To Be His Lover

It is said that we can't never be lovers. But I was determined to change this.

I was obsessed to be his lover. I really believed I was destined to love him and no one else.

I have tried to love other man, but all the relationships failed to work out.

The more I dissect my failed relationships, the more clearer the picture becomes - at any circumstances and at any prices, I had to be his lover. There was no two way about it.

As long as I am not his lover, I won't find any peace. There will always be a touch of sadness hanging over my life like dark clouds.

I was tired of dark clouds. I yearn for a rainbow. Only he can give me the rainbow that I wanted so desperately.

There were many nights, I cry to my sleep, knowing the fact that we can't never share a bed together.

I was tired of crying. I wanted to be happy so badly. Only he can give me the happiness I search for.

What is surprising, I barely recalled our first meeting. Frankly speaking I could not be blamed for that. When we first meet, I was a toddler in a cradle. The more older I get, I developed an insane fascination for him. At first I thought it was just a crush.

With time, I thought it will melt away and I will find someone near my age.

But I never got over him. The more years passed by, the fascination for him just grows.

He had loved me. That I cannot deny. But he never loved me like a lover . . . like a Romeo would love a Juliet.

I wanted him to love me as passionately and intensely as he had loved his deceased wife. I want him to take me in his arm and uttered sweet loving words to my ears.

I never meet his wife. I have only look at her pictures. She had died when I was born.

In certain angles, I do resemble like her. But still he doesn't loved me the way he had loved her.

Sometimes I can't help feeling jealous of her. Her fingers had gone through all his intimate places. She has felt his warmth, taste his lust and carried his child. I wanted so badly to be in her shoes.

But then if his wife was alive, most likely, there would be some detachment between him and me. Perhaps I won't feel for him the way I do now. I believe I would have been more concerned about her feelings.

With my old face and given name, there is no way he would regard me as his lover. So I changed everything about me: my face and my name. I had adopted a total different identity.

I still remember what the plastic surgeon told me when I wanted him to alter every single feature in my face.

"I never had a beautiful woman walk into my office and asked me to change her entire face," says the top surgeon in the country.

I didn't reply. Naturally plastic surgeon did what he was told. After all, the more changes were done, the more money he earns.

The surgeon did a perfect job. I barely recognised myself when I looked into the mirror. I felt like a stranger was staring back.

Prior to my surgery, I staged my own death. For the world I died when my car skidded and fall into the river. My body was never found.

After a year after my "presumed" funeral, I return to my hometown with a new name and new face. From Phallavi I have become Pooja. No one recognised me not even him.

They all believed me when I said I was a copy writer attached to a well known advertising agency, tired of the city life and looking for a quiet life, far from the madding crowd.

I expressed a keen interest to take up piano lessons which I abandoned years ago as a child. Naturally I was introduced to him. He was a well known pianist.

I pretended to know nothing about an instrument which I learned since I was five years old. What is irony, he was my piano tutor then.

The piano lessons were just a charade for me to be re-introduced to him and slowly win his heart.

I knew him well so I know the right subjects to be brought up as conversation. We got along famously. We laughed a lot. I know exactly the right things to say to make him laugh.

Soon enough, love was blossoming between us. A dream come true for me. For once I had his love the way I dream of. Initially he was not comfortable with the difference of our age. I was 25 while he was 50. It took sometime for me to convince him that love breaks through barrier of race, eligion and age.

In less than two years of our acquaintance, he proposed and I accepted with joy. Finally I was becoming more than his lover. I was becoming his wife . . . his other half.

This year will mark four years we have been together as husband and wife. Truly, it has been the most happiest years of my life. Finally happiness has entered my life and sadness has disappeared into the thin air.

He is still in dark of my true identity. He has no clue that we have meet long before our first piano lessons.

He really believed that fate had brought us together. But in reality I had manipulated my way into his heart. It was a manipulation at the highest degree.

However I hope he never finds out the truth. He will have a hard time digesting the facts. He will have tremendous regrets, remorse and griefs over what transpired between us.

Like many, he would regarded what we have done was not right. As for me, I am not bothered what is right and what is wrong. I have no regrets at all.

I was tired of living a life of misery. I was tired not getting what my heart desire. I was tired of living by the law that written centuries ago.

So I did what my heart craved for without bothering of the consequences. When the time come, I will be ready to face God's wrath, his punishment and his hell.

Looking back now, I felt it was not my fault, entirely. I never ask to be born as his daughter. More than his daughter, I wanted to be his lover.