To my absolute horror, I have just realized that about seventy percent of the fiction I pen down are love stories. Or love poems.
I guess that this trait can be traced back to one of my Freudian nightmares in childhood, but that doesn’t help me in coping up with this mess. I mean, what sort of people keep writing one love story after another! Someone might try to point out P G Wodehouse here; but then, he was funny. Anything can be excused if it is funny enough.
And of all people I! Honestly, I don’t think it is impressive to come across as a male chauvinistic moron insisting on Arnold Schwarzenegger, but I really can’t stand an imbecile idiot of a man out of his senses pledging his undying love to the leading lady to reassure her that he’ll “always” be there. I could gulp it down if he did with a bit of irony in his voice or a slight twinkle in his eyes, letting me in on the joke, the conspiracy. But no, he must go on and scare me out of my wits with his sincerity.
In fact, I have almost stopped watching mindless romantic flicks because of this reason. The one I recently watched was You, Me and Dupree. Movies don’t get any lamer than this, but I had to waste time till I caught a shuttle back to my hostel and I got the special ticket priced at 10 bucks (as opposed to the usual ones priced at 120 bucks). Anyway, the movie went all very fine till the build up to the climax when I woke up from my slumber (Ok, I actually watched the whole movie, but don’t blame me. I was jobless.) to find the romantic leads kissing each other and throwing up the usual crap about love and care and shit.
This was the only scene which made an impact on me in the whole movie. I felt so scared and sick that I thought I was never going to talk to or touch another human being again. I felt like running away and hiding somewhere, where no one, in particular no girls, could ever find me. The thought that one day I might be doing all that willingly was an immensely depressing thought, a thought that subsequently had to be driven away by a full course through roasted chicken and biriyanis (my Firefox spell checker tells me that biriyanis is spelled wrong, and offers the alternate spelling lesbianisms).
All romantic flicks do this to me. They make me want to hide somewhere and avoid any sort of human contact. As it is life is already pathetic. I tried to order my first pizza about two weeks back and miserably failed. In fact, J(iga)r thought I had an ego problem or something because I always asked him to talk to the shopkeepers when we went out together. But he eventually understood (or so I hope); may be when he found out that I couldn’t really talk to the waiters either.
I am improving though. I am sure I’ll improve significantly once I go back to my diet of Tim Burton and Stanley Kubrick and Action/ Adventure/ Woody Allen. I think the leading pair of You, Me and Dupree (They never had a single intelligent conversation through out the movie!) fit the random pair Alvy Singer picks up from pavement in Annie Hall -
Alvy: You look like a very happy couple…How do you account for it?
Young Woman: I’m very shallow and empty and I have no ideas and nothing interesting to say.
Boyfriend: And I’m exactly the same way.
Ironically enough, I never penned down the only love story I could possibly have wanted to write myself. I have written, nevertheless, half a dozen love stories and countless poems on the same note at the request of others â€“ some my friend, some not, but all of them in love (I have half a mind to agree with Oscar Wilde calling love a tragedy; but then, as Umberto Eco put it, Wilde probably suffered from furor sententialis, i.e., pleasurable rhetorical incontinence). A lot of people have the tendency to mistake the obvious for the profound and sometimes, to my regret, the beautiful. So I had prospered with my excuse of a poetry in those days (but I was very good at meter and rhyming).
Whatever. I guess I’ll just get on with my love story.