One Reply – A short story

As she laid down on her bed she thought –

““Aarav”; how that name strung a chord of emotions at the heart of mine; One so strong to impale the likes of any other; an emotion so strong and complicated that it reached far ends and its reminisce only seemed to be far more a dream, rather than reality. Barely love it wasn’t; it was far more and at it’s best absurd at times as and when the conquests to find and to re-live such an acquainted feeling was in vain at most and at odd leading to entirely new emotions and experiences than what I often set out to embrace. Aarav; a name that repeated itself as an echo in the hollow of a woman, so many a times that its fading away seemed in-existent. Aarav and his exuberant love for what he considered was art: “The art of making love!””…

And as she woke up she felt her body rub against the thick piece of wood that adorned the back of her bed, cold as it were from the night, it drove a shock through her spine. Slipping out of the comfort of a blanket, strapped on a pair of flops and headed toward her table, rather anxiously.

She willed herself to not check her phone to see if he had replied. It had been about three days now. She hated that she was constantly checking his ‘last seen at’ status and yes, he had logged in just five minutes ago. Yet she couldn’t stop herself. This sinking feeling to find absolutely no communication from him was becoming unbearable, almost torturous.

And then, just as she sat down in her chair, her phone vibrated. With her heart thudding in her ear, she unlocked her phone and stared at the screen. Finally! It was his message.

But when she opened it and read it, she nearly stopped breathing. She didn’t know if he was joking or not. What was this?

There’s was a certain euphemism surrounding our ability to read and write; the ever continual battle between what’s felt and that needs be penned. It need not be established that feelings can arise in accordance with the subject matter that is read, in which case the events of the day seemed too nugatory in comparison to what she was reading.

An exquisitely intricate description of a particular matter that seemed to have its worst turn on her mental well being. In so far as to suffice that the matter at hand was of utmost significance, it’s impact however, was far too severe for her to conceal the over whelming urge to ponder upon. The unnecessary complications of her thoughts testified the layered intricacy with which an explanation to the decisions of her life were hard to deduce; For it’s one thing to hurt a loved one by misfortune and another to push away every living soul that once felt a little something. What if both of these deeds were a sin.

There’s always a certain path that leads toward the judgment of another, and the path is but bifurcated in two; One is to judge the being by it’s beauty and it’s grandeur, although temporary; And another is to judge a being by it’s sheer intelligence. Reading and writing apart, a major share of what we take to as a source of our feelings is being able to converse. Intelligence in turn judged by the efficiency of the conversation one puts up, with disregard to his personal matters at hand and possibly well beyond the realms thus covered by this ego. This then would be the choice of her judgment upon people.

Conscience did but little wherein she should have felt that judgment is was a two sided affair.

Aarav now was bordering betrayal, once a common scene among the numerous films now seemed to be a bit intimidating in real life, for she not once did think that this would be her plight. She was no stranger to all the quirks that the new century had brought along with it, and had it in her sufficiently to carry on until she breathed her last at her unquenched thirst. For the better part she now had her audiology masters to complete, Ajmer was her choice of study; Delhi her hometown. Aarav shared her hometown, but there ended their similarities.

She had a character like so;

Beauty was abundant in her and her dimples fell for nothing short of amazement in men. She would not budge at the highest of requests by those she did not care about, but would at moments notice heed to those that she did love and care. To her relationships, love and care were not exuberant acts of courtesy or help, it was an intricate twine of fundamental growth between those mutually in love. Respect and intimacy went hand in hand, and at the same time; diligence and honor went in another. She would move on from one to another without a dent to her beliefs and her head held high, optimistic and energetic that the next would work out to her whims and fancies; to a large extent she was…. until Aarav!

What she read was a story about a couple deeply in love with each other. And the excerpt was focused on one aspect of their lives where she needed his presence; Even then, how she wished the complications in life could be pulled out as a single twine, for the poor judgments made either in the way she judged people for who they were or for the plain misfortune that put her in the path to redeem the long lost love that once was as light as feather that now harked as an anchor in a deep crevasse. With every tug, sinking deeper, an effort to sail off smoothly as once before but in vain. All for a simple misjudged moment of delay. All that she ever expected was an assurance that she was loved for.

Aarav agreed to his mistake, for his art had faltered; and she was thus delayed in her monthly cycle. Towards this date then she’d be two months late to be exact and that irked in her a sense of doubt that later was confirmed. Aarav became a man of few words, his career, his business and his beloved family would find out about this obsession, an art that he considered, but by no means an art in the conventional use of the term. There was no escaping the fact that he had in his incapacitated mind had let himself go inside her. He wouldn’t acknowledge at first, but as the conversation continued, he realizes. They had been discussing on what next was to be, Delhi was familiar to her, but she dare not go to where her parents lived and take the risk. She had to do something about it in Ajmer; and Ajmer seemed to turn grey in it’s attempts to comfort her.  Days passed. Aarav had seemed to fade despite her best efforts. Her character changed, her emotions grew, appetite increased, and her cravings were erratic and untimely; healthy though, she did not want to be bogged down by what was growing inside of her, she was young; she needed time, and desperately held on to Aarav.

