Hyderabad

Photograph: Aby Abraham

I couldn’t have been more than 12, back then I was residing in Calcutta. I was on a public bus, though I don’t recall the place we were going but it was an unbelievably long and boring journey. An old man sitting next to me was my only hope of a decent conversation as my folks were sitting ahead. I must state that I make friends with old people easily, somehow they find me entertaining and endearing at the same time and I treat them like people rather than “giant moving raisins.” Thankfully the old man was chatty and I was a recreational liar. I don’t know what got into me, when the old man asked me where I was from and which school did I go to, I nonchalantly answered that I live in Hyderabad and on a visit to Kolkata. The answer came easily even though I had never visited Hyderabad earlier. I unabashedly borrowed personal details of a cousin who had recently moved to the city and dished it to the old man. I should have taken that as a premonition of some sort as Hyderabad became my home for almost 10 years.

Ironically, I never took pride in being a Hyderabadi nor ever tried to be one. Shuttling between Kolkata, Hyderabad and Chennai I was always at a loss when people asked me where I was from even though I spent my formative years in Hyderabad. It reminds of the film Garden State in which Zach Braff says “You know that point in your life when you realize the house you grew up in isn't really your home anymore? All of a sudden even though you have some place where you put your shit, that idea of home is gone. It's like you feel homesick for a place that doesn't even exist. Maybe that's all family really is. A group of people that miss the same imaginary place.” I arrived everywhere on time if not before time, never really learnt the language, Hyderabadi biryani never became a favourite and criticized the city at the drop of a hat. I failed to realize that the city is just like me, grappling with a present in an effort to retain the past and make a future. It was a city without identity just like me. While the Old City desperately hides its prejudices with its colours and diversity, not allowing anyone to probe deeper and the shiny IT hub wears its prejudices like a medal. The people in the Old City mask their conservativeness with their ready wit and while the characters in Hi-tech seems like they have stepped out of Stepford Wives. But to me Hyderabad was never about the city. Will I miss the city? Probably not. What I will miss is the casual freedom, boundless confidence that comes with a sense of ownership and numerous associations that gradually defined who I am.

I will miss Book Collection Centre on M.G Road which was my first friend in the city. In my first year in the city when I didn’t have many friends, every Saturday I used to go to the book shop and sit in a corner and read some book without buying any. The proprietor never had any complaints.  I will miss my random visits to the Salar Jung Museum and strolling in the museum corridors till closing time. The western block was my favourite section. I will miss the long walks in the Old City and making conversations with absolute strangers. I will miss the old lady in my lane who used to smile at me everyday. But we never asked each other names or any other detail about each other. I will miss crying in the autos. Yes for some unexplained reason whenever burdened with some overwhelming emotion, I used to let it out during my numerous auto rides with the driver looking at me incredulously through the rear view mirror and not knowing what to do. I am grateful to them that they never asked me why I was behaving like Nirupa Roy. This was a city where I grew up sometimes reluctantly, sometimes out of turn. I found love to lose it. I made friends some for life, some to eventually to get rid of and some out of necessity. Each Hyderabad story is incomplete without the people in it. I couldn’t have accomplished to create the many stories on my own, if not for the people around me. There are memories that I will never let go, there are some which will gradually fade away and some which I tuck away and not allow them to resurface again. I want to thank some and others I don’t want to thank, it will just trivialise their importance in my life.

It would be a lie if I say that I am not scared to leave Hyderabad. My decision to leave the city was on will and not on reasoning. I was in standard 8 when my class teacher told me that I don’t have a sense of belonging. She made that observation because she was hurt that me being one of her favourite student bunked school on Children’s Day when she had planned a dance performance for her students. I never thought that I will start exhibiting this trait so early in life. I still miss Calcutta but I can never call the city my home, I never warmed up to Chennai and I was always at war with Hyderabad.

