Life has a ridiculous way of putting two and two together. Each time you set out to do something different, you fall all the more into its grand spell of classic clichés.
There are scores of men in this planet, black, white and brown; chauvinistic, humanitarian and paranoid. Successful, overtly successful and self-acclaimed disasters! Yet you wind up falling in love with that one man you cannot have, who does not fit into your life or your choices! You land up being the exact sobbing, winning spinster of the bloody mills n boons you so hate.
The most notoriously sentimental, overtly emotional films make you cry. Though you know it’s a marketing gimmick, intentionally playing upon your tear buds, but you just cant help yourself even if you think of a horse or an elephant while watching it. You still hate it, it still makes you cry.
On the perfect days of the month when you in all probability are supposed to be getting your period, you decide to wear a white skirt! and to make matters even better you set out on a eventful day without the slightest clue and absolutely unarmed. The mother of all foolish acts old and contemporary.
“Dream….when I want you in my arms, when I need you and all your charms, whenever I want you all I’ve gotta do is ….dream..”------- The darndest song could never be done away with. Your great grandmother too perhaps had her romantic fantasies singing along this song. And there are countless such mushy dimwitsadded in your list of favourites. John denvor, floyd, louis Armstrong.
Day by day you develop this sullen love for poetry. In your escapade You invariably sift through the one which reads “ Grand Collection of Classic poems.”
The poems are hideously romantic, and their ideas have innumerable poor offsprings in other novels and poems less creative. Stale, worn out and painfully long… aah not to miss the difficulty of language. And yet you dig into them like worm does in a book…as if you couldn’t have enough of it.
You read of Tagore and the women in his verses, of Keats and how he died young loving and writing most of his poems for this one woman who was blunt and knew nothing of poetry or art neither paid any heed to his love. You see a Satyajit Ray or a Stanley Kubrick classic, read about their craft n their vivid imaginations, google their images…stare at them for hours together… getting gooseflesh at sights of what they’ve created…. thinking… Yes these were indeed the brightest that ever shinned.
All this and much more…so much has been said, so much has been done… yet you wind up learning of their existence in your own discovery and loving them all the same, thinking what different have you….from the rest. As for me.. I believe that truly I am a master of clichés.