NOW OR NEVER PART II
I am
pacing up and down a deserted corridor. I have walked away from the dull- lit
waiting room, because I feel claustrophobic now. I feel suffocated by the
numerous anxious faces and teary eyes. I’m tired of hearing the same question,
“What’s happening now?”
Exactly,
what’s happening now?
The
doctors rush past, possibly trying to avoid us. They’re exhausted from giving
the same staid replies,
“She’s under observation right now. I’m sorry
we’re not allowing anyone to see her right now.”
I
want to ask you, how did you let this happen? Why did you let this happen? Have I not warned you enough about
dangerous Delhi roads?
How
could you be so careless?
Even
if we’ve exchanged few words over three years, how could you forget all those
times I told you?
Why,
Swara? Why do you always leave me worried like this?
I
want to fight with the doctors, and push past them. I want to rush into this
hidden room and see you. I want to see you, Swara. I want to look into those
steadfast eyes- those big beautiful eyes, which have come to me so many times
in my dreams-and I’ve never understood why.
I
want to see you awake, and that expression in your eyes- which you just had for
me. Something only both of us understood.
I see
Aisha, pacing up and down too. Her usually neat hair lies untidy and loose
around her. She hasn’t slept for two days straight, and her eyes look ill and
tired. Her scarf, which was always kept carefully around her neck, is now
twisted around her hand. She doesn’t speak much to me-perhaps just some short
and curt words and I suppose I know the reason why. I try again anyway.
“Have
you eaten something, Aisha?” I ask hesitantly.
She
gives me an irritated glance and shakes her head.
Despite
the morbid and waiting gloom, I feel an inward happiness.
You
have a good friend, Swara. Better than me, probably. Though I know you’ll
defiantly deny that. You’ll smile and say, “Don’t say that Rehaan.”
I
don’t know where time went, Swara. I don’t know how it’s been three years and
all we’ve exchanged is New Year greetings, birthday greetings and other small
bits of irrelevant information. I don’t know why there were times that I didn’t
respond to your message asking me what’s happening in my life.
Was
it your reaction to my news about Aditi which kept me away from you for good?
I’ve
never cried like that.
Not
even when my parents divorced.
What
was it about you that produced such emotion in me? It was Aditi I was dating,
then why did you and I have a silent moment on the phone that day?
“I’m so happy for you.”
I can
hear those clear words ringing in my head even now.
I
remember being relieved that I was a hundred miles away from you at that time.
I wouldn’t have been able to handle it, had you been in front of me.
Just
the thought of your eyes and your smile would have been enough.
What
was it about us, Swara? You would speak volumes without speaking. But I
wouldn’t understand, because I was dying to hear it from you. You, who used to
answer everything in crisp and concise sentences?
Will
I ever be able to hear that voice again?
I
remember the first time I saw you. It was orientation day-our first day in
college. We had exchanged polite smiles, and sat in different rows in that
stuffy auditorium. You were wearing that black t-shirt and jeans, with your
tiny bag slung across your shoulder. I smile now as I think of that tiny bag.
You only carried a notebook and pen in it. Your hair was tied back, and you
were wearing those long earrings.
Do
you still have that earring collection, you kept boasting proudly of?
“I have thirty-three of them, Rehaan.”
I
would pretend to scoff and shut my ears.
By
the time, the dreaded orientation ended, we were sweating profusely. The
electricity as always didn’t work. We were told to leave the auditorium and
find our department heads.
I
remember both of us trying to squeeze past the crowds and get out. We laughed
in exasperation.
“Which
course?” I asked you.
“History.”
You answered, almost getting knocked down by a stampede of screaming girls.
I
held your hand, to stop you from falling.
At
that time, we could hear raindrops, and thunder and lightening. We both groaned
at the same time, and then we laughed.
Do
you remember how there was a flash of understanding in our glances? I do.
We
were in the same course, and you said with your trademark shyness, “Oh good,
we’ll be in the same class.”
We
walked outside, to see the rain. It was just drizzling now.
I
turned to you and said, “They’re holding the department orientation in this
rain. I’m not going. It won’t be of much use anyway.”
You
seemed taken aback at this declaration. Years after, I would remember how
sometimes you would just roll at your eyes at my declarations-or at times smile
and nod, and go along with them.
“I
detest rain too. We could sit on the steps for now.” You said quietly.
We
sat on those dirty steps, and then when the dreaded drizzle stopped, we went
for a walk around campus.
We
wouldn’t go anywhere specific, all that mattered was that we were together.
