Prem Krishna Shrestha
It’s not been long since I started using Facebook. At the constant request of my friend, I recently opened an account. In the beginning, Facebook became a subject of excitement and curiosity for me. Today, with the addition of new and unfamiliar friends, my Facebook has its own boundary and society. Now, Facebook is my friend during recess and in boredom.
One time, I was going through the checklist of some of my friends. I came across a strange lady with a profile picture of Aishwarya Rai. I sent her a ‘Hi.’ She replied, ‘Hello.’ I asked her name, and she told me it was Gunjan. During our conversation, we shared information about our educational background, occupation, and living. She open-heartedly praised my ghazals. The pieces, which were carelessly scattered in my Facebook account, had actually touched her heart. There are only a few friends on my Facebook who closely view others’ profiles. Everyone is busy caring about their own profiles and narrowing their world into their desktop. Every time, her appraising words would attach to my ghazals, which was an honor for them as well. She would repeatedly ask me, for whom were my flawless words created? At times, she would show her dislike for the sad emotions in my ghazals. She used to tell me that my ghazals sounded best when they smiled and would inspire me to write happy thoughts rather than sad ones.
I didn’t know who she was. She hadn’t posted any of her real pictures on Facebook. I used to lovingly call her ‘My Gunjan’ as our growing intimacy made it comfortable. In the book of faces, I didn’t even know if the real name of this faceless lady was Gunjan. I used to always request her to upload her pictures on her profile.
“This is Facebook, and a face is necessary in it, my Gunjan. You are also a person with a face, so please register your face here. It wouldn’t cost you anything, would it?” I used to ask her.
She used to smile while chatting—“He he”—and say, “I don’t want to frighten you by keeping my photo on Facebook. My face is completely burnt from fire!”
I thought she was kidding and would say, “Isn’t a burnt face still a face? No matter what others say, you are beautiful to me. Your imaginary picture that has been created on the canvas of my heart—I worship it.” I would also send ‘Ha ha’ in reply. She would openly admire my feelings and thoughts.
To get a glimpse of her face, I requested her for almost two months. Then, one midnight, she said in chat, “Today, I’ll show you my real self. Look into my profile, all right?”
I got very excited and told her okay. Then, a picture appeared—a face, half of which was completely burnt, a face that was a symbol of ugliness. I couldn’t believe my eyes that this picture belonged to my popular friend, Gunjan. When she repeatedly convinced me that it was her real picture, only then could I force myself to believe it. She said again, “For ugly women like us, what importance is there in Facebook?”
For me, that moment felt like a sad dream.
The next day, in place of her real face, Aishwarya’s smiling face appeared again. A face within Facebook, which lives borrowing the pretty face of another person—I thought, don’t they have the right to live with their real identity?
I pass my days carrying new sets of ghazals, waiting for the chance to ask her the same question if I ever get the chance to chat with her again. But I don’t know—nowadays, everyone comments on my ghazals, but not my Gunjan…
