In the Quiet of Her Yearning

Tiny in its appearance, dark legs, a long tail with several black bands till the rounded tip but an entirely white plumage with wings streaked red having mysterious dark bars underneath. Always sitting at the far end of the branch, away from the rest; thus being a subject of speculation. Forlorn, staring through space into an unknown abyss, enthused by nothing; the world registered its distance in words that had but mocked her sorrow. But humans, species driven by their bizarre enthusiasm, were of least concern. Lost in the silence of her longing, the bird couldn’t care less. To the world she was known as an object of marvel, ‘a bird leading a life of loneliness’, but of her story, they knew nothing…

*.*.*

Flying meadow to meadow, ocean to ocean, in search of that which she could call home. So swift in her moves and euphoric in her flight, she was a thing incapable and unintelligent of sorrow.  She fluttered from the mayhem of the waves to the quiet of the fields, driven by her need to belong, she searched and searched but could not find that which she could call her own. The wonders of Earth revealed themselves, awed by the profundity of each, she would ruminate for hours wallowing in the peaceful river of ravishing sights and simple little moments she has collected over the course of her journey. To see, she was complete. But to learn, she wasn’t. The incompleteness has always been there, only she didn’t know; for strange is the poetics of life, you are oblivious of what’s missing from you until the moment someone brings it to you. And so alike all ignorance, hers as well was bound to end; with a revelation which was beautiful, but only in the beginning…

To look back it is difficult to recollect where did he come from. She feels like he has always been there; a part of her life since the beginning, always her companion to every flight. That’s the thing about intimates we love, so overwhelmed by their charming intrusion we forget how our lives were before they had come. It was a rainy evening, tired by her day’s exciting flight, she landed on the highest branch of Alpines that stood broad and strong, just like a love which was about to bloom. Unaware of his presence and distracted by the sheeting rain, she held on to the branch from keeping herself fall but so wild was the tempest, it was sure she wouldn’t hold on long. Alarmed by something move from behind the dripping lush leaves, she halted her struggle and concentrated. Her velvet feathers were adorned with little droplets of rain strung together like ornaments across her neck and forehead, he, who had been watching her struggle since quite a while, was dazzled by the sight of her ethereal beauty. He inched closer and spread out his wings for her to hold on. It is seldom that life without being asked offers us things too good to be true; and when it happens, we tend to know not how to keep it, for just because it came our way too easy. And yet, she instinctively moved closer and he protectively held her in his broad, gentle wings. Her young heart swayed by his warm presence, with as much as a care in the world, she fell for the bird who showed up at the most unlikely time in the most unlikely place; and like a weightless leaf, she flew with the wind which brought her where she desired. She was in love. She never saw it coming. It just happened. She had, finally, found a home.

Sitting abandoned by the same branches seasons later with him in her mind always meandering about, he was more real than everything else. Little was their time, but extremely thorough. There was romance, just not the kind necessary to make a story. It was a simple connection transcending all expressions; for interestingly never a word passed between the two yet the love was confessed and revered in its full glory. She had conquered every blessing. She was infinite in every moment that passed. In every moment that passed she was more alive than she’s ever been and ever will be.

She went back in the rain to find him. She took high flights to go beyond the skies and bring his soul back from the realms above. But what more than a tiny fragile creature was she? What more was she than a broken winged thing which saw her bird dying before her eyes?

Because as per the rule, it was not tolerable for nature to allow a union. And so it happened, that which is inevitable, that which none could fight. Her heart was pierced with thorns of death that ruthlessly took away her home. It happened quick. The bullet left the rifle, it was a numbing sensation, the two hearts stopped as the sound of death boomed through the woods, but when it was over, only one continued to beat…

Such is the tenet of life; you are brought things you don’t even know you need, yet once they become almost like an inseparable part of you, they are taken away, without even having you bid a final adieu. And how strange is the way of the world, one moment you are so sure of which way you are heading, but the paths suddenly change, and it is no longer the place you used to know. What do you do then? Where do you go? Your home is gone. You think hardly little can go wrong at one point, unaware that the wrong which awaits is going to alter your world.

For in all its reality, there aren’t many sure things in life.

And thus remained a dream unlived, and emptiness echoed in their nest crafted from bark and jasmine leaves knit together with spider’s silk, their fancy house attached to the highest tree branch near the river facing the mountains, so the first ray of sun could reach at them and the morning breeze would caress them from their sweet slumber to wakefulness. That uncertain future she was so looking forward to became a past, and she didn’t even realize it.

