Monday 26 May 2008

and blink

He liked to see her face the first thing in the morning, her eyes mostly. They gave him a strange sense of excitement, a reminder that all playfulness is not lost, an invitation to see past them, a tickle to his curiosity.
He only had to seek them, and they would respond. Sometimes there was nothing to be said, but only an assurance to be sought, a presence to be felt. Sometimes their eyes started the conversation, their words filled in wherever required and again let the two pairs continue. Sometimes, they shied away from each other, a fear of being caught too long on a hope maybe.
Sometimes he sought them earnestly, when he said something not readily acceptable to a patterned thinking, his thoughts-not easily digestible to a conditioned appetite, his values-too old for an atrophying morality.

He wanted her to feel, what he felt on the top of that mountain, with clouds close to his feet, and sky almost within his fist. He wanted her to hear what the wind whispered to him that night.
He wanted her to see those things, which moved him to tears and laughter but none around him noticed.
He wanted to tell her tales by the night lamp, with their feet cuddled up in blanket in the winters. He wanted her to look at the smile of the little boy at being offered a chewing gum, look at the wrinkles of the old woman who served him hot tea and momos , see the sweat on the brow of the old potter making tea cups.
He wanted her to run on the beach; free, without care and inhibition.

He thought they had time for all of these : she blinked.
Perhaps he wanted too much.

Monday 19 May 2008

the orange rain

It rained the whole night. And he kept staring at it through the half-open window of his room.
He could not see much due to the darkness of the night and the mango tree that acted as an unwanted umbrella shielding the moonlight.
The sound of the falling raindrops, the noise of the moist, cool wind jostling with wet, washed, shy leaves (were they scrambling for cover or enjoying the flirtatious breeze's advancements?), the occasional croak of frogs and intermittent guffaws of thunder made him constantly remember the rain though. He crept out of his bed, opened the lock of his gate slowly so as not to disturb the sleep of other people in the house, pushed it open with care to reduce the noise of steel against steel. He was out, staring at the duly washed roads: neat, as if someone had just cleaned them with Her own hands for ablution, shining black and wet, reflecting the stray moon-rays that had found their way through the spaces between the jasmine tree branches, like attraction finding way through prejudices. All of the day's dust had been washed away.

Was it utterly necessary to envoice all that he had in mind, did he really mean all that he said or did she ? All his choices directed by reason and reason alone ? No pride, no temptation, no revenge, no desire hidden ? Were his motives all noble ? Did he not know the answer to all his questions ? Did all her words have sincerity behind them; no flippancy, no mock? Was not that a moment's nay many more moment's weakness, a slip-up, an attempt to be something he really did not want to rather was not prepared to be, a hope to see, to find something when that was not there. He knew it, but still he hoped for things to improve. Time, he thought would teach the best. It did, but it was he who was the student.

A lot of dust had settled in. He waited for one more shower of rain.

Thursday 15 May 2008

spilt

He lied to her. And often so.
She saw the milk she was boiling for her lonely cup of tea in the evening, spill over. As an involuntary reaction, she caught the handle of the container to lift it up and allow the violent bubbles of milk to settle down to the bottom. She had thrown caution to the window and forgot to use a cloth, in hurry, in misplaced trust, in inconvenient familiarity or in self-belief. Burnt her palm in the act. She had to drop that container back on the burner and spilled more milk.

The gas was still on, the fire still raging . By the time she grabbed her hand with the other, and put her mouth into it to reduce the pain, some more milk spilt.
She finally put out the burner knob.
Ice ! She dashed towards the refrigerator. Her stray elbow dashed against the fateful handle, and some more split.
Few minutes later when she was pouring out the tea out to the cup, the phone rang. It was his phone - she had assigned a different ringtone to his number. She turned around to look.
A lot of milk had been split this evening.

Wednesday 7 May 2008

understood silence

He was looking out of the bus window, out of no particular desire of his, but to avoid wearing a few fake smiles he no longer wanted to after a long day at office. He wanted to breathe out all the general angst and lack of warmth he had come to identify his office and his colleagues with. A familiar scent of deo disturbed him, a familiar change in the temperature; he looked around, a very familiar face. She paused for a moment and after exchanging hushed greetings took the seat besides him.
Last time he talked to her over phone, she was curt - "yeah" "hmm" "maybe" "i would not know" "nothing" "hmmmm" "everything's OK". It was as if she was struggling to say and few words and really struggling to hold back a few more. Silence, one realizes is the most palatable form of communication. Words, voice only complicate things with and without our permission. They exchanged civilities, asked a few questions that had the answers in them, replied with few more questions and deviations. The silence in between, his raised eyebrows, her downcast eyelids, his rubbing of palms, her looking at her the torn sheet cover, his strange smile, her shifting in the seat and the pauses between their sentences conveyed so much more that what they actually uttered.

Sometimes too much understanding becomes a problem. Then no questions are asked, no anger is expressed, no explanations are given, no excuses necessary. It all becomes so redundant. Nobody is blamed, not even the time, nor the circumstances; everyone is sympathized, understood. Hopes burnt, are seen as clothes that we could do without, dreams crashed are negated as 'mere' dreams, possibility is deemed as inevitability and action or inaction as fate.