Friday, March 13, 2015

What's so odd about odd numbers?

7 days of thinking, 13 days of preparation, and now it is at the final stage. You are solving the 5th and the last clue. It has been a day of odd surprises for you: a matching end to my oddly odd attempt to show my love for you and introduce you to my world.

You smile at me. I am lucky to have met you. In this world of possibilities where every step presents a different opportunity, what was the probability that I met you exactly there at precisely that moment? A chain of numbers runs in my head. I recognize some of them: even numbers, all united through the fact that they are all divisible by 2. Then there are the odd numbers. No pattern. No factor common to all of them; an infinite stream of prime numbers hidden in them. They are the language of randomness; the quantum probability distribution that brought us together and created the universe, the earth and life some millions of years ago. It is odd, but remarkably so. I smile back at you.

You have a tetrahedron, a cube, an octahedron and a dodecahedron on the table you are working: tokens which show that you have solved four clues so far. From the morning you have been running from room to room finding clues and riddles and solving them with your friend. You have revisited Wordsworth (whom I can quote from memory) from the long forgotten days of studying literature in grade 9; googled paintings that you did not know existed; found that apart from being my favorite element water can reveal messages written in secret inks; you have solved a mathematical chess puzzle and found my mother’s phone number and called her to find this one. Each clue led you to a polyhedron and the next clue.

You do not know at the moment but you will be getting the icosahedron next. You hate mathematics but allow me to show the beauty of mathematics to you. Did you know that this clue will be the last just because of the mathematical truth that only 5 regular polyhedra exist? That is odd, but true. I celebrate 5, from the secrecy of the pentagon to the spirituality of the pentacle. 5 is odd and special. That is why I prepared this puzzle of pentominos as the 5th clue.

You are reaching the end of the puzzle. I watch you. All the girls have admired me but you are the only one who tried to understand me. It was not easy being the odd one everywhere I go: at home, at school, even when I was hanging out with friends. I was not just odd, I was ‘the’ odd one; the (2k+1)th one. There were k people to my left, always studying, brainy, and addicted to comics, listening to classics and k people to my right, always in the rugby field, worried about their looks, addicted to movies, listening to hip hop. I was the one in the middle, first in the class yet never missing a chance sneak to the field to play rugby in a free period, always enjoying both the comic and the movie, debating furiously about both De Caprio in the ‘Inception’ and Bradley Cooper in ‘Hangover 3’, relaxing to orchestra music yet free-styling on the way. Both groups felt that I belonged with the other. I was odd; a threat to the precarious balance of Yin and Yang in the universe. But now I no longer feel like I have a split personality disorder. I am proud of what I am, proud of being odd.

You finish the puzzle and walk to where it leads. You walk to me. I give you the icosahedron. You smile with your eyes. I give you the red rose. I love you. I give you my presents: Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown and Marshal Mathers II by Eminem. Happy birthday, darling! And welcome to my world. We are two now: even. But, love me as I love you and we will be 1: odd and unique, the building block of whole mathematical universe.

So, what’s so odd about odd numbers? What’s so odd about me?

We are interesting. We are special. 

Friday, November 7, 2014

Song journal #3: Lonely

"When I used to be someone
And I knew there was someone
That loved me

As I sit here frozen alone
Even ghosts get tired and go home
As they crawl back under the stones

And I wish there was something
Please tell me there's something better
And I wish there was something more than this
Saturated loneliness

And I wish I could feel it
And I wish I could steal it
Abduct it, corrupt it, but I never can
it's just saturated loneliness"

-'Tearjerker' by Korn

I am lonely. And cold.

In a scorching night of summer, I'm cold. So cold that I cover myself with all the blankets at home and bury myself underneath. Yet, I still feel it. The cold.

I close my eyes and try not to think of her. Fail. I open my eyes. And I see her. I'm mad. I'm cold. I'm lonely. I'm lost.

