For the Love of Intellectualism

"An intellectual is a person who has discovered something more interesting than sex." - Aldous Huxley

 

Though I do not particularly revere the supposedly divine act of coitus, the popular obsession with it and of course, the fact that it is fundamental to continuing our species, leaves me with little choice but to consider its indispensability to the scheme of things. But that's about it. Having thus established my predisposition, Mr. Huxley's statement allows me to bask in the glory of being closer to the definition of an intellectual than I thought I was. At this moment, while I pen down what I can call a biography of events that led to an unlikely relationship, my lover sleeps blissfully, cloaked in the security of his dreams where Nietzsche propogates existentialism and Albert Camus, absurdism.

 

My love affair with Ism began on an especially windy, cold winter evening. While I trudged along the snow-ridden street, gloved hands ensconced in the warmth of fur-lined pockets, I saw him walking towards me, bespectacled eyes that seemed to be watching something beyond me, and everyone else, a bright red Rudolph nose, and wearing a sloppy haircut that had been denied the luxury of shampoo. Soon, I was staring like a starved puppy, feeling the ridiculous tingling associated with attraction. He, on the other hand, seemed to have no reciprocal experience. He passed by, like how a trail of ants passes you by, if you aren't a particle of sugar. For some odd reason, his ignorance fuelled a deep-seated jealousy, that springs into action whenever the object of your affections does not seem as taken with you, as you are with him/her. Impulsively, the words fell out, impatient to be heard, "Excuse me?"

 

He continued walking away, barely registering my quivering voice. I called out again, this time, loud enough to make a couple turn their eyes off each other momentarily and causing a sleepy dog to jerk into alertness. "Excuse me? Sir?" Having heard me this time, he turned around, with the deliberate slowness of a man who has lost track of time in the pursuit of some intriguing, fleeting thought. His eyes seemed to have trouble focusing, after being left loose to wander aimlessly for a while. He came closer, trying to find some trace of familiarity in the freckled face, ocean blue eyes and coffee skin. Having found none, he just stood there, a question forming between his brows. Standing so close to him, my bravery deserted me and I struggled for words. When I think about it now, it must have been a funny sight, two people just staring at each other, one questioningly, and the other with an expression as blank as blankness can be.

 

It took a book to break the spell. What had initially missed my attention now rode into my line of sight, like a

knight in linen armour, destined to be my saviour. I blurted out, regretting it almost immediately owing to what I perceived to be its patheity, "That book looks interesting." Nestled against his chest, a hand firmly holding it in place, was a tattered book. He seemed surprised, as though the existence of the book was as much a mystery to him as it was a source of relief for me. "This book?" He waved it slightly, and my heart sunk in despair. The linen cover bore neither the title nor the name of the author. So much for a saviour, I thought. Unbenknownst to me, our little act had drawn the attention of passers-by, and out of the corner of my eye, I could gather that the aforementioned couple watched with bated breath, anticipating my next move. The dog also seemed to be eyeing me with some canine interest.

 

For a moment, I considered making a run for it. He was a stranger after all, and would be lost in the million faces within no time. Could you forget a face like that? The question bounced back, its momentum amplified by its truthfulness. As indecision loomed, waiting to spell disaster, I heard a faint thud. It is in moments of utter desperation, that time becomes elastic. The smallest unit seems to spread itself out, magnifying its proportions, forcing us to take it more seriously than we actually do. Within that unit of time, which could have been minuscule, the book slipped from his hands, landing on the slippery lane with a thud. Instinctively, I bent down, and grabbed the book, opening it surreptitiously to sneak a look at the title. He had bent down to take the book too, and seemed irritated by the energy lost in the activity. The look of irritation was soon replaced with that of puzzlement, when he saw the erstwhile blank face now infused with some liveliness.

 

"So what do you think of 'The Stranger'?" Relief coloured my voice with more enthusiasm than what the question really merited. Though I was a stranger to philosophy, I belonged to a circle of highly erudite friends, who tolerated my presence for reasons known only to them. They debated, I listened. Albert Camus came up pretty often, and with him came 'The Stranger'. Now, I searched my memory desperately, for some lingering scrap of information that could save me from embarassment. Thankfully, I was saved from the trouble of digging too deep.

