Life is/not Like That

It could have been any day. A Sunday here or a Monday there could not have made any difference to the script. The occasion did not have any special role to play. For the convenience of the story let us take it as a birthday. And the protagonist is the quintessential old curmudgeon of the Christmas Carol fame. Remember Ebenezer Scrooge and Jacob Marley. The audience must have read the story of the old sucker in their textbooks.

A birthday is a wonderful day in the life of a person. The old curmudgeon seemed to have at least some reservations about the format. But certainly he had no problems in people celebrating the birthdays of their dear ones. After all this life had so less to offer even when it appeared to promise so much.

It so happened that the old curmudgeon had a change of heart. He thought he would also celebrate the birthday of someone. But how could he do so. After all, all his life he had carried the image of the old curmudgeon even though at times he masqueraded as a martinet. Now he thought of a plan. He thought that he would wait. When the whole world had finished celebrating her birthday, he would ask her out. And he tried and made a little effort. Or rather he put in a lot of effort. He finally asked her out.

They went together to a small restaurant. He ordered the birthday cake even though numerically the dates had changed. Though the old curmudgeon liked to be seen as an iconoclast, he was rather traditional especially with regards to ceremonies. And birthdays were seen mostly as a type of ceremony. The old curmudgeon though ill at ease at most ceremonies used to take recourse to movies to learn the tricks of conducting oneself at such dignified moments. He would often ramble about that such and such movie depicted such and such behaviour.

The duo engaged in some banter which did not make much sense to either of the two. The old curmudgeon had been far from humour all his life and thus could not appreciate the lighter side of being. But at least the old curmudgeon seemed to be happy. He was happy about so many things. He was happy that someone whom he adored so much was sitting by his side for quite some time now. He was happy that he could see her beautiful face continuously for more than an hour. The oft-masquerading martinet even at that surreal moment could not get away completely from sensing time. He was happy to watch her breathe. He was happy to see her smile. It would be difficult to capture that smile in words. It was such a liberating experience for the old curmudgeon. At times he tried to make sense of that smile. A little twitching of lips sideways. And the smile would spread slowly all over her face. That smile playing on her lips, he remembered it again and again, moment after moment till all moments coalesced into one big whole and he lost all sense of world.

Her eyes would look so pretty during those moments that a sense of fear used to creep inside the old curmudgeon. (The fear seemed to remind him of his fallibility and challenge his idea of possession and free love.) Getting back to her smile, the eyes would seem to centre on something. And there would be a particular kind of glow in her eyes. And that glow would hold still for a moment. It was only a moment but for the old curmudgeon that moment gave him plenty of joy. That meant so much for his battered soul. He could go on and on telling you about her smile but he could not finish. It seemed like an enigma that never revealed itself.

They finished their dinner and were walking on the street. Slowly they were moving towards the park. The lake inside the park provided a perfect setting for them. The reflections of the stars complemented her beauty in no small measure. She seemed to melt in her environs. He held her hand for a moment and brought it closer to himself. He was trying to feel the touch of someone whom he had only felt in imagination. It was a perfect case of movement from metaphysics to physics. He could feel her heaving bosom. It was slow but constant. He wanted to kiss her. She brought her face closer to him. With the softest of movements he placed his vacuous lips on her left cheek. And the vacuousness seemed to disappear. In that very moment everything around them became the part of a continuum. She pressed him to her bosom. He lay there feeling the warmth oozing from her soft breast.

And times did pass.

The old curmudgeon moved from the seemingly clean environs of an institution to the Augean stable called as the corporate world. One day he was in the midst of a flight. He was going to make a presentation to his clients and his company expected him to clinch the deal. On the flight, four seats in front he noticed a familiar figure. He still recognized the little flowing mane even though it had been done up in a bun. He tried to remember that particular night when they had gone out just for a single night. He was looking back at his life. He tried to scratch his memory. He wanted to feel nostalgic. Nostalgic about the past. But suddenly he was taken with surprise and the next moment he was shaking with fear. He was sweating profusely even though the temperature was rather cool. He thought that he was sick. He thought that his own mind was playing tricks with him.

And then he remembered the smile. It was one of the few things which the old curmudgeon had kept hidden in his battered, tattered, schizophrenic bag of memories. And then the pangs of nostalgia really pierced his heart. It was nostalgia alright but it was not real. It was a case of imagined nostalgia. Nostalgia about a past which never did exist in reality. A kind of nostalgia which was never captured by the forces of temporality. A nostalgia which had just been a product of his imagination.

It had so happened that the old curmudgeon had never ever invited her out for that dinner and the birthday and the cake and the smile existed just in his memory. Long ago his mind had conjured up a beautiful story to keep him at peace. But now everything was broken. Broken leaves. Broken dreams. Broken hearts. Broken souls. Dreams which could never be woven. The strands which remained untied forever.

The plane took off. Her beautiful reflection appeared on the window and the old curmudgeon smiled. No Jacob Marley ever appeared to this Ebenezer Scrooge to tell him the relevance of life.

And life moved on.