She mourned the loss of him once, and the memory of him forever. The sound of death touched her once, but will echo in her senses forever. She absorbed all his love in her red wings and she pours it at herself every once in a while; and deeply engraved on her underwings is his memory. It is in her that he lives, and in him she has preserved herself. He might have flown off to a distant land, and though she could no longer see him inching closer in the rain, or be aware of his touch holding them together in the storm; she could however still always sense his fragrance lingering in the air that surrounds her. She could always sense him looking at her. The heavens would pour and despite him sleeping miles away somewhere amidst the heap of withered leaves, he was always wide awake in her memory. He wasn’t there, yet in so many ways he still was. His absence itself was like a palpable presence. 

So say what the world may, knowing of a race for its trait of ignorance, it mattered not what it said. They clicked her pictures for her peculiar appearance and even peculiar lifestyle, but she? She would register none. She wallows in the quiet of her yearning where she finds the solace she's robbed of. And stares straight across time and space fighting the phantoms, focusing with all her might to escape the anguished chaos of that night which has her helplessly trapped, and walks into the trails of eternal silence, because only silence can guide her back home.

The world may not have seen their union,
The heavens will.

Withdrawal

I am the kind of person, who needs to write to really know what exactly is running in mind. Things get really hazy when I don’t write for too long. Although I scribbled down incoherent details hastily of how my life is these days in my previous post, there’s still a lot that I missed out; and a lot that happened after it. And to bring it out in proper words seem like quite a task. But I shall try.

Throughout this time, I have been having a sharp transition of perspectives.  I felt bad and I felt miserable; I believed in what I had believed since the first day, but the evidences then compelled me to see what as well seemed pretty much the truth. I fought with people who asserted their judgment on me, and I remained silent. I accepted my vulnerability, and I also overcame it. I have had to make a lot of choices ever since. But it has been quite some time since I’ve stopped telling people my reasons. I only smile now, to whatever theories they propose. When there’s a secret you’ve got to protect, that’s the best you can do. –Yes, it has been over a month, and I still get to receive ‘comments’ and failed-heart-consoling propositions from people who know nothing. Consolations that I don't even need! People around make up things, sometimes I guess to really make me feel good; and sometimes, perhaps, to make themselves. I have all the right to think whatever I wish against or in favor of someone I used to know, but I can’t allow anyone else to speak badly of someone they don’t even know. I have been badly hurt, yes, and I am extremely angry, yes; but I still feel some... Some... I don't know... Some kind of... How do I put it? How do I explain what I feel when I fail to hold up my anger for long? I am essentially not a mean person. I hate it when I see myself failing in holding up my anger for someone who handed me a bouquet of twisted stories and lies, and disappeared without even bidding proper farewell --that's just the tragedy with me; not being able to accept the wrong people can do to your sincerity. But that's my problem, why do people find it so hard to mind their goddamn business?! They would keep asking if I’m OK, which would only remind me that I am not. Hence, the seclusion. I no longer bother about people. I no longer speak to anyone. I absolutely no longer let people talk about it to me. I didn't know I was capable of being rude to people. But then there were many other things of which as well I thought I wasn't capable.

I had my fourth appointment with the doctor just yesterday; he said I’m doing well. Only two more to go and then I’d be done. It has been a long way…

I turned Twenty-One a couple of weeks ago. I was excited and nervous and secretly despairing; but feeling special about my birthday was exceptionally not the deal this year, like I always used to. It feels like yesterday how I used to hold my breath and count the minutes of my birthday only to make sure I thoroughly lived my birth day. Now when I look back, it feels like I’ve come so far, having lost everything behind. I assumed June 19th to feel like… Just another day. Just another day when I would wake up struggling against a shriveling lump in my heart. The plan was to spend the day reading Kahlil Gibran. His writings are out of this world. You would wonder, how a person, perhaps just so ordinary yet too thoughtful, can fathom thoughts so perfectly into ethereal words? Words, those are likely to stay with you for long. But the day did not turn out the way I had thought (like many other things, of course). I couldn’t have the day to myself. I did not know my Chachi and cousins have planned to surprise me with a cake and stuff at midnight; until my mother told me ten minutes before their arrival that they are coming. I was a little disappointed, she ruined my surprise!? But that was because she said "kaheen tum rona nah shuru hojao". I mean... Whatever. So I had to 'act' surprised when they came. It was good anyhow, to see them all screaming happy birthday in my ear. The next day my entire nanihaal (sparing you the pain of reading those long names) landed at our place with a cake (which was heavenly!!!) and just some other ‘party’ stuff. Naani  hugged me, and wished me good health; she said I must make a fresh start this year, and I swear I welled up. Later we went out to the only place that really makes me happy; the beach. I guess it was better that way. Having people around does make it easier. A couple of days later my best friend came home to post-celebrate my birthday. She said she wanted to make this birthday as special for me as she could. How much effort they all put in only to keep our pieces together. My cousins however flew back at the end of my birthday week. They had me engaged long enough to find my way back. But then, they too, left. I’m not going to rant over that though, I had an extremely amazing time with them. In fact, the sole reason why I recovered from my illness was because they were here to help and support me in every possible way. I cried BUCKETS when they left, creating a whole scene at the airport (why does it feel funny now when I replay it in my head?). But it was OK. It was upsetting, but it wasn’t painful, because they weren’t gone.

