|
|
|
|
| |
LOLITA
|
-page 2-
There were no doubt saner moments when I tried top shrug off the spectre
of Lolita. But a part of me always relented all such attempts to free
my mind from Lolita's bondage. On numerous occasions, I ended up talking
to Lolita throughout the night, feeling her presence, watching her take form
before my very eyes. I was relentlessly being sucked into the quagmire
that was Lolita until suddenly one evening I was jolted out of my reverie.
It happened on a foggy wintry evening back in my hometown and several
years after I had first seen her on the college verandah. She was in
a rickshaw. Just when it was a yard or two away from me, the dense fog screen
parted. Her monlit face stared out at me almost from nowhere. There
was someone else in the rickshaw, a handsome yound man, who was caresing her hands. Her eyes locked with mine for a mmoment.
I thought they betrayed the sign of recognition but she quickly averted her gaze away from me.
I was awe struck and only after the rickshaw had pasd by me that the reality of the moment sink in.
I was about to go after the rickshaw when suddenly I stopped dead in my tracks.
A bolt of lightning raced across my mind , stuning me for a moment. She was
not Lolita or rather Lolita was not she.She had not caused the turbulence
of emotions to swell inside me as Lolita always did. No doubt, she was still
a nymph. But somehow she had failed to strike the right chord in my heart.
Maybe it was because of all those years,maybe it was bacuase of the
comapnion be her side. I couldnot say for sure.
It was then that the futiliity of it all dawned upon me. I realized that
the Lolita that I had loved all these years was only a figment of my imagination,
that Lolita did not exist in flesh and blood. I had intended Lolita to
be a splitting image of "HER" but somehow, unknown to me,Lolita had
evolved into a separate identity altogether.
The rickshaw ws slowly trudging along into oblivion. The fog swirled around me as if trying to fall
into a definite pattern. Slowly, the image of Lolita manifested itself
amongst the dense fog screen. I stared at the image hard and long.
Lolita was so much like her and and yet so vastly diferent. I sighed and
turned around. As I made my way back through the fog, I glanced back. The
image of Lolita was slowly fading away and the rickshaw was nowhere to be seen.
I continued the trudge back home, my feet weary and my heart
heavy with grief. For six long years I had fervently and pasionately
loved Lolita, only to discover that Lolita was nothing more than a myth,
that she was only a creation of my mind, a flight of my imagination.
But strangely, I do not grieve because my love does not exist. I grieve because I have lost the
pasion and the ardour to suatain the image of Lolita within myself.
Alas, Lolita is dead.
-
End -
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
