Love is not a search, doesn’t contain prognosis. Uncertainty, in fact is the flamboyance of love. Love is when you believe on rewinding the moments; realising that once there was nothing beyond him/her and now you are feeble to articulate the very feelings.
Love can be a time dependent thing, forgetting it isn’t. Nothing actually lasts forever. It was just another wrong number on my landline. The next time he called, he was on the better part of his valour expressing that he has fallen for my euphony. Thus it flourished. I wondered about it being just another leap in dark. But his dazzling flirts nevertheless lured me.
The very next day I was with my friends at college canteen, it was rushed. Girls, as usual were having some soul “girl talk”; I was never into that discussion. Something sparkled at me and I had a gaze of the soccer ground. I saw a hunk running after the ball, his sharp look made me forget that I was giving order to the waiter. I then came at the counter to pay and the same time those guys entered the canteen. I was pushed and consequently pressed against him. The proximity made me evaporate myself as if his perspiration smelled like perfume, as if I recognised something throwing me in different world. I was dumb not to look at him and go away!
Month passed, it was July, it poured that day and I found a tree to cover myself. There was a small abrasion of his strong hand against me. I looked into his serous eyes. He was in azure wet shirt, tall with gravity as if a man with thoughts that glow and words that burn. He stood with a vanity and rubbed his wet hair with heroic instinct. I sublimed and forgot to breathe; I smelled something quite known, it was the same feeling which I experienced in canteen that day.
Days passed.... Things went blurred. I was at cafe with my friends; someone got me a bunch of orchids. I ran and saw a cherubic handsome standing against his car. My blood was getting viscous as if something dragging me against him and my wish, as if someone whispered, “Don’t add extra pains, and get away!” I could see myself convincing my soul, “If it is a pain, let’s have a pain once, I will die if I live without pains, the paralysis will end me!” As soon as I recollected my senses, he spoke. His smile with deep dimples, glittering topaz eyes, marble chest, his dusky skin and black wet hair, sharp features attacking before his words, in fact he was something indeed splendid I saw in my life. He was the same guy; name him anything, my phone man, the soccer player or the Greek God in rains. He uttered, “I know you act crazy when you see me, I just wanted to tell you that am leaving tomorrow, here is something I wish to give you before I go.” Giving some envelope in my hand, he disappeared. This is called “Destiny”.
I opened it that night. Within it, there were my pictures; I have never seen myself so beautiful ever as he made me look into those clicks. He clicked them when I was around, unknown of him being there somewhere. I laughed with moist eyes. The last photography had something written on back side, “If God could give me a chance to cease something, I could have wished to cease these moments, I can’t, and I recovered. These gifted moments are enough to nurture something nameless feeling within us”
I didn’t understand it that time. He was in the ‘Indian Navy’. He went; that monsoon I realised that finer things are never glued, they perfume you, ignite you, burn you, regenerate you. Exists like a breeze, like a rainfall, like a hug in his warm arms against his carved chest, like melting in his moist lips, sweetness of his breathe hitting my face. The most lovable part was the telepathy we shared. As if whatever he does is heroic in some sense, his sophistication, his way of holding my wrest against him, his way of innocently hiding ignited cigarettes before me, the way he played guitar in his balcony, throwing his T away for a goal he made in high spirits. I will never forget those moments of night with a dripping sound of water through wet leaves, moist dawn, Gulmohar shedding down its petals for the aristocrat red carpet and the silent twilight. He was my personal brand of inebriant; I was addicted; though everything was washed away.
Everything pulverises, fades away. The only thing remains is the aroma, sweetest as the musk, of those emotions. Love, I learnt, is like a dewdrop. It condenses at dawn to enhance beauty but vaporises as day proceeds. And then I realised what he meant to say with that note. I found my love in that moment, though less but was liveable.
Loved it.
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