Anna Karenina could not have been mere imagination, I decided. I was talking to her reference.
"Why didn't you call?"
" Was out."
"Where have you been???"
"Why aren't you talking to me these days?"
Silence. It seems the safest option when you've nothing more to add. Silence is also a little like guerilla warfare. Unbeatable, unless the enemy can camaflouge himself like you do.
"You've no time for me." *Sob*
I 'Tch-ed' for a bit as I got back to reading an article on the net with the phone heating my ear lobe. The voice on the other end rattled, whined and ached.
I seemed to myself at this moment like the burly, insensitive cheat in a striped t-shirt and old jeans that most beautiful and bruised women curse, hate and condole each other about in support groups before going home to make love to the beast.
Only, the beautiful bruised woman wasn't my girlfriend.
"Talk to me, Rae!"
"I just spoke to you half an hour back, Ma!"
We have the equations of a romantic relationship, my mother and I.
If my mother was my boyfriend, I'd probably ask her for a break.
I can imagine it.
"Why! Why are you doing this?! Why don't you talk to me?! There's.. someone else, isn't it?
That Karishma's mother! I knew it the day you told me she makes biryani like me!"
I don't get it, honestly. I've said it before, I'll say it again. I love my mom, its a biological liability. But I wonder, since everyone tells me that motherhood is as much pleasure as it is pain, why love is, in the most basic, instinctive of forms so painful.
I try to look at her as another person, a third dimension to herself besides her being mother and wife.
She is a woman. A woman who loves so much, it hurts. It amazes me how I'm so much like her, but fail to understand her need to love, her need to pain.
Thanks for nothing, Tolstoy.