I’m
brought back to the present reality, with Aisha’s sharp call,
“Rehaan.”
“Yeah?”
“Her
parents have been allowed to see her.”
“That’s
good.” I say rather mechanically.
I
prefer to dwell in those forgotten days.
Aisha
says, “Don’t walk around so much. Stay near the waiting room. Can’t keep
running around looking for you.”
It
was ironically Aisha, who had called me.
I
don’t know how she got my number.
I
remember answering the phone, and hearing a rather weak voice saying,
“Hi,
Rehaan…I’m Aisha…Swara’s friend.” She seemed to choke a little.
My
fingers were already cold.
“Yes,
tell me Aisha.”
She
did. She told me you had gone to visit college. You had walked a little fast
across the street-near those dreaded red lights…and a car had rushed past.
I had
felt numb and my head suddenly was spinning. For some reason, I wildly
remembered the last time I had spoken to you properly- not through short text
messages-or Facebook comments- but a proper conversation on the phone.
It
had been about my new job, two years ago.
Two years.
The
conversation ran itself in my head for some reason so many times that day. It
played in my head while I bought flight tickets with fumbling fingers, while I
threw everything possible into my bag, along with your postcards-while I sat
dazed through a two hour flight- while I walked into the hospital and saw a sea
of pale and teary faces around me- but just not you.
That
was still the time when you were the first to know things about my life.
The
conversation had taken forty-five minutes. It had a touch of our old
camaraderie, and a new sense of maturity in it. I still teased you, but it was
different. You told me how proud you were, and how you knew that it would
always happen.
The
same thing you used to say during any debating competition.
And I
asked you…the same thing I would ask after every debate,
“How do you always have faith?”
“I just have a good feeling when it comes
to you.”
Why
do you, Swara? Why did you never get angry and ask me to call you? Why did you
still insist on being friends with me, even though I was a coward?
Yes.
I was a coward. After Aditi came into my life- or rather after I told you about
Aditi-and the way we had cried on the phone…I had felt an urge to stay away
from you.
You
scared me sometimes.
The
way you felt for me, frightened me.
You
felt my joy- like it was your own-you felt my sorrow, like it was yours.
I
have disappointed you, Swara.
You
remember our last meeting.
There
are nights I’ve been awake thinking how those five minutes could’ve gone
differently.
You
were wearing that light white kurta. You had insisted on wearing it- even
though it was slightly crumpled. Your mother wasn’t happy with that decision,
but as always you went ahead with it anyway. You were wearing that faded
necklace which was now turning black in the Delhi heat. It was leaving a few
marks around your neck, but you had refused to change it. Your hair was left
loose, with a few strands flying across your forehead. You always preferred it
like that.
I had
a mad urge to miss that train. I wouldn’t have cared. I would have not gone to
Bangalore to be with my mother if…I could have just stayed back in Delhi.
I
would not have gone to Bangalore and seen further domestic chaos.
I
would’ve been in Delhi…just had you said something.
You
had chances, Swara. So many. The day at the lake, the day we talked about it at
night and I told you,
“If we were together, I would lose you.”
I
wanted you to fight me on that- tell me I was wrong. I wanted you to shake me
out of my fear of falling in loving with you so deeply- and telling me it would
be okay.
Yes
Swara, I wish you had seen through my false bravado and confidence like you
always did. I feel better blaming you because that’s the only way I can justify
myself.
And
now you’re lying unconscious in this miserable dingy hospital and no one knows
how you are.
I am
not allowed to see you, yet.
Bangalore
was a cold drudgery misery. The city was alive and warm, but my family was in
pieces.
I had
moved with my mother away from my father, and I honestly don’t know whether
that was the right decision. Not that I wanted to stay with my father by any
means-I just didn’t know what to do at that time. I had seen enough during
college years. I had seen their cold and uncomfortable silences, and witnessed
their raging fights. If there was one thing, which united them- their pale love
for me and their complete disappointment in the professional path I had chosen.
You
remember how dismissive my father was. He never bothered about my talents in
college-well by that measure neither did my mother. She was convinced it was a
waste of time. When my academics suffered in that terrible third year, they
blamed it on these distractions…and you. They made judgmental remarks about
you, and I lost my temper once.
In
the course of the argument I threw down a plate. Of course, that action spurred
them on. They were convinced that I was becoming unstable because of you.
“She’s
the only good thing in my life. It’s you, both of you.” I had yelled.
