Everyone has a story. The starting and the ending may be the same, but the part in between, the part which is unique – it is the part that matters.
We make stories, we build them as we grow up, thinking someday we might get to live them. That some fine evening, we will enter the castle doors and find everything just the way we have dreamt it to be, just how we have always imagined it to be.

Isn’t it interesting, that we keep changing the subjects of the story, or have the story with multiple subjects – we are the protagonists in some, in some we would just wish to lie back and enjoy the essence of it all? Isn’t it fascinating, that while some stories fade out from the memory as soon as they are over, others last for a long time, leaving at their own pace, affecting, in their own way, all the stories which might spawn later?
I too, have a set of stories. Stories which revolve around a Chemical X – there are many names for it, but the superset of, I call that love. As our stories grow, the form of love changes – it is obsessive in the first chapter and as the effect recedes, it grows out to be the adhesive which ties the bonds. It is desire in some, lust in others; platonic in some, consuming in others. All stories have one form of love, and the most interesting ones are the ones in which it is conspicuous by its absence.

You asked me if I could give you a love story. No, I cannot. I am still to understand love, be immersed in love, find the meaning of love. What I can give you is a story of a boy who thinks he cannot fall in love. Because all his attempts have cumulated in ‘mere’ stories. All his stories are chapters in the big book of life. I can give you the chapter of hope, the chapter, he has so fondly titled as “a breath of fresh air”.

As every story begins, he meets the girl. He knows he cannot have her- there might be one of the many reasons for it – but the crux of it- he understands. “Love” tries to blossom, in his heart, but he manifests it as a constructive energy. He learns to be happy with what he gets, even if, in the eyes of the crowd- the society he so religiously hates- he gets nothing. The time he meets her, he is the happiest. That time, no one can take away from. He is elated when she finds her way out of the jostling crowd, just to meet him. He likes it how her eyebrows shrink when she is in deep, pondering on something. He likes the way she dresses, the way she is different from everyone else there is.

And when he is down, and she comes along like a ray of hope, holds his hand to guide him the way and her eyes are fixated at trying to figure him out and he knows that she wants to cure him. She likes him but it just cannot happen. He might not be the same to her as she is to him. But there is a sense of peace about that. There is a warm cold breeze which blows when the two meet. They embrace, whisper inaudible words in others’ ears – till the next time, they say.

He is content with this. For this story doesn’t have an end. The chapters in between are etched with a smile. And that, to him, is more than love has ever tried to deliver.

i walk for miles. i see no sign. the walls are filled with drawings. caricatures they lie sprawling in the dust. the road is long. there are many paths but i choose the one that leads straight.

i walk for miles. i see no sign. the walls are filled with drawings…..

“Some birds aren’t meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was shame to lock them up does rejoice but the place you live in is that much more drab and empty that they’re gone.”

He believes that it was Stephen King who said that. He is not sure, but then believes that what that is said is true. He had promised them both that if and whenever he will think of her, he will only think of all the good times they had. It is not that he isn’t reminded of them often, together. But when he does, he cannot think of anything else.

“Do you, really? Yes. Yes, I promise that I will never let go.”

When he said that, he meant the every single word. He never said much in front of her, her voice was the music to his ears. He liked to listen, whatever she said, it made him smile. He still smiles, but for every smile, a sense of loss still etches inside.

“I pray that you do not fall in love. When you dive in, you do it for life. And that is what it takes, the part which counts anyway.”

It is not that he doesn’t remember her. And when he does, there is no one to save the anguish. It is not that he hasn’t met anyone. But when he has, there is no one as such. It is not that he hasn’t tried to forget. But when he has, with all his might, he ends up worse than ever before. It is not that he hasn’t cried. But when he does, he fights to stop the tears that flow by.

People ask him if he is lonely. He says that he is alone, not lonely. There is a world of difference between the two. He makes them believe he falls on the former. He lies. To the crowd. To himself.