"I haven't read it so far. I plan to read it tonight." His voice, now that I heard it more clearly, was a sleepy drawl, and I could feel more tingling. While I was transported to another, rose tinted world, I could hear him faintly, asking me my name. "Caprice," was my entranced reply. He introduced himself as Ism. He was a writer and thinker, though, he added with a bashful smile, the latter was a fictitious occupation he had invented for himself. He suggested we could walk together, if I was willing. I agreed without a second thought.

 

The world passed us by in a blur. We talked about our respective lives, his being more quiet and grounded than mine, which was the equivalent of a war zone. He laughed at that description, but suggested that it was this unpredictability in my life that had moulded me into an independant individualist. I shrugged, a little uncomfortable at being classified into a 'type' by a man who hardly knew me. Perhaps he sensed this and soon we were back onto neutral ground, discussing careers, pets and politics.

 

Our conversation was interrupted, when a woman, dressed in bright orange, seemingly in her late forties, bumped into us. Ism exclaimed in a tone that suggested pleasant surprise. "Abbie!" The woman seemed to have no trouble identifying the man beside me, and gave him a quick hug. "Why Ism! You have grown up, young man! Oh, look at you!" While this cute exchange of pleasantries continued, I tried to read the brightly attired woman. Her hair was fashioned into a neat bun, the latest fad, and her makeup was immaculate, managing to hide the wrinkles almost perfectly. She wore bright red lipstick, and walked slowly, a combination of grace and wobbly knees. Her eyes, though, had the same faraway look that Ism possessed. Even while she talked animatedly, hands moving like two drunk snakes, her eyes seemed fixed, and lacked the lustre of a lively, passionate woman. Now that's absurd, I thought to myself.

 

Once again on our own, Ism explained the reasons for his mother's friend's contradictory appearence. "She pushes herself too hard. Abbie has always been a curious soul, trying to find the purpose of existence. She does not realise that age is catching up with her, and that she needs to learn to relax a bit, take it easy." Thenceforth, Ism launched into a detailed explanation of how influenced he was by philosophy and its varied facets. I, on the other hand, tried to figure out how the curve of his mouth could be so perfect and how it would feel on my lips. I nodded a little too vigorously at times, which I think he failed to notice, so caught up was he in his impassioned speech on Kierkegaard.

 

After what seemed like a long time, we were standing outside my apartment, still not holding hands, which in my conservative dictionary was first base. We were grinning at each other. But, neither made the first move. But lord, I could just go on watching him like this, with the sloppy haircut and those wonderful, thoughtful eyes. And then, suddenly, amidst the tingling that still continued relentlessly, a question popped up in my head, "Is this what love feels like?"

 

"Meaningless!!" A voice boomed into my ears, destroying my bliss. We both looked at the drunk man, lying on the stairs, preaching to no one in particular. "Life is just a meaningless continuity to be borne until death knocks on the doors! Yessir it is!" Old Mr. Niels was a broken man, jobless, wifeless and childless. Once a formidable man, a respected university professor, he was now a zombie, living despite life being sucked out of him. The moment destroyed, I wished Ism a hasty goodnight, and started walking towards my apartment, feeling miserable. Ism did not try to stop me. Needless to say, I spent a restless night.

 

I overslept, waking up only to the sound of moving traffic. Depression still had an overwhelming grip on me, and I tried to quell it by indulging in a heavy, calorie dripping breakfast. So much for escapism. It was in the middle of my eating binge, that I saw the rose coloured piece of paper lying on the floor. Somebody had slipped it in, under the door. Excitedly, I picked it up and what I saw there brought a smile to my face, so wide that it could have slipped off my face. In elegant cursive, a message lay scrawled, "Meet me for coffee at Cafe Brady's at 6? Yours, Ism."

 

The rest, as they say, is history. Even as I conclude my little note, I look at my lover who still sleeps, with a little smile on his face. He still loves philosophy, and debates, with all the passion of an intellectual. But, a portrait hangs above our bed, where we are both smiling, and just beneath it, written in his elegant cursive, is a line, "I believe in realism."