I sigh, frost forming in my eyes. I pull blankets up to my chest. Desperate for a moment's warmth and my heart crunches. Too much weight. I throw away the blankets. Still the same. I gasp. Try to speak. Try to scream for help. No sound escapes my throat. I'm having a stroke. I'm suffocating. I'm dying. I wait, cold, lonely, for the death to arrive. A minute. An hour. An eternity. It does not come. Even death has abandoned me. I'm lonely.

I sit up on the bed. I sleep sitting up. Wake up. And sleep again. An alarm rings; i throw it to the floor. Birds chirp outside; I shoot them. Phone rings; I wake up. No. Not her. Fuck Airtel. I sleep again.

I wake up in the morning with blood all over me. My heart is broken and blood's gushing out.

I stand under the shower. Temperature control locked at hot. But the damn plumbing isn't working. It is freezing cold. I am frozen. Unable to move. I stand there. Cold. And watch the blisters forming in my skin and erupting. Blood is pouring from the shower when i come out.

Solitude might be bliss, but loneliness is a bitch.

Hours grow in to days. I sleep in the day and stay awake at night. I watch the world evolving. Revolving around me. I'm the fucking center of rotation. And the axis passes through me. Straight through my spine.

Clock is ticking. Tick. Tock. Tick. Time slows down. Tick. Time stops. Lights flash everywhere. Suddenly I'm looking at millions of snapshots. Of her. And I'm in none of them. I'm alone.

It is ironic how one can feel lonely while being surrounded by so many people. I snap at them. I scold. I glare. I see my mother wiping a tear from her eyes. My broken heart shatters in to a thousand pieces. Blood spurts from my nose, carrying pieces of glass. I don't care. I snap. I scold. I glare.

I stare at the blank wall. Nothing means anything anymore. I have lost interest in living. I have lost interest in dying.
I have lost her; I have lost everything.
I am cold. And lonely.

I feel a touch. I break in to tears. I feel a kiss. I begin to weep. I cry until I'm drowning in tears.

I search everywhere. She is not there. I bang my head on the wall to clear my head. She is not there. I slice open my wrist to wake myself up from this nightmare. But I'm not dreaming. She is not there. I am alone. Lonely. And cold.

And the fault is mine.

I wait for her to forgive me, as always. I wait for her to heal me.

I wait forever in this freezing hell. Alone and lonely.

Tuesday, November 4, 2014

Song journal #2: Roads untraveled

"Weep not for roads untraveled
Weep not for paths left alone
'Cause beyond every bend
Is a long blinding end
It's the worst kind of pain
I've known
Weep not for roads untraveled
Weep not for sights unseen"

- 'Roads untravelled' by Linkin Park

I close my eyes and try to envision how she must have looked when she was young. I try to imagine her laughing while playing in the kindergarten. I search for my face among the crowd around her but I'm not there.

I know it's futile and meaningless. But I wish I could have been there, to grow up with her ; To watch her as she go through changes; To give her my hand when she falls; To laugh with her when she gets back on her feet.


In the chemistry class, I like to sit in the corner in the balcony and watch through the window. I watch the house with the green yard and a tree with a swing in the summer. I watch a little girl swinging by herself. Sometimes others are there too, her relatives, I guess. Boys play cricket and sometimes she joins it with the other girls. They laugh and they chatter. I hate it. I'm jealous.  Coz I'm not there. Coz I wasn't there. With my Her. The little girl evokes the image in my mind. The unseen image of Her, fresh out my mind's studio. The image of how She must have looked when She was her age. When We were her age.

I have written few stories but there are many I have not: the ones I have started but never finished. One of them was inspired by this. How an elven boy (after the elven kind in The Lord of the Rings) used to climb on to a tall tree and watch a princess playing with her friends in the garden below. The princess belonged to the royal clan, where the likes of him would have never been accepted. He had never spoken with her and she didn't even know of his existence. All he would do and all he could do was to watch her. He would stay there, on the tree, hours after she had gone back to the palace. Silent. Sad. I know, in the story, they meet one day after they have grown up and they live happily ever after. But I am unable to write it beyond that point where the little elf is sitting on the tree, hurt. Watching the sun set. Watching the darkness creep into the world. Watching the faint rays of hope flicker and die.

