Part I
The rumbling noise within had been disturbing her attempt to sleep for a prolonged period. She tossed to her side, upside, downside, left wing, right wing, pleased herself, yet the rumbling continued, rather increased. Finally, she could not take it anymore and jumped from her bed, in anger.
- “What is that all about? It has not been even two hours since I cooked dinner and fed you! Do you know how much of a bother it is to cook? You’ve to think what you’ve to eat and usually you can’t decide, then you step out, go to the store, buy, pay, sometimes your card does not work, withdraw cash, come back, wash, chop, toss, sauté, serve, pour wine, all of that to make myself feel good about my job!! And all you can do is rumble in the middle of night?” She looked at her stomach while ranting.
It was mid-week and usually her supplies last till the weekend, but last weekend she was out, and then Monday started quickly followed by a house party on Tuesday and here we are now – a warm Wednesday night, a train whistle in the far distance, someone playing jazz on their yard, a yellowed darkness masked the streets, and a beautiful lady looking outside the window, recollecting her choices.
- “Hunger does not work according to plans. What makes you think that everything or everyone will act and respond as you deem fit?”, her stomach growled.
- “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation! Forget it. Bye!” and she paced to her living room, turned on the dim light, plays that song which makes her sway as she likes when wanting to shut out noises, her arms stretched out to expanse, the eyes glowing in the dark, her lips trembling a little near the edge but holding on, and her feet doing the talking.
This is how he liked her the most. The Raag Hansadhwani starts to fill the room, her mind, her body.
Its past 1:00 PM and she has passed out in the living room. She is woken abruptly by the noise of the clock. The clock is methodological in its approach to work, moving in a steady pace, covering one unit of time with each step. Her life is a lot like clockwork; precise, planned, particular. She knew there was a time for everything and everyone. But not everyone follows your clock, do they!
- “Tell me dear, when do you know it is the right time?” the clock quipped, the rotation of its dials giving its distinct mechanical melancholic voice. “And if there is a right time, is there a wrong time as well? I’ve never witnessed you this lonely, not even when you were alone. Even a wall clock like me has three companions who visit me every second, minute and hour”, the clock took a pause and then, “was he present at a wrong time?”.
It was five minutes past one, and everything had fallen silent, even the night. Let me tell you something about midnight, my friend. The moment you reach midnight, you’ve arrived at a destination hoping that someone will be there to receive you, as you are. You’re disheveled, distraught, deranged and heavy with the baggage carried throughout the day. You hope someone will relieve you of your burden, walk you home, put you to bed, and sing you a midnight melody. Instead, you arrive at the same destination, no matter whichever train you take, call for the taxi and speed past the garbage trucks that are collecting the trash of the day. You watch them at work and wonder how much of it is trash and how much is just neglected time and space. That thought flies out of the car window as you near home, undress, gulp a beer and drop to bed. The next morning, it’s a new start, and everything that you felt last night is forgotten, only to reprise each night, again and again.
- “I don’t know if there ever was a right or wrong time. Now that I look back on the time we spent together, all of it felt right and wrong equally. And I chose to pick only the ones I liked. I guess, I was, or rather we, were never a story together. We were separate stories, trying to find a space for each other on a page,” she continued speaking while putting the lights out one last time.
As she prepared herself to sleep, this time with every cramp, ache, and hunger taken care off, her eyes caught the attention of the half-read book, lying on the bedside table, wide open. The pages of the book fluttered and settled down with the wind. To her, it seemed as if the book was unsure on which page it will be, instead it chooses to be on each page for a while, until moving on to the next.
- “Is this how we glide along life as well?” she wondered. “We keep reading between the lines till it’s interesting, and the moment a sentence comes up that doesn’t resonate with our vocabulary, we move on the next chapter, hoping to find a better plot. One day, we are at the end of the book, but haven’t read a single chapter,” she kept murmuring herself to sleep, as the pages kept fluttering through the rest of the night.
He opens the fridge door the third time hoping for a miracle to happen. Unfortunately, truth is boring compared to fiction so nothing happens even at the third time. He kept staring at the open fridge for a good two minutes trying to conjure some snacking recipe.
- “What are you staring at for so long! Have you gazed with such intensity inside? Maybe that will give a recipe for the soul,” a voice came from the freezer. It was cold, dry and devoid of any excitement.
- “That is very rude, and also very true. But enough of soul searching. Tell me, do you have anything to eat,” he reciprocated with disinterest.
- “There’s cheese slices at the corner of the third shelf, behind the oregano satches. That’s all which has not expired.”
He took out some crackers, and prepared some garlic cheese cracker spread, topped with blueberry jam. “I don’t how I prepared this but is definitely going in my late-night snack list!” he murmured. He began to clean to kitchen top, put the lights out and head back to bed. The fridge had a deep humming sound which at nights, sounded like heartbeat of the machine. As he was about to leave, the fridge spoke again, halting him in his path.
- “Wouldn’t it have been more delicious if the both of you were sharing the crackers instead of you making a late-night snack list,” the fridge quipped and continued, “you have surrounded yourself with the habits reminiscent of the past with her. You’ve kept all her habits but not the person that made you come alive. Now both of us are empty,” and the fridge shut.
He drops on bed, plugs headphones and plays the music the she used to sing to put him to sleep. Her Raag Pilu used to be sung late in the evening when he would enter the room tired, and she would caress his hair, while humming the music in a scent that filled the room with the scent of lilies. He would doze off on her lap, and would not be awaken till she kissed his head.
But this time he passed out, exhausted from nothingness. It wasn’t until a phone notification abruptly interrupts his coma. There was a message notification on his phone, but by the moment he got to read it, it was deleted.
- “That’s her typical behaviour. She will think of me at times but never take the step to say it,” he thought to himself. A loud yawn followed and he dug his face in the pillow.
- “It’s okay right, to find a pillow to hide. I did her the same, ran and never came. I kept hoping that you’d call out my name, when it didn’t happen, I entrusted you with blame.” Many nights have passed like this. He tries to comfort himself, his misgivings, error in conduct, and after he was exhausted with his efforts, the pillow was wet with tears.
He slowly drowned the pillow in tears, sinking to sleep. Have you noticed that your tears are warm when the trickle down your face, and you can feel the path they follow, leaving a trail of parched land behind. The saline water drains into nowhere, seeping into the ground. It is said that crying releases locked emotions which you can’t say through words. I’d say that tears drain out your glacier of reason, as it flows it mixes with emotions, some transient, some permanent, it interacts with other rivers to finally drain out either in the ocean of abundance or parched terrain of scarcity. When you wake up next morning having shed a night of tears, you’re left with a wet pillow to be washed, night wear of sweat and despair and disheveled morning look.
The Ending
She looks at her phone; it’s 6:30 and her alarm is about to go off. She always woke up a minute before her alarm and then wait for it to ring. She would listen to the tone, the weather update, the automated good morning message before snoozing it away.
There was also a message notification. It was from an unknown number. She gets up, freshens, finishes her workout, selects the dress for the day and transforms to a better self for the day. As she is about to leave, she reads the message. The message read, “Was thinking about you” with a link to her favorite Raag, Hansadhwani. Before stepping out, she replied, “I know”.
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