Folding
the dreams that gave me a warm sleep like my quilts, I woke up to the calm rain
striking my window pane. The coziness is not attributed to the encapsulated air
between the covers but to the solace my mind has acquired over a few days. Droplets
of drizzle-like memories which impounded on my etching past, made not writing about
them impossible, almost next to kissing a cute little baby when taken into arms.
If
I were to say that I am a soul with humanly experiences, I would submit myself
to negation. Because, all the philosophy and the due outputs are out of your
nasty thought twinges, only once you relish the homosapien delicacies. To some
it is Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. But to emotional freaks like me, it is those
flavours of love. Tasting like a Rainbow.
Why
is that we love? Someone, something, somewhere.
Beyond
dimensions and beneath conventions.
I
realise, it’s not about attraction or convenience. It’s about connection. I
love reading because I realise I am not the only person with a particular set
of ideas. I love writing because I know that I am not the only person longing
to read about them. It is simply justifying one’s self-admiring persona.
Then,
what is the reason for something called self-less love? I hear it often,
experience it rarely, but empathize with it constantly. Mind urges me to
dissect them case by case. Yet, gives up only to realize that I am not just a
drop in an ocean, but an illusion of being a drop itself.
Parents.
There is a special reason why their ordinary traits assumed extraordinary
influences upon me. Dad. How he managed being ambitious in his career and yet,
never compromising on the qualitative and the quantitative aspects of loving
his doting daughters, beats me. Mom. She is this unnamed feminist who in fact
cried with joy when she got two daughters, only to realise they would just
imitate her to become mature women. Calling their love as sacrificing would be
an inappropriate christening. But, understanding the reasons which give them
joy, will give you memories. Of fondling medals in a race called life....
They
are just visible examples. But there are umpteen forces who still don’t show
up. It’s not show time yet, may be. It takes a sleepless night to assimilate
this. As it did to me yesterday.
How
do I thank the guy who first told me I love you? Because if not for him, I
would never understand what does it feel like being a rainbow. Of hormones tangled
in assertive urges. And the matured ability to reject by seeing beyond them.
How
do I thank my friend for believing in my worlds and pushing above my potential?
Because if not for her, I would never take any of my inherent capabilities for
granted.
How
do I thank that co-traveller in the train for sharing his life’s miseries?
Because if not for him, I would never assimilate what does it take to destroy a
rainbow. People and their self-centered desires.
How do I thank my hater? Because if not for her, I would never know that even rainbows have to be made and re-made.
Love is all above sense and sensibility, I told myself.
How do I thank my hater? Because if not for her, I would never know that even rainbows have to be made and re-made.
Love is all above sense and sensibility, I told myself.
After
all, what is my rainbow? It’s my inner world. It’s the beautiful receptionist
who sits nears the entrance desk, checking the details of events and stamps an
entry/exit mark on their sheets, to let them happen to me. It’s my conscious
which has adapted itself over the years to acceptance. To take pain and joy, as
they embrace me.
All
that is needed for a rainbow to be visible, is water in the air and light from
the source. If you take in, tears in your eyes and the light of experience,
will bring the colours of life to the main stage. Just like that.
It’s
really awful to stress the need to hope for it. Because Andy Dufresne was not
wrong in The Shawshank Redemption, when he wrote..
Remember Red, hope is a good thing, maybe
the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.
And
no rainbow will give you the deception of success or failure. But only the reality
of tasting life as it is. How it cooks a story for you is beyond your comprehensibility.
