On Loneliness and Romance and Blogging…

I hate the orange colour of the blog-post headings. Can anyone tell me how to change it? And....“Random Reflections” is such a nice name for a blog! I wish I had come up with a name like that; mine is the stupidest and egotist-est name ever! Not that I mind it, everybody’s pretty much the same when it comes to egotism; some are probably a few shades cleverer than others at covering up the fact. I don’t know how one can be human without being an egotist. A friend of mine says, “Talking about myself makes me feel like an egotist”. Heck, as if anybody’s foolish enough to assume that you’re not an egotist if you don’t talk about yourself!
Okay, before I drift off the point with my incurable talent of rambling, here’s one point I wanted to make: I love blogging! Here’s a toast to Pratiti and Rohan and Kiki, for introducing me to the world of blogs. It was a bit annoying at first to find that people whom you’d never have invited to your blog in your right mind visiting it and commenting on it, but the fact remains that the best part of blogging is looking at the bottom of the page and seeing a new comment or two waiting there, so cheers to all those who took the trouble to comment! *raises bottle due to lack of glass nearby* The “Comments” link looks as inviting as well-wrapped birthday gifts, waiting to be opened and explored and exclaimed at. I maintain that the best part of a birthday gift is the opening of it, of which simple business I always insist on making the grandest possible ceremony(as grand as permissible when you have to open some 20 gifts in a Bengali class of 35 minutes which is to be followed by an English exam in the next period. Never shall I forgive Ruplekha Aunty for dropping a test on my 16th b’day). I’ve known people who, on receiving birthday gifts, tear away the wrapping unfeelingly, claw at the box, and feel absolutely nothing till they hold the actual gift in hand. Poor things! They’ve probably never felt the thrill of the first sight of a wrapped gift, admiring the gift-wrap from every corner, opening it slowly, as slowly as possible, making dozens of improbable conjectures as to the contents of the box, letting the inward excitement reach its boiling point, and finally drawing out the gift with a sharp intake of breath. And catching their jaw, and gasping, and feeling an irresistible desire to hug the giver right there.
Er, I hope you didn’t miss my original point. It was that comments are very nice and I invite them.
_____________________________________________________________________________________I I wish I could type fast enough to complete one post at a time; I hate it when I have to continue something I started in a cheerful mood in my current mood which is anything but cheerful! Heck, I WON’T continue with what I was writing, I’ll begin anew.
It’s a pretty nice day, today. I wish I were as gifted as some of my more-gifted-than-me friends who can make their surroundings materialize all around you with their amazingly vivid descriptions. I wouldn’t even dare to try and put into words the magical melody of that naam-na-jana bird that went “Krrrr” right now, or the harmonious cacophony of crows, sparrows, and all sorts of birds of all sorts of colours and shapes and sizes adding to the surprisingly resonant chorus that shatters the silence of this otherwise quiet afternoon. I’m so glad I don’t live in the alleged “heart” of the city, where the melody of a beautiful fall afternoon is broken by the honking of traffic, and the beauty of a full moon night destroyed by street lights and brightly lit hoardings. It is here in Garfa, an unassuming remote lane in an unheard-of corner of Kolkata, that its “heart” lies. Here, the music of the birds is broken only by the sound of a woman’s voice in the distance, accompanied by the hiss of a running tap. Who would wash dishes at this time, I wonder? Maybe some maid who wants to leave early. Maybe she has a sick son or daughter to attend to somewhere far away. I wonder what she is thinking as she scrubs the dishes, vehemently fighting against her heart that tells her to abandon her duty and rush of to her sick child! It would be lovely to read her mind right now. Oh, I wish I had a mind-reader. Or wait, I don’t. I wouldn’t be able to survive very long with an outrageous power like that. It’s not as simple and harmless as flying or going invisible. Flying would be pretty boring as a pastime, I think. If I were a bird, I’d spend more time at my nest feeding my chicks and peeping in at the windows of little girls who sat at computers, wondering what they were doing, than I would spend flying. Anyway, a bird can’t fly beyond the sunset, I can. Having the ability to fly would simply reveal the limitation of destinations to fly to. Invisibility, now, is one hell of an amazing power! What wouldn’t I do, starting from peeking into Tabby Cat’s private life, to…? Well, let’s not think of the extreme limit of what I’d do, lest I should lose interest in the power!
On afternoons like this, loneliness is the best friend you could possibly ask for. Loneliness, at this hour, is a transcending presence; it has a spirit of its own. It hides in between the lines of Hey There Delilah, in the invisible spaces in my darkened room, and the momentary pauses in the dulcet chorus outside. Every song you listen to, seems to take on a new meaning in these surroundings. Even though I’ve never had my heart broken in love, I can feel my heartstrings being stirred by the insidious pain that reverberates in every note of “Soledad”.
“If only you could see the tears in the world you left behind,
If only you could heal my heart just one more time!
Even when I close my eyes,
There's an image of your face.
And once again I come to realise
You're a loss I can't replace!
…………… …………… ……………
Soledad,
In my heart you were the only
And your memory lives on,
Why did you leave me?
Soledad…”
In the middle of a well lighted busy street, loneliness is a curse, because then it is a soulless vacuous space, not a presence. It’s even more painful if the vacuous space has a definite shape and size. Here, however, loneliness is simply too beautiful and romantic for words.
Romance!
Well, if you sit in a dark room all by yourself listening to heartbreaking love songs, you are bound to ruminate on romance, even if you know that there are more constructive topics that can to be cogitated upon. After some reflection, I have come to the conclusion that old-age romance is after all the most romantic form of it. I know it sounds amusing to hear a teenage girl talking about old-age romance, but really, after observing most of the so-called “committed” teenage couples around me, and also after a test of my own commitment, my opinion of teenage romance has taken such a low profile that I can safely say I’m not likely to fall in love anytime in the next five springs, let roses bloom as red as they will. Imagine falling in love at the age of, say, sixty or seventy, when you’ve seen enough of life to know what you want from it, and grown cynical enough to believe that you’ll never have it. That, I think, is truly beautiful, as beautiful as pink roses blossoming in the middle of summer. The joy of suddenly discovering that life still has something new to offer, to feel the hope and promise of young love at that age, to watch your life taking on a new meaning after 60 years or so…wouldn’t it be the amazing-est feeling ever?
Well, I guess I must stop my long and romantic post here! Or else I’ll have to wait one more day before posting it, which I couldn’t bear! Here’s wishing a happy romance to everybody, at whatever age it finds you! Cheers!