I also made few new friends on Twitter. The same good people I used to dislike JUST because I saw them through someone else's perspective. They and their lives are opposite of what I was told. It's a pity. You know that feeling, when you see certain contradictory statements unraveling right before your eyes? You are disappointed, angered, despaired. And yet, you can't even go back and throw them in the face. Why? Because not doing that makes you a better person. Knowing that you have a clear conscience is, I tell you, a blessing. 'Cause whether you admit or not, regrets happen to eat your soul. I maintained my limits and was always truthful, that saves my soul. I also resumed interaction with my old followers on Twitter that I had suspended just because I had my priorities sorted, unlike some. It felt good, being back; with my guards multiplied and up.

I discovered few new places with my creepy cousins too. One was this café, Le Grand Coffee Lounge. Somewhere at… I don’t know, Zamzama? Whatever place it was, it was amazing. Too colorful and lively. I don’t particularly like cafés; one reason honestly being that I have never really been to any except for ghisaa pitaa  Gloria Jean’s (I hate their peach iced tea, blekh!) and Dunkin' Donuts (if you feel like counting it as a cafe). This place was good.  I tried their Chicken Lasagna (although that place is particularly famous for its flavored sheesha), and to be fair, it lacked spices and THE LASAGNA taste. Another place that I liked better than Le Grand, was Espresso. They make some delicious chocolate cookies! And Sattar Buksh, a weird place. But incredibly creative. They have a funny menu. Bhinnot Bun Kabab. Badtameez Burger. Topless Besharam Burger. Dehshatgard Pizza. Lol! We also relived our childhood by paying a visit to the only amusement park we loved; Sindbad. That place contains too many, JUST TOO MANY memories! I don’t know when was the last time I was there… We repeated the tradition of taking double rides of every ride available. The Crazy Bus. Dumbo. Log Slide. Dodging Car. DRAGON TRAIN. There are also many new additions. I guess Sindbad is the only place that still sells Polka cup ice-creams. Oh, the childhood joys!
I might as well mention here the damn load of movies I was forced to watch. Prometheus, Lone Survivor, Wolf of the Wall Street, Holiday, Nightmare at the Elm Street, Olympus has Fallen, Her, Iron-Man, Highway and a couple of which I don’t remember. I avoided re-watching Silver Linings Playbook.  I fell in love with Her, and Highway was beautiful. The rest were so boring, so boring, so boring... I don’t even know how boring. But I watched them anyway only because they watched the movies I had suggested. We completed our Friends marathon and re-watched the Hangover Series thrice to soak in as much Allen Garner as we could.  The time really flew by with them, and I didn’t even realize that I am improving.

In another news, I and my family have moved to a new house. It's only been three days. I have spent a major part of my life in there; it was difficult. That place and that time still lingers in my thoughts. All the change had come so suddenly, I didn't know how to deal with it. I realized I am suffering from withdrawal symptoms when I woke up and it took me some time to register that I am no longer on my gray iron bed, in my old lilac painted room. The walls here are painted silver gray. Everything's new, everything has changed, and I don't exactly know how I feel about it. Also, I no longer share room with my brothers. I thought I'd be happy at this. I'm not.

I had conditioned my mind to leave everything behind in that old house. I wasn't ready, but the time had come. So I pretty much knew I would have to bear withdrawal anxiety, when I finally decided to empty my phone memory. Who was I keeping it all for, when I didn't even for once reread the hollow words after cutting off the last link? It was only a prominent reminder which I was saving just because I wasn't willing to let go. I wanted to believe that maybe, some of it, was really true. I just wanted to see the old reflection. They said getting rid of the reminders is the first step of letting go. I took it. I also got myself a hair cut. Although I had decided I wouldn't get a haircut because I was told not to get it cut short. After a year, I've had it anyway. Because really, whose wish was I adhering to? This was another little step. They also said a new place and open air (since this new house is away from the hustle of main city) will make it much easier for me to get my health back and make a new start. Well.