One of the lasting images of the city that I will be carrying with me is the view of the Necklace Road and the gradually disappearing Buddha statue with a dense mass of fog engulfing the Hussain Sagar lake, while the auto speeds away carrying me and braving torrential rain. It felt like the city called out to me and said, “Look how beautiful I am but you never appreciated it.” Perhaps Hyderabad was never home. Perhaps I am leaving only to return and find a home in this city.  

I am generally very inconsistent and in order to relax my impatient nerves I like to travel. New places, people and the feeling on being lost, gives me a high. I like food too in the most unnatural and voyeuristic manner and I often identify places with the food it offers. Being a bong there is no avoiding the traveling gene. I had started traveling with my super adventurous grandmother and though I haven’t traveled a lot, it’s fairly a good number. I don’t get to travel a lot these days. I don’t have my enthusiastic grandmother and the money to afford long trips. I miss them both. I have never actually penned any of the travel experiences, so this time I decided to put down all my travels details with my grandmother. Most of them are highly insignificant details and i dont remember the significant ones.

Manila and Hong Kong

I don’t remember anything about it. According to what I have been told, I insisted I get carried around everywhere and threw a tantrum every time I was forced to walk. My second birthday was celebrated there and the creamiest cake was ordered and the balloons had my name on it.

Mayawati (not the politician - its a place in UP)

We were put up in the middle of the jungle and our forest lodge had wooden flooring. After dark we were not allowed to come out because of the tigers in the forest. We had stayed at the Ramakrishna Mission guest house and it was looked after by my dad’s old school principal. He was the coolest sadhu/godman or whatever we are supposed to call them ever. I used to follow him like the pug in the Hutch ad and only used to leave his side when my grandmother used to force me to bed. I used to call him Shyamal da copying my father, though I was supposed to call him swamiji or something like that.

Puri

I have been to Puri 13 times in a span of 12 years. It is the mecca of middle class bongs. Though I love the place I have vowed never to go there again. Playing in the beach in semi naked state, making lame sand castles, taking pictures with strange beer guzzling way past middle age uncles, eating hot malpuas on the beach are a part of the Puri memories. But no trip of ours was complete without visiting the Jagannath Temple with the help of Chokachok. He was a panda (not the animal). Without the help of a panda it is usually impossible to get a darshan. We met Chokachok the first time we went to Puri and he was our panda for the rest of the trips as well. His duck like way of walking and the bhog and khajas made Puri visits complete. There were two famous hotels in Puri back then, one was the Victoria Lodge and the other Puri Hotel. Victoria can be compared with the newspaper Hindu and Puri Hotel with Times of India. Once we had stayed in Victoria Hotel. It was the most boring place ever. I started missing my grandmother and created a scene. Next day we changed our hotel and went to Puri hotel. I also traveled first class for the first in one of our Puri trips. Chilka and Bhuvaneshwar was also a part of our trip. Nothing spectacular, except when we sat on a boat for 2 hours on the Chilka lake to see dolphins. We could just see the tail. additionally Bhuvaneshwar is the place where I learnt Oriya. I also made a friend there and we used dance to humma humma from the movie Bombay. We had long practice sessions. On my last day, she cried because I was leaving. I didn’t really care.

