I was young. So was she. Walking down the street on a cold winter night, we were just so young. Discombobulated thoughts in my mind, just the cold in her body. I looked up in the sky and asked her if she knew any constellations. Sadly, she could just look up and wondered why I was mad about the cosmos. The trail left by her fingers in that black starry night, all I could see where shaped carved out by her deftness. She kept talking about how she would cook rajma and rice while I constantly saw the uncensored version of her. Ebb and flow, the way she spoke about crushing onions, the way she would add just the right amount of water to the rice. Ebb and flow of her lips. Their fine margins, their very delicate verges. I had to stop.
I distanced myself a little just so that I could stop my hands brushing hers. I started walking slowly just so that I could observe her gait. Her shadow was causing the ice to darken, she wasn’t weaving any magic over matter yet her steps seemed to entice me towards her. I called out to her but I guess she was too happy in eliciting her recipe. She was alluring when words flowed like ether from her mouth. Just then, we came across an ATM. She had to withdraw some money. I told her I would wait outside while she did the transaction. While she was withdrawing money, I looked at the footprints that we had left behind in the snow. Suave yet childish mine were, certain yet taciturn hers. I tried to trace those steps till they receded into oblivion. I could see her fidgeting while the machine took long to process the request. I smiled at her, even danced a little. Why? Impulsively.
It had started snowing again. I could feel the cold snowflakes falling lazily on my face. She said she had to hurry home. She started walking quickly and it was hard for me to catch up. Did she mean something to me? Did her hair, her lips, her eyes, her neck mean something to me? Did her voice mean something to me? A family of emotions. I couldn’t be more happier than right now knowing that this might be the last time and the first time I was seeing her. So I ran ahead of her and made a ball of snow with my hands. I said, “I don’t have anything to give you right now except words and voice. Maybe we will be a lot distant from tomorrow and yet life would be normal. The warmth you crave for, the physicality you want, I wish I could give you. All my emotions, all my creative impulses and my truth, I roll up in this ball of cold. Wrapped up, hibernating myself in this packet of water, I may melt in a few minutes. Evanescent feelings cuddled in your warm hands.” She didn’t say anything to me. All she did was be honest and smiled back to my act.
We had reached her home. It was time. I tried to reach out for her hand but somehow my hands didn’t have enough strength. The world was closing in on me. I didn’t have much time left. I didn’t have anything as my parting gift to her and all I could do was look at her. Loving her in my own way, I went close to her and said, “Goodbye and take care because you are number 1.” She waved goodbye and went inside. Closing the door, I was a good memory.
Foolish of me? Why didn’t I tell her how much I loved her? Why didn’t grab her? Why did I waste my time? No, I don’t regret anything. Sometimes an artist shouldn’t explain his emotions on a canvas. Openness kills sincerity. I could hear her footsteps on the wooden floor and I did start missing her from that moment. Snowing had become quite intense now. I tucked my hands into my pockets and started walking away. Would she miss me? What did I mean to her? Snow falls, erasing my prints. Plain
karanvankani 