I
have known withdrawal symptoms. I have known them more than I have ever known
any other emotion, I think. Yes, love inclusive.
It's
difficult to explain what it is like. And of course I do not know any of the medical
terms. I never even saw a doctor. But, let me try.
Have
you ever jumped off a cliff? I did. And I did not know swimming, which meant
that I was scared, very scared. But I wanted to do it, nevertheless.
The
point is, you start with being scared. You're scared for your life. There is a
moment of consciousness, and a moment of decision-making follows. Do you want
to, at all? And then, you take the plunge.
Though
you know the decision has been made and you've left behind the other track, a
sense of fear still lingers for those few early moments, even as you dive. You
still feel conscious of the possible consequences, and of the rationality that
you had been weighing out only seconds back. But then, soon enough, this
consciousness trails off. It is not overtaken, it just leaves. Evacuates.
Leaving behind a numbness that is like never before. You feel the emptiness. Or
rather, you do not. You cannot make up your mind on how, exactly, you are
feeling. You try to grope a sense of Space and Time, but you cannot; and
therefore, you let go. You sink, you float, you lose, and eventually you let
go. There is a strange peace to it - in this act of letting go; in this
realization of having let gone. Yes, even if you did not really intend to let go.
Oh,
I started off to discuss withdrawal. Did I digress? I don't know!
The
feeling isn't quite the same, but for the void.
Withdrawal
symptoms, as I have felt it, do not mark their presence when they just arrive.
They silently creep in. They silently spread their roots. It is only until the
roots were deep and strong as to feel a pull every time you'd try to behave
otherwise will you ever notice them. And then you realise. You realise how you had fed and nurtured them for some
time already, without you knowing about it all.
Let
me try to recollect how it all begins.
Well,
the conversations would no longer be sweet and easy. It would typically have
two of you at two ends and not at a merge. It could lead to bruises and wounds
if the pull continued; and so you let go your side of the rope. You realize
it's wise, at least, even if it is not right. But right to whom? And, didn't
they say peace came first?
So
you let go conversations. You do not talk.
Unless
in groups. Unless your groceries need to be stocked. Unless the bank called for
some documents. Unless your child's fees are due. And never, otherwise.
Then
come materials. True, love should not have anything to do with them. But then
it does, doesn't it?
The
gifts would not be liked. The choice of items would feel low on warmth. The things
would never mean special any longer. Would never look like any thoughts went
behind them. The price tags will be flaunted over their meaning. And then, you
ask the other – why not choose your own thing? And then, why even buy? Who
cares to!
There,
you let go giving. You do not give. You do not take. You do not use them. Never again.
Though
at lonely moments, you faintly remember those first gifts out of the first
salaries. That suit length that always seemed beyond reach, bought. Those pens that
were got from rich relatives and then went missing from the house ("Ma, I don't remember where I lost
them.") That first book of poetry by your favourite poet. Sigh.
Dinner
time. Music time. Television time. You let go the togetherness one by one.
Movies
- only if it's a theatre visit. And only if both of you want it badly. Else,
one wouldn't give in for the other and agree just to accompany. And, the other
would've stopped asking anyway. Long back.
The
clothes that were once packed in one big suitcase every time there was a trip,
would now have grown in range, number and colours. They would have their own
space in their individual, separate luggage. They would now be carried by their
individual owners when they needed to be. They, however, need to be carried in suitcases much less
frequently than before.
The
two toothbrushes that shared their stands one beside the other would now have
been moved to separate washrooms. Why not, if you have separate ones.
And
there you go. Separate soap cases, separate toothpastes, separate bottles of
shampoo, separate loofahs. You don't smell the other's lingering presence when
you go for a bath any longer.
You
don't miss it either.
It
continues. It spreads. It roots. It reaches every corner of the space you live
in, and every moment that you live. It does not announce; it does not dominate;
it stealthily captures your life.
You
do not even realize until it makes its presence strong enough. Even when it
does, the feeling of righteousness overtakes the feeling of loss. You look
back, realize, and defend everything you have done to help it spread and grow.
You don't love its presence, but you wouldn't ask it away either.
You
ask yourself - what really do you need in your life, pray? The question is
however not meant for a real answer.
You are not open to a real answer any longer. The question is meant for what
you want to tell yourself, now that you are here.
And
so you tell yourself. You tell yourself that you, of course, need food, clothes
and shelter; and medicines. You need to pay off your EMI's for the house you
bought. You need to provide for your child's education. You need a corpse when
you retire. You need to support your parents even though they don't let you.
And so you need a job that gives you money. Oh, and that helps you pass the
day. You have whole goddamn twenty-four hours to pass each day, every day!
And
thus is life.
And
thus would be life.
Until, something happens.
Trust
me, something will happen. It has to.
They call it “life” after all!
