Many a times I have yearned to be close to men. Men of a particular species. Men, of the kind, if you remember the protagonist in Taslima Nasrin’s Lajja. God kill me for having forgotten his name.
At the end of the day, it’s not the height factor I never stop blabbering about, but the fire I did find in that character matters, for me…
That man had traveled a distance out of the ink and paper. He walked straight into my mind, occupied my heart every single moment for which I had the book in my hands and for many days after that.
The picture of him devouring Shakespeare and all the other greats by his dim table lamp keeps coming back to me.
It was the frustration in him that pulled me closer.
His unrealized potential arrested me.
The way he failed to change the world around him made him more glorious in my eyes than a thousand victories could have.
The second guy I fell for was from a short story from some obscure age old magazine called The Mirror ( from my dad’s antique collection of course).
He was called Yogi.
He left home with his paint and brush just because he wouldn’t obey dad!
And all that at just 17!
“Good idea!”…ain’t it?
I wanted to be a real rule breaker then. I wanted to run away. All alone!
I nearly went mad thinking about Yogi.I was young and kinda vulnerable then…n Yogi had become my mentor.