I hate it. I hate the ones who had the chance to be with her. sometimes  I hate her parents because they have been with her more than I have been. And more than all I hate the fact that even if some things had been different we would have never grown up together. Our worlds were different before we tried to reconcile them and I hate it. It hurts.

They say weep not, but I feel tears forming in my eyes. I force my gaze away from the playing kids. I watch the mountain range in sight. I see them darken. The sun is slowly hiding behind a dark grey cloud.

I close the window as sir comes in to the class.

Monday, November 3, 2014

Song journal #1 : Monster

"I've created a monster, cuz nobody wants to  
see Marshal no more they want Shady I'm chopped liver     
well if you want Shady, this is what I'll give ya            
a little bit of weed mixed with some hard liquor"

- 'Without me' by Eminem

This is a journal of moments, instances. Moments that reminds me of a specific song.

After reading "The story" a lady once asked me where is the story in that; what is the message. I don't aim to deliver a message or take a moral as a theme when i writing. A poem, a short story, every piece of writing is an preservation of a moment for me. The sort of preservation against the stream of time achieved through a photo, a video. Yet, the writing is superior to these media as it can capture the reasons, consequences, states and feelings in a manner the others can't. Writing creates a whole world evolving around that specific moment.

A proper story is real in its own right. It doesn't have to be true; it may take place in a different universe with a different set of rules; but whatever it is, it is a real.  This does not mean that a similar thing had happened to the writer or the characters actually depict his subconsciousness. They may or may not. A writer is an observer of the world who uses his imagination to fill up the details. And in the process the observation might get discarded when the imagination takes its place. A single word can trigger a whole novel. It's same with me. I read a damn lot. Everything I have read, seen and experienced seep in to what I write in one way or another. They are sometimes the inspiration, sometimes the theme and sometimes the content. This is no exception to that.So those of you who are going to think I'm a psychopath who is sexually discontented or going through a divorce, or whatever the impression is when you read the upcoming entries; FUCK YOU! I'm talking to you too, sir: The fact that I talk about the philosophy of BDSM does not mean I have "unusual sexual preferences!" I have read 11 minutes and I can co-relate!

Co-relate: that is what I expect from you, my readers. The complete experience of reading is temporarily living in that situation (in what you read). I could not converse properly with anyone in the 2 days it took me to finish Afghanistan: where God only comes to weep. The feeling of shock and hopelessness remained for a week. I was living in their world, seeing it through their eyes, going through their personal struggles. Reading is that. It can elate you and it can devastate you. Coz reading is living and life does both.

I have created a monster in this journal i.e. a normal man who takes a moment to contemplate. Every person goes through moments of desperation, loneliness, regret, jealousy and hatred as well as the moments of joy and contentment. if we take a moment to think about it, behind the angel facade we put on, there is a monster. We are all fucked up, to some levels, in some moments in our lives. After all, the world is a fucked up place in essence. If not, how come the 50 shades of gray is a super hit?!

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

No mixed feelings: Mixed education is the best.

No mixed feelings: Mixed education is the best.

Two little kids, a boy and a girl, are neighbors. They eat together, play together and grow up together. They play with the tea sets as well as the train sets. Until the end of pre-school they are best friends.

After that everything changes. They go to different schools. And their different philosophies and cultures begin to poison them. The boy destroys his tea set and declares that he is stronger and ‘cooler’ than the girl. The girl throws away the train set and considers herself to be glamorous, pretty and sweet while the boy is ‘disgusting.’ They ignore each other in public and become rivals in secret.

Still, they grow up. Not together anymore, but each in their own world. Boy thinks biology is stupid, girl thinks mathematics is stupid. Boy thinks girl is just by-hearting things, girl thinks boy is just fiddling with numbers. Boy is into computer games, girl is into fantasy stories and fashion.  They are afraid to try out what the other does, afraid their respective communities will estrange them. They are different. No. They must become different, somehow.

