The Unforgettable Desire

I was probably six or seven when I hawed for the first time listening to I LOVE YOU in my classroom. Love then was not a word for children of my age to use, or so I thought. I love you was for the grownups, who have boyfriends and girlfriends. Love was for movies. And my tender little mind weaved the late nineties and early twenties bollywood scenes featuring the love of my life and me. Unaware of the feeling, love still seemed familiar since forever. I was twelve when a couple of my girl friends and I would meet explicitly to discuss that kiss we saw in the movie, that intercourse which happened inside the sheets, those uncensored pictures in the internet and so on. Believe it or not, giggling was our new profession. Surprised by the boldness of my friends compared to the shy person that I was, I was intrigued by things they said which initially seemed gross but always gave me a tingling sensation. It wasn’t till another year when I was made aware of that thing called lust.

 “Promise is promise. Everything cannot be defined.” “Saying something to make the other person believe.” “Something in which you happily commit to do something no matter what happens.” “Words to provide a sense of trust.” "Something that's meant to be fulfilled." “Promise is something that is made to show love to someone.” And so replied a few of my close friends when I asked, what is a promise according to you? What is a promise according to me? It is a piece of crap that people feed each other when things start to screw up. NO. Not really. This is how I see the word being used around me. What is a promise according to me? Instead of using my own words, I would quote the best answer that I received in my little survey, “Something you should not go back on. And something you should be very miser about. Not to be made to anyone and everyone.”   [I am quoting this woman for the second time on my blog, I am sure she is happy about it.] This i

The cut. The pain. The blood. The wind. The rain. The hurricane. The fury. The rage. The torture. The spite. The blame. The cavalier. The cry. The wail. The numbness. The mind. The trap. The lost. The mother. The friend. The helpless. The past. The present. The fidget. The eye. The fright. The emptiness. The foot. The step. The fallen. The wrath. The clutch. The chaser. The frail. The fleer. The chased. The grief. The loss. The misunderstood. The care. The effort. The apathy. The failure. The pity. The unworthy. The confusion. The fog. The darkness. The words. The soul. The solace. Image Source- Google

Fickle minded, thought she. Was it? Sometimes the answer is so obvious. Everyone sees it. And so did she. But she did not stop hovering over the question. Because the answer she got was the one she always dreaded. And she kept looking for the answer that suited her best. Then, she started living a lie. A lie, that camouflaged every second considering her mental state. Yes. Perhaps. Fickle minded after all. Stable, thought she. Was it? The lips aren’t excessively glossy. The eyes are not red and do not need the perfect shade to hide the puffiness. The dark circles did find their way to smudge with the skin without any shimmering beige. The blush was thrown away as the cheeks colored themselves with the natural shade of pink. The brow finely plucked with the hair let down. The laughter added the final tint to the face and the roving eye did not wander. For once, she stopped living the lie and embraced the truth which after all wasn’t as dreadful as she thought. Yes.