I intend to write a short story of which these are few opening lines.
“It is ironic that unrequited love finds solace in melancholy of our hearts.” Nikhil was looking down at his glass of red wine when he repeated his clichéd remark. It was second time in his life that he had tasted wine and he vividly remembered how he had lost his Wine virginity. Though it had been a year since his maiden drink, the striking similarity of milieu unlocked his closely guarded masochistic self. His friend Vivek, although Nikhil considered him his mentor, was seated opposite to him. Separating them was an old wooden table. Chitranjan had, after some effort, aligned the table alongside bed on which Nikhil had carelessly thrown himself. Chitranjan, a self proclaimed connoisseur of Indian delicacies – food and women, served the pieces of mutton which threesome had prepared during last few hours. As Nikhil chewed the leg-piece he could hardly see Vivek’s face through misty undulating clouds rising from his burning cigarette. The room was dimly lit with the candles, which was Nikhil’s idea of “building up” a euphoric moment. Reek of wine and mutton, coupled with slow-paced melodies originating from Chitranjan’s computer only added to this effect. Three of them were aware, at least for now, that their consciousness will evaporate along with the ephemeral candle wax.
There were many memories that have been constructed in this room. Not all memories were pleasurable, not all sad and definitely not all of them real – as some were constructed under heavy dose of alcohol. Three of them had laughed, cried, danced, puked and pissed. They had shared tales, imaginary and otherwise, from dawn till dusk, sometimes going even further. Many a time they had tried to construct the expressions on face of a stranger who would have interrupted their orgies.
Yet, at this very moment Nikhil’s thoughts wandered, not into the wilderness of their past but into much more placid college days. He remembered how he had chased the love of his life, or so he thought at that moment, on dusty streets of his college campus. He would go out for morning, evening, afternoon and night walks only to catch a glimpse of her. Even when he had befriended his love, he had scrupulously hidden his feelings from her. He remembered the first day when they had met, at corner of their college cafeteria. She was clad in white salwar, her hair falling over her shoulders. In that moment he felt the eternal bliss which some may call love but it was also an insidious virus that would cause him much misery. On the brighter side, as Chitranjan used to say, it also made him more mature.
Vivek sneered at him, “Nikhil, don’t be such a loser. There are better things and people in life”. Vivek realized that it had been him who had actually convinced Nikhil about being candid in life – at least to his own self. Honesty is the prerequisite for becoming a great artist: this has been his motto. He would go on to cite the great writers like Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Albert Camus to prove his point.
“It’s not about being a loser, in fact I am totally over her”, continued Nikhil, still looking into his glass of wine. “You may say that my love was not true or pure or whatever, but I loved her and I have had my share of pain. There is only a threshold of pain that one can bear before one has to amputate his feelings. And once removed it is better not to reincarnate those feelings, otherwise it will become a pernicious disease. I don’t know whether it was selfish or circumstantial on my part but I am definitely over her.”
There were many memories that have been constructed in this room. Not all memories were pleasurable, not all sad and definitely not all of them real – as some were constructed under heavy dose of alcohol. Three of them had laughed, cried, danced, puked and pissed. They had shared tales, imaginary and otherwise, from dawn till dusk, sometimes going even further. Many a time they had tried to construct the expressions on face of a stranger who would have interrupted their orgies.
Yet, at this very moment Nikhil’s thoughts wandered, not into the wilderness of their past but into much more placid college days. He remembered how he had chased the love of his life, or so he thought at that moment, on dusty streets of his college campus. He would go out for morning, evening, afternoon and night walks only to catch a glimpse of her. Even when he had befriended his love, he had scrupulously hidden his feelings from her. He remembered the first day when they had met, at corner of their college cafeteria. She was clad in white salwar, her hair falling over her shoulders. In that moment he felt the eternal bliss which some may call love but it was also an insidious virus that would cause him much misery. On the brighter side, as Chitranjan used to say, it also made him more mature.
Vivek sneered at him, “Nikhil, don’t be such a loser. There are better things and people in life”. Vivek realized that it had been him who had actually convinced Nikhil about being candid in life – at least to his own self. Honesty is the prerequisite for becoming a great artist: this has been his motto. He would go on to cite the great writers like Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Albert Camus to prove his point.
“It’s not about being a loser, in fact I am totally over her”, continued Nikhil, still looking into his glass of wine. “You may say that my love was not true or pure or whatever, but I loved her and I have had my share of pain. There is only a threshold of pain that one can bear before one has to amputate his feelings. And once removed it is better not to reincarnate those feelings, otherwise it will become a pernicious disease. I don’t know whether it was selfish or circumstantial on my part but I am definitely over her.”
(to be continued....)
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