It is said that first love is in many ways the last. The hitherto lost love then becomes the object of a man-hunt via other personalities. Upcoming affairs are judged on a scale drawn out of the first. I must assert in the beginning that it is not the case with me. Which perhaps makes it even more special. What I present here is in some ways a prequel to the earlier essay. This one however is written without the contribution of the other person, with whom I connected in a manner so deep, I am yet to swim out of the water. Not that I want to.
When I met her initially, she was a woman perennially low in self-evaluation. She was the kind who would keep chits of paper on which she noted down the hurtful comments that she was exposed to, during the last couple of years, by her peers in school. Freshly out of a phase of rupture in her relation with her desired lover that was not anymore, she found me, first near her house and then suddenly inside it. But the walls of her house could neither keep out the dirtiness of her peers nor allow her to bring out her inner beauty which I seemed a bit too hurried to explore. She was a mistress in a mess. Not that I was any better.
When I entered her world, it brought out the psychologist in me. Care and love can teach you skills that Freud cannot. The chits were torn and thrown one day, much against her consent. Some years later, after we were no longer together, she would appreciate that effort of mine. A rather rare instance worthy of it in a relation marked mostly by my bad behaviour. Although today she very generously evaluates me more positively. Not that I expect her to.
The relation began with such ecstatic responses from some friends, mostly mine, that it seemed almost already a wedding. From her side, I was investigated by an apparently over-caring friend perennially wearing an invisible badge that read ‘I will not let you hurt her’. That love lokpal was rightfully impeached after a short while paving the way for us to first own and then also hurt each other freely. Even if for a short while, we owned and enjoyed each other alright, before the great recession struck one day. Not that it could be kept at bay.
Like a typical drama, I found my love having the hots for another man, to whom one day she sang ‘Zara zara touch me’. And he did. In her defence, it was during a rough phase in our relationship. But only to unknowingly make matters more complicated, she confessed. On the day of her rather dramatized confession that she got physically involved with another man, I found myself in a mood so relaxed, it surprised her and also myself. The calm was obviously the predecessor for something more intense and, as we found out, painfully erotic. The script was there for me to finish. How I did it is difficult to explain.
But let’s just say on a day when we found each other in a state of extreme intimacy, I suddenly asked her to perform for me exactly the activities she engaged in with that other man, this time with me, while telling her to direct me into doing to her exactly what he had done. She hesitated, cried but complied. This was during those days my idea of forgiveness. Not that it is the same today.
Long time later, she would recall that event as the most painful of all, perhaps of her life. To my own surprise again, I still didn’t regret it. Making her re-visit the source of her guilt was easier, but leaving her was not. A long time went before I finally decided to cut all contact. It proved to be a difficult phase for her as she had this beautiful but dangerous knack to fill my absence in her life with things that reminded her of me. Incidentally, that thing became her own house, her own room. Sooner or later, she was at least mentally out of the impending hell, if not physically away of her house, which now she is, finally.
Incidentally, in that difficult phase, what eventually came to her rescue was her previous lover who was no longer distant any more, reincarnated. Not that this was inevitable.
Just a few months back, I heard from her again. Incidentally she had sang ‘Zara Zara touch me’ to that other guy again. And expectedly, he did. And then she went on to confess to her present boyfriend, again. Logically proceeding, it created problems, again. If it can be considered a point of solace, this time she chose me to discuss her problem and seek comfort. I partly advised her to stop confessing while re-assuring her that she did no wrong. She refused to not-confess but said that I made her act seem so right and justified. Not that it wasn’t.
Although we hardly drank together, she knows that I am a self-confessed Old Monk eccentric. In the end however, I feel my role in her life was instead that of Smirnoff. That vodka everyone romances with for a short while before eventually going back to their Old Monk again. While I am content with being the intermediary, I am excessively thankful of this relation not just because of its ugly beauty but also because through it I met the friend on which I had reflected upon in the earlier essay. I hope the monk remains with her now. I hope the monk retains his taste and her fantasy. In case tomorrow she is found tasting some other drink, the monk must remember, that is how it always was, that is how it will always be.
- Abir Misra
Abir is studying at the Delhi School of Economics where he pursues a career in academics and the sophrosyne state. A mad cinephile and a moody writer, he keenly observes politics and occasionally pens down naïve poetry on his blog. Follow him on Facebook, here.
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