Bangladesh

It was the first time I came across coca cola. I had finished an entire crate of coca cola during my stay in our family friend's house in Dhaka. Even the 5-minute flight which included filling out forms and hiding the croissants in my grandmother’s bag. I also met Utpal Dutt (veteran Bengali actor and also was in the movie Golmaal) during one of my trips in the Dhaka airport. He was like an endearing grandfather. Our family friend’s house was in the poshest area of Dhaka. Poverty in Bangladesh was never a reality to me. The house had five servants and they were all my best friends. Mornings used to go with the gardener. He even sent his daughter to play with me. We used to play house-house in the bathroom. The bathroom had a bathtub. Afternoon used to be with the housekeeper Kareem Bhai. I used do namaz with him and he got me the skullcap also. He also taught me the words. I don’t remember them now. The evening, I used to spend time with Abdul Bhai the cook and the driver. The driver taught me how to knit fishnets. Abdul Bhai’s white (curd) chicken and bhuni kichdi was the best dish I ever had. He is till the best cook that I have came across. I never found the same kind of chicken preparation ever again. Since my grandmother was from Bangladesh, she wanted explore the rural areas. We had gone to a lady’s house during the durga puja. Her son and husband were killed during the 1971 war. But she didn’t know the truth. She till had sindoor on her head and told people that they were working abroad. Also in Bangladesh I met my first crush. He was a lot older to me and he was related to our family friend. We were obsessed with the movie Satte pe Satta and used watch it over and over again. Years later I heard he is turned into a quite a loser, trying to find a job in the US by flattering his rich cousin. Also there was Benji. He was the only dog I ever liked. He was a pup when I met him for the first time in Manila. He used to follow me around everyday and used to sleep by my side. I used to take him for walks as well. When I went to Dhaka for the third time, Benji was no more.

Bangalore Mysore Trivandrum Kanyakumari

It was our south India trip. We made a brief stop at Chennai; all I remember was the musty hotel room. Mysore was brilliant and the splendour of the palace left me dumbstruck. In Vrindavan Gardens, it was hard to control my grandmother. She wanted to see everything and 9 year old me dragged her to the bus when it was just about to leave. In Bangalore, I came across a computer for the first time and had wonderful paper dosa. I also watched African Safari there. Also I bonded with a cousin who had the prettiest mother with blue eyes. She died the next year. Next year when we went again the adults explained to me how I should talk to my cousin and try to cheer her up. I have no idea how she is doing now. Also while entering the station our train collided with another train and our coach was suspended over an over bridge. We took our luggage, walked gingerly on the bridge and finally reached the station. Kanyakumari and Trivandrum I don’t remember anything except for the beach hammocks on Kovalam beach and gawking at the bikini clad firangs.

Ranchi

My grandmother’s sister and practically her entire khandaan used to stay there. Somehow it all makes sense. My grandmother’s sister’s husband was the coolest grandfather. He was the principal of a school. We used to lock ourselves in a room and he used to recite poems and famous dialogues from various films, plays and books. He used to play some really cool records as well and used to dope a lot even when he was in 50s. That’s why I loved going back to Ranchi. Now he is old and I have heard he has lost his spunk. I don’t think I want to see him again. Also I bonded a lot with my cousins there. One of them got married while I was there and during her bidaai everyone started crying. I was feeling a little stupid and excluded so I tried squeezing my eyes hard so that i could cry. Obviously it did not work.

I have visited many other places as well but because of my short attention span I don’t think I can write them at one go. Someday I will write the rest. As it is this post is far too long.

i walked into a class full of chattering and confident girls. it was my first day in a big school. i was the star of my kindergarten school. suddenly i was uprooted from my comfort zone and put in a class full of loud girls in ugly uniforms, teachers who talk with a scale in their hands. i was unsure, shy and gawky. i wanted to disappear in some corner unnoticed. but there was someone who loudly pointed at me asked the teacher, "ask her to sit next to me?" i did as i was told. i admired you from that day. you exuded confidence and you were sure about your every move and word. i was in awe of you. but i hated your friends. they used to tease, make fun of me. you always defended me but a lot of things went unnoticed. i distanced myself from u because i could not stand your friends. the entire academic year ended. my first year in that school i used to sit in the last bench, i did not make any friends and i barely got pass marks and always used to get yelled by the teachers. i hated school. the next year on the first day as i was quietly slipping to my usual corner you called me, "hey you are supposed to sit next to me!" i looked around and saw that your friends are missing. i shrugged and quietly sat next to you. later on you admitted that you hated them and they were never your friends. my six year old heart felt very happy. we have been friends ever since then. twenty years of friendship and i give you full credit for keeping it.

