To say I like Supriya is not true. Not entirely true, that is. What I feel for her is more than just a liking. There are days when I feel overcome by a compelling urge to possess her. To see my very being melt and infuse into the life energy that she is. The power of that emotion is so strong that I hold myself perfectly still for a long time. I’m afraid that even the slightest twitch in my muscles would trigger the explosive force within, and let loose a passion I am too weak to experience.

Yet the Supriya I love does not exist. Neither does the one that I don’t. One the other hand, both are very real. Yes. If perception is reality, they are as real as you and me in my mind.

Funny thing is, a lot of people don’t realize that we actually live the whole of our lives inside our heads. You can have your lover next to you in the bed, yet be living thousands of miles away on an island. Alone, and enjoying it. Or maybe, alone and terrified. The fact is, a physical reality does not presuppose it is alive to us or we feel part of it. In all probability, the proverbial ‘narrow-minded professor’ in our midst could be living as much as 90% of his life not amidst us but inside his head.

The Supriya, that I don’t know yet know, lives inside me. She is part of my daydreams, occupying precious moments of my life. But the hundreds and thousand of others don’t. I ask myself why. What makes Supriya a part of my waking existence?

If words could sculpt exquisite edifices to human emotions, if they can stand tall in tribute to the splendor of the creative mind, her’s do that with unmatchable grace and a seeming ease that is enviable. Not always. But often enough not to miss the sparkling brilliance or raw energy.

I believe, someone who writes and considers it a serious occupation should write as a doctor uses defibrillator to revive a dead man. His or her words should jolt the reader’s heart and once again instill life in him. They should wake him up to ‘feel and think’ once again. Unfortunately, most writing one comes across is fit for history textbooks. They are as dead and indifferent.

However, Supriya is different. Reading her I have had goosebumps. I have come closest to having an intellectual orgasm. She doesn’t write, she slashes at you with her pen. She wounds to make sure you bleed, so no longer can you ignore you are alive. She writes to breath life into you.

Yet I don’t know who Supriya is. Not in the way our society understands that term. I haven’t met her. I haven’t spoken to her. We don’t wish each other on our birthdays or exchange personal notes. I never think of doing any of that either. That would disrupt my dream. Right now, my Supriya is pure, unadulterated, creative energy. She can flow through my body and mind. Like an electric shock that can wake me up from the coma of a life. 

In essence, my Supriya can be Blackmagicwoman here. Or Madhuri Manral. Or rmadhuri. Or Hespera. Why, my Supriya can even be the now-absent-from-Sulekha perpetualcrisis. Because being Supriya is never about a person. It is, and always will be, about the spirit of sublime writing. It will always be about giving in to the rare moments of excellence snatched away from the mouth of medicority.