The Human Touch v/s Supernatural

Heart break. Tears. Pain. Love.

Was this a chain? Or were they really co-related to each other, mutually exclusive of each other, stressing each other's existence? Like leech? Or was it an analogy that was above questioning?

She never really understood why there was so much pain and hurt in the mortal world. But then, there were many things she didn't follow that were rampant here. Yes, she did unbelong.

A broken heart. Infinite stories recited time and again by individuals. Some succumbed to the pleasures of the bed over the sacred bleeding heart. While some clinged on to their meanderings letting the world coronate them as "weird" and "outcast" from the social circle. The Human Touch.

The white coats of the world examined in the laboratories of the world and concluded that it was no more than a pounding organ, responsible for receiving and supplying blood to the arteries and veins, much less the fact that it was red and "heart" shaped. The black coats of the world pacifying couples and buying them divorce. It just depended on how much money you had to offer. But the mortals did not care. Nor did it refrain the advertising agencies from publishing countless cards with romantic nothings scribbled over and over them, glorifying the manifests of the pounding organ. The cupid sure looks cute. And sells, too. The creative beasts were out, after all. Unleashed. Unchecked.
I wonder haven't they discovered the human brain yet??? The human mind is oft given less credit.

People always needed some entity to "love". Breathing. Flesh. Teeth. Hair. Skin. This was all that love is. The most photogenic face. The most dazzling smile. The most fair skin. A perception of the eye sight. "What I see is what I believe," they say. Sight, and belief, locked out the power of imagination. Dreams. Dreams came only in the night, and 't was best to forget them. Not consequential, they told her. And they also asked her how come a "practical" person like her dreamt, and remembered them too? They had every reason to be surprised. Sight and belief, they chanted. She could not decipher the meaning, nor the language and they wanted her to become the interpreter. But instead, she became a story teller. Intrepid, voicing the tales of a far away world. Unheard. And uncalled. Sight and belief, they tried to voice her down. She smiled. How she scared them!

They argued that theirs was an immaculate world. Crafted and moulded by the saints of their cultures. What was one man against a majority, they challenged me. Numbers were important. People were important, an individual was not. Majority mattered. Democracy had illustrated this. And please don't ask about the crimes that it entailed. They even said that a deviants was a criminal. Unforgivable sinner, for the fact that he lived in world of his own. Dreaming. Laughing at the mortality of the world. Isolated. My immaculate Hunter.

There was something called as collective strength. There was a security in being "supported" by others. Do not remind them of rarists who had left their footprints on a muddy river bank, still visible in the transparent water. Someone had really been to the so-called forbidden land. But they had were ensuring they had the last laugh as the river became flooded with dirt and brown water. So that the footprints cannot be seen. Naked eyes like hers, were dangerous. Supernatural.

They cried and celebrated the virtues of "love", as they reveled in the glory of photogenic lovers. The fading purple irises were in the background, which the camera could not see. This was what they called "happiness", and "beauty". Their eyes were so open. Blind. They tried to wake her up, too. But she was dreaming. They left her.

They had left her only to come back again, crying, telling her that these were the tears of sadness- the latter term she knew not- and they were slipping into the abyss of depression. She remained silent, unsure of what they wanted. They cried, save us. She was a powerful with words. Both written and spoken. They wanted to cling to her, and draw their energy from. Benefit of guilt. To be shouldered on her persona. Like leech. She remained silent, staring in their eyes. For a sign. A single vibrancy of life. She searched and searched. Please don't let my hope die, she was saying. Then she saw it. In abundance. And it wasn't life that she saw.

