By the river...

This is a story a friend of mine told me once. She had a friend who wrote great poetry. It was full of deep feelings about death and suffering and she had wondered how and why he could write so beautifully. She asked him how he had come to write about these things with such sensitivity. And he told her that he once had a friend. A great friend. The friend and he walked back together from college everyday. Through woods and rivers. For, that’s the kind of place North Kanara is. One evening the friend stopped on the bridge of the river they crossed everyday on their walk back, saying he wanted to say something to him. They stood on the bridge and friend said, “Don’t believe any of this, it’s all an illusion”. And jumped into the river and died. My friend had gone cold on hearing this. So did I. I was actually jealous of this guy who could jump into the river just like that.

We were in a bus. I thought she was in love with this poet-friend. But she had just lost a love and I had too. She said that day, that if one has been in love once, it changes things. On losing it, one wants to fill that space up. I once met someone I was to fall in love with. Except, I didn’t know it then. He was an unusual and moody guy. He wouldn’t look up from his book, even as I sat in front of him. He pushed a piece of paper and I wrote this story down. The story, of course ends with the death in the river. I had added a line or two saying how my mother always insists that small-scale desires should be relented to, without much ado because life anyway held bigger mysteries. I had pushed the paper back and begun another love.