Rehashed Love Stories

There are two meaning of the word ‘rehashed’. One - without significant change or improvement and the other - consider or discuss something at length.

And I mean both here.

Strolling on one of the busy beaches of the city, on a festive night is an assault on the senses. But there are patterns of sanity, emotions, conflicts, love, hate or conspiracies hidden in the sea of madness. One has to simply focus one’s attention on a particular aspect of humanity.

As I went about kicking the little space of cool sand coming my feet’s way, I couldn’t help but notice- love. Love, love.  

Out of the two evening seas, in the human one, I saw this love; walking, talking, observing, kneeling, cuddling, kissing, arguing, fighting.

It may not be all love; I contradicted my thought. But resemblance is enough to brand an action especially, when telling a story. And I added my thought-spice as these love stories played all around me.

What came my way first was the passionate love.

Under a lonesome, dim light pole sat this couple. They were on the back steps of a luxurious property. I couldn’t see their faces as the light played games with the objects and their shadows. 

Both the property and the couple were uninterested in each other. Maybe they were used to each other’s presence more than I thought. But I could notice the couple’s intensity radiating outwards. Their heads, tilted towards each other, in a fierce battle of ‘Who blinks first?’ or ‘Who gasps for breath first?’

None, seem to give way. Only kids and people in love possess this gift. The gift of being blissfully unaware of the myriads around and completely being in the moment.

A little ahead was the mature love; holding hands and walking along the length, as the waves crashed on their feet. There was no exchange of glances. Only an understanding. A shared understanding by which the world had to be understood and made sense of; before heading back and becoming a part of it.

Maybe, new conclusions were being reached or new ways forged to move about. Maybe none will work. But for now, there is an agreement in love of a path to choose. A path on the beach and in life.

Moving on, a little ahead on my path, was the resigned love. It had nothing to offer in intensity of looks, no making sense of the world around. The duo was only observing. One of them looking into the vast expanse of darkness, frothing in its underbelly; the other, reacting to the humdrum of the surrounding. It was as if the two are not together.

But I saw a connection. A comfort. An unacknowledged acknowledgement of a presence sitting by the side. They throw a ball back to the kids playing in the front, who seem to be the object of their interest. For a brief moment they study me too. A random soul, part of the multitude, nothing to feed their thought machines.

Only the knowledge of his and her presence is satiating enough for this love.

The stroll moved towards the crowd now. The presence of chaos seemed to rub off on the pairs. Next visual was what seemed like unrequited love.

He was trying very hard to convince him. And he didn’t seem to budge. There were passionate pleas on one part. While the other looked lost. Lost in a thought if he deserves these pleas at all, or the predicament of explaining the difficulty of being to the pleader.

Fussiness and confusion sat side by side, both teary-eyed. One’s theme was, ‘Why not!’, while the other’s was, ‘Please understand, it can’t.’

Unrequited love is the most painful.

Perhaps, even more painful than the next kind; fighting love. There is a hope, a desire, an infliction of ownership in this one. They were arguing, arguing maybe about, family issues, professional issues, life issues or simply arrival times of that evening issues.

The hurt and longing reflected in both set of eyes clearly, even as one was trying to hold the other still.

There was a lot to fight. If the mask of vociferous dialogues and anger were to be removed, one could see the deep passions at play. After all, hate is a form of love.

Then, there’s the longing kind of love. Not the longing of the couple involved. But my longing for that kind of love.

She rested in the soothe of his straightened legs, folded over. The mat couldn’t contain the spread of their contentment. As he was caressing her hair, which was already caressed by a gentle beach breeze, she talked animatedly. Her face looking at the story-less night sky. But she still had many things to say and went on and on.

At one point she turned over and shot the exciting story to his face, before resuming from her original position.

There seemed to be a lot to say!

And he seemed to be regaled; maybe with her stories or maybe with her presence on his laps. I harboured a guess; he might not even be listening. His face shone, less in the moon glow and more in the joy of how happy she looked!

Oh! There was the celebratory love. 

A couple bouncing in the waves, playing, lifting and kissing each other in the waves. It seemed like a new found love. Or a love that seemed to have achieved its delightful logical conclusion. Togetherness. 

It was euphorically marking out new beginnings in a world conditioned towards end. 

A city of lost millions had parted ways to bring these love stories together. The monotony and tastelessness of routine reconfigured its traffic, people and obligations to rehash these love stories on the beach that night.

Some of these might live to see another day. Some may not. Some seemed for the ages, some-fleeting passions. Some looked one kind but could turn out to be the other. Who knows!

As I walked past the last pair on my way, one of them called out, ‘Hey, you dropped your keys.’ I retraced my steps and bent to pick them up. As I thanked them, while straightening myself, I could see a beautiful glint in their eyes.

Their smiles were accepting of my thanks and also reflecting an energy - love.

I walked out of the beach. I don’t remember those faces of course, but those rehashed love stories do come back to me.

More often than I would imagine.