They grow up, with conflicting minds. With the sexual awakening they become something else altogether. For boys, girls are now meant to be peeped upon and tasted with imagination. For girls, boys are to be fantasized about, but avoided. For girls, boys are dangerous. For boys, they think that they should be dangerous. Teasing turns in to harassment. Aesthetics are replaced with the perverse while affection is substituted with violence. Meanwhile, the girl and the boy ignore the tugging of their hearts thinking that they are just after-effects of long lost memories of a childhood spent together. Not love. Never the ‘love.’

Still, they grow up, with everybody else around them. At least some of them. The others do not. Some boys turn in to murderers and rapists. Some girls turn in to shopaholics or develop a male-phobia. Sometimes it happens other way round.

Anyway, neighboring girl and boy grow up. They graduate from their schools and get jobs in their respective fields, despite the nagging in the corners of their minds that they would feel happier doing something else.
At some point of their lives, they meet their life partners. They are happy at the first, but soon understand that they do not understand each other. In their school lives, they had reshaped the person of the opposite gender as nothing but an object of desire, in their minds. The feeling continues, but the imagined satisfaction does not follow. The girl thinks she should be tender and the boy thinks he should be rough. They have forgotten how it were to be both a boy and a girl at the same time, like when they were little. They have forgotten the “yin” and the “yang”, the masculine and feminine, exist in the same universe, together.

Lives become routine and filled with conflicts and regrets.

The boy and the girl grow old and die, separately, with their respective families. Yet, unloved.


The thing to ponder is how would have this changed if they had gone to the same school, together.


Mixed education produces a society with both genders loving, respecting and understanding each other. Development and happiness grow together in it.

Friday, July 19, 2013

The story

The story

I like the way you relax when you are lying next to me; the way you sigh deeply and embrace me, like I am too much precious to let go. I like the scent of your hair. I like the way you rest your head on my chest. (No, you don’t suffocate me. You are so light, you know.) And I like the way you say that you love me.

I love you too.

You wanted to stay awake chatting about your day. But soon enough I hear your breath falling into a rhythm.

‘Are you already asleep, dear? Well, I am falling asleep too. You are so soothing…’

‘You didn’t kiss me today!’ you grumble, hitting me lightly to show that you are angry. I kiss you, short, but sweet. ‘Sleep well.’ I whisper into your ear. ‘You know what? Once there was a prince and a girl.’ I add on an impulse. I don’t expect you to hear that, but you mumble, ‘so?’

I wait hoping you would fall asleep. But, as usual you prove yourself to be unpredictable. You nudge me, eager to hear more. I try hard to improvise. But nothing comes to mind. Why did I tell that thing?!

‘The girl was so beautiful and the prince was dark and powerful. But she loved him. And he began to love himself too. In a small time girl was everything to him. They married and lived happily ever after.’

‘Hmm… ok’

‘Hmm…’ I guess the whole story was ok. It was not impossible.

‘What hmm…?’ You ask. You are so unfair sometimes.

‘Nice story, isn’t it?’

You think for a moment. ‘Nice… And it is better if you have changed it. I mean if prince was good and handsome where the girl was dark, not powerful of course. Because it is always the same, girls are beautiful in most of the stories…’ I like the way you think. You are so different from the girls who live swallowed up in their dreams of being fairy tale princesses.

‘And let’s sleep now.’ At last you want to sleep, but not me. You have stirred up my thoughts. Why did the story have to be that way?

‘It may be true. But this prince was not handsome and he had many secrets. Girl was pretty and simple.’ Like you and me, I think.

‘Secrets?’ you want to know.

But, once a story has been started it has to be unraveled in its own style. Every story has its own voice. You will have to wait. I begin.

‘You know, they used to walk in the forest. The prince will show her the flowers and the birds. And sometimes he will just sit on the ground and look into her eyes.’


I ignore you and continue. The reason is the same reason as why I want to hold you tightly now and stroke your head. And those things cannot be explained through words.

‘In the night they will count the stars. The prince will hold her and rock her to sleep. He will watch the moonlight falling on her body. He will touch her face tenderly and weep silently.’