I
fought with them so many times. I blamed it on them- something I shouldn’t have
done in retrospect. You were right later when you told me that I couldn’t keep
blaming others for everything.
You
only saw my family once, and I took care that you would never see them again.
You remember walking into that brightly lit dining room. The first thing you
noticed and told me later was how well polished the tables were. They shone,
you said. There were a series of ornaments on the prim and proper bookshelves.
You admired them for a long time, with a small smile. You liked the stone china
cats for some reason, you strange girl. I never liked them as I always thought
they looked mocking and evil. You would argue with me several times about this
and try to convince me later to give them to you. I actually would have, but
that would have led to another domestic wrangle.
You
looked particularly windswept that day- as if you had survived a tornado. You
later explained to me that it was because you were running after an auto
rickshaw. My father was of course contemptuous of your appearance and later
told me you were “dowdy”. I didn’t speak to him for two days.
I
came in, and gave you a drink of water. We were meant to leave for a play. My
parents came in and of course delayed us. My father didn’t fail to disappoint
though. He left after ten minutes abruptly, indicating dismissal. He had issued
short and curt questions to you asking why you were studying history and
whether there was anything to be gained from it. He asked if you participated
in debating like I did. You confessed you had no interest. I can’t forget that
smile curling around his mouth. That was my father. He would hate my debating,
but pretend to be condemning of those who didn’t. You were noticeably stunned,
but you kept your cool. I had tried to give him glances to stop. You got
nervous and started stammering. I was exasperated with you now, as well. Why
did you have to let everyone shake you up like this Swara?
My
mother tried to make conversation but you had lost all confidence by now. You
gave a few nods, and I understood it was time to leave. I’m sorry Swara, I told
you to come home. Before leaving my mother said conversationally, “Your kurta
is faded. You shouldn’t walk around like that, especially when you’re going out
for a play. Looking a bit pale next to Rehaan.” She laughed at the end.
You
were quiet while we were in the metro. I suppose there was not much you could
have said, as people were all pressing in against us. A fat balding man fell on
you, when the metro gave a little jerk. There was no reason, he could have held
on to the railing like everyone else. I lost my cool and came in between the
two of you. You knew I was going to get into a fight that day. You held my hand
and whispered softly,
“Rehaan.”
And
you gently leaned on my shoulder. The fire in me died instantly, and I leaned
back, my head touching yours.
I
forgave you for getting rattled by my parents.
I
forgave myself as well.
When
the divorce finally took place, I made an impulsive decision to go with my
mother. It’s not as if my father cared anyway. The only thing he said to me
when I saw him last was that he wouldn’t send me money anymore.
I
could’ve cared less. But my mother cared, and was worried.
We
stayed in a small dingy flat, and sometimes we had problems with the
electricity bills too. It was difficult getting a job in the beginning as well.
My mother’s salary for a meagre job was not enough.
Your
messages were a breath of fresh air at that time. Your calls were the only
light in dark flat. I did not tell you what was happening-because I knew you
would worry for me. Your voice would maintain its steady note but I would sense
that anxiety.
I
didn’t want that. I wanted those carefree conversations. I don’t know if it was
right or wrong, but I needed that. I loved being able to laugh with you.
I
know you’ll be upset with me that I didn’t tell you this. But I didn’t want you
to become my counsellor and crutch, which is what you were becoming for
everyone else. I was scared that you would just become so involved with helping
me that you would forget yourself.
I
didn’t want to be that person who would just cry to you about their problems….
because I felt if I started, I would not stop. I had done enough during
college.
After
months of toil and chaos, I found a job- by a pure stroke of luck.
I
began to work for an upcoming magazine, and they made me editor.
And
that’s when I met Aditi.
I
don’t know why I delayed telling you about Aditi.
She
breezed into my life during a cold and rainy February. I hadn’t even noticed
that we had a new intern in the office. I had been so preoccupied with getting
my mother medical attention that I had become oblivious to my surroundings. My
father had spared money for my mother finally- but his business was suffering
as well. No doctor had been able to tell us what the problem was, or why she
was in so much pain.
Aditi
and I were told to divide the articles to edit. We stayed in late that night,
sifting through millions of articles and laughing at some of them.
It
was only then I realized how lonely I was.
She
reminded me of you at points. She had strange quirks, which I would taunt her
for. She was also a steady listener just like you.
She
was perfect in most ways- she was fun, bright and had a witty retort up her
sleeve all the time.
