Starry Night
“Now, don’t fall in love with me just because I gaze at the stars…” she suddenly says, turning her head slightly towards me, meeting my eyes for a fleeting second before quickly averting her eyes.
I am startled. Pleasantly.
“How do you know?” I ask, softly.
“Because I could feel the warmth of your gaze here,” she says, pointing to the nape of her neck.
I am overcome by an urge to reach out and stroke her gently there. I resist.
“Forget the star gazing,” I tell her, “ Why can’t I fall in love with the dreamy you? With your mind that weaves poetry, with your hands that create art, with your voice that sings songs of the heart…?”
“Don’t…” she says.
“Don’t,” she repeats, and then pausing briefly, says, “I am a difficult person.”
I sigh. How could I not? I am sitting with a woman who awes me with her kaleidoscopic persona, complete with an air of intrigue. We are on the terrace, studying the stars. There is a gentle breeze, a comforting chill. There is just so much ache and longing in the air. I feel free yet imprisoned. Free to drift away into terrains unknown with her, yet imprisoned by her instruction: “Don’t”.
“Shall we?” she asks, pointing at the stairs. I nod. We leave.
Lessons
She is a puzzle I have been piecing together over the months. I was visiting my parents for summer. She was visiting her cousin, she said. They live two floors above you, she said. We met on the elevator, on a Sunday afternoon two months ago, while heading down, and after two days, on the terrace, both of us incidentally having strolled up there to watch the full moon. Then on, it sort of became an unplanned plan. We would come up to watch the skies every night.
With her, I learnt what it meant to stay quiet. For someone who is bursting to talk at the slightest opportunity, I learnt to restrain myself. She rarely spoke, and when she did, she spoke sparsely. With her, I saw the worth of words. She chose them carefully, not one word out of place. With her, I became an apprentice; to learn the art of listening. A novice, enthralled, who watched her as her eyes and hands spoke too, joining in a symphony with her words to stage a display of nuanced articulation.
A Mirror & Some Reflections
Back in her room, she walks past the large mirror and pauses suddenly. How long has it been since she has studied herself in a mirror? She peers at her reflection, dwells on the lines on her forehead and beneath her eyes, crisscrossing each other at some places. Do they have a plan? To make an indecipherable pattern on my face? She wonders. When did they come in? She ponders over when she last looked at herself, her face, intently, with interest. She hadn’t even bothered to give anything more than a cursory glance. Did she despise herself so much that she barely looked up at the mirror in the restroom every morning and night she brushed in front of it? She runs a finger over her nose. She studies her face with renewed interest. She puts her hand in front of the mirror and flexes her fingers. It seemed like everything about her changed and yet nothing had. A new person’s gaze had reminded her of something, turned something inside of her. It reminded her that she had forgotten all about being a physical form, something that occupied space, something that could be watched.
Moon Artists
It’s a rather windy night. I’m back at the terrace and she is already there. I slip into place beside her, quiet as a cat, not a word, not a sound, even my breath noiseless. I see her gaze is fixed on the glorious full moon, hanging luminously from a blue-black sky, illuminating the space around us with an ethereal glow. “Magical, isn’t it?” she says, without looking at me. She points her long forefinger at the moon and traces a circle. “Look, I am drawing the moon,” she says softly, laughing slightly. I smile, and I lift my right hand, bunch my fingers together and sway them, “And look, I am painting the moon.” She turns suddenly, and I can’t miss the gleam in her eyes, as she says after a pause, “Artist, huh?”. I rest my hand, and stare into her eyes, awestruck. She drops her gaze just a wee-bit and quickly turns away; right then, what do I just notice? Colour rising up her cheeks?
Words, Unspoken
She opens her journal and begins writing:
“Someone enters your life like a whiff of fresh air. They uncover parts of you that you have long forgotten or didn’t know existed. Of course, in a good sort of way. And as the hours with them add up, even if for a small length of time, something within you perceptibly shifts. You feel like you are at the threshold of something new, a welcome change.
But then, there is this dark fear, precipitating from the failures of your past and the miseries of your past self, and oozing out from the crevices of your broken heart. Bitter words hurled that stormed your soul, shards of venomous utterances that pierced every pore of your body; getting called ‘difficult’ and ‘impossible’ by the person who you loved the most and who you thought loved you the most…is healing even real? Does the past ever go away?
But then, someone has now entered your life like a whiff of fresh air. Throwing delightfully hair-raising glances your way, watching you with adorable eyes filled with admiration, talking about all things you would trade your soul for – the stars and the moon and science and art and philosophy and music and books…and respecting you for who you are, giving you the space to just be. A die-hard romantic. Someone who loves love, who flirts like it is an art. Insane in a tender way; someone with whom you think you will just lock, and go like click…So, what does one do now?”
Love, Actually
Today, I am back to being my talkative self (I am stressed and I know it) and she has comfortably reverted to the role of a listener. We are leaning carelessly on the parapet wall of the terrace. The stars watch silently from above.
“Some of us, you know, we love Love,” I hear myself saying, “that sometimes we don’t hesitate to think (and pronounce) that love makes the world go around. And pray, why not?” I pause.
Is she amused, I wonder. There is a faint smile playing on her lips.
“Allow us,” I continue, “the romantically inclined, to believe so. Because for us, matters of the heart matter so much that they intrigue us, hold us in thrall, bring tears of joy and pain to our eyes. Allow us, because, more often than not, we bank on romance like our entire life depended on it.”
Her smile is now no longer faint. But her eyes are fixed on me, unwaveringly.
“You think that’s silly?” I ask, a little offended.
“So, you are one of those dismissive ones, who may find this outrageously insane,” I say.
If there’s a slight disappointment in my voice, I don’t make an effort to hide it.
“Well, to each their own but I believe love is such a beautiful, life-changing experience,” I continue and then fall silent.
“Listen,” I tell her, after a long pause, “I am leaving tomorrow and you are going back soon after. What now? What of us?”
She draws a long breath and exhales. I can see her shivering slightly and her shoulders tensing; she lets them fall with a deep sigh. Then, she places her right hand gently on my cheek, and I shiver.
“Let us give ourselves some time. Please.” She says.
I take a few seconds (did that stretch to eternity?) to grasp the weight of her request.
“Ok,” I nod, “I understand.”
A Photograph
She imagines this moment as a photograph.
In it, there are two people, so near yet so far.
There’s love and longing in the air,
and an unspoken retaliation, too.
There are unnamed feelings.
Many unanswered questions.
But, there’s hope too – a subtle, imperceptible undertone,
and an unmistakable sense of anticipation.
None of these will be apparent to the eyes of a viewer, for they lie in the blurred edges of the photograph, all quiet.
For now, all one would see in it are two silhouettes against a deep ink-blue sky, studded with stars, and a moon hiding behind a solitary cloud, waiting for a future not known yet, to unfold.
