The Voices Within

Rummaging in his mind for the forgotten name of Proust’s novel he had recently read, he weighed the probability of his remembering the title of the novels he would read in the future, listening to the wind sigh a note of melancholy, with amused indolence. The wind seemed to be conversing in hushed whispers with the vast sky that made him feel guilty of encroaching upon their private space and he couldn’t help wondering if the lugubrious sky would ever sing songs of love like the wind, in return. The sky’s hollering tones in the form of thunder must have made the poor helpless wind sigh professing its discontent at the unrequited love, he mused, trying to weave a love story in the realms of his imagination. Who would want to hear one’s love roaring with unparalleled fury in a narcissistic rage? “Go find yourself another partner. Don’t be so masochistic!” he scolded the wind in mock anger, seriously contemplating within if possession as against desire made things look parched.  The vastness had given him enough room to conjure up new ideas for the poetry collection he had in mind. He would call the soon-to-become-a-masterpiece Twisted shadows and noisy midnights. Nature alone can make a man forget about his very existence, if the subject of love can be excused. Lost in what he would endearingly call ‘timeless eternity’ in one of his poems “The seeds of time”, he became aware of someone’s presence nearby. One look at his surprised face and her face adorned a lopsided grin, the laughter in her eyes dancing to the tunes of her seemingly infectious frivolous mood.

“Had I known you would be having this special conversation with the wind, I would never have come here. Honest. I am sorry. Do you mind telling me when I will have the pleasure of hearing your discussions with the other demigods?”

She broke the silence first, her silvery voice masquerading any sign of laughter.

It was not nature that bowled him over this time. The features of his face found this rare moment to exhibit their finesse,  portraying a big cherubic smile that made her chuckle.

“Why are you always alone? You should be mingling with people to write about them. At this rate I am afraid you will become schizophrenic very soon.” Her eyes betrayed the concern her voice concealed. He didn’t fail to notice the futile attempt of her velvety voice to sound untouched.

“I am not alone, dearest; solitary is the right word. I am absolutely enjoying the company of my self and no, schizophrenia is not a euphemism for being alone”, he laughed, with the characteristic twinkle in his eyes which told her the subject wouldn’t be discussed further.

What can a poor damsel do but sigh when the man of her dreams has a  mental disease! It would be another matter if it were physical, but who can cure the diseases of the mind, that too those of an overgrown kid?

“Listen moron, I am genuinely worried about you” he wouldn’t let her finish the sentence. Before she could even imagine to dare to speak another word, his throaty voice started reciting Boulevard of hazy silence, one of her all-time favorites.

The tortures in the depths of my being

that accompany the darkness of my soul

leave me desolate

in your very hands that protect me.

Harm me, ruin me, destroy me

but never let me live

in this hazy silence.

I will die.

“And who says the wind is masochistic?” He wouldn’t let her advise him, that much was clear. So she tried to lighten up the conversation though she was secretly worried about the darkness in his poems.

“You are my worst critic. Say, why don’t we talk about something interesting? Why don’t you ask me to define abstract entities which I will try answering with a poetic touch?”

She had never seen him like that and she smiled inwardly at his childlike exuberance yet keeping a stiff upper lip.

“You are so narcissitic! I hate you!” she pronounced  the words with mock indignation.

“Hate is not a very good word to start with. Try something else!”

“One can’t argue with you even for arguments’ sake. You are soo …. conceited. Very well, since I am super bored and don’t have anything worthwhile to pay attention to, I might as well listen to whatever gibberish you speak. We may start with love. ”

“This is precisely what I expected from you, sweetheart. Anyway, understanding love and living it are two different things. You might not like what I am going to say but be assured I am not being biased. Love is a magnetic field of force people get attracted to when they have a subconscious wish to experience pain.”

“You son of a.. ” she was so furious that she didn’t know what to do . Standing with her arms akimbo, she glared at him while he guffawed, a gleam taking permanent residence in his deep set eyes.

“Easy. Anyway, I will give you your kind of explanation. With an analogy. In the beautiful relationship between a honeybee and a flower, what the flower has for the honeybee is love and what the honeybee has for the flower is lust. While the flower remains oblivious to the intentions of the bee which visits it only to covet the nectar, the bee ironically, is oblivious to the flower’s sacred devotion. Neither the bee nor the flower can be blamed for it is the rule of nature to impregnate the world with follies.”

“But what makes you think the flower is experiencing pain? The joy of letting the bee make use of its treasure should surpass the pain of separation.” she countered.

“Precisely. But the bee takes advantage of the flower’s magnanimity. The flower gives itself completely to it; it’s an act of total self-giving which is what pure love is all about. The flower may happily let the bee transcend its boundaries and call the act ‘love’ but is it really living a life of love? When it graciously lets the bee make use of its honey, it shines with generosity and why do you think it shrivels and falls when it dies? The untold agony!”

“Does love always end in tragedy then? What a preposterous thought! Don’t let your subjective opinions rule our conversation” she hated his definition of love all the more loving his analogy and his explanation. ‘What would he say about my love for him’ she wondered, not quite willing to broach the topic.

“Did I ever say love is the highest form of relationships? There’s something more to this topic than you think there is. We will save this discussion for a rainy day. The flower-honeybee lovesaga has given me an idea to write an epic poem. Thanks for entertaining me all along. You may leave now”

What followed after this would be anybody’s guess. Suffice to say what started as a war of words ended in a peace of sorts. I leave it to the reader to ramble on with anecdote after anecdote.