I love alliterations. There is something of the rhythm they impart to words. My last post here was in the evening. It was a post of anger, rave and rant – a post of despair – and a post of surrender to the inevitable misery of it all. But I don’t regret it. Nor do I regret the words I spoke in the grips of that misery. I asked for soul conversation. I got it. I learned that loneliness is not a malady specific to me. Birdie’s agonized letter opened my eyes to my own self-obsessiveness – how could I not have seen another human being in pain?
And despite being her friend, there is nothing I can do to the others in Birdie’s life who bring their soul-eating brand of muck to her life. I can’t set right her parents’ thoughts on her marriage – their control over her life – and their insistence that she should lead her life the way they deem it. I can’t set right the pretenders to her love or her hand in marriage – of all the pretenders, the man on the moon in Chennai seems the safest bet. But then, I wonder is safe love the true love? Not that I know much of this four-letter word. But when Birdie writes that “I have a man who claims that he is desperately in love but shows none of that passion,” I wish I could shake this guy up out of his cocooned shell and live a life that is founded on that love he proclaims.