It
was easy to talk to her. I wasn’t constricted by emotion at times or
overwhelming urges to confess something crazy which I hadn’t shared with
anyone.
The
only word I could think of- I was fine.
We
spent time every day together, just like you and I used to. Except we didn’t
have those comfortable silences, or those X-raying glances we used to exchange.
And
it’s possibly why I asked her out two months later.
And
three months later, I told you.
And
that’s why I call myself a coward.
That
relationship was a quiet and pleasant one. We were just comfortable. We never
spoke of the future; we decided to go with the flow.
In
essence, we grew complacent.
It
was convenient.
But
how long can a relationship like that be sustained?
It
was as if we had entered marital ennui without even being married.
It
was a routine- we worked together, and then we would go and get dinner. We
would talk, and laugh. Sometimes the silence was uncomfortable, sometimes it
wasn’t. We would try out new restaurants…in the vain hope we would have
something new to talk about. I sometimes stayed at her place, she sometimes
stayed at mine.
She
knew all about my life, and my complicated family situation. She had come and
seen my mother on several occasions, sometimes even when I wasn’t there. She
somehow got along better with my mother than even I ever had.
My mother
heartily approved of her, and would embarrassingly refer her to as my future
wife. Aditi had raised an eyebrow, and then she laughed to cover up her
reaction. She never mentioned it to me, though.
“She
at least is lively and is talkative, unlike that girl you used to bring home.”
Mom had once said in front of her.
Aditi
later asked whom she was referring to. She of course knew about you, but
probably never heard you being talked about in such terms.
“Swara.”
I
rarely uttered your name anymore. Once when I had said it, Aditi had remarked,
“Your face changes when you say her name.”
I had
laughed it off.
Even
though we had good memories for the most part- it was if they had all become
tarnished with pain, and I couldn’t fathom why.
I’m
brought back to the present abruptly as Aisha silently hands me coffee.
“Thanks.”
I say, trying to be friendly.
She
walks away.
I
call out, sharpness of strain showing in my voice,
“Aisha.
I thought we got along well.”
She
turns around. Her face looks whiter and more haggard than ever. Yet it doesn’t
hide her anger.
“This
is not the time, Rehaan.”
“Then
why were you the one to call me?”
“Why
did you come down to Delhi?”
“You
thought I wouldn’t.”
“I
was sure.
Her
cold replies provoke me, and my anger blends with grief. But I find myself
saying,
“Say
what you want to say, Aisha.” Don’t spare me, I say in my head.
“Where
have you been, Rehaan?” Her voice breaks.
Where
had I been? Somewhere between surviving with my mother in Bangalore,
desperately trying to pay electricity bills, looking madly for jobs, and then
getting myself involved in a job and a beautiful dead-end relationship,
ignoring recurrent thoughts about you…where
had I been?
“It’s
been rough.” I finished lamely.
She
throws me a look of disgust and says more to herself, “That’s what you all
say.”
It
bursts out of me then.
“What’s
been happening with her, Aisha?”
I
don’t know what makes me say it.
“Why
didn’t you ever call her back? What good were those two line text messages,
Rehaan? If things were ‘rough’ as you say, she would’ve been there for you. The
truth is, you just forgot about her ever since Aditi came into your life.”
Her
accusations are like poisoned arrows. I almost feel weak. I hold on to the
staircase railing and say unsteadily,
“I’m
not with Aditi.”
She
dismisses this and continues.
“ You
don’t even know what’s been happening with her. She tried telling you to call
her so many times. But you didn’t.”
I
stay quiet.
Tears
break free at last.
We
sit down on the white dirty benches outside, and she tells me your story,
Swara.
A few
months ago, Jay had gotten in touch with you.
Jay,
that menace from college who had hurled hurtful comments at you from time to
time. He needed help with his application for a Masters degree.
You
acquiesced. You helped him even though you were never friends. He had upset you
in every conversation.
Then
why did you help him?
Of
course, he was sweet and loving to you within days. He did the perfect things,
the perfect man would do-called you every day, whispered sweet nothings,
You
fell for it. You believed he had fallen for you. He expressed his love for you
soon.
And
you…accepted.
Had
loneliness taken such a strong hold over you, Swara?
I
remember our conversations in college about dramatic love stories, and painful
breakups. I remember this particular day, we were sitting in the café on a
rainy day, and discussing someone’s failed love life. You as always were
feeling sorry for her- a person you barely knew. Apparently in this story, the
boy had broken up with the girl for no apparent reason. There was no fight,
there was no other girl in the picture. Just because he wanted a change. You
were angry.
