My Beloved


By Iqbal Sonaullah

You are pleasure. You are confession. You are beauty. You are a war. But most of the times, you are just my reflection.

You are, for me, at some terrible level the closest feeling I ever had. For all your chic thinness, your touchy warmth and your candor, you are like an attractive meadow that absorbs at the first look. You are a piece of architecture that looks much attractive when it is naked.

In the loneliness of the night, when the day’s restlessness and chaos recaps itself within my memory, with its utmost gravity – the gravity that satisfies every childlike curiosity, every realm of pain and solitude, every muted desire; whatever there is in a man, of romance and anti-romance, of passion and depression and what not – it is you who sits beside and comforts me. What if you are black, you reflect the color I want you to. I feel your warmth when my sharp fingers swarm through your sensitively separated organs. I absorb you in my lap. I read you like I read my book. I see through you the scenes of world. How faithful you are, you don’t even resist. Instead, you passionately submit yourself to my will.

You are sweet and dreamy yearnings that I have ever felt for nameless imaginations. My friends tell me that I am obsessed with you. They call you venom that has coagulated my blood. They even abuse me when I spend too much time with you ignoring them. I hardly care what they say, for I know that you are my life.

With You I remember the dawn of my youth; the nostalgia of contentment. Although I regret its unconsciously-swift passing; I remember it like the prisoner who forgets not the bars and shackles of his jail. You speak of those years between infancy and youth, between careful affection and careless romance. You are my tongue and my face. You are a description to my almost-nondescript existence. You are a healing-touch for my wounded spirit, imprisoned youth.

You are with me when there is none else. You are with me when there is everyone. You are the reason of my success. You are my burning urge to escape enforced responsibility, of education and profession, of silence and talking, of earning and spending, of routine and the otherwise. Sometimes I wonder how strong and faithful you are. You never reveal my secret to anyone. I touch every part of your body, but your never restrain. I know, you are everything when you are with me. You too, must know that, you are nothing when I am not with you.

I had fallen in love with you, when I saw you for the first time. That sight was beyond the bounds of credibility. Then I was very sentimental. I would see everything through the eyes of the spirit. But then I wasn’t grown up to seek you. And, you know, it took me some seven years to convince my parents regarding our relationship. Every day I would redefine you, your beauty and your association with me in a more innovative way. And then this relationship has a history behind it.

When I was in school, my teacher told me everything about you. It was the first time I have heard anything about such an indefinable beauty. That time, I didn’t just hear about you, but actually saw you, in all your glaring beauty. You were in front of us all. The eyes were stuck upon your dashing prettiness. I haven’t seen such a consciously structured body ever before. I remember my teacher saying that you were sensitive. I felt silent. My cheeks grew pale. Instantly, I developed symptoms of love towards you. My teacher realized my growing anxiety. But I couldn’t express my feelings. Words remained soaked in my throat. I knew that I was not an “adult” to have your pleasure. We left the class. While leaving, I was the only one to turn back consistently and steal looks at you again and again and again.

I must tell you that one day when I will again meet that teacher, I will unveil your beauty to him cuddling you in lap, so that he would recall my passionate silence of that day.

I see the scenes of world through you. How strong is your memory?

You never forget anything. So calculated expressions are yours, I sometimes remain stunned. And indeed, have you not been sitting in my lap this time, I would have not been able to write even this story about you.

But let me tell you one thing, you are really an obsession. You killed in me the inclination for pleasure and amusement.

How many times had I forgotten to take my food?

How many times had I just ignored to attend the phone calls of my friends, parents or even from my office?

How many times have you kept me awake all the night?

But given the world we live in, a world of tragic rules, where a sense of such an indistinctive relationships has simply ceased to exist, you are just another commodity of exchange.

I had never thought that you would have so many features, but I always believed that you would surprise me. I even believe that you will do so in the future too. Whatever I write about you, it is never too much. The day I will observe you more closely and consciously, I will know more sweet parts of your existence. What then if you don’t have fragrance. What then, if you are black, I love you the way you are.

I just cannot keep away from loving you my LAPTOP.


Iqbal Sonaullah is contributing writer for The Kashmir Walla.

Thumbnail Photo Courtesy: Beija Flor.

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