you have been dominating and bossy. you have always been the leader and i the reluctant and slow follower. you excelled in studies, sports, arts, music and i struggled to come out of your shadows. did i ever resent that? no never. i loved that you bossed me around, ordered me as to what i should do or not, always had your way with me. nobody replaced you. you refused to give me your noted unless i stayed over at your house and you decided when you should come and stay in my house without any invitation. its fascinating how you controlled my life. you were a friend, a sister, a mother everything. i used to come last in races but you partnered with me and i came second, that's the first and last time i got a prize in sports. you always used to be the top performer in the class. you were competitive and i barely used to pass. you supported me when i came 12th in class and you second. you taught me, inspired me that i was got followed you to accept my prize from the chief guest. you managed to lead me to become one of the top performers in the class. there has been no looking back. its funny but now i am considered as a good student. you scolded me when i refused to touch an elders feet, you scolded me when i am arrogant and anti social. even when you were busy with your marriage plans, you always found the best place to sleep for me, you ensured i get my meals in that mad house full of confusion and activity. when i lost my heels, you ensured i get them back even though you were standing on the podium and receiving the guests for your reception. i bumbled, made mistakes, refused to grow up and you forced me, lead me and dragged with the same stubborn resolute which never failed to surprise me even after all these years.

do you remember the day when we packed extra frock, underwear and ten bucks and wanted to run away from our families. finally when the school bell rang, our enthusiasm curbed, each advancing steps becomes heavy. we had too much pride to admit that it was stupidity and was waiting for the other to utter. then i saw my grandmother standing outside the gate with my favourite sweets and we forgot everything. how about the day when your brother asked us about sex and how we laughed at the disbelief on his face. the first time we stayed alone at your grandmother's house. the numerous nights that we stayed up to talk, the messes we made in the kitchen. the memories are many, some have faded, some are still fresh, some are yet to be made.

we have changed a lot over the years. i have become cynical, detached and disillusioned and you have become more passive, accepting and realist. i am self destructive and have lost all my faith but you bring stability and normalcy in my life. you show me what is to believe, trust and accept. though its too late to change but i am still well behaved in front of you. you make me better with your presence. the way you absorbed me into your family and extended family and held on to even when i showed signs of drifting apart. when i hugged your grandmother, your both aunts, your brother, mother before saying good bye i realised that the bond and love that i shared with them thanks to you remains even in your absence. the millions of 'how she came to our house when she was young' that was narrated by them makes them a part of my life even though i might not see them ever again. you are embarking on your new journey and it is impossible not to love, respect and admire you and i am sure you will be an excellent wife, mother just as you have been an excellent daughter, sister and friend. it might not be the same again but i want to see you grow old and want our children to grow together so that you them the same values that you taught me. love you more than ever.

Jan 2 2008: i wake up to the undulating vibrations of my body and carlos santana's sexy voice singing out I could change my life to better suit your, Cause you´re so smooth and disgruntled noises from strangers who were disturbed by the sudden burst of sound. it was 7 am and my birthday and i already had someone calling me to wish. there is one thing about birthdays which i never did understand, why is everyone else more excited about your birthday than you yourself. anyways with the cheery caller's call getting disconnected midway, finally the new year dawned on me and that left a smile on my face. i am on the train, on my birthday with strangers who don't give a fuck about me and my birthday. a morbid start, couldn't get better.

may 8 2008: convocation. i graduate second division from asian college of journalism. i spend most of the evening outside the auditorium puffing away. they call my name and i climb the stage to collect my certificate. there was a smirk on my face. i was thinking, 'this is probably the biggest joke of my life. the entrance exam was one, the interview was a bigger one and then everything about the course.' i look around my class mates all excited about their new jobs as if armed to conquer the world and set up their idealistic utopia. i smirked at them, the strange people who i never bothered to know or understand but always felt amusing and unusually drawn. 'who wants to be journalist. i defied the system yet again and have completed a feat which i am never going to take seriously' was what the little voice that gloated inside me. i couldn't have been more wrong.