Every time you were depressed and you cried foul on the temple of your soul, your eyes, you were facing a death. You came close to being cemented in a breathing grave. Locked. Only you yourself had the key. Awesome, is it not, that you had a heart of your own and someone else to blame? And just in case if there wasn't a human entity to carry weight of the blame then, you always had a "god". There was a destiny, too, that could be burdened. Great backup plans. And the backups never failed.
Whatever it was, in the end, you needed an external source of sympathy but never once did you want to be alone. "Self" was a non-entity, after all. And this was a social world, where people always were there to share the laughter, drink the champagne, and party till sunrise. But when you cried, they miraculously disappeared. And then you went to Art of Living classes, indulged in some soul searching, and did some charity. Feel-good factors that still didn't feel that good, after all. Traveled the world, but never came home. Your own soul. But people were important.
Unfortunately, the concept of having people around, never diminished or nullified the perennial fear of being woken up one day only to find that you were all alone. No one to compliment you on that fantastic hair cut or the figure that you'd slogged hard for them to gape at. There was only silence. Loneliness. Such a forbidden dream. Loneliness could be so maddening, after all. Therefore the preference for noise. Justified? They'd asked her, in a desperate attempt for her approval. But cold that she'd always been, she disappointed them. She was always amused by them.

Wasn't shocking then, was the fact that people wanted love from others. Love. Marriage. Kids. A settled life. A perfect conclusion of love. The yearning for human touch. It was so natural. If you never loved yourself, how could you expect love from any other being save your own? Was the one pronunciation of the three words from a photogenic person enough to live your life? The best love story. A member of the world with a hot body, and a red heart, whom the world gapes at, coming to you and saying the words. Holding your hands, a pledge taken. A plunge taken. You leaped, but never looked. And when the tears- not of joy- brimmed in the eyes, you wondered where did it all go wrong. Let's leave the sight factor. Some people say, it is the mental attributes that matter. But sad, the appeal of the mental gifts don't last long enough for your lifetime. Or at least till your hair turned from black to grey, and told you that time was passing by. You'd always wanted to hold this world in your hands. A feast. A marriage card. People chomping away to glory. People around you. You were safe. And your soul that was never satisfied. Mysterious. A tragedy.

And is that person went away, out of your mortal reach, you'd be cemented in the breathing grave. But people never want to think about a grave. It is an epitome of melancholy. Sadness and grief. Why were people so scared, after being surrounded by people? Why did that one man who carried his pride as comfortably as his skin seem so dangerous? Love was reduced to a means of feeding your body a crumb off the desires.

Ever thought of a man sans the sight that's trained to look at the color of the highlights in his hair, the idle calculation as to how expensive his wristwatch must be, or did he enjoy smoke or drinks or women? For, when you were in bed with him, you would not be enjoying his six-pack body, but the manifest of his own soul. His deepest person. Ever thought of a man with brains? A man with pride? A man just himself? A man with whom your body could be safe just as your mind would be. A man that you could look up to, or even equally in the eye, for you were tired of being looked up on at?

What is it the "human touch" yearns for? A mere mortal. Wasn't there an equal passion to be explored in a non-entity? Your work. Your car. A house that you earned, and made a home. On your own. Ownership gave an immense pleasure. A non-entity that was capable of giving you pleasure, and that pure joy, untouched, unspoken. A passion that could never utter those three words but make you feel as if your existence here would not go unnoticed. A passion that was above words and betrayal. A passion that never asked you questions, and never made you ask any. A silent prayer. A thankful existence. A thread connecting two entities. A feeling that was to be enjoyed, and lived for, it would not ask you to die for it, as there was no death a human being could ever face, save the fact of being locked in a breathing grave all by yourself, with folded hands and open eyes, where you held the key. A feeling that never once left your mind or your soul. It was just there. Its presence could not be affirmed. It could not be denied. It was there. Naked. Transparent. There is more than just what meets the eye. Even if there was no human to touch or to say you those words, there still is meaning to life. There is more than love in life. Life. To be taken to greatness and beyond. The toughest person to please is you yourself.

"And Love/ Is not the Easy thing/ The only baggage that you can bring/ Is all that you cant leave behind..."

If the baggage could not be left behind, stay.
She was silent now.
But I didn't answer.
She was looking at someone else.

[February 2006]