Saturday, November 12, 2011


I am having to read all the unlikeliest of books this semester and I am NOT thrilled.
I have six new books at home - six new books which have stripped me off all the cash I'd saved up in a while and I can't find time to read them. I feel like they're calling out to me. Wailing and feeling dejected.
Because I'm having to read the "unlikely" lot right now.
My mother is immensely amused at the thought of me having to study "Raseedi Ticket" by Amrita Pritam.
What I personally feel about that woman's writing - lets not delve too much into that.
( I don't want to sound too cynical but I know I would eventually)
There's no end to her ghyan-ghyan.
Yet, on this beautiful winter afternoon, when the warmth of my bed tempts me to snuggle up to my pillow and catch a few winks of sleep - I'm having to read about how many men hit on her and how she was absolutely not bothered about it. (really?)
As I sleepily skimmed through her wailing words, I suddenly came across a poem she had written for Imroz, the man she had been in love with towards the latter part of her life.
I shall quote the entire poem :

I will meet you again.
Where? How?
I don't know
Perhaps as a figure
Of your imagination
I will appear on your canvas
Or perhaps on your canvas
Appearing as a mysterious line
I will keep staring at you.

She wrote these words for the man she forever knew would never leave her side, no matter what. Her belief in him and his love has often been spoken of in her writings.
These lines were the ONLY lines throughout the never ending emotional saga called the Raseedi Ticket aka The Revenue Stamp, which managed to invoke pangs of melancholy in me.
As my classmate shed tears over the hardships she has faced in her life, mostly in the realm of romance, I sat perplexed.
In spite of her hypocritical writing of the autobiography, the palpable honesty in those ten lines showcases her love for Imroz.Thus,moving the reader.
She found the right guy after a long wasted wait.
Through grief, arrogance, innumerable encounters with the wrong men, she finally managed to find love that lasted a life time.
That by itself is wonderful.

What are the odds of finding the perfect person in this booming population of seven billion?

Hence, I take the pain of finishing her autobiography as my noisy neighbors gleefully watch The Haunted in full volume.

To love and to realize the existence of the One in your life - yet being helpless is an irrevocable pain.
Ignorance is bliss.

"My soul is a lonely wanderer.. Maybe I'll love you in an after life"

PS - I am a sucker for masochistic writings.

No comments:

Post a Comment