june 2: tiny lights have decorated the entire range. the cold is slowly seeping through my skin the spirits in my body are trying to resist it. i lazily observe the swirl of smoke that is coming out of my mouth. i am aware of nothing around me. somewhere in the distance i hear, 'i love u, i really love u' and then another voice 'is she saying i love u' i reply back 'i guess so' and go back to my lighted candy. next day sitting on a log and sipping black coffee made bright end corner the virgin paradise and the dehydration, the clamour in the head, the company, the conversation most beautiful.

july 20: education loan for university of glasgow got sanctioned. an eerie feeling that convinced me i am not going. the same morbid and cold hand that clutches my heart whenever goodness tries of invade.

august 20: i am frying the 7th fish, one more to go. i still have to make the rotis, 25 of them, some small and soft, some with butter and others irrelevant. my father walks in and says 'fry it deeper. its not cooked properly.' i look at him and imagined aiming all the fishes at him and that is when it flashed what does bottomless pit mean. i plan my escape.

sept 10: unfamiliar room, a new bed, strange pillows and sheet, unaccustomed snores, pack on the table is empty and but the thick smoke is still looming in the room. sight is hazy, thoughts are hazy and i experienced a free fall and a heightened feeling of depreciation. i have never been so much under control yet dangerous out of control all at the same time. i liked it and hated it. i told myself 'i am never doing it again' and somehow knew deep down i was sure that the euphoria will come back.

sept 27: the blaring incoherent song inside auto is quite distracting. its the third day of durga puja. i vowed, 'if i dont get the job, i am not visiting ma durga. i have a right to be mad.' five months of unemployment, 1000 bucks left in the bank and a pride that will not go back and ask money from father and forlorn feeling of missing the ma durga's face for the first time. i sit facing the RE trying very hard to restraint myself, 'maza aa raha hain na. kaam karoge na at least ek saal tak?' i squeak 'yes sir' and smugly thought, 'so you had to drag me to your festivities' and silently thank her. and i became a journalist.

oct15: i am standing on the platform and quickly scanned the crowd. i immediately spot her in khaki uniform, hair tightly secure in a bun and a useless metal detector. hundreds of people are coming and going out. she sits in the corner with a nonchalant air. i approach her and ask her if i can talk to her for sometime and tell her where i am from. she offers me her seat, gets me a steaming cup of coffee and after our half an hour talk, i realised what i am supposed to do as a journalist. it was humbling.

dec 30: i am sitting on the floor. typing away furiously on my laptop. i look back at the year and recalled the words of a wise man, 'life is like that. what to do.'