‘Why did he weep?’ you ask.

I think back to the days before we got together. Our future was in doubt. I will wake up suddenly at the nights, missing you so badly. I was afraid of losing you. I knew the answer.

‘He loved her a lot, more than anything or anyone.’

‘He will wake up every day to find her asleep and he will throw her blanket away so that the cold will embrace her. And when she begins to show signs of shivering, he will hug her tightly and kiss her. Every day when she opened her eyes, first thing she will see would be his eyes, deep and sad, but alight with a strange fire. Except for one day.’ I pause and wait for a few seconds letting the suspense to build up.

‘What happened?’ you ask unable to bear it anymore.

‘That day she got up first!’ I smile. You pinch me playfully. I really love you.

‘They liked to walk… everywhere. They would go into churches, libraries. But mostly they would just walk.’ Strong memories engulf me. The way we used to walk after classes when we were still at school. How we noticed everything around us but found nothing to replace the beauty of the fire we saw in each other’s eyes. ‘Once in a while the girl would look at him with her little blue eyes. Then he would lift her up so that she can kiss his forehead.’

I see that you are thinking the same things as me. You hug me more tightly. I continue.

‘He would wait in the kitchen till she cooked and in the pool till she bathed. He would open a large book and pretend to be busy while watching her every action.’

I look at you and see the reaction I expected. You try to hide your face. You are blushing scarlet.

‘Then he would help her to get dressed. He would plait her hair and tell her how beautiful she is.’ You smile at me. It is a recently achieved talent of mine, plaiting the hair.

‘So tell.’ You implore.

‘When it rains he will stop whatever he was doing and get into bed with her. He will let her rest her head on his lap and tell her stories, about war, about life, about god, about love.’

I am narrating the story in the present tense now. It has become intimate and I am living in every sentence I say.

‘Was that prince afraid of thunder?’ you laugh. I decide ignore the remark mentally blaming myself for playing that joke on her onetime.

‘He will remind her how they used to play when they were kids, in the palace. And memories will bring tears to his eyes. She will reach out and wipe them away, as she has always done, since they were kids.’

‘They knew each other when they were kids itself?’ you ask. It is always the problem with these ‘once upon a time’ stories. You have to connect every piece together. I think hard, stop that and then try to find the answer from my heart. How will this story evolve? What tragedy did befall the prince and the girl when they were young?

‘Yes, they did. She was the daughter of the cook in the palace.

And then he will smile and kiss her… in the French way.’ You are aware of the types of kisses I guess, after living with me, but I add in, just in case. ‘He will let his tongue linger inside her mouth, over the burnt flesh.’

I wait for the effect to settle. You look at me.

‘She can’t speak, my dear.’

‘Oh God! Poor girl!’ you exclaim.

‘Prince’s mum died giving birth to him. The cook was like mum to him.  But everything goes wrong one day. One day the king corners up the cook at her hut and uses her to satisfy his personal urges. He rapes her.’ I wait a moment for the impact of the situation to settle in. ‘Then only he sees the frightened girl wetting herself and crying. The king uses his power to make sure that nobody gets to know about his shameless act. He orders the cook to be executed and burns the girl’s mouth so that she can’t tell the world what she had witnessed.’ I do not elaborate the torture or what they were convicted of at the court. People of power acting like that king, is still not uncommon in the society.

‘The girl goes to the prince and cries the whole day, silently. Next day she is sent away from the castle. Other servants find her a distant relative living in a faraway village.’ The story has become darker than even I have anticipated.

‘Does prince know the truth?’ you ask. Does he? I think. I don’t know. The story itself will only reveal. I continue.

‘Soon after that, prince also leaves the palace. And in some time, there is an invasion and the whole town is destroyed. When he returns the prince finds a burnt castle with nobody present. Then he leaves again, this time in search of the girl.’

‘The prince is seventeen when he finds the girl. For five years he hasn’t seen her. But somehow he finds her again and brings her home. She doesn’t want to and tries to run away. But he holds her tenderly and strokes her head, during the long journey.’ The story has become personal. I stroke your head when you are distressed and it makes you relax.