“How
can people just break things off for no reason?” You said with a sigh.
I
honestly wasn’t bothered because I didn’t even know these people.
“There
are far worse breakups, Swara. This is nothing.” I remember saying airily.
That
statement shocked you.
“I
don’t know what a “far worse” breakup is. A breakup is a breakup, Rehaan. You
can’t decide the amount of pain a person feels.”
I
felt rather ashamed, but quickly hid it.
“Oh
stop it, Swara.”
We
changed the topic, but I could see you were upset.
This
conversation came screaming back to me.
Jay
had broken up with you, without reason. A cool dismissal.
A
quiet end to what promised to be a relationship.
He
had just said that you weren’t the girl for him, and he needed to explore more.
There was no discord. It had just been an announcement. He had avoided your
calls for a week, and then come home one day to tell you.
How
simple.
No
drama.
You
tried asking. In your peaceful way you wanted him to come back. But he said,
“Don’t push it. I’m sure you’ll find someone else.”
He
left and closed the door behind him.
After
all those fervent confessions.
I see
what you meant, Swara. I can’t decide and measure the amount of pain a person
feels.
And
right now I can’t even imagine what you must have felt.
I
close my eyes and I see your stricken face so clearly.
I
despise Jay. The burning anger makes my head sway for a bit.
But I
know I despise myself more.
Aisha
leaves.
But
before leaving she says, “I expected you to be there.”
Clear
and sharp, those words strike me like arrows.
I
don’t know for how long I’ve been sitting on this rusty bench. I wipe my eyes,
and finally get up.
It’s
been three bleak days.
You’ve
still shown no sign of consciousness.
Everyone
else has seen you. They’ve sat by your side, given you cards and flowers.
Someone has given you roses too.
I
can’t help smiling. You detest roses.
“They’re
so artificial.” You had once said.
I
haven’t seen you yet, I don’t know why. I have paced up and down outside your
room. I have put my hand on the door handle, and then turned away.
I’m
afraid to see you-like that Swara.
The
idea of you lying unconscious and unaware of your surroundings sears me.
And
then I see Jay, in the waiting room.
Another
conversation comes back to me.
We
were sitting in the back lawns and eating that plate of maggi. You loved maggi,
and I was eating it because…there was nothing else to eat that day.
We
had had a good day. It had been the teacher’s day celebrations, and the
performances had been god-awful. We had laughed ourselves sore, and had gotten
yelled at by professors, which made us laugh even more.
This
was the first time you had been yelled at by a professor- but ironically that
didn’t register with you.
“How do you like this lumpy stuff?” I
said in disgust. You were used to my grumbling.
“How
can you not?” You were perplexed.
“It’s
s such a lump. I’m going to kill that man for taking thirty rupees from us, for
this misery.”
“Wow
Rehaan. Physical violence?” You laughed.
I
laughed as well. Then you were curious, and decided to ask.
“When
was the last time you hit someone?” You wanted to know.
I
thought.
“I
don’t know…I don’t like hitting. It does nothing for me. I like fighting it out
with-”
“Abuses.”
You finished the sentence for me.
I
smiled sheepishly. “Yes, pretty much.”
“But
you’ve never punched anyone or gotten into physical fights? I thought you might
have.”
“Swara,
just because I have a hot temper…occasional hot temper, doesn’t mean I go and
beat up everyone because I feel like it.”
“So
when will you feel like it?” You were really interested in this conversation.
You’re such a weirdo.
“Oh
god, I don’t know. Why, do you want me to punch someone?”
“No-o-o-o!
I’m just curious about this whole non-physical-violent side of Rehaan.”
“When
I do hit someone, it will be when I have a perfect reason.” I said.
We
laughed.
This
conversation plays a million times in my head as I walk up to Jay, drag him by
the collar and push him out of the hospital, amidst a crowd of stunned people
and a few exclamations. The fool tries resisting and utters some confused words
but I don’t hear them.
With
a composure, which I have learned from you, I tell him never to show his face
again.
It’s
the fourth day, and I still haven’t seen you.
The
hospital has become embarrassingly familiar now. It’s as if the uncomfortable
couch in the waiting room has become my new home.
Sleep
is a faraway dream now.
Aisha
comes and sits next to me. Her dislike and resentment has melted slightly.
She
hasn’t slept either, by the looks of it.
She
isn’t wearing those colourful bangles, you used to talk about. The colourful
Aisha you had described to me has become a pale and quiet girl- just waiting
for you to wake up.
