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.
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