Originally posted by: indi52
about love and death.
the great love stories have usually ended on a tragic note. while that was fine and beautiful for those tales, i felt the need to add a new note to the idea of great love. life. here. right here...
i felt it was time to look at love that lives. yes, parting is a way of existence. and after dying maybe people meet at another level. the one here and the one on the other side may find a different means of communication... that takes us higher.
but i did want to know that great love can also dare to live... and negotiate ordinary everyday life... yet not "die".
asr and khushi did that for me.
they were not meant to die... not at that point at least.
mundane life can be death for love in its own way...
to me the triumph of arnav khushi is, i can see her becoming old and still frying jalebis, him grey and a bit stooped, his diabetes giving trouble but he is still smart and particular about things. their kids perhaps not all turned out the way they might have, maybe even tragic death and other disappointments have occurred... yet sometimes just sometimes, when they look at each other... there is that spark, that what the, that ajeeb, and he is saying "c'mere khushi", and she is getting acidity.
there's no doubt they are in each other, always.
powerful picture of love here on this earth that can weather the storms of this mortal plane and still remain ethereal as well as physical, always sensual at every plane, completely spiritual. a prayer in itself, a meeting with teh divine at the very thought of it... that was asr khushi love to me.
a poem by a poet i really like, i see asr khushi in it.
"touch me" by stanley kunitz
summer is late, my heart.
words plucked out of the air
some forty years ago
when i was wild with love
and torn almost in two
scatter like leaves this night
of whistling wind and rain.
it is my heart that's late,
it is my song that's flown.
outdoors all afternoon
under a gunmetal sky
staking my garden down,
i kneeled to the crickets trilling
underfoot as if about
to burst from their crusty shells;
and like a child again
marveled to hear so clear
and brave a music pour
from such a small machine.
what makes the engine go?
desire, desire, desire.
the longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.
one season only,
and it's done.
so let the battered old willow
thrash against the windowpanes
and the house timbers creak.
darling, do you remember
the man you married? touch me,
remind me who I am.
they remind us of the classic lovers, and yet they live, their love lives despite insurance tax globalisation and more.
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