His story is poetic. He had a chance of life, he squandered it. He tried to rise from the ashes, but a part never healed. A part which still aches, a piece which never reappeared.

Indulgence helps. It clouds the feel. He likes being numb, he likes falling into the cocoon he has built for himself. His safehouse, his cell.

“You aren’t what you supposed to be. I can afford to lose you.” He thought he meant it when these words came out. The time in the night is dark because you can imagine your fears with less distraction. Ever since, he has been trying.

Seeing her always made him smile. Remembering her still does. It feels like a different life. He isn’t angry at her, but can never find peace with himself. He has looked for it, but could never find closure. He always knew the answer, but what is the point when the mind does not accept the answer to the simple question: “why?!”

The boy was young. A face with no features, hidden tears and stolen smiles. Well versed in the art of getting by.

The boy was floating in a sea of answers with no obvious question. He knew the ways to go around a problem, arrive at the conclusion, but taking the final step, getting beyond the solution seemed jinxed.

There is a way particular to every life. There is an inherent subtlety to achieving greatness. And there is a method to madness.

He was mad. He was angry for so long he couldn’t remember when he was not. He wanted to vent it out, he believed he could. And he wished he did, for the fire within consumed the self, part by part, time by time. Looking for a savior, he was tired. He had to evolve, the self had to grow, the barriers needed to be broken, the distance remained to be traveled. Life as he knew it had to come to an end.

His heart was hindering his advances, he learnt to let it go. His visions were blinded by what could have been, he embraced the mistakes which were made. What might have been was a different story altogether, the truth was but a shadow of the real self.

Went into oblivion, he took a new self, a new name. The face remained, but with altered realities. That was the first step. The hidden pieces of the puzzle revealed as consequences of what could not be achieved.

He learnt to hide. For he knew to laugh when a smile seemed hard to come by. He stopped searching, for he realized his questions lay in the answers themselves. For every path chosen is a journey in itself. And the romance lies in the journey, the destination sans it, inconsequential.

Does there exist a difference between indifference and insensitivity? Can there is – a line which we can draw to mark on and tread it, step at a time.
Can we escape the social aspects of a society not being labeled as a pariah? Can we have the liberty of asking not to be labeled without being labeled a fascist?
If we shut ourselves up against everyone, do our part, aren’t we contributing to the place we live in? If not being judged is a small price we’re asking for not interfering, are we being judgemental of the society?
Personally, I find dance, drama, chit chat, jibber jabber useless. Unless that’s accompanied by my brand of cigarettes and/or a glass of a neat beverage. That limits my hangout joints but if I say I prefer it that way, am I being paranoid of what is not understood?
The meal at cafeteria with five friends! Well that might work a day an odd week with ‘my gang’, but the rest of the days, if I enjoy a meal alone, is that too much to ask for without being wondered upon to why someone has to eat alone. Folks. It’s a choice.
We’ve all become much restricted by the reservations we have imposed on our own selves. And by putting reservations on ourselves, we have been getting used to the little personal space we’ve created to hide back in. For some it’s a campus round, for some a trip to the Infocity, for some a sitting for some coffee at Java Green, and maybe for some, it is watching the turtles hide in the lotus pond or watching how the birds fly after a dive at the water. The point here is, what happens if the little space is taken for us. What happens to us when the chaos of the realization that our safe place is gone strikes? Do we pick ourselves up, go look for a new hiding place or we try to find how it got away in the first place?
When we try searching so hard for the answers, are we really very clear to what we want? Pick an average guy in this college and ask him if he really wanted to do engineering. The answer, in most cases than not will be a no. It’s shocking. What’s even more shocking is if you ask him what did he really wanted to do and he would have no answers. Why, when we have been pushed into a room where out ten doors, nine hold a prize, we go for the one which has none. Just because it looks cooler? Just because being a rebel suits the personality you want to support?
And. At last. Is it easier living a lie, than to acknowledge the truth which could break your palace of glass or strengthen it to metal. It’s your life. Pick a choice.