We distilled ourselves into concise versions, The best of what we could be, While revealing our flaws too. I wish I had the chance to take you through my personality comprehensively. I would have shown you every milestone, every scar. I wish I had the chance to discover the multitudes of your moods, your hopes and insecurities.
What do I call this, what we managed to have in this little while? There was barely enough time to conceive it, to let it develop. We are products of a world obsessed with rationality, And yet, in the quiet hours before dawn, hidden from everyone, I half-whisper it to myself, This word in its most fragile, nascent form, that could have grown enough one day To be said out loud.
Hold this hand,
that has held another many moons ago.
There will be something of the past
that I could not wash away.
Most nights, I will sleep contentedly
my head nestled on your shoulder,
my arm wrapped across your chest,
smiling lightly.
On some nights, I will wake up
And look past you,
seeing the ghosts that I thought I had banished.
Bring me back.
Take me to the window
And point out the stars
That have survived for light years
As the universe shattered and remade itself around them.
I will listen to your music
Tapping my foot gently to the rhythm,
And on most days
I will sing along with you
Not remembering that these songs,
I once sang to another.
On some days,
I will stop mid-song;
Something of the past caught in my throat.
Sing to me.
Erase the links between music and memory.
If not,
give me new memories.
In return, my love,
I will draw a silver lining on all your clouds.
I will write love poems to you,
Erasing the links between words and your memories.
If not,
I will give you new memories.
I will look out of the window
And point out through the stillness of the night
The breaking horizon turning crimson,
Just as you broke your darkness with light.
I will take you back from the window
And hum softly
So you can fall asleep contentedly once more.
And I will hold your hand,
with something of your past,
that you could not wash away.
We aired our grievances
And emptied our eyes of tears.
As time passed
We occasionally came across
Keepsakes from a past life,
Their hold on us no longer as strong
Their tattered remains as distant
As a somewhat familiar song on an untuned radio.
We made a project of “moving on”,
Taking out boxes of souvenirs
Little trinkets, old letters.
Forcing ourselves to read, to touch, to remember.
Say a word ten times,
It loses all meaning.
And so we read, read, read
So that memory lost all meaning.
And “moving on” transitioned from a presence of resentment
To an absence of love.
But is love an entire entity in itself?
Is it simply that which was directed at you,
Which has faded now?
Or is it also that which originated in me,
A relic of the person that I was?
Over and over, I churned the memories,
Each turn bringing to me a different facet;
Some to acknowledge, some to forgive.
All that remains now is unadulterated and pure
Detached from that ruiner, fate.
Love tastes like water at first;
No indication of uniqueness
Or flavor,
Nothing that distinguishes it
from a glass washed down hurriedly
at the end of daily labors.
It is only barely recognizable
by its soothing coolness
that calms the frazzled throat
that has screamed and shouted
to be heard
and swallowed back tears
to hold up a tattered pride.
A flavor slowly forms,
So mild that it is surprising,
an essence like tea,
brewed over a low flame
for minutes, days, months,
sometimes a lifetime.
It was a stupid decision, they said. You are wasting your grades; you could easily get a better internship! But they did not understand. They did not know the absolute need, the compulsion to be there, among all those long, towering shelves of books. It was there, amidst the musty smell of books, that he could breathe.
He had his table by the classics section. It was the best table; he could see the black penguin covers, even if he was not allowed to pick any and read it during the day time. Their being there in front of him, just existing, was such a comfort. He helped people find the books; rarely did he use his computer to locate any book; he remembered where each of them was. Tolstoy’s War and Peace next to Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment… Bronte’s Jane Eyre besides the row of Jane Austen books. His hands lingered on the books; the touch was both familiar and exhilarating.
*
She had not been to the bookstore for four months now; an eternity. The work at the make-up aisle was mind-numbing, and hardly paid for the bills. There was no extra money for books, no extra time for perusing the different sections of the bookstore.
But she was here finally; a Tuesday when the mall was unexpectedly closed for maintenance. She felt herself in familiar territory; there was an ease in her walking now. She had a fixed routine. First, she went to the New Arrivals, reading the back covers of expensive hardbacks that she could never afford. She kept in mind the titles of the books she liked, making a mental note to buy them once they were old enough to be paperbacks or second-hands. Next, she browsed the Fiction section. Here, she opened the latest John Grisham, and read about 50 pages, standing. She would continue it from there the next time she was here. Crime and Mysteries came next, after which she walked straight past the Romance section to the one she loved best; the Classics section. Here, she walked up and down the line of shelves, reading the titles and mentally ticking off the ones she had already read. In this section, she could transport herself back to older times, tragedies of the war and the pain of betrayal. Here, she could rejoice in the “happily ever after” of Pride and Prejudice and cry at the unresolved ending of Gone with the Wind.
*
He saw her take a book in her hand and put it in a different shelf below. He stood up to prevent her from messing the shelves, but stopped. The book was A Picture of Dorian Gray, and it did belong to the lower shelf; someone must have picked it and then put it back in the most convenient spot on the higher shelf. He was surprised; she was a customer, why should it matter to her?
He slid back in his chair and watched closely. He saw her picking up book after book, reading the back covers, reading the first few pages, smiling and nodding at times. Always, she put the book back in its right place. As she browsed, she straightened the books that were not in line. It was almost an unconscious action; she displayed no exasperation on her face.
He saw her picking up yet another book now. After deliberating for a moment, she put it back. Then she picked it up again. He strained to see what book it was; Wuthering Heights.
*
She opened her purse. There were only Rs. 170 in it. The cost of the book was Rs. 160. That would leave her with just enough money to buy a bus ticket to home. There were still four days before the month end. There were still groceries to buy and bills to pay. Reluctantly, she put the book back on the shelf. She would buy it the next time. Slowly, she walked out of the bookstore.
*
He saw her returning ten minutes later. She walked with purpose now. Hurriedly, she went back to the Classics section, picked up Wuthering Heights, walked to the counter and bought it. He saw her smile once she held the book in her hands, now her own. The tension in her eyes eased gradually. With lighter steps, she walked out of the bookstore again.
He had never seen her in the bookstore before. He did not know who she was. But sitting here on his hard chair, among piles of books, he knew he had found the girl he would love.
The Writer's Nest 