'The Best of Me'

‘Back then happiness was a choice because reciprocation wasn’t a necessity.’

It took me a re-reading of a few treasured books from my teenage collection to come to this conclusion. Also the readings made me realize how badly I had misjudged the books when I was 17. I am simply happy about the fact that the one book I had loved the most in those years remains my favorite in its own way even today. Back then I saw it merely as a story of love lost and found and lost again. But today when I finished the book, The Best of Me had a lot more to it than love. 

Beyond the love story of the protagonists, it served as a reminder of the importance of human relationships and the purpose of one’s life in reality. In my previous reading, I had not noticed how much importance was given to the surname of the characters which ultimately decided their fate. The struggle in the capitalist world though vaguely mentioned was there nonetheless. Even though love story is what Nicholas Sparks writes, I was glad to find out that his romanticisation wasn’t blind to the other aspects of the society. It has been a couple of years since I read his last book. I wasn’t much interested because it was just another story of two strangers brought together by fate in a small town irrespective of their differences. Even though I stick to my opinion against the idea of first love or the eternal love as described in the book, I am glad that I gave it a second reading.

Books have always calmed me; they have always been my escape. And when I needed it this time, instead of picking up the new ones in my collection I went for the old ones. Irrespective of what I tell people, I know I was a better person a few years back than I am now. A lot has changed in the last one year itself- constant physical pain for months, inability to cope with the reality of the political world and most importantly the self loathing and guilt about the incidents that weren’t entirely my fault. So instead of picking up something realistic, I chose to go back into fiction. The fiction that I loved so much a few years back, the fiction that I wasn’t interested in lately.

In my last visit to the doctor’s clinic, I was told that I am addicted to pain. I ignored the comment thinking he has no idea what I have been through in the last 7 years. To be honest, nothing much happened but I had taken up a pessimistic view of life. I saw people around me happy. I saw myself in pain. I didn’t complain till I could bear no long. But lately I complained about other’s inability to understand the pain, the physical as well as the mental.

I wanted everyone to acknowledge my pain. I wanted them to take special care of me because I would have done the same for them. Lately all I have wanted was for others to feel exactly what I feel, do for me what I do or will be willing to do for them. Earlier what used to be an act of love and care became an act of desperation now. I remember the time when I explained a friend how acknowledgement of an act is more important than its reciprocation. I also remember explaining to another friend that people reciprocate the way they understand it. But in the end all those words seemed hollow, not to anyone else but me. And happiness seemed like a distant dream.

Back then I was satisfied with what I did for myself and others. It wasn’t a give and take procedure. It shouldn’t be now. What I felt depended on me irrespective of what others wanted me to feel. So happiness was definitely a choice. Optimism stayed with me for as long as it could with someone so erratic and stubborn.  Back then, mere acknowledgement was more than enough. Reciprocation was not a necessity. So be it again. The best of me be out there, again. J