Who the hell is this Code Hero?

If his fingers are busy scribbling on an old yellow notebook page and has a pocket full of ink pens tainted in one curve, he’s the right person, your Hemmingway code hero whose face does not possess an affable look. He has no saccharine dimples but look into his eyes, there is a sublimation of all his. There he lives in his eyes. He is an unnoticed charm among the dusty books of a second hand book store and the corners of another shunned coffee shop sipping the bitter coffee. He is the odd one out who finds his mirror reflection in Camus’ Meursault. Bookmark him!

He may not talk a lot and laugh loud at your jokes but that doesn’t mean he is shy. He is interrogating your personality and trying to find a connection to make the bond if necessary. Don’t expect expensive gifts and mind-blowing reactions from his friends. He will probably write you secret notes quoting Neruda and Keats and talk to his friends about you as another intellectual soul. Remember you are Woolf’s sister to them and your radical feminist views are greatly acclaimed by them when they meet under candle lights to recite Goblin Market.

You don’t want someone who happily agrees with whatever you say and compliment your poems without even reading them. He will not understand you when you wake up in the middle of the night dreaming of Frankenstein’s monster and cry reading Porphyria’s Lover. But your code hero will wink at you like Darcy, critique and proofread your writings and will hold you tight when you think you are falling into existential angst and think of running off to Himalayas in search of an authentic being. He is a genius, A Monk who sold his Ferrari so that you live happily in your timeworn flat among unfinished sonnets and untaken realistic prose pieces, dance to old blues and jazz and have protracted debates on Paradise Lost.

He’ll wake up one morning desperately wanting to have a dialogue with his comrade Lenin, talk to you the whole day about Russian Revolution and The Great Coat. He’ll worry himself more reading Train to Pakistan and think of seeking an unknown asylum in his utopian land. He’ll suggest next day to migrate to some country and state you about his idea of writing Indian Diasporas. He needs a hug and remember he’s going to write another Love Poem for Wife 1 wanting to have a shared childhood with you.  

You’ll have little debts, money he borrowed to go see Monte Cristo’s Island, you’ll struggle with his artistic isolation and indifference, he may evaporate one fine morning without even leaving a clue and come back next eve with a hand full of golden daffodils. He will make you feel weird with his thoughts on normality, worry you with his cold deeds and make you cry with his odes. But you’re lucky to find him because only he could write you passionate little notes inside your lunch box, find strange names for your kids and instil in them stranger thoughts, surprise you when you wander lonely like a cloud, admire you when your grow old with wrinkles on your skin and ink stains on your skirt. 

For my roommate and her prince charming ;)