The law of love

Chapter 5

I puffed out the smoke as I observed the cancer stick in my hand. She would hate it if she saw this cigarette. The thought makes me smile as I put it in the ashtray. The therapist stared at me silently as I looked at the wall paintings in her office. One of them caught my eye.

Till Death Us Do Part  

Edmund Blair Leighton

The monumental canvas is filled with wedding guests who whisper and flash disapproving looks, wearing comical expressions ranging from worry to dazed confusion. The bride casts her eyes downward as the "well-wishers" look on, avoiding the gaze of a particular young man to her right. Was this forlorn fellow her true love? The scene does imply that it was they who were once to be married. The old groom (humorously painted as a self-portrait of the artist) stares ahead, his face blank, oblivious to their connection. Although no one looks happy on this occasion.

 I counted the number of ticks the clock made waiting to get this sh*t over with. I twirled the ring on my finger; she gifted it to me when I was 15. It was engraved with her and my birthdays on it. The therapist's hawk-like eyes observed my movement as she looked at my ring. It almost made me want to get the hell away from here and never come back.

"Does this ring belong to her, Mr. Raichand?"

I hate this sh*t.

"yes"

She, the object of my relentless contemplation, her presence etched in every crevice of my thoughts. A fascination that tiptoes on the precipice of obsession.

"How have things been with your father?"

"They are fine; last week we had a......disagreement."

She nodded, thinking I knew she wanted to talk about it more, but like the professional little therapist she is, she won't utter a word out of context. It's almost too predictable now, something that doesn't excite me.

"Mr. Raichand, I want to explore something new today."

I know where this was going; as I said, it was too predictable.

"How about we talk about the ring and who gifted it to you?"

The one who is the bane of my existence.

 I do sometimes wonder: Does she recognize the tendrils of my fixation, woven subtly amidst the fabric of my words and glances? Or am I a master of disguise, concealing the intensity of my infatuation?

In the labyrinth of my thoughts, she is the constant, an ethereal presence that weaves through the fabric of my consciousness. It's more than infatuation; it's a subtle obsession, an intricate tapestry of emotions that I can't unravel. She permeates my every waking moment, a whisper in the symphony of my thoughts.

Her laughter echoes in the corridors of my mind, a melodic refrain that plays on a loop. 

I catch glimpses of her in the mundane details of life – the way she tilts her head when she's amused, the fleeting glances that hold a universe of unspoken words. It's intoxicating, this fixation, an insatiable hunger that demands satisfaction yet eludes definition.

But there's a darkness in this obsession, a shadow that whispers doubt and self-awareness. I wonder if she senses the intensity of my fixation, if my thoughts cast a shadow that she can perceive.

" She is just an aquantance."

fucking lies

She nodded, still hesitant. The ringing of my phone cut through the tense atmosphere as I glanced at it with a smile.

"Send me the notes of polity."

"Where are yours?" I texted back, feeling the eyes of the woman sitting in front of me.

"I was absent!"

"Then you should have been present," I replied, fully intending to get on her nerves.

" kabir I swear to God, I will come there and kill you myself."

"Geez, woman, calm down. I am sending them."

"Thanks in advance."

I shook my head as I walked out of the therapist's room. 

This girl will be the death of me. I wonder why she is so keen on getting better marks than me. What is on her mind?

A slap lamded on a 14-year-old Kabir's cheek as I requested my father change my school. I wanted to go to her school and study there with her. I didn't have a lot of friends here. The teachers were scared to talk to me. but that was the least of my concerns. I just wanted to be near her. When I asked my dad, he didn't listen. That day, when I went to the park, she came running towards me, but her smile faltered as she looked at me.

"What happened here?" she asked, gazing at my cheek softly.

"Nothing, its just rejection of my proposal to dad regarding school change." I chuckled, but there was no amusement in her eyes. She sat closer to me, holding my hand in silence.

I wonder, even at such a young age, how she managed to know what I wanted or needed. Was it an instinct, or was that how she also coped with everything—silently, not making any noise?

She suddenly turned towards me, trying to smile but failing miserably at it.

"It's ok if your father doesn't agree; we can still meet in the park, and I can tell you about my day here, and you can also share everything with me."

I smiled at her effort, but I wonder: did she forget who she was talking to? I have raichand blood in me; I will die before backing down from getting something that I want, and that includes everything.

Even her.

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