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My Beloved…

It happened on days when such things usually don’t happen.

I was in a superstore trying to buy a razor because it was the ritual of the day and therefore, I had to (or perhaps simply because I had a beard) when suddenly, I collided with an extremely beautiful girl in an extremely yellow T-shirt.

In the resulting flurry, all that I saw was, “My Beloved” written on the heart on her t-shirt. Stupified, I moved on.

A few paces forward and it dawned on me: “That was a brand name and she was a promoter!”

“My Beloved”, that was my “My beloved”, was absolutely wrong.

I turned back and asked the same girl about the razors. While she was guiding me, I studied her face carefully.

There was strange downheartedness in her countenance; something broken and scattered was lying there that was difficult to wrap up.

I got the razor. Now I wanted the sadness of that face. At all costs.

Needs usually don’t carry any price tags; prices are determined according to the ebb and flow of demand and supply in the market. Hence, to fulfill my demand, I reached up to the supply.

She wanted blood.

Fresh. Two bottles per week.

So on our first date, I was the first bottle.

“Blood will brighten the heart of the rose”.

Who says this verse is political? Her discontented face was blooming when -as it was obvious- I was paying for the draw and transfusion of my own blood!

She was chirping in the car too!

And I….I was counting the days of my love life by dividing 7400ml by four hundred.

My condition was that of an animal at the altar, for whom all the religious requirements had been fulfilled already.

And she was so kind that she wanted to fully compensate.

My state was that of a man standing at a  distance of centuries. Therefore, dropping her off at the street corner, I gathered whatever was left of me and escaped.

‘Goddess at that temple wanted two bottles of blood….hmm…and I was her priest…….

…….Two “lambs” for sacrifice?….had they been enough?’

After all, I was the one who had to arrange for that cat.

 

An Extract From “Love is an Irritation”_ By Saleem Mirza (Translated By Fatima Saleem)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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