Don't let me go.
I press my hands to the walls, these soft walls covered with her blood. I don't want to go. It might be the right thing to do. It might be the most virtuous thing to do, but I don't want to let go off this. Here is where I learnt love, here is where I was drowned in the affection and completeness of her. Why should I let go of all this for the sake of this world? What will the world give me? Will the world understand such love? Such passion? Won't it call me names when I pronounce my affair while I go betrothed to the world and its people one after another? What joy shall I get beyond the bliss that I have?
I press myself and cling to the walls as fate and she push me away. She is crying, I know, but why? I want to be with her, forever. Is that unacceptable?
I drown in a concoction of my ideals and passion, only to find it draining on me. Alas! what irony that the drowned lose their life because they were brought to dry land. Have you ever known how it is to have your breath leave you, visibly, noisely? Ask a dead man, but how would you ever know how to talk to the dead? Ask the man who feels his tongue sinking into his mouth as he watches life and his breath leave him, like a blanket pulled off a naked man in the Arctic. A ghastly revelation that the life breath that you breathed, that you thought was yours, that you thought made you and connected you to the Eternal, is not that. Lie down and watch life and love leave you, slipping from over your torso, leaving a crumbling rib cage behind, like the aftermath that trails the path of a gnawing tornado... life sliding over you and down between your legs. You raise your head ever so slightly, with the vain hope that it might see the love in your eyes and return, but it spirals down and out of your vision.
I am losing my grip and the hand of Providence is of iron as it pushes me further and further away from what I hold true, what I love.
She screams.
So do I.
She wants me no longer with her, in her, of her.
I shall yield.
I let go.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
"Congratulations Mrs. Bhatnagar. It's a boy."
I look at her ruddy face as she gazes at my blood smeared visage.
You let Him slice the cord that held us!?
Why do you cry now?
You are happy?
Don't lie to me... don't.
For old times sake.
Don't.
:), I could guess where it was heading to, in the initial lines itself..
ReplyDeleteDear P,
ReplyDelete:-D There are some verses in the Bible that are truly phenomenal. My mind would often try to find a parallel in our shastras, vedas and vedangas, but I often try not to do that (though I fail equally often ;-).
Dear M,
:-)
Dear A,
Of course, you would have guessed it. The post wasn't trying to mask that and pull it off as a last minute "special effect". The child wouldn't see himself as a child/foetus and his love as his mother and the natural order of things... that was the point: What on earth is the natural order of things?
Too good, Eroteme...
ReplyDeleteI loved it. I re-read it.
Man, are you good or not?
beautiful.
ReplyDelete