Aphrodite, You Were Loved!

“So, what can you tell me about those three prisoners, except the fact that you’ve taken away their conjugal privileges and it is you who pays for their weekly visit to the cemetery?”


“Well, the one playing the harp is a rapist. The Asian singing to the music is a murderer and the one praying in the backyard is of an unknown race and religion. He was caught with a ton of class, he is a narcotic.”


We are all beautiful, we all may love. Destiny, somehow, isn’t always sweet.


“Aren’t they supposed to be in a closed cell? Priority suggests they must rot in a dungeon with neither the winds nor the sunshine.”


“They are no more the dark people who walked in. Something happened to them, something that transformed their characters and their wishes.”


“Let me guess, guilt?”


“Love! They fell in love.”


“With what? Life or the foreseeable death?”


“With the woman who now rests in the cemetery.”


“You lost me.”


“Aphrodite was her name, a name she did justice to in every possible dimension. She was condemned to death for a series of murders. This prison saw the last five months of her life.”


“I am still lost.”


Tend to my wounds, cater to my needs and when the day comes, I will love you.


“They all were the same. They were all condemned and they were all in love with dying. I put them together in a cell. It seemed harsh to chain them and throw them in a pit. Some miles down the road and they all fell in love with her.”


There are some stories which may not need an end, and then there was one scripted on a single page, destined to end.


“A desperate attempt to live within the constraints of her love, was it?”


“They all were tired of scars and judgmental eyes. The world was a cruel comfort to them.”


“So, what brought this wave of unprejudiced, enlightening love? Did you ever talk to Aphrodite about them?”


“Yes, I did, on the day she was sent to the chair and executed. She was beautiful like the dying sun. If she wasn’t dead, she would have been life in its purest form. I asked her the secret, the reason why they all fell in love with her.”

“What did she say?”


“She gave them what the world never had.”




“No, love! The peace accompanied her love. To paint it with words, if I may, they fell in love and drank from the fountain that was pouring like an avalanche coming down the mountain.”


“I am not lost anymore.”


We all have to die, so why not love before we do?


“They buried her all by themselves. They even carved her tombstone and said the final prayers.”


“Strange, isn’t it? To find love in places where the soul is scared of the darkness, to worship love where the only God worshiped is Death. And here I am, trying to find a love story for my journal, desperately. I have a wife at home; a family, but no love. I envy these three.”


Give me something to remember and I shall listen to the stories your grave will whisper.


“If only we stopped looking for love and started giving. All the best for your journal.”


If only he could tell the journalist that love was not easy for him too. He found peace too in their story; he found the reason to love, again.


“I have one last question, though. What does her tombstone say?”


“It says, ‘Aphrodite, You were loved’.”


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