I was beautiful once, you know. You loved me, back then.
You stared at me and smiled when you passed me by, on your way to work. You counted the minutes to freedom, when you could come visit me. You didnβt even mind that you had to queue up to see me. Yes, I was that popular then.
I remember the days when I was a debutant belle. Silent and veiled as a sweet young thing was supposed to be, in those times. It piqued your curiosity and despite the fact that we were strangers, you came calling. You stared at me awe-struck, as my velvety black eyelids lifted. Seduction was my craft, after all.
They said it wouldnβt last. They warned you that I was the devilβs spawn. They sneered that youβd lose interest. But they were wrong. Even as once ardent young menβs affections cooled when their women discovered their voices, you never wavered. You loved the fact that I spoke and had so many things to say. You listened when I sang. You wooed me with you undivided devotion. My curves, my lines, my secret sounds all spelt ceremonial grandeur to you.
Emboldened, I grew proud in my carriage. Your lavish affections swathed me in fine fabric, in sparkling adornments, in soft music and in romantically lit rooms. I was a lady and our love made hearts run over.
Yes, it was all true once.
I donβt wish to be petulant. Sourness doesnβt suit a lady of my class. I must go in dignity even as I die out. I only wish youβd come and see me once before I go. But I know you wonβt. Your attention, once rich in its depth and body, is now but a beggarβs alms. There are the common women at every corner, trying to be part of so many peopleβs worlds at once. They touch no one and no one remembers a story shared with any of them. But theyβre quick and easy (never words that should describe a real lady) and you spend a night a week in one of them.
Youβre clutching a floozy, a skinny, plastic thing and she knows she owns you. Briefly, for thatβs the best such a creature can hope for. She doesnβt seem to mind that she shares you with the screaming shrew in your home. That one I hear, permits you to call her an idiot and shut her up whenever you feel like it. It makes you feel powerful but considering you rarely exercise that power these days, who is the real idiot? And then thereβs that new thing everyoneβs talking about. Everybodyβs got a piece of her. She takes pride in not being connected to anybody. Rootless must be ruthless, is what I say.
Itβs hard to believe you could love the way you did once. The way you loved me. Your adoration was simple and sweet, uncluttered by the other options that came to you, later. Iβd like to remember those times when we were both young, when our love was fresh. When times were hard and hearts were soft. When romance demanded the ceremony of wrought-iron grilles, of music in the foyer and red velvet curtains. When a moving picture was magic and a movie theatre was a real lady of class, to be wooed with grace. And when a manβs heart could be captured by spinning a film reel. Adieu, my love, this is final goodbye.
THE END
War Made Easy – Grand Lake Theater in Oakland (Photo credit: Steve Rhodes)Grand Theater (Photo credit: Pete Zarria)
Here’s a piece that has been germinating since January this year. A letter, a poem, a truth. This is D for April 2015 A to Z Challenge. ~O~O~O~O~O~O~ Dear Once Upon A Time Woman, We learnt a long time ago that our most complicated relationship would not be with men…
On the raw, chopped pieces of heartbreak, Lay the sting of old memories with the tang of new experiences A sprinkling of spicy promise Lightly dusted with salt of good hope And simmered in the heat of a new season. Summer’s here. * Cross-posted to Plain Salted.
I don’t like you. I just find you entertaining. People always paid her these back-handed insults. Thinking they were so subtle. And dramatic. On reflection, she was the artist and others, always audience. An artist makes the audience feel the inspiration. When the audience imitates the creation, they validate the…
I grew up feeling like my life would follow the same path as other people – work and you shall achieve, be and you shall receive. It baffled me when I was attacked or called entitled for this, when the boys I knew, weren’t. I wrote about this often. I…
Iβd fall in love with you, in any lifetime If I lived my life over again, Iβd fall in love with you again. I donβt know that. All I can say is Right now, this way With you, being you And me, being myself Thereβs no way I would not…
Art that is honest & vulnerable makes you want to be honest & vulnerable too. Well, honesty is infectious, or so I want to believe though I keep learning time and again, that that’s not true. But art showcases vulnerability, makes honesty accessible, believable, livable. It makes vulnerability look appealing…
Aaah! Beautiful.
Evocative and nostalgic, and sure enough kept me guessing till the last minute.
Obviously merited a re-read once I hit the end.
I like the pictures too, quite fitting.
PS Now I’m hooked so please don’t be missing any more days. π
@Febinmathew: I really must thank you for your consistent feedback. Truly, a storyteller is nothing without the audience. Art is a conversation between the artist and viewer, after all.
Naw you don’t gotta thank me for nothing. Tis my pleasure.
Couldn’t have put it better myself. Art is dialogue, not monologue, and most people ignore that.
@febinmathew: π Easier to track the conversation, no? And no worries, no apologies. I’m deeply grateful for your time and the feedback you give me on the stories.
Far easier. But I don’t get notifications for these, maybe I’ve just not turned them on.
The time is nothing. I’m glad I could help.
Think of it as vicariousness on my part.
@febinmathew: Check settings perhaps? Also, I think you need to check the option that says subcribe to comments when you’re commenting. I seem to get notifications for the further replies in a conversation thread I’ve participated in, on WordPress.
This was a fair story, I rather liked it. I understood the metaphor half way through, and went back to read the rest. Once, when I was 17, I wrote a love story to a stretched metaphor, so this triggered that memory, and your story got away with being nostalgic for me, adding to the already encumbering nostalgia. So kudos Ramya, you carried the metaphor longer than I could. Short, came in, did what it had to do, touched a chord and went out. Also mark that you can play with emotion.
Aaah! Beautiful.
Evocative and nostalgic, and sure enough kept me guessing till the last minute.
Obviously merited a re-read once I hit the end.
I like the pictures too, quite fitting.
PS Now I’m hooked so please don’t be missing any more days. π
@Febinmathew: I really must thank you for your consistent feedback. Truly, a storyteller is nothing without the audience. Art is a conversation between the artist and viewer, after all.
Naw you don’t gotta thank me for nothing. Tis my pleasure.
Couldn’t have put it better myself. Art is dialogue, not monologue, and most people ignore that.
Also apologies for the hiatus. Been a bit caught up with work and such like. But yay, I’m glad I came back.
Also, apologies for rather silly error, I actually just never realized that you had replied to my comments till just about now. Sigh. Rectified.
Cheers.
@febinmathew: π Easier to track the conversation, no? And no worries, no apologies. I’m deeply grateful for your time and the feedback you give me on the stories.
Far easier. But I don’t get notifications for these, maybe I’ve just not turned them on.
The time is nothing. I’m glad I could help.
Think of it as vicariousness on my part.
@febinmathew: Check settings perhaps? Also, I think you need to check the option that says subcribe to comments when you’re commenting. I seem to get notifications for the further replies in a conversation thread I’ve participated in, on WordPress.
Found it. All done. Hence my prompt appearance. Looks like you also have another rave reviewer too now.
@febinmathew: Yes, I was lucky. π
This was a fair story, I rather liked it. I understood the metaphor half way through, and went back to read the rest. Once, when I was 17, I wrote a love story to a stretched metaphor, so this triggered that memory, and your story got away with being nostalgic for me, adding to the already encumbering nostalgia. So kudos Ramya, you carried the metaphor longer than I could. Short, came in, did what it had to do, touched a chord and went out. Also mark that you can play with emotion.
@Ronaan Roy: I’d love to read it. Your ‘stretched metaphor’ story, that is.