A recluse divorced from the world, she watched as the string of words cross her eyes. Eyes darting from space to space occasionally misty, with surprise, a smile, a shiver down her spine. Words with depth and meaning, of little kisses that stretched to lingerings of passion. Of everything in between and of nothing at all. Torrent of letters, free flowing like the rush of tropical rains she was used to. Nascent to her fingers, and mind, yet strangely, in a comforting envelope.

A moment in time.

…Or was he fated from the start, to live just one fleeting instant within the purlieus of your heart?

Ivan Turgenev spoke to her. Of her. A question she’d asked herself a few times lately.

Believing in fate and destiny was for the weak. One makes things happen, she’d convinced herself. Unsure of it anymore, she glanced at the little clock her dad had gifted her some 20 years ago. A frail yellowed palm sized clock that still kept perfect time. Keeping her hands steady unlike her emotions, lest she dropped it, she wound the hands around. Around and around she went, against nature, against the Sun, and against all that she believed in. Against sanity.

There, July 12th looks nice. It was a little over 2 months ago. Going back to that date wasn’t asking for the moon now was it? After all, her little clock did keep perfect time. Maybe a bit of the perfectness would rub off on her past. Wait, was that her past, or was that a future she was making?

Whatever it was, it sure wasn’t the present.

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22 replies on “present”
  1. The wench thinks too much. She should just pick up the phone and call. Unless she doesn’t have the number; or forgotten it; or it was on a postit and got destroyed in the laundry. In which case, go to


  2. says: some body


    sometimes, there ain’t no number nowhere … but she might bump into him at a street corner sometime in the future. 🙂


    for some reason, i recall a poem from an english text long long ago – but i don’t agree with the advice, which is probably two centuries old!

    – s.b.

  3. says: rads

    sb – lol, agree!

    To give repentance to her lover
    And wring his bosom, is—to die.

    ..more like – to kill ! :-p

    BPSK – ok, shall tell her. 🙂

    Ok – No.

  4. says: some body

    w h:

    yes, 'ya perelman' saved me from completely drowning in physics in +2 (had to bring him up as you've expressed your love of physics!).

    i shed tears by the bucketsful after my 12th physics exam, which was an unmitigated disaster (or so i thought) – even allah is probably still mystified how i scored in the 80s!

    – s.b.

  5. says: Cydonian

    My question is, why is everybody presuming a jilted lover? What if she just had some awesome biryani on July 12th, and is just pining for the moment once again?

    But ah, you say, that Ivan Turgenev quote explicitly talks about him living in the fleetest of instants in her heart. That’s where I’d have to accuse you of not thinking hard enough; _of course_ Ivan Turgenev would call it that, wouldn’t he. He spoke Russian, a language that slavishly assigns gender to everything, including juicy biryani morsels.

    Also, note that “he” here lived only for the fleetest of instants; surely, unless you folk are accusing her of murdering someone, he can’t be but something temporal. Like hot, steaming biryani, after you’ve had a mouthful.

    Additionally, note that his (not “his”, Ivan Turgenev’s) brain weighed 2026 grams at his death.

  6. says: w h

    Perelman.. yep.. Fun with physics and maths..
    I swallowed the words in that book. My aunt had a copy of that book.. The tricks there were great.. I guess that was one of the books that got me interested in science..

  7. says: w h

    Russian books are rare these days.. Those Raduga or Mir books, in wonderful paper.. great translations.. these days I have to read Chekhov and Dostoyevsky in the flimsy rough paper Bantam and Penguin publish in…. And they cost a fortune more than what those Russian books cost earlier.. Communism was good!!! Russian books were good…

  8. Hi Rads : I need to get used to your fables, i get this need to classify it under abstract art – abstract storytelling – impressionistic, modernistic, creativistic originalistic art of writing.

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