The Question

This is not a joke to be laughed at. Nor is it a game to be watched. It is also not a rhyme for the poets to sing. Neither a story to be told nor a drama to be enacted on stage for the enjoyment of the onlookers. It is a question delicately poised before your soul. On your answer depends a person's life, which is right now hanging precariously on a balance. The question is not about a lengthy ordeal or a programme which will take time. From the moment you answer, till the last breathe, the question will force the mortgaging of life. There is a great emotional intensity attached to the question. The sincerity is being tested. It hides the poison of shameless selfishness. There is also a malicious threat concealed in it.

"Are you mine?"

Around this question dances many a titillating dreams. But it is a pair of moist eyes and a trembling heart that is waiting for the answer.

Now it is twelve' o clock in the night. Rain has been pourng malignantly. Inside me it is a torrent of woes. I love that face. I adore that smile. Those eyes, those words...everything...

But as Tagore said, "O dear, let my love not be a burden to thee..."
The rain is increasing. If you came to me as a dream this night and took my life away with you...