Some stories remain in the hearts only. A friend of mine is
living his own ‘chhoti c love story’ these days.
He was young. She was younger. But both were in class 12th.
He liked her. She found him cute. He had no idea what the longing was all
about. She was too innocent to understand anything.
He loved the dimple chin. She loved his humour. He followed
her back home on his red bicycle. She was always ahead on her pink bicycle. He
never sped up to catch up. She always peddled slowly thinking he would.
Then, one bigger boy on a bigger bicycle overtook him. He
could not keep pace. The boy was aggressive and conveniently pedalled his cycle
in between them. Then, there was another one on another bicycle and then a bike
and a scooter and then even a car. The girl kept growing beautiful and her
suitors bigger, stronger and richer.
He was silent. He was sad. He always thought tomorrow he
would say it all. But when tomorrow became today, he let it become yesterday
and yesterdays became the past days, the past life.
They met years — donkey’s years — later, on a social
networking site. His intense eyes still peeped through the specs. Her dimple
chin was more prominent in her double chin. Her husband and kids smiled from
her profile picture. His wife looked on from the side of their family picture.
“Hi,” he began..
“You remember me?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she wrote.
He punched in a smiley.
“And life?” he asked.
“Good, he is rich and our two kids are in best school, and I
see you have progressed a lot.”
“Thanks. And love?” he asked. She paused long.
“Yes, I experienced love. It was little short of what I felt
on the road when someone used to follow me.”
“That someone was one of the many “but others were all rich
and handsome.”
“Others? Who? I didn’t notice any. I felt only him everyday
and I live those moments again and again.”
“I wish you had given ‘him’ some sign, maybe... ,” He left
it incomplete.
“It is destiny, as they say,” she wrote.
My friend smiled: “Yes, and remember John Keats said in the
Ode on a Grecian Urn about the permanency of love. The lovers kissing each
others in the painting on the urn would always remain locked in the immortal
love, unlike the real world.”
“And so those two shall be always on that road,” she punched
along with a smiley. He repeated and both said time to sign off, time for the
loving family.