it is about all you can do for your love? If that is what makes one guilty of masochism, I guess all I can do is accept the verdict.
In 11 weeks I will be gone, and all my incorrigibility with me. An era will end, not with a bang, but in a whimper I’m afraid. I wish I could see her one more time, before I left. Hear her voice, feel the pressure of her hands, feel her hair on my face... just one more time. But I am getting carried away. Hardly expected of a man who intends to be of some worth with a pen. It’s just so damn difficult. For once let me be very simplistic in my expression. It is extremely painful, when you are inconsolably in love with someone, but every passing day makes you realize you don’t get to grow old with her. It is excruciatingly painful. That’s just what it is.
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