even though i am a bengali, i do not have most of the habits that defines them nor do i like doing things that most bengalis do. i cannot differentiate between a rabindrasangeet and nazrul geeti nor can i write good poetry, i dont even understand poetry. i cannot sing or dance and i do not have any artistic ability that i can boast off. i dont believe in groupism and most certainly dont seek out another bong the minute i lay my eyes on him or her. in fact i have very few bengali friends even though i have spent 16 years of my life in calcutta.
but one thing i am passionate about like any other bengali is the durga puja. as the story goes that ma durga after triumphing over the evil descends on earth to visit her mother along with her children. though the story of her slaying the asur is glorious, durga puja for me is much beyond that story.
for me it is the celebration of life. those five days when we buy new clothes, eat whatever our stomach is craving and co existing with a camaraderie which is probably absent the rest of the year. when i look at ma durga's face, i draw strength from her. the power that she exudes rubs off on all of us and gives us the high to celebrate to the fullest of the achievements and all the failures which we are ready to forget about.
when i was calcutta, the air and odour was completely festive that would draw anyone out of depression and float along with the wave of celebration. it all starts with the excitement of going to innumerable sales and buying clothes for all the five days and buying gifts for the relatives. until probably i was 21 i insisted on having new clothes, one for the day and one for the night, for all the five days of celebrations. then the sound of dhak what wakes u up in the morning, pandal hopping, going out with friends and coming back late in the night, that was one time in the year when there was no restriction on time we went out and came back. even the anjali which we are supposed to give without eating anything, i on most occasions ate something but never failed to give anjali. the rolls, chops, muglai paranthas, bhog everything added to the celebrations. even visiting relatives and chatting with them during that period was not painful which is irksome otherwise. and the bijoya dashami, the pati shapta, narkel nadu was probably the cherry on the cake.
and this feeling of euphoria did not change after i moved to hyderabad. though the nature of the puja and people were infinitely different but it did not change the way i felt towards the festival. the puja at the club, the food (i am afraid i am a true blue bengali when it comes to food. no celebration is complete without good food.) it is pleasant to meet and share all the pleasantries who otherwise seem very pretentious. therefore whether i realise it or not durga puja is something which i look forward to and something that has become very integral part of my life.
this year when i was going through an all time low period, i had no reason to celebrate life and i was in a state where i started questioning the very existence of life, i vowed not to celebrate. i decided not to go the pandal not buy any clothes. it was almost painful not to see ma durga face and not be in sync with such high spirits. but of course the spirit of the festival drew me along with it and humbled me that i cannot ignore durga puja because ma durga again has given me yet another reason to celebrate.
i am rarely spiritual and never religious. for me durga puja goes beyong religion. every small ritual and every detail associated with the festival is important and bring me joy and i can say confidently that it has nothing to do with my religious and spiritual inclinations. it is the time when i can thank the universe for making everything worth it.

in continuation of my topic on home, there are 10 things that i hate when i am at home; i came up with this list since i am spending an uncomfortable and unreasonable amount of time at home..

1. answering the door.

2. when people call me and ask me what i am up to.

3. the concept of breakfast because most often i wake up past the breakfast time.

4. fixed timing for lunch and dinner or sleep.

5. walking around fully clothed. when i am alone i dress up in my best rags hence that explains point 1.

6. empty refrigerator. i like it when i know there is plenty to eat and i don't have to go out and get something.

7. i like having conversation with myself and hate it when somehow it gets interrupted.

8. small errands like picking up the dry clothes or filling up the water that needs to be done in the stipulated time.

9. talking and smiling with guests who i dont really care about.

10. watching TV in a group. i like to watch it alone and not have people crowd over me and ask me questions.

lame list but thought i will put it anyways...

The word 'HOME' means a lot to a lot of people but what it essentially brings is the sense of belonging where you are allowed to shed all your inhibitions and just be yourself. for me the definition of home is confusing, i have stayed in three different houses is calcutta, two in hyderabad and two in chennai; in some cases people also differed. therefore, it is difficult for me to conjure up a mental image of my sense of belonging. but a month back i went to calcutta to the house where i spent most of my growing years. it was the same house where i got my first room. the house under the new owner was under going renovations and seeing it change broke my heart. i felt that all my childhood memories were being taken away by the new house and destroying the image of my childhood home.

