Monday, July 23, 2012


Forbidden love story
A short story accentuating “fake love tradition”
continued from part 5.........................

(click here for reading previous part)


It was end of June when she finally called me up. Like after two miserable months. That’s too from her Haryana number. The call ends up in 3 minutes, hardly. Too little and late, I thought. I asked for her local number again but she pushed it away making some skewed unbelievable excuse.

It was my turn to panic now.

It’s not that I hadn't tried to contact her before this.  Within this miserable 2 months I had send her some 100 e-mails despite of her no response. I had tried her number almost every hour but to no avail. It is between these two months I realized that it wasn't only sheer amatory. It’s more than that, people usually call it LOVE. Although I wasn't sure about this either.

Damn! I am in love.

 I never knew, in my wildest nightmare, that love could be this painful. The feeling was something odious. Every moment all I could think about was this girl only. And ironically, she couldn't be generous enough to reply my mails, my SMSes. All she did was a phone call worth 3 minutes.  3 fucking minutes in two not-bearable-by-any-standard months.  Too little, too late.

Is she oblivious about my feelings? Is she had in any trouble? Is she alright? Is she found someone else? Is she don’t love me anymore? …. Loads of deliberate questions begin to spam my mind, reducing my thinking ability. But my heart obstinately ruled out this feeling. My hear and mind are unofficially becomes rivals. Practically speaking, I was devastated, lost my radiance, feeling myself as futile as if belongs to any nowhere land, some unknown planet. I loved this girl, figuratively 4 years elder to me, like anything and she didn't even cared enough to ask my existence as if nothing had ever happened between us.
One odd day, somewhere in mid of July, postman delivered me a mail. Being its unusual size and hue, it didn’t seem like any official envelope, which I usually receive, all belongs either to my office purpose or some admit cards for government jobs. I was perplexed as it was probably the first “by post” communication entity I had received so far, other than official notifications or letters. I was too curious to check even sender’s address. I tore open the outer envelope in sheer curiosity. It seems like a beautifully designed wedding card. My heart began to pump faster fearing the possible content beneath the card, even before opening it. My hands were shivering, little in beginning followed by higher frequency as I began to flip the first page of hard-covered, golden hue card. I opened the card and read the accentuating words highlighted in dark red thick letters.


The quivering of my hand spread over my entire 5’8 frame. My legs began to shook, making it harder to carry my 55 kg weight on my two staggering legs. I sat on the floor in my verandah. My heart refuses to believe & my mind needs more evidence before accepting this either. I deliberately read down the entire content in which her father’s name was clearly mentioned. It was clear that it was her marriage card. Fuck.

The tremor was obvious. I felt it all over my body. Every single part of my body was shaking like someone had put my entire body system into vibration mode. Although, my heart was the epicentre  It started beating at faster rate. My emotional CPU would have been burst due to peer pressure of this grief. My heart began to bloat with grief. I took out my phone and dialled her number but it was switched off as usual. In compulsive anger, I threw my cell phone on 8 inch thick side wall  It dismantled into pieces, scattered around, found its way into messy heap in my room as it wasn't cleaned from months. I wanted to cry. Cry out louder, loudest in fact, through maximum possible shrill my throat could produce as if it might reduce the fiasco. But I controlled myself considering my where-about.

I grabbed the wedding card again for deliberate peruse. I looked for groom’s detail. It tells Ajay Sharma, Engineer NTPC. Fuck!

This was the same Ajay, my friend, whose car was the most usual place for making out. Making out with his bride-to-be, more than dozens of times in his Hyundai i20. I couldn't understand how to react this scenario. A demon smile spread over my face, strangely. I couldn’t understand where does this envied demoniacs version of me has been cloaking till now.

Does she know Ajay before since she knew me? Does she make out with me knowing its Ajay’s car? Does she do it deliberately? Or she has agreed for this marriage under parent’s emotional pressure? Several odd questions again spammed my mind, blocking my thought process once again. But an unwilling strange demon-smile flattered over my face again thinking of this couple-to-be.

My mind began to arrange all the memories chronologically. The memory was intact, fresh enough to remember almost every touch, every kiss, every make outs, every conversation we shared. It played a fast forward video of the chronicle arrangement of memories and stacked them at 2 or 3 moments where she had asked me Ajay’s number. Though I never cared for it and gave her anyway.

It was clear.

“She had betrayed me” my mind said decisively. I felt a sudden urge to call Ajay. I stood up to get my phone back.


To be continued in final part of the series..........


Click here to read final part.

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Bhopal. Delhi. Mumbai. Thrissur, India
A grammatically challenged blogger. Typos are integral part of blogging