I vented out all my grievances in a letter to Imam Hussain -we call it areeza- which he received on the 15th of Shaban. Awesome, isn't it? My answers, I have faith, will be delivered soon. And ever since, the pain has substantially lessened, but has not really left. I play well in showing that I am improving, it only hurts when I realize that if there is someone who suffered and is still struggling, it is me. The one responsible has walked away absolutely unaffected. It's a shame, how people fix themselves by breaking others. Why?! I get so agitated when I think of it. What wrong did I do? And what difference did my last few words make anyway? Although I muted the tweets and blocked out all profiles and sources that would, even accidentally, update me of the whereabouts. I have never known in all my life of what I must do; but I have always known what I must not. I am good at avoiding stuff that I know will cause me pain. And yet, it at times hurts; mistake me not, it's no more that sacred feeling. For me, love is rooted in respect. I lost it from my heart the day I realized I am being taken as nothing but an option. And this, in reality, is what aches. It is this betrayal that keeps coming back to me. How I had so effortlessly put someone in priority. I trusted. I vowed to support till the end. I made every effort to convince everyone. Against all, I invested my faith in someone.  And what did I get for my goodwill? Except for countless "I told you so" statements from people? -Not even a single appropriate reason. Only a dreary silence. I just never had wished to remember and be remembered as someone who didn't care, or wasn't willing enough, or changed her mind, or backed off. I can never know how I am remembered, neither do I want to find out; dejection falls on me only when I see myself remembering the time and person in it in all the ways I thought I won't. You can't help feeling bad about things that you revered beautiful once, now, can you? People and the words they say to you don't usually turn out the way they seem and are spoken. People and their plans change, once they're out of danger.

It’s not that I am not trying. I am trying harder than I thought I am capable of. It might be easy for others, but it is not for me. I am going to take my time. As much as it requires. I decided not to talk about again; but the truth is, I have never had a blow as sharp as this one, and so I can’t help it. In all this mess, however, one thing was clear; if everyone is saying the same thing, there must be at least some truth in it. It is plain stupidity to ignore the evident and believe in superficial propositions just because you want to. My life was pretty simple. But I guess sometimes despite all our goodwill and good intention, fate wins anyway. Now here I am. Drained, but stronger. Paying visits to hospital. For I don’t even know what. For trusting too much, maybe. For expecting too much. For depending too much. For revering promises way to much. And for a lot of other stuff –the reflection on which I’d keep till the New Year ’s Eve. That would be for the last time I’d ever talk about it --(I haven't completely given up my timing habit).

Also, Ramzan has just begun. One year behind the line, I was a genuinely happy person, looking forward to certain promises. Now I have to put in a certain amount of effort to feel happy. I remember how I was eager to master culinary skills. I have given up on that. I remember how I was changing... And sure enough, I did. Just not the way I had thought. The only good change that happened, was that I started praying regularly. And I thankfully still do. Except that I no longer pray for someone the way I always had. I am not as noble to pray with goodwill even after how awfully someone may break my heart, my trust, my promises and pretty much my every belief. I don't know where the limits are anymore. I don't know, what to believe in anymore. Not even a single day passes by when I don't tell God how much it had ached; not even a single day goes by, when I don't tell Him how I am unable to forgive. He listens.

Anyway. I am trying to get used to here, in my new house. It lacks a terrace, but has an open corridor and a spacious roof top; which means I can still see the sky. I was in a hospital when I checked my emails after quite some time, and I was delighted to see messages from people appreciating Euphoria. I really had no idea so many people actually follow it. It was heart warming, really. I have drafted the final two episodes; it is a tragedy how my Euphoria ended within only five posts... But that is just how it was supposed to be. This place inspires me to write. Too much greenery around; too good a therapy. So I think I'd be writing more often now.

I still have a couple of weeks before my final semester begins. Interesting how only a few months ago I had it all decided, and now I am clueless of what would I do after I'm done with my final semester. I am leaving it on time to decide for me, like it always has.

I am back listening to Keane and Snow Patrol. They are doing wonders for me. Pure nostalgia; which is helping find my lost bits and pieces.

