Of truth and fiction and of love

Yesterday morning, over a sleepless, “don’t-want-to-go-to work” Monday morning’s coffee, I was reading a story written by P.S Narayana in a telugu magazine. Once in a while on my grocery shopping forays into Little India, I induce myself into buying this magazine as a much deserved nostalgic trip to the world that I was born into but invariably, I end up feeling abysmal about the quality of the reading material in it. I do know about the abundance of telugu sites on the www but I don’t enjoy reading online so much as I enjoy reading a book or a magazine or even a desperate printout. V laughs at my quotidian bouts of enthusiasm about the language and dismay about the current trends in my homeland but that doesn’t stop me from buying this magazine. I also doubt that one of the reasons I cannot afford to not buy it is because of the fear that I might miss speaking to the one telugu speaking person I know in Singapore- the magazine store guy!

But for all my snivels about the current trends, this story was one of those little gems which make life seem beautiful. Remember literature of the yore? Where beauty is extolled without drama? Where leisurely descriptions of the place, people and the events are more important than the “plot”? Where the grammar of the language does not matter as much as its lyrical cadence? This story was truly one of those although I doubt it will be perceived as “literature of the yore” by many. I was so thrilled that I tried searching online for this author in vain. Here is how the story goes - A tamilian by birth, Tambivelu came to a small town in Andhra Pradesh with his mother when he was five and lived there for the rest of his life as a lorry driver. When informed of the death of someone by a friend, he goes all out to ensure that she gets a decent funeral. He being a married man, one is almost deliberately made to believe that this certain someone might at one point have a romantic connection of some sort with him, given the intensity of his feelings for her which were very perceptively portrayed by the author. He remembers the little things that she had said – that he shouldn’t consume “zarda pan”, that she craved for an azure saree with white dots (which he buys for her as a final gift before the funeral), that she had at one point remarked on the piety in being cremated near the Krishna river ( he dutifully ensures that). It is only to the end when his aide, who cannot keep his curiosity to himself, probe him that he blurts out the fact that he was married to her. And that they had spent five beautiful years together after which, she had chosen to be lured by someone else into a life that eventually turned out to be in dregs. The story has hues of almost all human emotions that you can conceive of but all painted ever so carefully that they don’t over whelm you –magnanimity of human sprit, affection, gratitude and the lack of it, lust, friendship, spiritual belief and above all, a love that has no boundaries. I don’t know where you could find it, but if you do come across it and if you happen to be able to read telugu, read it. You might just fall in love with love once again.

Was it then just a coincidence that the very day I had come across a story of yet another facet of human emotions? Only that this time it wasn’t fiction- but real life. A software guy working in Bangalore had murdered his wife because he had supposedly “spied” on her PC and found her to be having an affair with a colleague. After this, he committed suicide. It might sound morbid but I couldn’t help thinking of the similarity in situation between the protagonist in the story above and that of the latter. One chose to forgive and move on and yet with the same tenderness of heart that had loved her in days past, bid her a final farewell. The other chose to wipe her memories out literally. Who knows what went on in the mind of this guy when he was smothering his wife to death?

But could it be the same love? Or have we all finally reached this stage where instant gratifications have taken over every other parameter of our existence? Love- now, Justice-now, everything- now? Or is fiction, as always, an idealization of the human situation? One that we aspire for and truly yearn for: but it eludes us because we are not made for it?