The dictionary definition: The quality present in a thing or person that gives intense pleasure or deep satisfaction to the mind, whether arising from sensory manifestations (as shape, color, sound, etc.), a meaningful design or pattern, or something else.
Have you ever read a book again? A book that you love. Or a poem? Or a movie that influenced you. Or maybe a saying that your mother keeps repeating. Something that just took your eyes or ears or taste-buds. And then, did you let that book, or thought, or saying, run through your mind the second time? Or did the second time also restrict the pleasure to your senses?
There was this stranger I met once. He met me while he was asking for directions to a near-by café. I offered to walk him there. What followed was a cup of steaming, hot coffee. And a lot of stories.
If you’ve been a regular to my blog, you might know how awfully fond of stories I am. We discussed so much about our world views and jobs and life-styles and just about everything happening in that little universe at that instant. And then we spent quite some time in silence. In a blissful, comfortable, silence. It was much more than considerable time when we finally decided to bid good-byes.
We did not exchange phone-numbers, or e-mails, or facebook contacts. Perhaps none of us felt the need to. Yet it is one of the most memorable evenings I’ve had, and one that I remember distinctly, despite my disloyal memory.
I’ve never met him after that day, ever. But I’ve thought about that instant, those talks, and those innumerable stories a couple of times. Every time I think of that day, something new adds itself to my memory. A blush I hadn’t noticed when that amazing piece on love played in the background, or that smile of surprise when he heard Ayn Rand’s name from my mouth. Or his irritation when I was too, too stuck up on splitting up the bill. That corner of his eye that looked at me while we were cherishing the sunset. And that even after that “considerable” time, we spent at least two more hours together.
Perhaps I was too busy experiencing all this to notice any of it. And today as I write this, and think about it, a new strand, a deeper layer adds itself to the person he was. He had just pleased my mind then. It was nice talking to him, knowing a teeny-weeny bit about him. But today, just thinking about the experience, and him, makes me feel great. In ways more that one, he has begun to spread his charm on my senses.
I wish I could read him again. Have that chance to fall for those eccentricities, discover so much more. Have him pave the way from my senses to my mind, and the other way round, all over again. This joy, that I’m feeling just while writing this, immediately shatters when I think about the fact that nothing like this is ever going to happen. That I am not bumping into him again. And that even if I did, I won’t recognize him, because I don’t even remember his face clearly.
I have no gratifying hopes of this story to have a sequel. And this is perhaps one of the most dissatisfying, discerning thoughts I’ve had. It has no sense of pleasure, what-so-ever. What remains with me now, is just a blur and the numerous memories attached with it, with a lot of longing. And yet, if this is not beauty, then what is?