A/N- With this story I complete one year of writing stories. It has been a beautiful one year. Thank you for your love and support .
This story is roughly based on the lovestory of Amrita Pritam and Sahir Ludhianvi. It doesn’t aim at hurting anyone’s emotion. Enjoy it as a story and learn a little about love too.
Happy Reading Folks !
Before leaving, she looked into the mirror one last time. With shivering hands, she straightened her bindi. Dressed in a traditional kurti and a pair of rugged jeans, she reflected her inner chaos.
She passed the room clouded with smoke and inside that little chamber rested a man in his late fifties, a newspaper in one hand and cigarette butt in another. The man took to his feet, came close to her, hovering above her tiny body and whispered with a hidden rage, “Don’t you dare look so beautiful and hit the club. I know my kind, we are an easy prey. I don’t want another man to fall and never learn to rise again.” She freed herself from his claws and went away without paying any attention.
Before going any further, She is Avantika, Avantika Chauhan, and the man with the subtle threats is her husband Mirza Khan. Avantika, a freelance poet, wrote mostly in Hindi and was trying to better her works while Mirza was a famed artist who painted his canvas with the colors of Avantika. But unfortunate as his fate was, Avantika never loved him enough nor was he free enough to spend time with her and give her the love she deserved. Twenty years either was tortured by the other. They were tied in a bond which neither could break because they were equally alone, lonely and brilliant to find someone else.
The first two performers were already down and the audience was loving them. It was her turn. She exhaled the problems and went up to the stage. This was her first Poetry Slam and a one filled with love to start with. Scanning the audience for the last time her eyes rested on another pair of blue ones. A smile flashed from that end and poetry was what escaped.
After the slam was over, they had a dinner to attend and that was when the blue pair of eyes got a name, a friend and a place in her heart.
Siddhartha, an accomplished poet of the time, melting fleshes around the country with the heat of his words. He was a man of few words and even fewer emotions. Love, affection, relationships, foreverness, intimacy, lust were only a part of his poems.
But maybe the cupid struck the right arrows that day.
maybe the arrows hit the right places.
They hit the heart of a poet dead by heart and a woman tied in the knot of a lifetime.
There’s a thing about fate and destiny neither have been seen nor can be decided. In this world of injustice, pain, and cruelty a little love found its place and blossomed, making one’s poems true and the other’s life worth one.
Siddhartha once described their relationship as,
वो चाय की पहली सुडकी थी,
तो मैं अधजले सिगरेट से निकलता आखरी धुआँ।
It was the most beautiful thing happening to two individuals in their mid-forties.
It is true, love always finds a way. Love arrives when it has to and when you know it is the love you deserve everything falls into place. Everything just fits!
Both of them were so engrossed in each other that their poetries and works reflected the love and respect they felt.
Avantika was a free bird again. The rustic cage of twenty years finally broke open. Mirza and Avantika went separate ways.
Siddhartha and Avantika were made for each other. Their relationship was above the world of materialistic possession and physical intimacy. He found love in her slurps of tea while his poems over a few stubs of cigarettes, that’s where she lost her heart. Even twenty-four hours a day were short for the discussions they struck,
the poetries they shared and
the love they felt.
But there’s a thing about love, it has to be taken care of like an infant. You need to express,
you need to talk,
you need to confess,
you need to let go of the boo-boos
you need to hear and above all,
you need to understand the unsaid.
That’s where they lost their ways.
…तारीफ़ों से चीख उठता है जनाब का दिल,
उनकी आँखों में देखा है मैंने,
बस जुबाँ पर कभी आने नहीं दी उन्होंने,
भूरे सी डायरी में आवाज़ों को कैद किया करते थे।
Funny, how it took a poetryslam to make and break two hearts.
While one yearned to hear the emotions hidden in the pages of the diary, the other turned blind eye to the silent requests made.
She just happened to lose her soul in their cup of relation so much so that she never realised when she was holding onto an empty cup, where emotions and expressions never had their place.
And for Siddhartha, he lighted up the story like his piece of cigarette, smoked it, let it affect his system and put it out when half finished.
In the echoes of their verses, a few cups of tea and some half burnt cigars they felt so much love that they never knew when the sound of their beating hearts was hushed,
They were caught, reflected and absorbed in a dark, dingy ally meeting an immature ending like several other incomplete stories whose shrieks still haunt those wandering the streets.