Thursday, November 18, 2010

Theory of Relativity

The hands of his watch told him it was a few minutes past two. Isn’t she done with class yet? He looks out the window expectantly. No one. He turned back to his Physics teacher. “Einstein’s Theory of Relativity states....” He liked physics, a lot. But now, he could not concentrate. He was waiting for her. Every Tuesday and Friday during the second slot after lunch, she walked past his classroom on the way to the labs. Her half laugh, her eyes, her hair. That moment defined his entire day. 

Slowly the first of them trooped past, talking and laughing. Uniforms and faces filed past the window. She wasn’t there. He threw caution to the winds and turned around to look. Her friends walked past. She was nowhere to be seen. Did I miss her? He bit the end of his pen as he watched the stragglers hurry to catch up. He looked back at the teacher disappointed.

“...When you sit on a hot stove for two seconds, it feels like an hour. When you sit with a beautiful woman for an hour, it seems like two seconds...” Everyone laughed. He tugged at his tie and added one more doodle to his page. Suddenly his partner nudged him - a blur of white outside the window! He turned around again. False alarm, just the peon. Suddenly something hit him on his head. The duster. The class laughed again, now at him. “Hari, I’m standing here. Not outside the window. Pay attention in class.” 

 He ducked under the table to pick up the duster, dodging sly comments. He came back up to see her standing outside the window, looking at him, giggling. Their eyes met. She smiled and slowly glided away. He looked down at the duster, a smile playing on his lips. Einstein was wrong. That felt like eternity.  

A Certain Picture

In love, in life,
You paint a certain picture
Gilded frames and canvas
And rainbow hued brushstroke

A face, a smile,
You paint a certain picture
Her lips, her hair,
The gems in her eyes

You love, you pray
You worship that picture
You feast on its beauty
It feasts on your time

Incense and myrrh
Fruits and sweetmeats
You spare it no expense
The golden haired picture

And then it is over
The love, infatuation
You rant and you cry
What, when did it go wrong?

It lies in a corner
You kick it, you stab
And then while you cry
 You again ask why

It’s been a month and a half
You’ve almost forgotten
You abuse and stab, only
When drowned in the bottle

And then it’s forgotten
The pain and the hurt
The fury and angst
Lie, worn down by time

Then again it is time
To paint a certain picture
To caress the canvas
With rainbow hued strokes

And so it is taken
Battered and bruised
To the old storeroom
The graveyard of memory

Its canvas is torn,
The paint dulled and peeling.
The frame almost broken
Beset by decay and mould

Flimsy strands of memories
Hold it together
A spiders web of emotion
Fills in the gaps
And so it lies forlorn
Lonely, not alone
Amidst broken furniture
Hopes and dreams

Other pictures adorn the walls
Other pictures still to come
No graves, no headstones
In the graveyard of memory