‘Asleep, dear?’ I look at you.

‘No, I am listening to you.’ You open your eyes and gaze at me, lovingly. I see traces of tears in your eyes. You smile.

‘He takes her to the places they have played in as kids; cries with her. And near the lake where they used to feed the swans, he falls onto his knees in front of her. His tears fall on to her feet. Slowly he rises up and… kisses her tearful eyes and kisses her lips for the first time.’

You have closed your eyes again. Your fingers are tracing shapes on my chest.

‘And when they go back to the castle, he gives her a wooden heart, beautifully carved and complete with intricate designs and her name. He doesn’t tell her anything about its history.’

You look at me puzzled. History? You are thinking.

‘It had been just a heart with her name when he first tried to give it to her. He had skipped school after the woodwork class and hurried to the castle, to the cook’s hut, hoping to find her there. But he doesn’t get the chance. He had peeped through the window and run away having lost all his courage suddenly.

That evening was the last time he sees her. That was when she cried in his arms, unable to speak anymore.’ I look at you to see whether you remember the scene. You do, but you do not connect them as I have just done, leading to the key to the secrets.

I return to the present from the history. ‘She accepts the heart. And she wears it in a gold necklace till she dies. He rebuilds the city in her name and invaders never trouble him. After all he had many secrets as I said before.’ I finish. The story is complete.

But it is not, for you. ‘So did they live happily ever after?’

Not all the stories have an ending. Nor do they have any names for the characters. We are recreating the story in our hearts when we listen to one. It fills out all the details. And we feel it as the story is ours.

‘They loved each other.’ I reply. You nod. It is enough for you.

‘I love you and that story is dedicated to you.’ I add.

‘Thanks. I love you too. And I am the luckiest girl in the world, to have you.’ You kiss me long, passionately. I kiss you back.

‘What were the secrets of the prince?’ you ask me when you have huddled next to me again.

‘Think. You can figure it out for yourself.’ I say. ‘And next turn is yours to tell a story.’

‘Ok. I will tell tomorrow.’ You agree. Thus, it begins our habit of telling stories to each other.

The stories resonate inside our hearts and weave themselves in to our dreams. They carry an everlasting power, our love.

‘Good night, my love.’

Bharatha M. Rankothge


Sunday, June 30, 2013


“En suvaasak kaatru varumpaadhai paarththu uyirthaangi naaniruppaen
malarkonda penmai vaaradhu poanaal malaimeedhu theekkulippaen
en uyir poagum poanaalum thuyarillai pennae adharkaagavaa paadinaen
varum edhirkaalam un meedhu pazhipoadum pennae adharkaagaththaan vaadinaen
adhai un kaiyil koduththuvittaen

I will keep my life as I wait in the streets for the breath of my life to come. If my little flower doesn’t come I’ll turn into ashes on this mountain side I don’t care if I lose my life That’s not the reason for this song Coming future will put the blame on you, That’s why I’m worried Is it the beginning or the end? I’ve left it in your hands” 1
They don’t speak.

For the whole 15 minutes they walk along the dusty, crowded roads of the city, neither of them speaks a word. Yet, the silence is filled with understanding. They don’t hold their hands either. But both are comforted by the other’s presence. And that is enough, for now.

She is aware of the eyes following her, eyes resting on him and moments of doubt in those eyes before they disappear from the view of the observers. She is aware of the people, her people, returning to the shops after prayers. She is aware of the laws she is breaking.

He too is aware, to some extent, of the laws he is causing her to break; the laws set down by her people for the safety of her, to protect her from the possible harms from men. Yet, he knows that she trusts him. And he will never break that trust. She is safe with him.