My Love for Heathcliff and Catherine Revived

How I came across 1992 movie Adaptation of Wuthering Heights.

 

Two days ago, I was looking on you tube for the movie adaptation of Far from the Madding crowd written by Thomas Hardy. Its a good novel, and that is why I desired to watch its movie adaptation.
I came across four-five movie versions. To be very honest, i didn't really like any of it -1967 version was better regardless of various flaws.

I lost interest.

Just as I was about to leave, I saw a link on the right side of screen, Wuthering Heights. And instantly i was drawn to view it! -I've been in love with Wuthering heights since the first day i read it, though I was in sixth grade then, but I remember how grieved I was. And it is to this novel that I started loving and reading classic literature novels-

It was the 1992 version. Ralph Fiennes as Heathcliff and Juliette Binoche as Catherine Earnshaw.
 
Saying that I was carried away wouldn't do justice to what my condition really was.
I was laughing along with their mischievous giggles, I was feeling the delight. I thought I was there myself, wandering at the moors; watching Heathcliff and Catherine and their pleasure of togetherness..

 








Saying that I cried hard at the death of Catherine, at the misery of Heathcliff, would be a straight understatement. No I didn't cry hard, I cried bitterly. 

I read almost all the comments, by critics criticizing this 1992 version. Though I was pleased that no one dared to point Ralph as unsuitable to be Heathcliff - I was glad. But disappointed to see Juliette remarked as unfit to be Catherine. I think She has done justice to the role of Catherin Earnshaw just like Ralph as Heathcliff.

The director, Peter Kosminsky has so beautifully - I don't have words to praise his talent and perfection - directed the movie, exactly like I imagined when I first read Wuthering Heights. The setting, location, atmosphere; every single thing was taken in notice; evidently studied thoroughly.

The death scene of Catherine and Heathcliff's last meeting with her. At first, Oh yes I was sobbing like anything- But the next time, keeping my emotions in control, I concentrated; concentrated hard to catch at-least a single error. but no, I failed. The scene is perfect. The dialogue delivery, the expressions - more credit to Ralph - The essence of novel is remarkably maintained.

 
Then approached another piercingly sad scene; Heathcliff's absolutely wild act of emotionality with Catherine's corpse. The difference was evident. Edgar's gentle and calm act of touching his wife's hand and leaving without really weeping loud; and Heathcliff's passionate act of agony by taking Catherine's corpse in his arms and crying like a weary man who has lost the purpose of living ..

Catherine completed him. He was human with Catherine, only.

A person like me who have intense emotions and strong imagination CANNOT watch these scenes without crying loud, as it were Me myself crying and going through the pain of loosing the other half of My soul!

The other melancholic scene where Heathcliff is standing alone with the most agonized expression at the same moors where once He along with his other part Cathy used to wander in joy-   For that one second, I thought it was I experiencing the pain.  It was like hot despair being poured in my heart, piercing and incurable. Excellent shooting. Excellent acting.

One thing which added intensity to all these scenes was the music.

The music in this movie, is the soul of every single scene. The main theme of Wutherin Heights is given by Ryuichi Sakamoto.
I have never heard any symphony this melancholic- 

Link to the Theme Music of Wuthering Heights

Listen to this and with no difficulty you could imagine the loneliness of Heathcliff, feel the pain of their separation. You could picture the moors where young Heathcliff and Catherine used to wander, wild and glad. Fearless.

The final moments, that is the reunion of Heathcliff's soul with Catherine's is an epic scene.

My heavy heart which was filled with grief and sympathy for Heathcliff was satisfied when i saw them reuniting, at last. Heathcliff's misery was over. He was finally back again with his other half. Catherine.

This movie, 1992 version is the original Wuthering Heights. Ralph is the real Heathcliff, Juliette is the real Catherine and Janet McTeer is the real Nelly Dean.

This movie made me read Wuthering Heights again, all over. This time, my imagination was even rich.

Wuthering Heights is a black romantic tragedy. Portray of true passionate love. Portray of wildness and madness. Portray of intense tragedy and melancholy. Portray of eternal reunion and completeness.

To all those critics who criticize this version, are probably less imaginative and insensitive to the glowing, radiating emotions that are clearly to be seen, to be felt in every single part of this movie.

I rate it 10/10.

Also; Hats off to the writer of this devastatingly amazing novel. Emily Bronte. Who has so smoothly woven the human emotions. Described them so naturally.

Such type of a master piece could be produced even today -
No. No writer could touch the perfection of Emily Bronte. She is above the extreme limits of extra ordinary.