Clouds: Inexplicable

By Ilhamul Azam   
read the suite from the beginning


I have complained about the inadequacy of love in moulding my perception, it is not completely true. I have come across love or maybe something more superior to it which cannot be called love.

When my Chotomama*[1] got married, she brought the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I was enchanted by her mesmerizing beauty. I used to stare at her whenever I saw her, if our eyes met she used to give a smile that brought storms to the ocean of my emerging feelings.

My restless heart had to share the feelings I had for her, a childish love that didn’t have any evil intention.

I couldn’t help sharing and told one of my cousins, “ I wish my wife turns out to be the same as Chotomami*[2].”

That evil boy told it to Chotomami, what an embarrassment. When Chotomami got to know about this, whenever she saw me she used to give me a hug and hold my hand for a long time, what a bliss it was for an adolescent whose heart was full of emotions. 

She once told me, “ If my marriage doesn’t work out, I’ll marry you. Would you wait for me?”

I used to blush, couldn’t say anything, What could I say even? How could I express that her place was never to be replaced, never to be faded in my emotional heart? Maybe that was when I got to know about a feeling which was far superior to love, a feeling that shouldn’t be disgraced calling it love, an enchantment that had no place for evil needs, which was as pure and lovely as an infant.

When they went away from us, I was broken as a failed lover, what an astonishment! what we had between us couldn’t be called love!

I was seeing her compulsion as betrayal, I was seeing my Chotomama as a rival, what an idiot I was! Probably that time was dedicated to idiocy. My affectionate heart searched for something, it still does. These affectionate aspects of life are always going to be daunting for me. I have wanted to be many things, never wanted to be an admirer of enchantments. These worldly affections have come into my life like a black cloud on my sunny life, a distortion never to be repaired, never to be considered for improvement in the way I live.

[1]  Conventional regard for mother’s younger brother in Bangladesh.

[2] Conventional regard for mother’s younger brother’s wife.

more FLASH SUITE Contest
What’s New
home/ Bonafides

Facebooktwitterlinkedinrssby feather
Facebooktwitterredditpinterestlinkedintumblrmailby feather

Leave a Reply

Welcome to
Defenestrationism reality.

Read full projects from our
retro navigation panel, left,
or start with What’s New.