AN ODE TO LOVE

AN ODE TO LOVE

I

The rains are coming. The sky above me is a deep, sombre grey, almost slate-the hue that I always associate with melancholy. The wind grows stronger by the minute. From the roof, I look at the trees lining the road. Their leaves sway violently; it is as if they can’t wait to get drenched, caressed, cleansed.
Waiting. This is something rains always remind me of. First, there is the heat, oppressive, stifling, smouldering. It is so terrible you almost wish you didn’t exist. Then, towards the evening, you suddenly feel that whiff of sweet air which is so often the harbinger of rain. Within another half hour, clouds cover the sky. It gets darker and darker, and when it is the darkest, the first drop falls – then another, then another, till it is raining in full force. You stand under the flow; feel the drops beating down on your hair, your face, your arms, and your body. The drops form such a dense pattern that you feel like it’s a continuous sheet of cold water.
And even if you cry standing beneath the shower, no one will notice – your tears will be snugly covered by the water from the heavens. You may pour out your heart beneath the sky; it will all be sheltered by the downpour. Your secrets are safe under the rains.
As I said, the rains are inextricably linked with waiting. And melancholy. The deep, lingering sense of emptiness that refuses to go. The all-engulfing loneliness that enveloped me while you left.
I cried. I pleaded. I begged to be given another chance. I tried to reason, to cajole, even to seduce. Desperate? Yes, may be that was the word for me then. But nothing worked, you see. I was left wounded, beaten, broken. Night after night, I would cry myself to sleep, a perfect lullaby that I invented.
Gradually, I discovered a language in silence; I would lie still at night, unable to close my eyes, and watch the night-lamp creating intricate patterns on the mosquito net; the constant, monotonous whirring of the fan; the occasional whelping of a dog in the empty street. I would turn to the window and follow the waxing and waning of the moon; or turn to the other side of the room to watch the walls faintly illuminated by the road lights.
I took up the pen once more. I caught up on the writings that I had left unfinished. At the dead of night, they flowed out like raindrops; as I pined for your touch, I wrote the best verses of my life. The pain congealed to generate poetry. It was the panacea that helped to ease what it could not cure. You were gone, but my flame was lit anew.
Before I could realise it, I was waiting again.
II
Durga Puja happens in autumn. The almanac says it should happen in the month of Ashwin or Kartik, just around the time harvests are made. Hence one of the incarnations of the Goddess is the form of Sakambhari, the goddess of fertility. Mythically, the pujas are all about triumph of good over evil, truth over falsehood, white over black. Hence evolved the form of the warrior goddess riding a lion, the vanquished asura at her feet, his heart impaled by her trident.
Often, the pujas happen just before winter sets in; there might be a slight nip in the air at dawn or late at night, but during the day the sky is a wonderful, enticing blue, the blue that you see while sailing in the ocean, the blue that spells extent and expansion. The sun is not as unbearable as in summer, or as welcome as in winter; somewhere it strikes a golden mean. The ambience is cosy, almost wrapping you like a silk doth. You suddenly feel assured, confident, consecrated. It’s almost as if you’re going on a never-ending holiday.
I never knew when it happened to me again. I hardly realised when my vows to remain chaste for the rest of my lifetime had grown weak. When I came to senses, you had already stepped into my life.
Yes, I was apprehensive at the beginning. I was afraid to take the plunge. Even as you smiled upon me like an autumn morning, I could not muster enough courage to take up the hint.
The process of fusion happened slowly. It was so subtle, we never realised the union until we were deeply into it. I was laughing again; most importantly, I was looking forward to tomorrow.
As you moved your fingers along my skin, I felt the light, crisp crackle of autumn leaves; as you put your lips to mine, I took a sip of seawater; your eager breath fanned me like palm-leaves from some forgotten island; you were insatiable in your exploration of me; you left no knoll untouched, no vale untrodden. You craved for me as a stretch of arid land longs for the first drops of rain. You drank my juices with the passion of a painter on his way to create a masterpiece. You entered me, not with the force of a fanatic, but with the faith of a devotee.
As I lay, moaning, aroused and happy, I suddenly realised the same old patterns of light and darkness on the ceiling; the fan was making a familiar, pleasant humming noise. Our figures, moving in unison, created ephemeral silhouettes on the wall.
I suddenly felt myself trapped in an abyss. There were no words, no rhyme, no metre, no verse. I struggled hard to create a line. All I could come up with was a jumbled array of letters. Terror crept across me like a crawling insect. I tried to shout, to reach out for the words.
You wrapped me tight in your arms and kissed me again.
I was still waiting.