Honorable Dramatist

Is it arrogance that is making me wait? Arrogance, that I can’t accept anything lesser than you. Or is it the innocence of a strong headed child who sees nothing except for what he has liked once. Words, I thought would make it look small, stupid, disrespectful. Touch was an expression which cannot be replaced by words. May be you understood, may be you didn’t. May be the pretence of ignorance is important for your dignity, honor. Honor! What a trap is that. The honor of not confessing the need to be loved. The honor of not giving in to the desires which make you what you are. Make you the one who is to be loved by none other than me. Yes I know this is arrogance. To Love you for only I can love you. To love you to make you good enough for my love. To love you for you to realize that you are nothing without it. That is what my love does to you. That’s why you are so scared of it. My brutal honesty prevents you from believing what you want to believe for your pleasure. I show you your own face so clearly that you dislike it. Why cant you accept that, that is what is your beauty? Well, yes that is what I call beautiful.
Our definitions are so different!

You mask yourself because you hate to believe that emotions have a mind of their own. They have!! And they should have! You think it’s not honorable to think about yourself when love is what is expected of you, this is a dogma from which you can’t break free. Your masks are to protect yourself from your own vulnerability. You can’t allow anybody to know his indispensability and that’s why you wear those cold eyes to refrain from expressing too much. That’s why so many desired hugs are suspended, so many wanted kisses rejected, so many tears are strangled to death even before they reach your cold eyes, so many soulful smiles are turned into laughter’s of mockery, so many could-have-been-evenings of joy had turned into sleepless long nights, so many letters are written but not sent, so many questions of insanity have been answered with ruthless practicality. Why can’t you expose your madness, your needs, and your hunger for more? Is the dogma of honor to be big to be risked? Or is the sustenance of your enigma more important than its achievements? You are either afraid of your own emotions or you are thrilled by the hope that all of it will be discovered by them without your expression. Or may be not expressing it all is a trick to create the enigma, to maintain the curiosity.

You want to be controlled, but in a particular way which you have decided. You have set the parameters, the equations, the values which will be allowed to be manipulated, governed, and controlled. Beyond that and apart from that you are not ready to share, to allow the control in other hands. But I am able to snatch it. That is what is your complain, your fear. I might control too much to be within your control. You control others by allowing them to control you to a certain extent. The amount of control I snatch from you is more than that limit. When you say, you don’t want to talk, I reply "As you wish" because I know you can’t answer my arrogance with your silence. When you question me whys, I answer you why not’s. When you answer me with indifference I answer you with mockery, mockery at your feigned bravery of attempting to stand it all alone. When you mock at me, I laugh in amusement at this old trick which fails to hurt me. When you pretend to be in love, I know you are guilty conscious. When you ask for favor, I know you are allowing me a chance to feel important. When you ask for my hand, I hold you with gratitude for helping me believe my strength. When you weep in despair, I know that it’s because you could not hurt them enough to feel satisfied. When you laugh in hysteria, I know that you are hiding the pain. When you speak too much, I know you won’t be able to bear even a moment of silence between us. I play the innocent child by not letting you know that I know it all. Though the truth is, that you know it all so well, and that is what makes you stay away from me. The reason why I love you is the reason why I am not allowed to!

I fail to put in words and you deny the expression of touch. The audacity to allow the touch challenges your chastity, the insufficiency of words challenges my intentions. Honor, dignity, respect, conventions are nothing but the devices to massacre, to kill emotions which are not made by human minds. But may be I am disillusioned. Who knows may be my emotions are nothing but age old dogmas. May be I am feeling what I think I am supposed to feel, what I have been taught to feel. I have tried to sustain all my questions by not answering them, if possible by not asking them in the first place. Brutal honesty is a curse. Am I cursed?? Ruthless truthfulness, I thought was a device to unmask you. To let you know that I know you too well to not to love you. Your smile is no more a deception to me. It’s an acceptance of you weaknesses. To me your anger is your rage against your inability to live up to your desires. You laugh among men to make them believe that they amuse you. I know you are amusing yourself by laughing amongst them, a cynic’s laughter, a laughter of a murderer who laughs outside the court when acquitted. I know if I tell you all that, you want shy. You will hold your head in pride for ruthlessly running down those who seek your beauty. They might accuse of playing with their hearts, minds, of making them believe what you wanted them to believe. But I know that they are victim of their hopes. Hopes of seeking strength, heroism from someone they thought considered them a hero. They were not heroes on their own .You created heroes amongst them for fulfillment of your desire to live amongst equals. And in moments of indulgence you at times believed your imagination; you believed them to be real heroes which they were not. They should thank you for giving them the moments of glory in which they will bask through out their life. But they don’t know it; they accuse you of betrayal, infidelity. Oh! The biggest weakness of a man is to not know his weaknesses.

But then again I doubt, am I also an imaginary hero bestowed with qualities which I actually don’t possess just for your amusement. My brutal honestly, ruthless truthfulness, insight is nothing but just a manifestation of your wishful thinking. May be I am just being or believing that I am what you want me to be. Even if this is true, then I thank you with all my heart to have chosen me for your amusement. I wish I was insane enough not to question the reality of my existence for you. Do I exist for you as I really do or your imagination makes me something for your pleasure? Oh! What a great artist you are! a dramatist who has a stage in mind where characters enter, exit wearing masks of your choice, in lights you choose them to be in, on a background score which fits into your feelings. I wish I could stand up to the dramatist you are. I wish I could act well enough, long enough in your mind to let the play go on. !! I beg of you, don’t assassinate the character I am playing. I will improve. I will become better; I will be clown enough, to make u laugh. I will be murderer enough to thrill you. I will be lover enough to gloom you; I will be hero enough to make you victorious. Just don’t put off the lights, let the background music play, let me have some more lines. If not lines, just give me a coffin in your mind to lie down. I will wear a mask on my face that will keep your eyes unmoved for a long time. When you are tired of looking at it, I will become a ghost, a raven, phantom, a messiah, a wish, a fairy, and a witch ....what all I can be after I am dead. Even if I don’t have lines to say, I will be actor enough to amuse you. Just don’t let the curtains fall on me. I don’t mind co actors. Let them do their part .Let them be heroes for your amusement. Those men of honor and courage, who have been bestowed with the crown in the play with in your head, will finally be murdered secretly. Yes, they will be murdered; this is how you write your plays. I know your trick, your plots. I have always known them. Then newer heroes will be born out of your imagination. I just want to be the character which is used as a device to build the subplot for the emergence of heroes and for their murder. That’s how I will live, even in a coffin, or even as a ghost. That’s how I demand my existence.