At a time when Gus died in The Fault in our stars, “It was unbearable. The whole thing. Every second worse than the last one.” It seemed that my obsession with this book had manifested into reality, as subscribed in The Secret when I suddenly saw my father crying, sitting on the bed next to mine. As if the Universe had made us travel six hours so that we could sit in this beautiful hotel room with a balcony facing the hills and the houses it arrested, for this to happen. I mean seriously, Universe? He was soon joined by my mother. I, hovering between the two situations and asking myself which one to concentrate on: Gus, who actually died of cancer at the age of seventeen, or my parents whose cancerous thoughts when put into words led to upsetting both of them. It was awkward. Decisiveness is not what I know myself for. If I should ditch John Green and his book and heed to Paulo Coelho’s advise, my favourite author until then, “Any crime was not only the sole responsibility of the murderer, but of all those who created conditions in which the crime could occur.” I sat, torn between these two options on the sofa-cum-bed which was in a position where it was neither a sofa and nor a bed, owing to the intricacies involved in its folding, with a nonchalant expression just staring at the sofa, them and my book periodically; making their conversation more awkward? Yes. Humiliating? Maybe, in this stony silence that had engulfed after their session of crying and howling. I didn’t make any move. Just a little, by turning towards them to make them feel I was paying attention to them, but I had been put on mute mode while my thoughts raced with each other. One convincing me that this is the right thing to speak, while the other said, no, speak me. I ended up adhering to none and rather asking myself, should I be crying as well? “No, why should you?” “Of course you should, your parents marriage is at stake.” I sat there with no swollen eyes but plain indifference, which surprisingly was new to me.
Absolute desolation is a truth we choose not to believe till we have the sanity to lie to ourselves stuck with me the moment I had read it and it gave me the courage not to fake my concern to people. People. Yes, all people, transcending the chains of self proclaimed or even ‘natural’ relations. Each passing day seemed to confirm Osho’s predicament that marriage is the worst thing humanity has imposed on itself to go through the cycle of love, betrayal, sorrow and redemption, if you’re lucky. “Marriage is a legal trap meant to reduce two people to one-and-a-half”, Gloria Steinem’s statement I happened to stumble across in a magazine interview that evening whilst the Internet refused to hasten up.
After all monogamy is a myth that has been rammed down peoples throat for too long. It isn’t just a matter of excess hormones or vanity, but, as all the research indicates, a genetic configuration found in almost all animals.
I knew that, for sure, I didn’t have to be its prey. That my life was destined by the stars, I didn’t recognise myself. But, “Without pain, we couldn’t know joy”, the great quote in Gus’s house. One, that I apart from Gus and Hazel found very comforting.
