Sunday, May 26, 2013

The Chase

She often quoted Shakespeare for me, to me. After we would be done with the usual chores of the night, she would often whisper lines, which sounded so sweet that I couldn't resist kissing her, but I never really understood them. I did not possess the patience to take even a graphic novel, let alone a full fledged novel or a play to read! I was not that kind of a man. I still am not. But she read. She read a lot. And she listened to a lot of music. I worked. And I worked a lot. Sometimes I would find her on the couch, her reading glasses calmly sitting on her nose, a fat book in one hand, and a cup of tea in the other. Only rarely did that cup of tea was replaced by white wine or a vodka-martini. She had a lot of taste. Whatever objects our house had which gave it a little more meaning were from her. But she spent too much time reading. It was as if she was still looking for someone in me; someone who would be as good looking and as compassionate than some of her fictional heroes. But I was not. I am not. She never let it come between us though. Her book shelf and her music shelf were always her world. I respected that because she respected my world. Though I always felt incomplete in her eyes.

My world had what she called "obscenely materialistic" things. Beer. Work. Money. Little bit of sports. Sex. And some old whiskey. I did not have the time to catch up on the latest bands, or follow what my favorite movie actor was wearing to the premier. I didn't care. I don't care. The only reading I did was the newspaper every morning. That was pretty much I could handle. She always chuckled when I said that. Her laugh was beautiful. It gave her a halo. The thing we had in common was the love for cigarettes. That was perhaps the only thing I beat her at. She smoked ten a day. I smoked fifteen. She was always filled with amazing words. One day she told me how she was aware that I think a lot. That I dream a lot. That I should perhaps just let it loose. And let her in. I never knew any words. So I could never really tell her that she was always there. I know that all of us go through disappointments. You wake up one morning and you feel disappointed. But what really scared me was the thought that what if You were the disappointment! She always smiled at me. She always was kind to me. Even when she would be searching for a Mr. Darcy in me, she would always find a Jimmy Porter. She told me this, by the way. I still don't know these two men. I don't want to know. I don't want to be her disappointment. The only thing I could provide for her was perhaps a space- in my house, in my life, and in my thoughts.

"So then what happened?"

Then... one night she spoke softly, Perdition, catch my soul; but I do love thee. And when I love thee not, chaos is come again.
My eyes were not open. But I feared that chaos.

And when I woke up, she was still a part of my mind. She was still...just a part of my mind.


Slipped Into Your Skin | Patrick Watson 


Kshipra said...

I read this last night.
And what a brilliant piece it is, I had to come back to read it again because I was spellbound by it the first time I read it.

It reminded to me of this poem I had read somewhere not so long ago:

I think she loved him because she saw a little bit of every hero in him. But then who knows her?

I love it. I'm reading it again.

Shruti said...

That is such a beautiful poem. Thank you so much for sharing it. :)
And thank you again for the nice words. She did see a bit of a hero in him. Nobody knew her.