Meaning: The feeling one has for someone he or she used to love, but no longer loves.
Note: This is not a traditional Russian word, but our interpretation of how that word sounds.
Everyone has loved. And lost that love. Most often, it is because they lose the respect they had for a person, whatever be the trigger for it. People come and go in our lives. But our love lingers and that makes us do many things, some great, some stupid and some we wouldn’t do for anyone else. But once we stop loving a person, for different reasons, we begin realising what we were doing the whole time and some things sound absurdly simple and stupid, often letting us conclude that ‘love is blind and stupid’.
And this gives us a psychological shift. We have loved dearly, but then we stop loving them, or rather fall out of love. The liking is there, even the opinions are unaltered, sometimes the admiration increases. But the spark goes. It can ever be got back, the mad blind love that closes its eyes to the imperfections. We can never go back to not loving them, to completely hating them, if we don’t have enough reasons to, but then there is that feeling that is a little more than friendship and something less than love. We have loved that person. We never will feel the same again, but we can’t go back to being strangers. The lingering feeling is what Russian gives us a word for.
Flash Fiction #18
Rhea looked calmly at the sea. She had lost her sense of time and space temporarily as she watched the waves chase each other relentlessly. Her heart and mind went back to the previous year, exactly an year back, when she had sat on this very sand proposing to live together forever. They had planned a lot – that they would reserve this date every year and meet here, no matter what commitments they had, that they would hold hands and stand in the waves, and they would end the day by lying down on the beach and count the stars. Rahul had maintained his promise for fifteen long years. But the last eventful year had changed it all.
Promises meant nothing, assurances were shattered and the memories came crashing down on her like a brutal tidal wave that threatened to overpower her sense of self and conscious thought. She felt a lone tear leak out.
People are like that, she reasoned, they fall out of love for the same reasons that made them fall in love.
She had found him humorous, adventure loving and sassy, always having the heart of a child in him. But then came his thirst for adventure – in marriage. She had not lucked out to obtain a man who found a million ways to love his one woman. Rhea let out a sigh. He needed a mature guide at 17, and she at 18 was capable of giving that. But she was now 31 years old, old enough to think of long term plans, while he was 30 years young, at the brink of his next big adventure.
Differences escalated enough to grow into silly arguments and the older person had given in. And then came the pain. Of letting go, of knowing that there was no turning back. But right behind it, slightly delayed came the acceptance, the genuine realisation that love is not forever and if often changes for the same reason.
She wanted to write her memories on the sand and let the waves wash them away, only to have them permanently taken away. But she had loved him so fervently that complete estrangement was emotionally impossible.
The spark had died, but the embers remained.
Razbliuto, she wrote on the sand, watching dispassionately as the wave washed it away.