it was my Tara (Gone with the wind - Scarlett's house) . the small gate leading to the porch and then the drawing room and the huge bedroom. next came the hall, the bathroom, kitchen and right at the end was my small room. the room had two windows; one overlooked the small green patch and the other the courtyard. my single bed hugging the wall faced the windows. the shutters of the windows never closed and the first thing when i got up in the morning i used to see the hibiscus tree with or without the flowers. i had a small cupboard and book case with big drawers underneath where i kept my school books and other unnecessary items and secrets that made up most of my childhood. those were wooden furnitures my grandfather's time which none of my folks had the courage to throw away. then there two trunks which belonged to my mother. she used those ancient trunks when she was in the hostel. what those trunks contained i never knew but on top of that were my school uniforms and a suitcase full of my good clothes. since i kept all my good clothes in the suitcase right next to the window, it got stolen one not so fine night. then right next to my bed was my study table and a stool. i remember whenever i got down to study my musical neighbour and his wife would start singing classical songs. i tried stopping them by throwing stones at their windows but it was very difficult to curb down their enthusiasm. as years went by their son also joined in the concert. then there was the rack attached to my wall which had all my grandfathers books, the priceless collection, the only thing that i had rightfully inherited from him. due to space constraints when those books were removed from my room, i had tears in my eyes. i liked taking care of them. lastly the posters that adorned the wall, the intentionally vague and rebellious ones drawn during my teenage years and the ones appreciated by my art teacher. i obviously wudnt forget the clothesline that ran across the room and from which hung my wet under garments. i used to forget taking them down and often they were the first ones to greet any guests who came unannounced to my room. the door of my room never used to shut properly and i used to position by study table in such a way that i get a direct view of the tv in the drawing room. this strategy obviously took a toll on my 10th results.

that room taught me the meaning to privacy, space and independence and i guess that was my home. the famous novel Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier started with the sentence "Last night I dreamt that I went back to Manderly again" - i always remembered this sentence and i dream of my Manderly when i am asked about my home.

love stories are always so over-rated and exaggerated. everyone on this earth are scrambling to search for the perfect love and everyone has their fantasies about that. times have changed, terms like generation gap, the x generation or the y generation are being used constantly, but the perception of love still remains the same; the girl expects her man to save her and become the hero of her life and the man wants a girl who needs to be saved. barbara cartland's description of exquisite kisses, johanna lindsey's periodic romantic novels and the finally mills and boons are constantly churned out to fill one's satiating hunger for love and lust. the hero and heroine's name change, situation changes but wants and desires never change because everybody wants a happily ever after. even a hardcore cyninist would agree that all these books are feel good and it helps restore faith in your dreams and hopes.

i dont think, i know anyone who doesn't like dilwale dulhaniya le jayenge. the universal opinion about it being that its feel-good. movies like DDLJ, notting hill, pretty woman never fails to bring a smile and tear on your face even though you are watching it for the 25th time.

being a cynic, i must confess that i have read my fair share of mills and boons and watched pretty woman more than a respectable number of times. for a flitting second even i thought a rab ne bana di jodi is possible. may be i am self confessed romanticist. i like to call myself a feminist but i also like it when a guy opens the door for me and offers to carry my luggage. i would like to be saved too.

but my perfect love stories are not the ones without the happy endings. love should be above all emotions, neither should it be defined as a conquest or sacrifice. love means that moment, the look, the passion and intensity and the confidence that makes u secure about your feelings that doesn't require acceptance and support from the society neither does it require a happily ever after.

the greatest love story of scarlet and rhett butler in gone with the wind makes me feel that two people who are so fit for each other yet not meant to be together. their love was so strong and overwhelming that it was impossible to imagine them happy and together. In wuthering heigths catherine and heathcliff's love is not about marriage and permanent bliss but its about the love that is selfish and only cares about personal gratification yet so eternal in its ways. Graham Greene's the end of an affair, is again about unrequited love and passion that establishes love beyond fidelity and within the bounds of a constitution.

i enjoy morbidty otherwise love becomes way too rational. when it becomes rational and starts making sense, you start putting it into your everyday life and attach it to the small small things that sometimes become so important that it becomes impossible for love itself to hold its feet.

a perfect love story doesnt have a princess locked in a tower, it doesnt have a knight in shining armour and it certainly is not a great story to share. it is that love story that you cannot share with your grandchildren and you take it to your grave. it is one where you dont stop coveting. it is the one which you have kept it away from the rigors of marriage and society. the lasting look and lingering touch is what you reminisce that u can claim as rightfully yours. it is the one sin that is so pure to you.

P.S : None of this has to be true. As Oscar Wilde has said "They spoil every romance by trying to make it last forever."