What does one do when fearful forgetfulness strikes?
Prashant was covered up to his neck in a stark, starchy whiteness and medicated, sanitized air. The table next to him confirmed a severe case of stomach ulcer from which he was gradually recuperating. The planning for surgery was thoughtfully matched with the time post divorce. He analysed the situation and believed that his physical trauma would run over the psychological one, and that by the time he would get back to his work, ample rest would get him back in proper shape. The memory of one bad marriage could not stain his life. He got himself admitted into one of the premium suites of The Wellness Nursing Home. The way to success was a difficult one for him. For the sake of his long-time love, he had given up on his family and come to one Chennai and settled in an absolution of anonymity.
Since school, Maaya hovered all over him, like an incessant rush of divinity, something that could not be rationalised with. She was a performer, she acted, she danced and she won. Hearts. Theirs was an unlikely coupledom of opposites, that would not have attracted. He was the topper with no interest whatsoever in any kind of extracurricular. While in college the only place common to the two of them was the library, where they would indulge in the rows of names and dust. Next to each other, the Absurd Drama and the Accounts section was secluded from the rest of the library, the new part.
Often they passed a I-Saw-You-at-School smile at each other. Uncannily for Prashant, he began attending fests in which Maaya would lead the performances, choreograph dreams and colour fantasies. Slowly, he was captivated by her aura, and would exchange a congratulatory note or two, again, in the library. This time, well timed. He realized such chemistry could not be one-sided and the next that they were in the library, the buttons of his formal shirt were caught in the round, untamed glasses of Maaya's dupatta. They found each other through their limbs, and stroked emotions. There was an undiscovered rage of fire that they evoked. It felt as if the equations of a relationship just got inverted.
On Sunday mornings of intense lovemaking, they traced their love back to lust. They came to know each other behind the body over a lullaby like motion of one concentrated intention. With diverse interests and backgrounds that both gave up, childbirth was a deviation for them. They were a couple that emanated a halo of perfection that went to violent proportions when not in each others' arms or blindly kissing their endless passion, kindly, softly, lovingly. The parties they hosted spoke of the legend of their love and while they never had a legit complaint to pose against the other, the missing of a reason grew deeper, wider. And found more validation with them hopelessly, wordlessly sticking to each other. Till a time when Maaya was confirmed pregnant.
The restraining beginning of nine months started to articulate the vacuum of their being. The bodies they loved were craving each other in a cannibalistic pleasure which understood no reason. The very sight of each other in the morning embittered their souls, they were tragically different. And then the grandest of difference fell upon them when he decided against the abortion that she wanted. Swiftly, like a Nor'wester, she asked him to move away. They understood the pointlessness of a sane dialogue. The notice was served for a mutual dissolution of the costume of marriage they had both draped. Calculatively, he planned to get done with pending surgeries of his own, and move on to the next company of promotion in a month's time. Maaya settled in Thrissur. He would move to Bangalore. After the surgery. It would probably rest their desires.
As the brittle line between consciousness and being conscious tripped over each other pungent with the smell of medicines, and broke into many million fragments of plucked petals and empty tubes of water-colours, his bag floating in her fragrance and her dreams while he drove, he awakened. To disasters they had survived in the garb of everyday togetherness. To memories that stayed tucked in burnt baking and insane investments. To a passion which could only have been fuelled by love, of inappropriate scales of ordinariness, neither was used to.
Theirs was never a tale to be told. It touched. Like such slices of memory.
Since school, Maaya hovered all over him, like an incessant rush of divinity, something that could not be rationalised with. She was a performer, she acted, she danced and she won. Hearts. Theirs was an unlikely coupledom of opposites, that would not have attracted. He was the topper with no interest whatsoever in any kind of extracurricular. While in college the only place common to the two of them was the library, where they would indulge in the rows of names and dust. Next to each other, the Absurd Drama and the Accounts section was secluded from the rest of the library, the new part.
Often they passed a I-Saw-You-at-School smile at each other. Uncannily for Prashant, he began attending fests in which Maaya would lead the performances, choreograph dreams and colour fantasies. Slowly, he was captivated by her aura, and would exchange a congratulatory note or two, again, in the library. This time, well timed. He realized such chemistry could not be one-sided and the next that they were in the library, the buttons of his formal shirt were caught in the round, untamed glasses of Maaya's dupatta. They found each other through their limbs, and stroked emotions. There was an undiscovered rage of fire that they evoked. It felt as if the equations of a relationship just got inverted.
On Sunday mornings of intense lovemaking, they traced their love back to lust. They came to know each other behind the body over a lullaby like motion of one concentrated intention. With diverse interests and backgrounds that both gave up, childbirth was a deviation for them. They were a couple that emanated a halo of perfection that went to violent proportions when not in each others' arms or blindly kissing their endless passion, kindly, softly, lovingly. The parties they hosted spoke of the legend of their love and while they never had a legit complaint to pose against the other, the missing of a reason grew deeper, wider. And found more validation with them hopelessly, wordlessly sticking to each other. Till a time when Maaya was confirmed pregnant.
The restraining beginning of nine months started to articulate the vacuum of their being. The bodies they loved were craving each other in a cannibalistic pleasure which understood no reason. The very sight of each other in the morning embittered their souls, they were tragically different. And then the grandest of difference fell upon them when he decided against the abortion that she wanted. Swiftly, like a Nor'wester, she asked him to move away. They understood the pointlessness of a sane dialogue. The notice was served for a mutual dissolution of the costume of marriage they had both draped. Calculatively, he planned to get done with pending surgeries of his own, and move on to the next company of promotion in a month's time. Maaya settled in Thrissur. He would move to Bangalore. After the surgery. It would probably rest their desires.
As the brittle line between consciousness and being conscious tripped over each other pungent with the smell of medicines, and broke into many million fragments of plucked petals and empty tubes of water-colours, his bag floating in her fragrance and her dreams while he drove, he awakened. To disasters they had survived in the garb of everyday togetherness. To memories that stayed tucked in burnt baking and insane investments. To a passion which could only have been fuelled by love, of inappropriate scales of ordinariness, neither was used to.
Theirs was never a tale to be told. It touched. Like such slices of memory.
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