Memoirs of a Heart Break Queen

        MEMOIRS OF A HEARTBREAK QUEEN

Forever ago I met a girl. And she was a heart break queen.
Until I had met her, I was of the opinion that breaking someone’s heart was a sin. It was after I met her that I realised that it was a talent. It was a hobby some people have been marvelling over the ages. They grew old revering it. It was absolutely fine for her and this wasn’t the worst thing about her.
The worst was that she was beautiful. Utter beautiful.
The kind of beautiful that makes quite a big deal about itself. The kind of beautiful that fails to go unnoticed, that poets and writers over the ages have been writing about fooling people around the world that it was not so much about the beauty but about the heartbreak. Now here is a truth. It is actually about the heartbreak. And I say this because I have been a writer and I have gone through a heartbreak. I can so bet my life for it and vouch for it. It is not about the beauty.
We were like poles apart and we did not attract each other because we were unlike. We did because when all things that were repellently unlike in us were exhausted, there was this one thing that was left. Reading. Our shared love for literature. We were stuck amidst the sonnets of Shakespeare and the literary classics of Leo Tolstoy and Charles Dickens. We travelled through Hemingway and Orwell and Bronte. And it was like two diverse rivers that fell in the ocean. Some day she introduced me to Rumi and the other days I took her for a stroll in the corridors of Mir Ghalib and Faiz Ahmed Faiz. Someday she acquainted me with the contemporary romanticism of not so acclaimed Nicolas sparks and John Green, the other days I took her into the simpleton world of Khalid Hosseini and Haruki Murakami. And as the reader in her reverently remarked the writer in me “bask in the afterglow of the beauty of reading” and that “writing is a wiser daughter of reading”
I wanted to know more of her. And she would bluntly deny. Not that she purposely kept me away. She was just like that to the world. Too old school to socialise too quickly. And then she believed “it takes a lifetime to know a person inside out” and when I would complain about her lack of socialising she would unapologetically defend “I could socialise more people were books”
But not all that glitters is gold. It could be fire as well. And she wasn’t any less of an inferno. She was the volcano that engulfed the whole of me in a manner that when she was done with it, all that remained of me was ash. I was a total wreck. A wreck that had no meaning in today’s world. But I wouldn’t blame her for this. It was my own faulty. It was my own doomsday that was written forever ago. We all have someone who ruins us in a manner that no home can recover us from. All rehabs fail to help. Some are ruined by situations, some by subjects they don’t understand, some by the love that their loved ones don’t understand and some by a calamity. I was ruined by a beauty and then Milton says a thing of beauty is a joy forever.
Irony.
I have never met her. So I can only imagine what she would be like. Or who she exactly is. I wish to meet her. Not to settle scores. But just to see her. We all deserve to have a fair look at what made us who we are. I don’t wish to have a nice conversation on the bank of a river or a sea shore or something like that. Just….. If only words could suffice.
I perhaps some day before the sun in my life sets down beyond all the mountains in my life, I would like my moon to occur, what if it’s an eclipse. I wish to be doomed again. By the same moon. By the same calamity. By the same beauty. To bask in the afterglow of her existence.
Till then, my earth waits for the return of its Saturn.