Ekta Chopra -...

2021-06-11 14:01:02 -

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Okay, if you insist too much, I’ll tell you my love story even though you may not find it different from any teenager. What do you think of that… uh… “Physical attraction” started with my love story. It all started when I was young. Man, those were the days… Old jeans the same as the power of seven old horses I love Bullet motorcycle but new T-shirts and new girls always. It was full of fun, romance, and sex.

Then Ganga came into our classroom, one day, to immerse me in his heart, in his love. Life began to change for me. I was the same but the feelings were now different. Bunking in college continues, but the focus changed. I have never been interested in digital communication classes but I put them on to stay behind so I can go to her… read with her beautiful eyes… to see her furry lips just talking to me, only to me… feel her breath while watching her rise and fall her breasts .I touch her sweetly Lips not even his fingers while exchanging letters and notes… Then one day, after fulfilling my wish, he left.

Love meant lust – it was nothing but the flow of testosterone that created the attraction to the body of an obese and powerful man, it was all about it. I was a voluntary person among my friends; but for the girls I was Casanova from college. It was just a matter of the church that I put on any girl. Simple tips that have always worked for me with a little variation here and there – an amazing introduction with a small shock wave, open a conversation to praise her beauty, see you again “”, go for coffee, and meet my character again, go for a long drive followed by dinner or two in bed to sleep with. I have won countless bets from my friends for this ability. But when it comes down to it, I lost everything after winning the bet. I had sex with him but it wasn’t matter. It sowed deep love for me. The first time I saw a woman differently

I had my last year of electrical engineering – a young man without a mother, rich, stubborn, indirect. I hated my father for no reason, I don’t know when. The meaning of life was very simple, “Life is a dictionary in Live in Full Enjoy. It’s all about me – nothing else ”.

bad habits and was always supported by many of my friends everywhere for a good time. No one told me I was wrong – I never was. But he did and it surprised me without objection, unlike what I was, I just followed him sincerely.

I quit smoking, no more beer party, marijuana started stinking, no bunking of classes… a serious, studious lover of his digital communication teacher. Our relation became subject of many whispers and gossips in the campus but she never bothered and kept protecting me by powerful shield of her love.

I was limited now to him or to the books. He became the reason for my presence. Love does not see equality between lovers. You don’t have to be as good as I was with Ganga. She was five years older than me – a girl from a very familiar family in a village near Varanasi. There were many who began to blame Ganga for catching the rich little boy. Such remarks were already boiling my blood and I once broke my nose at the library’s nose which passed dirty comments as we both went to his apartment in the evening.

There were many who began to blame Ganga for catching the rich little boy. Such remarks were already boiling my blood and I once broke my nose at the library’s nose which passed dirty comments as we both went to his apartment in the evening. I was expelled from college and hostel for fifteen days. But this punishment helped me – I was almost out of campus but actually stayed with him on the same campus, in his quarter. These fifteen days were so wonderful, so remarkable, so satisfying that I could even sacrifice my fifteen lives for them. In those days I saw why Ganga was considered the greatest in our country,

why Ganga loves God, and how evil can be turned into righteousness only by the holiness of His grace. She was my sweetheart, my mom, my sister, my friend, my dad, my teacher… all that a man could need.

The love lesson he taught us was so powerful that it even washed away the animosity I and my father knew. One day I wrote him a letter, telling him all about my conversion and the same inspiration. Twenty days later I received a letter from my father. I heard my mother with her words. For the first time in my life I cried like a child keeping my head in Ganga’s lap. Her hands were stroking my hair and stroking me with an unusual combination of many forms of love.

The day came when my exams were over and I had to go to my father. I was back “home”. I first saw my childhood at the age of twenty-two. I was the happiest soul in the world. But at the same time it was very sad not to see him up close. In those days I was always waiting in my dad’s office at 1 PM to call the staff room and listen to him so he could hear his approach with me.

We finally got home and the next day I arrived at my father’s office after breathing heavily more than six hundred and twenty-five and nine hundred and sixty-four. I called the staff room number at 12:59 PM but nothing. The staff replied, “No, no one in the room… who is unbelievable ..” Thud. I could not load the receiver of the phone. I have tried to hear his voice every day for the next five days. The staff who had visited my phone already understood who I was and why I was asking for Professor Ganga Chaturvedi.

That day he picked up the phone and called out to himself, “Ganga madam stopped coming to college. In the new batch there seems to be a number of younger boys. You must be busy teaching them at home… ”I rang the phone, picked up my father’s car key from his jiffy cupboard, and left the office without worry and my dad’s surprised face.

It was 4 AM when I arrived at the college the next morning very early after driving more than fifteen hours. I almost ran into his third quarter with nothing but locking his door…

Eighteen months after I was sheltered, I came to my senses but still there was no Ganga. I had forgotten everything including my real name except Ganga. A few had started calling me “Majnu”. I had only one question, “Where is Ganga?”

I was finally able to manage his address. The female staff were kind enough to search the dustbin file to obtain staff records. I don’t remember how I got to his house. Should I go? Did I take the train? Did I just follow Ganga? Nothing… I don’t remember. I remember an old priest on the banks of the Ganga River who told me that my Ganga, his daughter, was no longer in this mortal world. He showed me from a distance where the burning of my Ganga and the ashes of his ashes were poured into the holy pool.

He left college and stopped talking to me… because of me… he made me a better life… when he came to know he had leukemia…

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