“Don’t walk away, don’t walk away, oh.
When the world is burning
Don’t walk away, don’t walk away, oh.
When the heart is yearningCause without your love, my life
Ain’t nothing but this carnival of rust.”
A chilly polar evening! Darkness embraces the barren Winterland with the promise of a forlorn tiresome night, spurning away from the final rays of the setting star. The Northern wind rustles through the snow carrying with it a heap of Atlantic melancholy. As the Cimmerian gloom grasps these unknown lands with its reptilian claws, the creatures of the night emerge in the hope of feeding their tots. In the morose new moon night, the Milky way remains the only silent guardian amidst the myriad of constellations. The fatigued traveler desperately tries to break his way through the dense ice: his only hope— the North Star. No time to squander. He has miles to go before he can reach the farrowed lands, where the blue-eyed Desdemona is impatiently counting her days in anticipation. Those blue eyes of hers breathe the warm ocean air in him. They breathe life unto him. No matter how, but he has to find a way to the sea.
The flush medieval metropolis of Venice! Like a busy street, its canals are frequented by slender Gondolas. Down at the port, the merchants' incessant trading echoes with the hustles and bustles of the chirpy megapolis. Unlike the polar desolation, the nights here are vibrant and jazzy. The ships from distant shores bring the hungry and lewd sailors who crowd at the nearby taverns or bordellos in the piazza—many an ardent soul steps aboard the ships with hopes of turning their fates. For probably one last time, the young souls cling to their lovers, unable to hold their tears back. Will they ever be reunited? The hope of a new life, riches, alcohol, women, and surreal adventures beckons them. Their morose yet excited faces are only complimented by the fishermen's babble, the pungent aroma of the dry fish, and the seagulls' indifferent feathers. Oh indeed, what a bewitching city!
Desdemona could never ignore the climactic hues of the setting sun from her tiny little bedside balconé. The distant port yard sounds linger through the salty breeze. Her somber eyes yearn for the glimpse of a familiar silhouette. The promise of rescuing a caged bird still reverberates in her ear. She can never see him, yet she is confident of his much-awaited arrival one day. He wouldn’t fail to keep his promise, would he? Like the trapped princess, Desdemona ignites the candles in her room every evening with hope in her heart. As darkness descends, the bustles of the chirpy city die down gradually. She releases her lush cascading black hair as the uncanny darkness bathes it and blends it unto itself. She shuts her eyes and whispers to the salty sea breeze,
“Lies! Damned lies!!!”
“Patience, my child! He is destined for you!”
“God! My heart bleeds with this anguish of separation. What kind of love is this?”
“The journey to the summit is always riddled with thorns, my child. Is it even love if there are no walls to break?”
Another night treads on. The church bells at dawn obscure the sound of the crashing waves. The last of the wax in the candlestand yields to the emerging sun rays in a perennial defeat. With the beginning of a new dawn, Desdemona sadly acknowledges another cycle of eternal beckoning. Probably, this is the existence of her being.
The paradigm shifts to the other side of the world, where a new evening beckons with the lighting of the evening lamps. The air resonates with the housewife’s conch shell's melody in a resolute attempt to appease the Gods. All the Gopis have returned from their afternoon adventures. Only Radha’s pensive eyes are transfixed in the blue waters of the Yamuna river. Why does the beloved melody from Krishna’s flute elude her tonight? As the daylight faints, the eastern wind brings with it promises of an imminent downpour. She lets her scarf fly away in the wind. Maybe the aroma from her scarf will reach her lover. All her beauty, this youthful vigor, these flowers, this grove, everything will be futile without the presence of Krishna beside her. All the symbols of his intimate adoration are carefully etched on her curves. He is so near yet so far. The memoirs of their secret trysts fill her lamenting heart.
“Will Krishna ever be mine? Is this even love if I can’t stake it out as mine?” she asks the Eastern Wind.
“The Journey ends when you claim it, dear. This yearning is what defines love.”
Days melt, and years dissolve in the eternity of time. Eventually, the rain cedes one day as the primroses bloom. The petrichor from the wet moss emanates in the air. Your face lights up, darling, in the early hours of dawn. The morning breeze brings with it a familiar fondness of your eyes. Maybe in this lifetime, love will still elude me despite being enraptured by you. Even the prolific Yamuna waters acknowledge my feelings. This lifetime is perhaps meant for craving and yearning. Perhaps this life is an agonizing exile.
Blue-eyed cursed Desdemona!!! Not even a soul knows why or when the sorcerer had cast a spell on her. Even with all the pledges of love, her beloved is encased in an endless frigid vortex. Out of the blue, a distant voice reaches out.
“Oh, weary traveler, are you lost?”
“I seek the sea, o universe. This harsh and wintry land is not my home.”
The deserted and weary traveler treads his way through the stinging tortuous terrain, desperately removing icicles from his path. His anxious thirsty eyes chase desperately for the blue sea. Come what may, he has to wind up there. Desdemona, his beloved Desdemona, awaits beyond the vast expanse on the other side. He can almost smell the melancholic salty sea breeze, yet his eyes fail to unearth it. Deep resonating anguish lurks inside the kindred spirit trying to seek the elixir of life.
The ground beneath reverberates with the ear-splitting cacophony of the subway train. A lonely young man steps out to be incarnated in the flesh. The escalator ascends him into a bustling urban Times Square adorned with its typical architecture and glamorous neon billboards. This cacophonous terrene blatantly exhibits the vast expanse of vibrant humanity. A rapture of blue eyes and blue-clad attires glides by in this cosmopolitan coterie. He is born and reborn time and again in the quest to find this elixir of love. Can he find it? The answer is no. After all, what is love but an eternal contemplation for the union? And whatever happens to the Desdemonas and the Radhas of the world? Didn’t I warn you about the sorcerer’s spell? They remain captivated by it. Be it in their bridal chambers or the lonely university stairwells; her lament is eternal. She still desires for her dearly beloved, who will unleash all the shackles and rescue her. This confined exile will end one day. Nevertheless, the moon continues to be the only glimmering witness to her never-ending desire.
