Everyday, he woke up to a photograph of her. Rather, the photograph. He lived with it. It was a part of him, now. Even after so many days, so many years, the picture remained his loyal. Her expression in it never changed. She never argued or questioned him. She never replied back during his conversations. She was the silent woman. Smiling, as ever. Available, as ever. The woman, every man like him would desire. Blessed with the power of submission. Submitting, while smiling calmly in that photograph, to her owner. There was never a spark of the feminist rebellion in her. Obedience was her motto, as it were. And peace, her existence.
He spoke to her all day. He ate with her. Kept it aside on the pillow while he slept. He covered the photograph will a soft muslin cloth while dressing after a bath. It was his live co-existence. Many had deemed him a lunatic. They would hush into each other when he walked down the street to buy groceries, while the tip of the photograph sneaked out of his linen pockets. Shop vendors would jestingly ask him, how the woman was doing. Attempting to revoke an answer - incite agitation or a retort. They never got any. All he did was smiled, picked up his packets of pulses and sugar, payed the money and walked off. The world didn't seem to affect him. His indifference to these remarks was as profound as his love for the woman in the photograph. Both were unshakable.
New residents in the town asked their neighbours what was the underlying mystery behind this benign man. Who was angelic, almost. Who never spoke to anyone but the photograph. Who smiled to himself when the town was storming with action and exchange.
Years ago, he had gone to the town festival with his wife. The air was filled with joy and elation.Everybody was celebrating. As festivities would have it, there were local photographers clicking pictures of couples, children, families and old men. The camera was a new fantasy in the town and only the privileged could afford to get clicked.
The man and his wife also posed for the cameraman. He shot a picture, that was as bright as their marital days. Swelling with happiness, he kept the photograph safe in the inner pocket of his jacket.
But as the evening proceeded, it turned out to be rather poignant than one would expect. The man returned home, alone. His wife, lost in the crowd, kidnapped or killed; it was unknown. Fate stood still to challenge the man's days of joy. He searched everywhere he could, but in vain. In all these days, he had also forgotten about the photograph. It was shoved into some corner of his wooden cupboard.
After days of futile search, the man decided to leave the town and go. He felt devastated and saw his future as a redundant existence. As he started collecting his clothes from the cupboard, the photograph fell down on the floor. He picked it, gazed at it for a while.
He kept back the clothes, cleaned the house and prepared the food.
Only recently, his neighbour, a new resident in the town came to meet him. The neighbour was little young boy who had been observing the doings of this man silently from his window, for days. Unable to understand the man's association with the photograph, he came up to him and asked what was it.
The man, replied, in a rather short answer. Belief he said. He had rested the energy of himself in one photograph, along with a belief, a rather staunch one that she will meet him someday. That, she will return home to him. And, the belief kept him happy to prepare things she liked. To be able to manage in case she suddenly returns. The belief kept him going.
He spoke to her all day. He ate with her. Kept it aside on the pillow while he slept. He covered the photograph will a soft muslin cloth while dressing after a bath. It was his live co-existence. Many had deemed him a lunatic. They would hush into each other when he walked down the street to buy groceries, while the tip of the photograph sneaked out of his linen pockets. Shop vendors would jestingly ask him, how the woman was doing. Attempting to revoke an answer - incite agitation or a retort. They never got any. All he did was smiled, picked up his packets of pulses and sugar, payed the money and walked off. The world didn't seem to affect him. His indifference to these remarks was as profound as his love for the woman in the photograph. Both were unshakable.
New residents in the town asked their neighbours what was the underlying mystery behind this benign man. Who was angelic, almost. Who never spoke to anyone but the photograph. Who smiled to himself when the town was storming with action and exchange.
Years ago, he had gone to the town festival with his wife. The air was filled with joy and elation.Everybody was celebrating. As festivities would have it, there were local photographers clicking pictures of couples, children, families and old men. The camera was a new fantasy in the town and only the privileged could afford to get clicked.
The man and his wife also posed for the cameraman. He shot a picture, that was as bright as their marital days. Swelling with happiness, he kept the photograph safe in the inner pocket of his jacket.
But as the evening proceeded, it turned out to be rather poignant than one would expect. The man returned home, alone. His wife, lost in the crowd, kidnapped or killed; it was unknown. Fate stood still to challenge the man's days of joy. He searched everywhere he could, but in vain. In all these days, he had also forgotten about the photograph. It was shoved into some corner of his wooden cupboard.
After days of futile search, the man decided to leave the town and go. He felt devastated and saw his future as a redundant existence. As he started collecting his clothes from the cupboard, the photograph fell down on the floor. He picked it, gazed at it for a while.
He kept back the clothes, cleaned the house and prepared the food.
Only recently, his neighbour, a new resident in the town came to meet him. The neighbour was little young boy who had been observing the doings of this man silently from his window, for days. Unable to understand the man's association with the photograph, he came up to him and asked what was it.
The man, replied, in a rather short answer. Belief he said. He had rested the energy of himself in one photograph, along with a belief, a rather staunch one that she will meet him someday. That, she will return home to him. And, the belief kept him happy to prepare things she liked. To be able to manage in case she suddenly returns. The belief kept him going.
No comments:
Post a Comment