Candid Love

(Read the prequel here: Enigmatic Love)

I lay staring at the table watch waiting for a minute to pass and the alarm to go off. It started to beep as soon as the red lines conjoined to show 4 AM. I utterly disliked red-eye flights and completely hated the early morning ones. But as fate would have it, I was stuck with one. I got up from my bed, absolutely sleep deprived and cranky. I have never quite understood how people do their business so early in the morning; I do not think the food even gets digested in such short period of time. Just a quick shower and I were already on my way to the airport, nibbling on a warm croissant and sipping a cup of very dark coffee. 

Flying executive class has its own privileges, needless to say. By the time I landed at my destination, my bowels were empty and my stomach wasn’t. I collected my luggage and rushed back home. I caught a couple of hours’ sleep, unpacked my bags, gift wrapped the pendant I had bought for her and went in for my bath. I picked out my best dinner jacket from the wardrobe, put on that musky cologne I knew she found irresistible and picked up my iPod so Eric Clapton could accompany us till the restaurant. I wanted this evening to be perfect, just like that evening at the street-corner delicatessen had been. And we had come a long way since then; we had become closer friends; we had found a confidante in each other; we had even started referring to our gluttony-evenings as dates. 

She had brought with her the stability I was looking for in my life. She made my life sensible, complete, fun, easy, and all of it unknowingly. I meant to tell her what she meant to me, tonight. I had made reservations at her favourite restaurant, asked specifically for her most preferred table which overlooked the city. I was wearing her favourite perfume, had put on my best clothes, had trimmed my ‘savage’ beard, and was picking her up from her condominium. I had put all the music tracks she adored on my iPod, starting from Eric Clapton’s romantic numbers right till Marilyn Manson’s suicidal rock. I meant to sway her from her feet this time, and in style.

The clock struck seven o’clock and I was tying my shoe laces, bang on time. I do not remember being so excited in the near history. I had beads of sweat forming on my forehead in spite of the air conditioner keeping the room’s temperature at a comfortable twenty two degrees centigrade. I picked up all the items I had arranged on the bed, took my car keys from the bowl by the door and dropped a text informing her that I was on my way to pick her up. She was already sitting in the waiting area of her lobby as I pulled my car up her driveway. She was looking captivating in a blue dress with her hair let loose; the bright lip colour which always made her dark black eyes seem all the more darker and deeper; her heels which she carried with such poise and elegance; and her long, slender fingers grasping on the little purse with utmost care and casualness at the same time. 

I opened the door for her as she touched my arm lightly and kissed me on the cheek. My ears were burning with anxiety and desires. “You look wonderful, tonight”, hummed Eric as we drove to the restaurant, she- lost in his voice, and I- in her presence. The table was ready when we reached and I gave her the present as soon as we settled down. She seemed very excited as she was un-wrapping the gift with one hand while clutching upon my hand with the other. She was dumb-struck for a moment when she saw the diamond pendant and figured out why I was gifting her such an expensive present. She immediately kept it back in its box and looked at me straight in the eye. I knew something had changed. Something had changed since I had gone for the month-long tour. Something had changed in her life during this time when I was inaccessible. 

I smiled a reassuring smile, although I was not sure who needed the reassurance at that moment. She took her glass of wine and downed it in one go. It was courage, she needed, not my reassurances. Courage to tell me that she had found someone for whom she felt the way I feel for her. I did not let the smile on my face vanish for a moment. I was still psyched to be with her. I held her hand and congratulated her. I told her how happy I was for her and that I wanted to meet the guy at the earliest. She smiled, as we finished the rest of our meal talking about that fortunate guy.



(Read the continuation here: Inscrutable Love)

The Kid

The moonless night-sky spread like a blanket of darkness. Not even a few stars in sight to break the monotony of the blackness all around. It was just one of the many gloomy nights in the life of the kid who was squatting on the balcony floor of the one-storeyed orphanage in the suburbs of a metropolitan city. The kid, who had a name, but who did not care for it; neither did the love-deprived society he was a part of. A suburb to a metropolitan meant having a neighborhood of some five million people; and still the kid was truly alone. This night was pretty much like any other night for him, just a little darker; just a little more suffocative; just a little more depressing. 

The kid sat listening to the growls of an empty stomach, of his empty stomach. Staring at the vast stretch of nothingness, trying to make out what the aroma lingering in the air was of. It smelt of destruction and chaos. It smelt of helplessness and despair. It smelt of fear and horror. It smelt of the night his village was on fire. It smelt of the night his home had become a furnace. It smelt of the night he had almost lost his life. It smelt of the night he became an orphan.

