IT IS A MESSAGE NOT TATTERS: QUESTIONS COUPLE SHOULD ASK

I know life is not always based on the answers we get, but also the questions we ask. Sometimes we fear that our questions might reveal our utmost fear. Sometimes we do not have the strength to hear the answer. There is an old saying that the one who asks the question is also in the same perplexing position as the one who has to answer it.  

With the soaring divorce rate, the couple who wants to tie the knot should sit, sip coffee or beer or pineapple juice and have an introspective session based on the questions deem necessary, however, the questions should not sound like a terrorist  interrogation. Please try refraining from asking cliché questions like-Will you love me more than money? Will you allow me to have the remote-control? Will you love me even if I put on weight or grow bald?

The sample of questions I want couples to ask is given below,

What if your family never likes me, not in another ten years or twenty or forever?

Will you try every possible way to smuggle me inside their heart? Will you be caught in the middle and blame me for that, like forever? Will you settle for their happiness?

What if I am caught in a scam?

Will you try to make me come out clean or will you be with the law so tangled that you will make sure I get into the prison?

What if I get Alzheimer, a disease so hard to handle?

Will you read our story to me day in and day out and help me with the medications or just be nice due to societal pressure? Will you transfer me to a shelter home?

*P.S. Even if someone has to read the story to their respective partner, I pray that it won’t be like Noah Calhoun’s love story, for it amounts to plagiarism.

What if I cheat on you?

Will you divorce me? Will you commit a passion crime? Will you give me another chance or will you ignore it and counter-revenge?

What if I die before you?

Will you live and fight the world for both of us? Will you take care of our kids, families and keep the love alive? Will you be quick in falling in love again?

What if I commit suicide, a death least imagined by you?

Will you curse me for being selfish? Will you forgive me? Will you respect my decision? Will you be able to understand that all along I was under some depression which you were not aware of and that you are not the reason?

What if we raise kids which cannot be termed ‘normal’ in the worldly sense? Say elder son is a shoplifter; daughter is a teenage mother, younger son a drug addict.

Will you cry in your secret chamber and never talk to me? Will you blame me as a moron with no parenting knowledge? Will you hold my hand and face the world, come what may?

What if after 15 years (or more) of marriage you realise that I am not the one for you, ‘your true soul mate’?

Will you be in a position to carry it forward? Will you play it cool just for social obligation or will you be honest and courageous enough to tell me?

What if I kill you?

If I have to kill you then I won’t be asking this question and I won’t bother to hear the answer because I do not want to hear it. There is more of a sentiment involved and less of understanding.

   “If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on when you stop your story.”

                            Orson Welles

THE WOMAN WHO READ KAFKA

She loved Kafka; she loved what he wrote decades ago.

She read not from Kafka, ‘Love like you’ve never been hurt before’, but she wrote like Kafka, ‘Hurt is essential to be in love, love is essential not to be hurt, and death the supreme of love and hurt.’

She loved every man who came in her life like crazy, and went they were gone; she blew a bubble with a straw under the sea and burst the happiness of all.

She had many men in her life; she loved them like no woman could. She cooked for them, and when they ate, they puked, and when they puked the whale came out, she killed every whale, so they hated her.

When she reached a marriageable age, she did not invest her time and energy in wooing man. While other women were busy polishing their hooks, she kept herself busy learning how castration was an insult to human existence.

She was not the whore of the street or a saint in white. She was like the statue standing in the middle of nowhere, where the couples split and the loner begged. She was light, so she was not a marble statue.

She ate the apple on a sunny day, grapes on a rainy day, and strawberry on a cold day, but she knew that tomato was a fruit and not a vegetable, so ate the tomato on a windy day.

And when she was 80 to 90, she joined the army of penguins. She wore a purple coat, the dress code was white and black, she breached the rule. The penguins had to dig a pool for her, and threw her in it, freezing she died.

 And her life's prologue ran as,

‘People call me Crazy, but that’s not my name. I knew a dog by the name Crazy, he saved a drowning child. The child grew into a fine gentleman, and married the Queen, the Queen was thankful to Crazy, and though dead, honoured him with a Knighthood (posthumous). Crazy was a hero, and I am called Crazy, but I am yet to save somebody or anybody, so don’t honour me with such powerful gracious names.’

*Kafka’s representation of women is often debated. Nevertheless, she read him, her world turned like his writings.