Fragments of Love



based on a true love story

                                                                   The distant chanting of the hymns on the saptami morning could be heard when she stirred in the bed. She opened her eyes and found herself in the embrace of her lover. She felt the warmth of his chest and looked at his face. His eyes were closed shut. He had slept late the earlier night. Now she ran her fingers over his chest hair in a playful mood. He woke up suddenly and looked into her eyes lovingly. He caressed her hair lightly and kissed her forehead. ‘Why did you get up so early, my love?’ he asked. She simply smiled and hid her face in his chest again.

                                                                           .                 .                   .

                                                                     ‘Hold me tightly!’, he shouted. She lightly pressed her fingers in his waist. ‘I’m telling you, you will fall if you don’t hold on tight’, he repeated. ‘Dear, with the pace you ride when I’m with you, a man in bicycle can overcome us’, she replied mockingly adjusting the loose helmet on her head which keeps on slipping down every time. Suddenly he sped his motorcycle past the fields in the empty road in full speed. Helplessly she hugged him tight. Wearing a pleasant smile on his face he slowed down and placed his hand over her hand which was placed in his chest. ‘I fear your safety. So I don’t drive rash when you are with me’, he said kissing her hand softly.

                                                                         .                     .                   .

                                                                         ‘I’m hungry’, she complained. ‘Why don’t you prepare something?’, he questioned. ‘Aha! I’m your guest and now I have to be your cook. I want you to cook something for me’ she demanded. Hardly she knew what fate awaited her. ‘Okay I’ll prepare some popcorn for you’, saying so he disappeared into the kitchen. She waited for some time and felt that he is taking too long to cook popcorn. So she decided to have a look at what was going on in the kitchen. She laughed out loud when she saw her Masterchef’s desperate attempt at catching popcorns that were popping in the air from the pan and dirtying the whole kitchen. She saw the helpless look in his face when he shouted at her ‘No, don’t come inside. You’ll hurt yourself’.

                                                                        .                      .                     .

                                                                       ‘I have never found anyone who loves me the way you do’, he said with teary eyes. ‘Now please stop crying. That’s not any reason to cry’, she consoled him holding his hand. He took away his hand because he saw the driver glancing at them from the rear view mirror. The driver was familiar to him. He couldn’t risk the relationship to be revealed, at least not now. Both of them were mute for most part of their journey. She played a few songs in her cell and started humming them along with the singers. He hated journeys but he had to come because he was thinking of her comfort even if it didn’t matter much to her. He suffered from indigestion but tried to hide it from her thinking that it would worry her. But he couldn’t hold on for long. He asked the driver to stop by the roadside, ran from the car and vomited. She quickly took water to him and patted his back and stood by his side till he recovered. He bought a few cigarettes and with due permission of her smoked till he felt alright to continue with the journey. The remaining part of the journey they held each other’s hand like small children. When she got down from the car a few kilometres away from her home, he went to see her off as she got up in a public bus. When he returned to the car, he heard the driver saying, ‘It’s only an hour’s journey. You could have dropped her home’.

                                                                        .                       .                       .

                                                                         ‘You have to take it’, he insisted. ‘No, I won’t’, she snapped back. ‘Why?’, he looked hurt. ‘Because I don’t like all these girlish stuff. You can see I have no interest in such things. Moreover I hate taking things from people’, she explained. ‘I may not be with you forever but these small things will remind you of me forever’, he replied. She hated him for saying it again and again. They were definitely close but she felt that he drew a line which never allowed them to be one. She felt lonely at such times. She remained silent and went inside the jewellery shop with him.

                                                                          .                       .                         .

Boy:  ‘Why are you dancing? Can’t you sit still?’

Girl: ‘Oh please, I’m tying my hair. Give me some time’.

Boy: ‘I like your flowing hair.’

Girl: It’s so difficult to maintain, I’ll cut it.

Boy: No, please don’t cut it. With your flowing hair you look like a devi.

Girl laughs loudly.

Boy: Hey look, The Himalayas.

The girl looks in the direction and sees the distant snow covered peaks.

Boy: Would you like to stop?

The girl nodded. They stopped by the roadside and looked towards the Himalayas silently for minutes.

Boy: We can plan our next vacation there if you want.

The adventure loving girl simply passed a smile as they started their journey again.

                                                                  .                    .                       .

                                                               It was late night when the mob broke into the house. They somehow sensed that inside there were two unmarried people living together. They pulled the girl out, undressed her. When the boy tried to protest, they beat him, injured him badly. Assault continued throughout the night on both of them. They called him a rapist. They called the girl slut. When it dawned, they went to the police station for a complaint leaving them behind. The girl pulled herself up, covered her body and locked herself in a room. The police came and found the still body of the boy who lost his life because of the severe loss of blood throughout the night. They broke open the door to find the lifeless body of the girl hanging from the fan. People from press came, took several photographs of them. The papers next day read ‘DEATH OF ROMEO AND JULIET  AS A RESULT OF MOB ATTACK’. Days passed. The story was lost in memories of the few who cared. But their stories remained untold, unshared,unheard.

                                                              .                      .                              .


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