They walk; observing the people going on with their busy lives, earning money and fame without any joy for themselves; young couples wound around each other: boy, full of lust and the girl, deceived; old couples, walking together, yet, apart. Like their dreams which had been the same few years ago. Man full of anger for missing the chances because of the woman and full of doubts about her. And the woman, angry at being stuck with a man who couldn’t fulfill her wishes and at the fate she had brought upon herself, a life of rules and worries; observing the men who worked all their might to earn the daily bread for his family and some men who worked harder to earn enough to go to the liquor shop around the corner, to get a pint: a pint of happiness, a pint of freedom, a pint of illusion.

Observing the boys walking around in groups, cracking rude jokes at the passers-by and howling with laughter: boys with nothing else to do: boys, defeated before their lives had begun; observing the girls sailing along, with carefully positioned movements of the hips, clothes exposing instead of covering their bodies, leaving nothing to imagination, exposed to and attracting all the dirt in the city: girls looking for destruction, to waste their lives.

The walk is coming to an end.

He sees that her eyes are filled with worries, doubts about the future, about the presence of God in her life. She sees his eyes shadowed with fear, afraid that he is not capable enough, afraid of the threats from the society who don’t understand them.

Life pauses for a second.

He is aware of the people around them and the self-control he has strictly practiced around her.

She is aware of another law she is going to break, of another choice she is going to make.

The second passes. Life continues.

They have their arms around each other, sharing warmth and consolation. She is sobbing quietly, tears sinking in across his shirt to his chest, to his heart, giving him strength to confront his fears. And hope passes from his lips, kissing the fabric covering her head, and then resting on her forehead, sending off her doubts.

They are aware of the sacrifices they would make in the future. Aware of the long periods of time they will have to spend away from each other. Aware of the moments of doubts they will have occasionally before they re-discover themselves. Aware of the pits and falls they would encounter in the life’s journey; their journey.

But they have each other.

They love each other.

Understanding and hope passes between them through their first touch.

They are sad at the ignorance of the people, but happy that they are different, he from the other boys, she from the other girls and they from the other couples. Glad that they have each other and they have their life left with them.

She feels the presence of God with her again, hears His silent tears of joy. World was born through the love of God. And God is merciful towards His children.

He feels the inner peace, the ecstasy of being one with his own soul.

She is a believer. He is not.

This is the story of their love, of the dreams they share.

No dream is impossible.
“Oar paarvai paarththae uyirthandha penmai vaaraamal poayvidumaa
oru kannil konjam valivandha poadhu maru kannum thoongidumaa
naan karumpaarai palathaandi vaeraaga vandhaen kannaalan mugam paarkkavae
en kadungaaval palathaandi kaatraaga vandhaen kannaa un kural kaetkavae
adadaa adadaa inru kanneerum thiththikkinradhae

Just one look and I lost myself how could I stay away from you? When one eye lights up with love won’t the other one brighten up too? Like a river flows through the rocks I came to see my beloved’s face Like the gently wafting breeze I came to hear my beloved’s voice Even my tears taste sweet today” 2
Love exists, in the past, the present and the future. And true love calls for sacrifice and endurance, for risks to be taken.

Even though marrying a non-believer is prohibited by her religion; even though he will gain only the disapproval of his people because of this marriage; even though both of them may be branded as traitors and subjected to harassment and insults, most likely so, because of the signs of upcoming conflict between the two religions in their small country; even though it may cause death to both of them, they both decide to take the risk, in hope of a better future in a better world where people’s differences are respected; in a world where it is understood that religion or race is not a hindrance for true love.

Are they too risk conscious?

Being risk conscious does not mean running away from risks. It means understanding that there is a risk in things we do.

Life is all about taking risks. Every moment we make a decision we are taking a risk. So, it is a question to ask from our hearts.

Are we able to follow our hearts and find our destiny, these days?

Are we ready to dedicate ourselves to love, whatever the cost, these days?

Are we aware of the risks, but ready to take them?

Are we risk conscious or Are we too risk conscious, these days?

1, 2 Excerpts from the song ‘Uyire uyire’ from the Indian movie ‘Bombay, the city of fire’. It is a movie directed by Mani Ratnam, depicting a true love story between a Muslim woman and a Hindu man (a non-believer).