We
sit next to each other for hours. In that time, we talk about the good
memories.
Sometimes
we laugh.
She
mentions your love for postcards. I nod silently
I
fumble through my hastily packed backpack and pull out a sheaf of postcards.
We
look through them together. I tell her how you always sent for my birthday, and
for Christmas.
Not
to mention that you used to give them to me in person in college.
“She’s
such a strange girl. Only she would do that.” Aisha said smiling through her
tears.
“Mad,
absolutely mad.”
Aisha
finally asks why I haven’t seen you yet.
“I…not
when…she’s like this.” I manage to say.
“The
doctors expect her to gain consciousness soon.”
I
nod. I swallow hard.
“It
would mean everything to her if you were the first person she sees when she
recovers.”
I
give a little helpless laughter.
“You’re
definitely Swara’s best friend. Bollywood runs in your blood.”
She
gives a tired laugh too. “Sorry, got carried away. But…you understood what I
meant.”
I do.
Despite the gloom, a strange happiness breaks over me like a wave.
It’s
the fifth morning. I’m re-reading your postcards again.
I’m
reading the one you gave me before my first debate.
The
first postcard you had ever given me.
Five
years ago. I touch your handwriting gently- and notice the slants.
Rehaan!
You’re probably wondering WHY on earth I
am giving you a postcard for a debate.
Truth is, I don’t know. Somehow I feel
like giving you postcards. I have a bad feeling this might become a habit.
So if you wish to end our friendship now,
you may. Hahaha.
But I wanted to say, all the very, very
best for your debate. You’ll be amazing. Go thrash your opponents.
Love, always,
Swara.
I
remember laughing in exasperation when you handed me this. But I never told you
what it meant to me.
Yet I
loved each and every one of your postcards…but never told you I did. You must
have thought I treated it as a habit.
There
are so many things I haven’t told you, Swara.
Love, always.
I
re-read the postcard again. Emotions swarm over me and I walk towards your door
finally.
I
push open the door.
I see
you, at last. But I’m afraid of nothing now.
I
know you’re going to wake up soon, and you’re going to be fine.
With
my postcard clutched in my hand, I bend down at the bed. Conversations explode
in my head, and I can’t tell one from another.
You’re
a Bollywood fan, aren’t you? If this was a film I would sit and express myself
clearly, in the most beautiful and soulful way possible.
But
this is real life, and all those words are stuck.
Instead,
I read out the postcard to you.
I’m
as strange as you.
I
hold your hand tightly, just as I used to. I don’t know how many hours have
passed. But I can finally sleep.
The
postcard is still clutched tightly in my other hand.
There
are so many things I haven’t told you. I have taunted and teased you so often-
but never said the real things.
I
don’t know what I was scared of. Or maybe I do.
I’ve
never told you I loved your postcards and looked forward to them every time. I’ve
never told you that I liked it when you wore those peacock blue earrings. Or
that you looked beautiful on farewell- and I ruined your mood, as usual. I’ve
never told you that I’ve tried writing postcards, but I never could go through
with it.
Beneath
that confidence and bravado…you were right, I was more scared than you were.
But
I’m not now.
The
idea of losing you forever has erased all that.
Time
has lost all essence now. I know I’ve been sleeping and waking, and looking at
you hopefully. Nurses and doctors have come in, and gone.
I
read out the postcard you sent on my last birthday. I knew you were angry
because I hadn’t acknowledged it.
I
close my eyes. I’m more despicable than Jay.
Why aren’t you waking up? I want to scream in
frustration. I touch your hair gently. Please, Swara. Please.
After
what seems like an eternity…
You
open your eyes.
Slowly.
You
close them again. I jump up and say your name. Your eyelids flutter.
You
look bewildered. The bewilderment melts into a faintly happy expression.
And
your eyes water. You try making a movement. I shake my head slightly, afraid
that you’ll get hurt.
I
open and close my mouth. It seems surreal, it’s a dream, I’m sure of it.
I
show you the postcard with trembling hands.
A few minutes pass. You give a rather confused
smile.
That
smile tells me all I need to know. Your hand tightens on mine. Your very small
and slight fingers.
The
words almost burst out of me. But I realize at last- there’s no hurry. Moreover,
there’s no need. Everything has now- been said.
There’ll
be years. A lifetime of them.
There’s
just certainty.
For
now I just smile back. I kiss your forehead and say,
“You
really to need to learn how to cross roads.”
We
laugh through those tears.
