The Virtual Sanyasi
I have been thinking about you, you are special to me. Even though you don't really know me but we do connect somewhere in this beautiful world with all the love that profoundly showers upon us and some of you may recollect your delightful love story. My love story. The story that turned me into a virtual sanyasi. Ha. I wish there were one. Just one. But there are so many. Of how frequently love has found me and how often have I lost it.
Love first found me in the neighborhood. It lived next door. I was 6. She was 5. Her name... I don’t even remember now. Ammulu was what her mum called. All I remember is that I wanted to marry her. We’d sarcastically marry so many times, circling a coconut husk lantern seven times chanting the mantra "Om Mangalyam tantunanena Om". Once, when mum was in the kitchen, I played the melody Pehla Pyaar Hai from the film Hum Aapke Hain Kaun on the tape-recorder and attempted to imitate the sheepish romance of Salman Khan where he lifts Madhuri up in his arms from the car’s bonnet. Our wooden couch turned into a makeshift car, as I lifted her at the precise moment in the song. Just before I could have given a kiss on Ammulu’s cheek (that’s what they taught us in Bollywood!), my mum caught hold of us and pulled my ears. Signs of warnings were given. Neighborhood romance: strictly prohibited. And also no to Bollywood movies as an inspiration for love. A piece of advice I had to follow to this day. And next Rakhi, our mothers made her tie a rakhi to me. End of story.
Love found me once again when I was in grade 5. I was 10. Her name was Parimala. She was in the same school, the daughter of our English teacher Sunitha Ma’am. She spoke flawless English, similar to the speed of a rocket, and astonishingly, every time she spoke with her mother, it was in English too. Wow. I felt so green with envy and inwardly cursed my parents for being educated in the Hindi medium and poke fun at me every time I tried to talk in English with them. Bada angrez ho Gaya hai, beta. My child has become quite an Englishman, they would say. I underwent a severe inferiority complex because of Pari, but soon the complex turned into reverence. She once spoke to me, in English and after she discovered that I was not too confident, she switched to Hindi. She made me feel very comfortable. I felt possibly this is love: one who cares to cause you to feel great. One day in the class, I heard that Pari has left school. Her parents are going through a divorce. I wondered why would someone want to leave Pari’s mother, Sunitha Ma’am when she spoke such good English. Must be somebody who wouldn't be comfortable with her.
Love found me once again in grade 8, in my best friend Akshay. No, I wasn’t fascinated by him but I truly cared for him. I could die for him. I would complete his pending notes, bring extra food for him for lunch. He told me that love and friendship is about loyalty. Unconditional loyalty. Once, he stole something from our classmate Deepika’s bag. I helped him steal it, by guarding our classroom door during lunch when everyone was away. When Deepika, in tears, complained to the class teacher that her new pencil box was missing, Akshay snuck it in my bag. The teacher ordered: “Who has stolen it, stand up now, else Principal will summon.” Akshay prodded me to prove my loyalty. I stood up, received deadly beatings but felt so proud. I looked at Akshay and he gave me a smug smile. I had passed his test. I had found his approval. Maybe love is approval. When he stole again, I didn’t support him. I didn’t feel like it. I had shown my loyalty once. The thrill of being appreciated was gone. When the outcry about this stealing happened, Akshay, as usual, shoved his find into my bag. I stood up again, this time to point at Akshay. He’s the thief, I said. I lost my friend, but I had lost my care for him the last time itself. The moment his approval arrived. Love succeeds when there’s no gradient of power when there’s no need for approval. Or else, the awe & the fascination goes for a toss the moment love happens.
Love found me again in grade 11, like how it finds a nerd, in plus two Chemistry practical classes. A new student had her roll number adjacent to mine and we were unfortunately paired for conducting the practical together. She was a studious girl. I developed a feeble crush. A sterling crush that grew with every chemical reaction that would happen in front of us. I thought maybe studying intensely would impress her. I topped the exams, and, scored the highest, but she would never engage in a heart-to-heart. Before the year ended, the writer in me thought I would write, not tell. We would use a pipette to suck Copper Sulphate solution and right after every suckle, we should hand it over to the next who washed the pipette before using. At the point when she gave me the pipette, I didn’t wash, as if conveying that I didn’t mind her saliva. She hardly noticed the subtlety. She has graduated in engineering post-school while I became the so-called subtle writer. Four years later, I have asked her out, subtly. She still thinks it’s a joke. Last month, she got married. I received an invitation — a subtle joke on me.
There was this one particular love that really went beyond all these. The one in which I was immensely loved back. Profusely, passionately, with no limitation. Not for weeks, or months but years though. The one where you’re loved just so much that when love ends, you don’t even know if and how to live anymore. The one where you believe everything will be just alright only if you’re with the person but the person stops feeling that way as time passes all the way. The one where love stays with one foot out, and eager to wear shoes, and run out as soon as the opportunity presents itself. And then one day, it does so. After crying high, you accept. You let the love go, you set it free for yourselves. Only to find out that it doesn’t really want to leave you, it never wanted to, it just wanted to let go of your hold because your hold was so suffocating it. Now it’s free, free not from you, but free to love you like the way it wants to get back. You find it hard to accept. It’s easier to accept departure than accepting the return in a way, especially when it’s not returning to you the way you want. But you have no choice. You have started loving this free body that your love has become, like just floating in space; loving you in ways, and you didn’t know it could, loving you in ways you didn’t think you deserved them. It’s a cosmic shower and moreover, no need for an umbrella.
The above love stories are fun and kind of adorable in light of the fact that, in all these, there was never a time when someone loved too much — neither I nor did others. Eventually, No hearts were broken; no animals were hurt. It was driven not certainly by love but either the need for approval, a childlike curiosity for intimacy, or just too shy (or too nerdy) a desire to make them notice me. These loves make for good coffee table gossip, or for your grandchildren's bedtime tale, but would rarely seep into a novel or a long heartfelt poem. There was a heart clearly, but there was no hurt in these. There was something different, a hurt that made me a writer.
Relentlessly, It makes you feel in control. It makes you feel you understand love. But you don’t yet know if it makes you feel loved. Does it? You think and figure it’s easier to be a virtual sanyasi than to be loved.
Thank you for reading,
Regards,
Mukesh Kumar
Insta : @mkwriteups
