You are observing a dusty shelf of some public library. You slide some books here and there and notice a face – a pretty face on the other side of the shelf. It’s a girl whose big watery eyes are moving from one book to other. She is tardily breathing with her small nose, you like the way she is breathing. She softly bites her lower lip and rolls back both her lips to moisten them and pouts them back, as they were – pink and inviting. She picks up some book, shuffles few pages, halts at a particular page, and after some time gives a faint – though noticeable – smile. She has dimples. You have always loved dimples. Her forehead is shining; her hairs are firmly tied just the way you like. Her face has something pink about it, looks really smooth and your hand is already waiting to feel that smoothness – especially of the cheeks. But you won’t allow your hand to do that. That’s how you have been raised.

You are watching her unaware of anything else in the world. ‘She is beautiful’, you have told yourself a thousand times by now. And suddenly she glances at you. You are shattered, and pretend to read the back cover of Hawkins’ on the shoulder of giants as if it interests you. But don’t worry, she’s not angry. Every female admires it – a pair of male eyes fixed on her face.

Your heart has already picked the pace. Today’s your day. You are excited. You try looking at her again putting Hawkins aside. But she’s no more in the science section. You search for her like the players of the game search for perfection. At last you find her in the History section. You go near her and pick Edward Gibbon. She notices you and gives you a look – a very strange look that can be dually interpreted.

1) That she thinks you are a real erudite guy who even in the age of silicon refers to the age of iron, she has always admired soldiers who preserve the past. You are lucky!!!

2) The look may also suggest sarcasm on a grown up ape like you who is yet not clear why India and Pakistan separated and is trying to understand the fall of Rome.

But you are more comfortable with the first interpretation of her look. So, you try to talk to her. You really want to. But as you prepare your mouth to produce audible words something holds you back. Maybe it is the superego or maybe it is some fear – some unknown fear concerning with the future.

“Is this the girl I have been waiting for all these years?”
-- Oh! Come on, don’t think this far.
“But…?”
-- At least talk. She is beautiful. See, how softly she is breathing? Oh! You love it, don’t you?
“Yes, but what will mom think. Her son will not be hers anymore. He will be divided!”
-- Now what is the need to think like this? Come come, talk.
“I have lived with my people in some way. And I wish to live with some girl in a totally different way. How will I achieve the balance?”
-- Oh Freak! Stop talking nonsense, will you? There’s no harm in talking.
“I know. But I am not sure…”
-- Congrats! She left. Now spend this beautiful evening with Gibbon.


You stand there still unaware of what happened with you, why desires come into play?

Ok. Don’t worry about the girl now. You haven’t lost anything. Or have you?

Now you have all the time you want. Select a nice book for this weekend. Sadly you shuffle different books in different sections of the library…

Naipaul’s loss of El Dorado, Hemingway’s men without women, Barrow’s Impossibility, Green’s lawless roads, Maugham’s of human bondage, Sullivan’s labyrinth of desires, Brunton’s search in secret…
What! Are you upset? Can’t choose anything? Oh! Come come, its ok now.

Narayan’s vendor of sweets, Encyclopedia of great loosers (would you like to add your name in here?), Nietzsche’s human, all too human, and Gould’s hedgehog…
And, as usual, you are not able to decide which book you want to read. You decide to pick up any book and leave. So, you pick up the one lying besides Gray’s anatomy.
You catch bus no. 11G and go directly to Broadway – with a regular feeling of incompleteness in your heart. Like every other day you couldn’t choose a book, couldn’t talk to a girl. You couldn’t decide what you want.

At night you dwell into your dream world, where you have the most ideal book (the one in which all possible knowledge is contained, wherein not a single idea is missed. All that is thought by all possible human beings is in that book) and you have the idlest girl – the way you want her. Her eyes, her cheeks, her hairs, her skin, even the fragrance of her breath is what you have decided. Her voice, her behavior, the way she turns, the way she sits, the way she looks at you, the way her hairs fall on her forehead – everything related to her is thought by you. Every night you sleep embraced in this beautiful thought of yours. And every night you fail to notice that you are always trying to map idealism with realism.

Ok. Let you not be sad about this. Let us keep you away from alienation. Let us think that it’s not only your problem but everyone’s. Even mine.
Maybe, this problem comes in hereditary from one man to the other. Maybe it is not rooted in you and me, but it is rooted deep inside our collective unconsciousness. It is the collective idea of some perfection that never was. And it is from this womb that all the miseries are born. And maybe, all the idealists are endlessly trying to regain this never-existing perfection; be it knowledge or beauty – they are never satisfied. And aren’t they all loosers? What do they get in the end?

In search of the infinite, they end up in void.

Next day you go to the library again…

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