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Tag Archives: Love

Tonight he woos melancholia
In all its finery.
There are lines of worry,
There is a silent fury
That rages on inside
And gnaws at his head.

The whiskey is half-done,
The cigarette stubs are golden brown.
Anger and angst are knocking close,
His body and soul scream: helpless.

Tonight she courts memories
And looks for some ease.
In their familiarity
She seeks refuge and solace.
Memories, a crutch, is what she has
To remind her of the one she was.

Some old mails that she now knows by heart
Some love poems that dance in her head
Some names he called as he twirled her tresses
Some trinkets, lots of silver and a few dresses.

It’s a full-moon night outside.
Two pairs of starry eyes,
Stare at the skies.
And in between lies
Two cities and the vast seas.

It’s a night of love and longing,
Somewhere it’s also a night of belonging
Of half-truths, white lies and yearning
Of tempting Fate and worshipping the Circle of Life.

Somewhere, out there…
Two lovers wonder
If they shall ever again
Meet and not come undone.

The moon was peeping from the folds,
The sky was a crimson as the layers behold.
The sun had yet to call it a day,
The clouds knew they had no say.
Not today,
Anyway.

In the midst of this, there was a hiss
Of conscience striking compassion
And yielding little, but no return.

Love had already wooed Her.
So had Fidelity.
Stability stood like an unrequited lover,
Knew it would be – if at all – a chance encounter.

Worldly pleasures stared right at her,
Waiting for that blink-a-moment from that veneer,
Where Practicality met Pragmatism
In another world this would’ve been their own prism.

Would she?
Would she not?

Give silly, simple Love a chance,
And let him hold Her for a dance.

Let him feel the knots in her hair,
The magic in her 2-minute-long stare.
The music in her eyes
And his fingers entwining in her wavy curls.

Love today would be returned
And he would not behave like a lover spurned.

He had hope, he had faith.

There was little to despair.

Some days were good
Some days great,
But the day he dreamt
Were actually the best.

 

 

Twenty-two is no age to die. Not when you are young, vivacious and ready to take on the world as you follow your dreams, which before you can even blink, go on to assume monstrous hues.

And twenty-two is certainly no age to die when you are in love. When you see the world through rose-tinted glasses and know you can change it. When you are content holding hands and staring endlessly into each other’s eyes, thinking that the power of your (combined) love can put God’s best-laid plans to rest. When having the object of your affection by your side is strength enough to take on all adversities in your stride.

For Nirupama Pathak that was not to be.

Love turned fatal for this young journalist, found hanging in her Koderma home on April 29. Her family alleged that she’d committed suicide, their claim substantiated by a suicide note.

However, police investigations revealed that her family was upset over her relationship with Priyabhanshu Ranjan, a batchmate from Delhi’s prestigious Indian Institute of Mass Communication. They had apparently expressed their displeasure on numerous occasions as Ranjan happened to be from a different caste.

The post-mortem report further confirmed that her death was caused by “asphyxia as a result of smothering”. It also revealed that she was three months pregnant. While her family maintained a studious silence on her pregnancy, Ranjan in a CNN-IBN show said that “he was not aware” of any such fact.

Disturbing. Sad. Horrific. Just some of the things that have been going on in my head ever since the story broke.

Disturbing to know that love still doesn’t transcend intra-state borders, forget inter-state borders in modern-day India. Disturbing (but true) that Bharat vs India conflict is not just about cosmetic changes and consumerist behaviour and has started affecting the social and mental make-up. Inside India, the struggle between tradition and modernity is only getting serious as people grapple with English education, economic migration to bigger cities, smaller family units and changing social mores and value system.

Sad that a fellow journalist and an alumnus of my alma mater had to meet a tragic end in love. Sad but true that the power of love couldn’t give her strength to overcome this. Sad that a young person with dreams in her eyes couldn’t have the life she wanted. Tragic too that most choices in life that one makes is often about what others want, and hardly what you yourself want.

And horrific to know that in your hour of need, it’s often your own who can turn against you. History has seen this across the world in various societies. Twenty-first century Bharat still sees it.

RIP Nirupama.

Cause love is a lonely song

And you had to sing it alone.