So, the question to be answered was about, love’s capacity to store enough for the future?
Can love store enough for the future?
The air that breezes through a rose garden, through which a butterfly flutters, and leaves rustle.
Now re-read- The “fragrance” that the wind brought in through the slit of the window pane, or the sight of the “rhythmic pulse” of the butterfly’s wing, and the “cacophony of the autumn” leaves that sounded like music to my ears?
These specifics, is what love brings to our life.
But does love guarantees a safe store for these perceptions about the everyday life?
Will love rattle my head like a piggy bank, when I will run broke of “happiness and beauty”?
From my experience, yes it will. It will crackle and giggle sitting at the edge of the ceiling of the sky, and ask me to put a ladder and go hug it.
I might be willing, but who knows where the ladder is? For instance, I get lucky to have a mother who guides me through the obsolete store room of her memory lane, and hands me a key to unlock a ladder to the sky, which is rare but fortunate, then I might retrofit a sky-high ladder from the balcony perching through my head to the skyline where love and its beautifully gowned illusion fairy sits with a piggy bank in her hand.
Before I know, I will begin to climb her skirt, clinging onto one frill at a time, hooking my overgrown nails into the corners of her sleeves.
With each step, trying to get closer and clench what is rightfully mine.
I see “love”, distant, cold and misted by the wigs of her hair. This illusion deludes me to keep getting closer, as she holds between her teeth, the hard-earned memories of love.
Who knows in what currency are the love memories stored? I very well remember saving all the transaction bills, accounting earns me bread after all. But demonetization spares none. Perhaps, those bills hold no promise anymore. Because one day, a bizarre headed, loud spoken orator, obsessed with the idea of enshrining his name in history, devalued everything that I had ever earned. Called it “Black”.
Black? Yes. It was never accounted and deposited at the signature of the cashier. It was stolen. Stolen from the fists of the miser, who gives a lover only for lure and lust and not for guarantee or trust. So, making the most of what we get, we stole those hushes and lullabies sung to us in bed by our mothers, and the feather like touch of the lips, on the corner of the eye. We cherry picked the moments when we smiled without reason, and fought without logic and stored them as smiles and frowns, inverted curves formed out of the same lip-line.
I continue to clench, fret, demand and seek. I make my path through this cashless economy. Where there is no real transaction. Love is deposited in the social media accounts or in the gift vouchers of an e-commerce website. Love is highly dependent on the “miles” on my travel card, so that I can make a quick visit to see the face of a person, I have long forgotten in my daily schedule. Love is transacted in exchange of the sense of “entitlement”, in a world that makes ongoing attempts to rob you off, of your possession. Right from the land you possess, to the freedom of expressing your thoughts. The world it seems can rob me off my religion, faith and belief, as the media distorts everything that is served to be in the breakfast news. By dinner, I have lost appetite, probably it is better I start eating less in the face of unemployment.
What does it take to differentiate pain from love? I do not believe, I would be able to answer it till the time, pain, as faiz ahmed faiz wrote, would not be greater than the pain of love.
When this pain, the one that reflects in the status-quo of poverty, denial, defiance and daily violence, will surmount and become unbearable, if at that pinnacle of pain my love for you will continue to pain me, like it does on the lonely nights in a claustrophobic hostel room.
Then, my love, I will hence say, love could hold its place, in a masochists’ heart.
A heart filled with the pains of the world, if it will thump to buy the air tickets that I cannot afford, just to say, “Happy birthday to you”, I would credit this “love card” with all the deposits of my faith and de-link it from the experience of pain.
-From the land of Mystical Hiraeth