She opened the door, tossed her bag on the bed, and flung herself on the sofa. As I followed her, she sank within, and her hands rose up to hide her face. Knowing her well, I knew that she would try hard not to lose control. However, her anger steamed out hissing through her breath, and her pain escaped through the veil of her fingers.
Sitting there, I felt like a voyeur, an unwanted witness to something I was not supposed to see. After all, pain is a personal thing. Her pain was hers, not mine. Yet, surprisingly, I could not stand her pain. It seemed to have come between us, alienating me, incriminating me for the crimes I had not committed. It was a difficult situation - I could not help but see her pain, and then I could not share it. I have always believed that there is something intimate about sharing pain. Pleasure is shared with all, but not pain. I just didn't have the rights.
I was obliged to wait.
- Come on, forget about it.
- I have been trying for a long time to forget it.
- May be he was just following the rules..
- Which rules? Written or unwritten?
- What do you mean?
- Leave it, you won't understand.
- Let me try.
- You get a congratulatory salute when you bring in a woman guest. But when the same woman invites you, she gets a stare, and a rule-book.
- Oh come, it's not like that.
But I knew she was right. That's how it was like. There were unwritten rules being followed all over. And we could do little about it. I felt like hugging her to console her. That's all I could do. Or I couldn't do even that. I didn't have the rights.
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