I once walked into a museum of stone and marble statues. It was nothing fascinating or great, just your normal boring statues frozen in time and place for eternity.
I crossed these two statues, placed about 2 metres apart from each other and I stopped. I examined these, noticed their expressions, the emotions etched on their faces. They were looking at each other longingly in love. It was beautiful. Between these two statues was an untold story that could be read only by closely examining them. I stood there for God knows how long, reading and understanding what they were trying to say.
They loved each other. This was clear. You could tell by the way her eyebrows curved upwards and her lips were slightly parted in awe on the sight of him. You could tell by the way his eyes seemed to form an invisible bridge to her and his arms were outstretched in her direction. They were deep in love, but somehow never managed to get to each other. You could tell by the way her eyes emitted sadness and the wrinkles on her young face depicted the faux-ageing she’d gained trying to get to him. You could tell by the way his mouth was curved downwards in a frown and his shoulder slumped in a defeated manner. You could tell by the lifelessness of both of these beautifully sculpted statues that they loved each other, but never got together.
I asked the museum guide about their story, and he just shrugged his shoulders and waved them off as “another Romeo and Juilet stupidly in love”. But I knew they were something more, something about their untold story intrigued me, begged me to understand it further.
I spent hours staring at them, looking at their clothes, their expressions and sculpting techniques. She was made of diamonds and he of graphite, both so fundamentally similar and yet completely different. She was probably from the nobles and he a labourer. His hands looked rough like rock. Her hands were soft like a flower. Yet in some odd way it felt like her hands were made to fit in his. His lips looked chapped and old, hers looked as soft as a baby’s. Yet in some odd way it felt as though their lips were made to lock on each other.
That’s when I noticed the ring on her left ring finger. Were they married? No, that can’t be right. The ring looked too big for him to buy, much more materialistic than emotional. His fingers bore no ring. I looked to her left to see another statue of a man, not nearly as interesting as these too. Yet, he was uncomfortably close to her, their shoulders almost touching. He was made of marble but still looked dull in front of him. This was her husband. She was married to him, a noble when she loved him, a labourer.
She never loved him. You could tell by the way he was not even in her periphery.
He never gave up. You could tell by the determined look in his eyes and his ringless finger.
These were two lovers who could never be with each other. These were two lovers who had to be separated because of society’s norms. Yet time couldn’t erase their love. Love is eternal. You can tell by the unquestionable bond of emotions between these two statues.
One might say ask how I could tell so much by just looking at two statues.
Well, no. They’re not just two statues. They’re a bundle of emotions. They’re a history of romance. They’re a symbol of love.
Their’s is a true story of love. This is the truth of what society can force us to do. But true love will never go away. These statues are hundred years old, but their love is still fresh.
A museum full of statues of great Gods and heroes, but my eyes fell on these two. Their incomplete love can still be felt. They’re eyes still rest on each other and their arms long the feel of the other. Their story must be told, sung in every street and every corner. These two statues are still in love, even if they’re not alive. Their love is as old as time itself, and like time, it continues to go strong.
~going back to my perfect reverie