But why her? Why of all people a person who was hindered in some sort of a way, she couldn’t find it in herself to see anyone who showered care on her to be worthwhile of her tears if it didn’t work out. He shivers at her anger, and she cries at benevolence where it seemed interrupted. She’d always imagine, although in a filmy way, that he would be back after a day’s work and all the strain of the day would dissipate at the calmness of her face, and the warmth of her hug. It wouldn’t matter if the world was at war, because he had her and she had him. It was the best part of the day for Her. Her feelings would radiate and be felt by him in it’s complete sense as when she wavered from happy to the enormous array of emotions that she’d carry on her face with ease. Had it all changed now?

Would she really be left behind in her thoughts and in the convoluted drama that she was bound to face? Would she be helped by her man that she so often praised to be her knight in armour? Would she have to raise the little one for a while inside her and after it in an environment that reflected hell but sweetly termed as society, answering to every awed and booed question thrown at her? Would she take it in her to end it, in its term, her life? Was it at all worth the trouble? Was it a dream? Did it really have to be this way, after her adorable dimple had mesmerized so many?

So many questions and as Aarav’s reply to her situation and their relationship seemed to be an astonishingly simple one:

“It’s over, I’m sorry!”

Her dimples faded as she read it….


But who will read it? 

Here below lies the lines to a book that I desire to finish writing; I shall not reveal it’s details whatsoever hoping to keep the rest to the imagination of the reader; but the hitch here would be the question that keeps cropping up inside me, “all’s fine, I shall finish the book; But…. who will read it?” 
And here’s the excerpt: 
“Margarette ”; Oh, how that name strung a chord of emotions the heart of mine; One so strong to impale the likes of any other felt by any human; an emotion so strong and complicated that it reached far ends and its reminisce only seemed to be far more a dream, rather than reality. 

Barely love it wasn’t; it was far more and it’s best absurd at times as and when the conquests to find and to re-live such an acquainted feeling was in vain at most and at odd leading to entirely new emotions and experiences than what I often set out to embrace. Margarette ; a name that repeated itself as an echo in the hollow of a man, so many a times that its fading away seemed in-existent. Margarette and her exuberant love for what she considered was art: “The art of making love!”

The cold breeze of a winter morning awakened me from the thoughts of Margarette as the curtains were raised by the large window that adorned the vast rectangular almost empty room, to one side of which a mahogany block of wood so majestically carved into place and upon which a silk-cotton spread covered a bed that beckoned sleep even at odd times during the day. Pushing a stout body up against the wall with every minute movement bringing an agonizing pain in every part of a man that suffered at the very thoughts of Margarette ; the name that transcended emotions onto the physical world and upon my body. All the while realizing that my mixed emotions towards this woman was far too compelling and impulsive to address the name and the person as a third person she; for the name itself bore a very special sense of reminisce that I dare not forget; as many a times as her name repeated, I’d find my conscience mulching away on that particular memory of her. 
My life was as far as simplicity would reach at these of times of appraised extroverting lifestyle; for me being an extrovert was out of the question, a far reaching goal that would, even in the distant future, remain to be just a goal that I never intended to reach. The values of life and it’s existence would always be a question that lingered upon my glancing thoughts. To be left alone, to myself with a cup of hot tea and a book would be a surreal heaven for me; I was never a book worm nor did I struggle to finish a book that caught my fancy; literature was where my love was and coping with the glancing varied thoughts, I found that words either written or read understood me better than any two legs walking this earth. And yet I was disinterested in the greats of Literature, the likes of best-selling nor a piece of a legend never romanced my love for literature. For too often I found my writings helped to ease the thoughts of my mind but were far too complicated for anyone to understand what it really meant other wise to me; I would often judge a man of his stature before he uttered a word and to my misfortune I always insisted upon myself to ignore my best judgment and to instinctively hope the better good in him despite his follies. This irritated my mother; she often had to call upon me thrice for it to even register in me the reality of time. Margarette , however never bothered my thoughts or the way I used them but the feelings and the love I had, correction, have for her influenced the very nature of my thoughts in the years to come. It only justified my ability or in this case, my inability to easily forget relationships of any kind and my better judgment that I often ignored! My choice only reflecting the number of times I’d been thrown into the pit by relationships!