The kid was gripped in fear; a chill ran down his spine every time he tried to close his eyes. He had goose-bumps all over his arms and legs. And then he saw a sudden flash of light in the distant sky and a few moments later heard an explosion from the same spot. The terrified kid ran for his life. The kid ran to the only place he felt safe, to the only place which was now his home. He ran inside the building, to his room in the ground floor and covered himself with one half of a blanket torn into two and started to weep. His wailings increased as he heard a few more explosions outside. All the memories of that damned night flooded back to him. The kid could see his baba running in the front yard trying to extinguish the fire feasting upon his arched back and lanky legs. All the images he had tried to erase came back to haunt him. The night, that had started with festivities and had ended with mourning. Just a year had passed since that horrific night, but the pain of solitude felt as old as the universe.

The kid’s inconsolable cry finally died down when he heard a clamour of cars and saw a few people walk inside the orphanage with big packets and even bigger cartons. The kid peeked from his room to see kaki maa welcoming the guests inside. One of the guests caught a glimpse of the terrified kid and signaled him to come outside. The kid took calculated steps towards him as he buried his hands deep inside one of the packets and took out a bundle of clothes. The well-dressed man took a packet from his companion and took out toys from it. He handed over the clothes and the toys to the kid and said something the kid could not fully understand. The man repeated “Happy Deepawali, beta!”

Venizia

Venice is not a city, because a city stands on stones and bricks. Venice is a dream; a Sunday morning dream which you watch half awake, groggily praying for sleep to come back to your arms and carry you to that beautiful world of impossibilities. 

Venice- with its innumerous bridges arching over the turning and twisting canals seems more like a fantasy than a reality. Its beauty is surpassed only by that feeling of intense joy you get when you are sitting in your apartment room, with the windows wide open, and the cool wind blowing the curtains and bringing along the aroma of the sea water. The smell of the sea which you always long for in your city office; which always reminds you of the beach trips you took as a kid. When you are sitting by that window sill, smoking your cigarette absent-mindedly, watching the smoke swirl and rise in the humid air; while a gondolier is maneuvering his way through the narrow lanes, singing a song of love and hope. A couple sitting with their arms intertwined, lost in the melody of the song and in each other’s company. The song which you cannot comprehend, but you know, is being sung for the love of one’s life. It speaks of the undying love, of the sparks of the first kiss, of the promises of staying together till eternity. 

Travelers can capture the physical beauty of Venice in their photographs, but its magic stays only in your heart. You can visit all the monuments in and around Venice, pray in all of its churches and cathedrals, and sip a steaming cup of cappuccino at every café, but you still might not feel that you have seen all that Venice has to offer. Oh Venice, by coming to you, I have truly become yours. 

"A realist, in Venice, would become a romantic by mere faithfulness to what he saw before him." ~Arthur Symons

Enigmatic love

My feet hurt as I continued walking briskly up the dark, steep alley. The choice of footwear had gone extremely wrong considering that the footpath was laid with cobblestones. I should have been wearing a pair of running shoes, and instead I chose the leather loafers which hardly gave any padding to the sole of my feet. The sudden gusts of cold wind filled me with joy as I shivered in my own embrace. I was checking my watch every thirty seconds; I did not want to be late. I stopped for a moment to regain my breath as I reached the top of the alley. I could see the turn of the corner where I was to meet her; a local delicatessen with chairs set up under the night sky. I checked my watch, Seven Forty-Six; I had enough time to buy flowers for her from that little window-shop off the next intersection. I was cursing myself for not falling in love earlier, because being in love felt absolutely delightful. I could hardly name five flowers if someone asked me to, but still I knew exactly which ones she adored. 

These were the things which made her who she was for me. I did not know the name of her parents, or how many siblings she had. I did not know her friends. I was not even sure what her subject of graduation had been. But I knew who she was as a person. I knew about her ideals, her thoughts, her favourite morning tune, her most preferred brand of coffee, her political views, her love for bright colours, her obsession with that particular whiff of cologne; I knew her the way only someone very close to her would, and to think that we had met only twice and spent less than half-a-year exchanging letters.

I tucked my shirt reassuringly and laid the flowers on the table in front of me. I checked my watch again; still three minutes to our scheduled meeting time. I settled down, keeping my eyes glued at the road where she would have to walk down from. I was neither nervous, nor relaxed. I was happily anxious to be meeting her again. And then I saw her getting down from the car. Her feet so delicately wrapped with leather straps which formed her sandals. Her dress just ending near her ankles and clinching on to her legs because of the persistent wind. Her arms wrapped around by a thin stole and her hair lying so carelessly to one side of her shoulder. She gave me one of the most enchanting smiles as I handed her the flowers and we hugged warmly. We spent the next few hours talking about no specific subject in particular, sipping iced cappuccinos, watching the evening pass away casually; and all the while, I kept trying to convince myself to tell her how I felt for her. Maybe, she was waiting for me to say it as well. Maybe, I will muster up the courage the next time we meet. Or maybe, it should simply go on the way it is going, because it is beautiful!


(Read the continuation here: Candid Love)