Is it mandatory that a boy should be elder than the girl to get married?? What if it’s the other way round?? What if there’s a 10 year old gap between the two??? Do these nitty-gritty things bear relevance if both the ends are compatible; have similar likes and dislikes and willing to live together under the sacred bond of wedding?
What has age and religion got to do if the two feel very comfortable with each other, if they can complement their life wonderfully, if they can converse on incessantly about any topic under the sun…share similar tastes…love to care for each other… then what’s so derogatory about it..? Is it a major social issue if the partner is overly elder than the other…? My personal answer is “NO”.
Marriage is all about being together, for each other and understand each other completely…rest should be of minimal importance. Of course I do not hold any degree on relationships nor specialized to pass on a judgment but just thought of expressing what I think strongly about. This may be a debatable issue but how many marriages work smoothly when it’s so called well arranged after age, caste and religion differentiation is well approved of. Are they really happy and content?? Do they actually have similar feelings or they just drive their marriage for the heck of it and keep mum as a part of compromise in life..? The phenomenon continues, no matter how contemporary we become but at the end of the day it’s all about the society and other external factors…that influence our lives…OUR so called PERSONAL lives.
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October 10, 2007 at 12:15 pm
Rainman
Ten Years Is A Lifetime!
Once upon a time, in the Garden of Pink-and-Red Blooms, lived a sturdy, old bougainvillea shrub. Ten long years had he lived in that beautiful garden in the land of very pretty, with the resplendent beauty and refreshing fragrance of almost every pretty flower on the planet, for company.
Daisies all a yellow, lilies in pure white, carnations soaked in blood red, forget-me-nots by the dozen, hyacinths in full bloom, purple lady’s slippers all around – he had seen them all. They grew all around him on the green grass, in the yellow sunshine, beneath the pure blue, azure skies.
Nodding blue-bells, dancing larkspurs, luscious lavender, lovely lilacs, pretty love-lies-bleedings, merry little marigolds, mysterious love-in-a-mists, colorful painter’s palettes, scarlet plumes, pansies, thistles and tulips – he had seen them all. And he had watched them from a distance and his heart had hummed their song.
But now, it had been ten long winters since he first took root. He was ten, wizened, and on the road to wither. He was happy for all he had been blessed with, but in his heart, he felt heavy. In his heart, he still felt hunger. In his heart, he still felt want, longing, desire – yearning for the company the one flower he had never ever known, a rose.
The days passed, and then just before spring one day, the good fairy Godmother visited him. She stood right beneath his spreading shrubbery, now three meters high or maybe more above the ground, and casting a long, dark circle of cool shade around him — and upon her.
She asked him if he was happy. He said he was, although he would be happier, if only he knew a rose. A pretty rose that would grow right beside him, not far away like all the other little flowers. A beautiful rose that would take root right beside, and under him, where he could protect her and take care of her like she were his own.
She smiled, twirled on her toes and did a little courtesy before vanishing in a shower of gold and silver dust. The next day, when the old red-and-pink bougainvillea shrub awoke, he looked down below and rubbed his eyes in wonderment. For below him, as real as red, was growing, the prettiest little rose bud anyone had ever seen.
The little red rose-bud looked up at him, brushed away the early morning dewdrops from her sleepy little eyes, and smiled. And in that moment, he knew she was his. The days passed quickly, and with each smile she gave him, her petals opened a little more, until she blossomed from a bud into a rose in full bloom.
The dark-red rose was beautiful, and it took the big bougainvillea shrub’s very breath away just to look at her. And which each deep breath he took, his long roots sucked in a little more water, and then a little more, until they slowly sucked up all almost the water in the ground around him. That night, he slept all full.
That night, he slept contented. Blissful and unaware that a little down and below him, his little rose was gasping, and shuddering and spluttering for life, as her little roots tried hard to suck in life-giving water. But there was little left. What little moisture there was, the big, old bougainvillea tree had all exhausted.
The little rose fought hard, and hearty, but hers was to be a losing battle. Her petals sagged; her little leaves drooped to the ground. And as her little eyes closed forever, in the black distance, she saw all the other flowers out in the open — swaying merrily in the gentle night, bellies full of water, far, far away from anyone with roots long enough, strong enough, to suck the moisture away from their little shoots.
She died, that night, in the pale blue moonlight. The little rose.
* * *
Two days later, the Bent and Wizened Gardener came along, and slowly cut the big, old bougainvillea shrub down, to the ground. The old shrub went down, without a fight. He crumpled to the dust without protest. Deep, deep down in his weary heart he knew he was done with all his days, the morning she died. And he knew why she had died.
The little rose in all the little life she had lived, had lived shackled. Ten years had a lived, a lifetime. She, in terms of days, just ten. And she lived those ten days shackled, shackled under him by his spread of shady shrubbery that had robbed her of the sunlight, by his long and stretching roots that had with water done the same.
And he knew why all the other flowers were all still a smiling, and prettily nodding in the wind — they were out in the open, on the sweet green grass, in the golden yellow sunshine, beneath the pure blue, azure skies. And he knew for had he not watched them often from a distance. He knew they’d live a lifetime.
And he knew why the Bent and Wizened Gardener, he had to come along. And put him to the ground.