Two years between two people could have never commanded for such a difference. Not in our times, no. People say two years mean generations away today, with the technological umbrella expanding into our global skies. But you, you were always the annual winter picnic! The perfectly bow-ribboned packet which came out of foreign-return relatives' bulging suitcases. You do remember them little, pretty joys, don't you? Or, have you really forgotten all the bygone years, like flashy flyovers forget sturdy surface roads?
When we were both growing up, apart, feeling love for you felt like owning a secret to the treasure of the ancient world. Perhaps it was merely the pickle your mother would fondly send for me, perhaps truly love. When you won accolades in academics I prayed to a God who never existed before my exams; and when you excelled in sports, I gave up playing. Things were silly, but rewarding in a self-consuming way. Rewarding, because doing something that I thought would benefit you -- like writing your name on the last page of my rough copies -- would switch on the glow button within me and made me feel good about myself. Love is a selfish feeling after all, isn't it?
You never spared me a thought, nor a conversation after the initial, courteous dialogues. You walked towards the prettier ones. Yet, I never let the complain reach you. Honestly, I had no right to. Stories of your spirit reached us ordinary left-behind ones. You were on the correct path of becoming renowned, not merely famous, and I, the loser that I have remained, felt content to count your success in the number of cars you now owned. Scribbling your name would now mean merely fan-girling and I was not ready to associate myself with a mass.
When we attended your wedding, only I knew what it took to me to smile through the mandatory handshakes, all the while stealing sly glances at how happy you seemed and how handsome you looked with your bride next to you. It took me approximately six pegs of vodka and uncountable spoonfuls of hot mudpie to drown in the suffering that you would not even ask about my life, not once. But such was life all through as I had known it.
And then we saw joyous photographs of your extravagant travels and thoughtful gifts with your wife. The family heaped praise on how well your business was booming, how flamboyant your dressing was. You were a star couple, till one day we got to know about your divorce. That gave me a slight hope, myself a victim of too many estranged relationships, that you would now counsel with me, but no, you took to more attractive means of coping with your loss. You championed cycling and chiseled your way into another girl's heart.
I have never been able to find a way to un-love you. Perfection, even when cannot be owned, remains admirable. Till I chanced upon your mail. I was shocked to read the mails between you and your wife. First I was saddened by the love you heaped on her, and then I was sad for you, for your loss. And finally, I was largely eased to find the fissure which red-marked your perfection. Contrary to how I thought I would feel, I was relieved.
I was relieved that I could now hate you for being a scheming, cold and insensitive man who did not give your wife another chance. I was smiling when you had no sound argument to offer for your silent separation -- quite obviously you lacked reason. I may have also whispered exclamations too! I was breathing like a person who ran into a new lease of life. I shut down the mail, victorious. But I had to return to this diary which has so long housed my emotions for you, to confess that it still hurts me that you do not see a find a friend in me.
I was overjoyed to find you flawed. And I hope it freezes all else that ever was -- two years, two cities, two lives.
When we were both growing up, apart, feeling love for you felt like owning a secret to the treasure of the ancient world. Perhaps it was merely the pickle your mother would fondly send for me, perhaps truly love. When you won accolades in academics I prayed to a God who never existed before my exams; and when you excelled in sports, I gave up playing. Things were silly, but rewarding in a self-consuming way. Rewarding, because doing something that I thought would benefit you -- like writing your name on the last page of my rough copies -- would switch on the glow button within me and made me feel good about myself. Love is a selfish feeling after all, isn't it?
You never spared me a thought, nor a conversation after the initial, courteous dialogues. You walked towards the prettier ones. Yet, I never let the complain reach you. Honestly, I had no right to. Stories of your spirit reached us ordinary left-behind ones. You were on the correct path of becoming renowned, not merely famous, and I, the loser that I have remained, felt content to count your success in the number of cars you now owned. Scribbling your name would now mean merely fan-girling and I was not ready to associate myself with a mass.
When we attended your wedding, only I knew what it took to me to smile through the mandatory handshakes, all the while stealing sly glances at how happy you seemed and how handsome you looked with your bride next to you. It took me approximately six pegs of vodka and uncountable spoonfuls of hot mudpie to drown in the suffering that you would not even ask about my life, not once. But such was life all through as I had known it.
And then we saw joyous photographs of your extravagant travels and thoughtful gifts with your wife. The family heaped praise on how well your business was booming, how flamboyant your dressing was. You were a star couple, till one day we got to know about your divorce. That gave me a slight hope, myself a victim of too many estranged relationships, that you would now counsel with me, but no, you took to more attractive means of coping with your loss. You championed cycling and chiseled your way into another girl's heart.
I have never been able to find a way to un-love you. Perfection, even when cannot be owned, remains admirable. Till I chanced upon your mail. I was shocked to read the mails between you and your wife. First I was saddened by the love you heaped on her, and then I was sad for you, for your loss. And finally, I was largely eased to find the fissure which red-marked your perfection. Contrary to how I thought I would feel, I was relieved.
I was relieved that I could now hate you for being a scheming, cold and insensitive man who did not give your wife another chance. I was smiling when you had no sound argument to offer for your silent separation -- quite obviously you lacked reason. I may have also whispered exclamations too! I was breathing like a person who ran into a new lease of life. I shut down the mail, victorious. But I had to return to this diary which has so long housed my emotions for you, to confess that it still hurts me that you do not see a find a friend in me.
I was overjoyed to find you flawed. And I hope it freezes all else that ever was -- two years, two cities, two lives.
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