Short Story: Say Cheese

Airports are busy places, more busy than you would like them to be. He took a chair on one of those numerous blue cushioned seats that dot the entire vicinity of the airport, taking particular care that the adjacent seat was vacant. The large LCD screen right above his head was showing the day’s breaking news in a near-mute volume. What a job reading news must be, he thought; first, it’s the smily-face-moment of the birth of a big movie star’s son, and the next is a sad-face-moment of a massacre. It was funny to watch the lips move and the head sway to instant emotions and yet hear no sound.
 
The LCD screen got interrupted to display the rescheduled time of his already delayed flight. Long time to go, he said to himself. He turned around and looked at the coffee shop at the far end of the waiting area. Men with red caps bearing the shop’s logo were smiling as they took orders. This thing about making your customer’s day and all that good stuff; they smile, make coffee, and they smile. He tried to look into the shop but as it would be, it was crowded. Airports are busy places, you see; more so, when your flight is delayed.
 
He was back to watching the LCD screen. Television ads were being shown – Golden Spa is the best place to vacation; No tea tastes better than Tata tea; and Canon showed their cameras. Say Cheeese, the ad said, giving emphasis on the extra ‘e’. He knew what that meant, the thing about the Say Cheese.
 
It was a few months back, in that little coffee shop six blocks from his house. He was waiting on a 2-seater table and had asked the red capped smiling guy to come back later to take orders. And there was the banal paper napkin with squiggly stories written all over, the tip of the pen sauntering over it, careful enough not to rip pieces away. He continued scratching the paper napkin drawing figures only the pen could decipher.
 
He jerked his head as she pulled the chair on the other side of the table. “Am I late?”, she asked letting out a wide smile as she slowly placed her handbag on the corner of the table and took her seat. He quickly dragged the paper napkin into his palm, closed the lid of his pen and smiled back at her. “Hi”, he said with an involuntary blurt. “Am I late?”, she repeated, still holding on to that wide smile. “So this is how an animated Say-Cheeese smile looks like”, he heard say to himself. “No, I just came minutes back”, he said trying in vain to match her smile. He beckoned the red hat guy to place their order. That was their first meeting.
 
Whoever heads the department of cosmic intervention in the sky, sends you messages. Messages that are vague, out of the blue – sometimes like the scribbles on a paper napkin – and yet in that moment hold the key to a flurry of events, unlocking such things from memory that you carefully stowed away, never to be reopened. That smile – the Say Cheese one – was just one of them.
 
“Am I late?”, she asked. Suddenly he jerked back from his train of thoughts and looked around dazed until he realized where he was. The LCD screen was back to showing the day’s breaking news, the airport was abuzz with all the blue cushioned seats filled. His eyes fell on her as she took the seat adjacent to his, carrying two cups of coffee she got from the red capped seller.
 
He took a cup in one hand and placed his other hand around her seat. She moved back slightly, her head resting on his arm. Comfort in a little corner of a busy world. He smiled taking a sip of the steaming coffee. She smiled back. An animated say-cheese smile.

Writers Tag: The War Between Bonnie & Billy - Part 2

This is a tagged continuation of the The War Between Bonnie & Billy - Part 1, at JustOrdinary.

The clock ticked past midnight, as her painted fingers reached for some tissue and shred them into the tiniest bits. Bonnie sat upright on the bed, her face resting on her bent knees and half-closed eyes still strolling its way through the disturbed comforters, the moist pillows lying one on top of the other, and a lock of hair fluttering in front of her eyes in the noiseless wind from the ceiling fan.

They made love that day, as they did every day. He was as passionate and never hesitated to show his love for her. In their most intimate moment she had a strange urge to reach out to him. She stroked his back with her fingers and felt his breath. She tugged him close to her and felt the warmth of his manly presence. He pulled her closer and let her bury her face between his arms. And he kept telling her how much he loved her.

Then he got up and moved across the bed to reach out for his belt. He had spent a particularly long time in buying the belt with an extra-large buckle attached to a protruding metal flap for a rugged feel that would suit his oversized Cargo Pants well, and also inflict a good deal of pain when he would hit her. He grabbed the belt and slashed it across her back as she fell on the bed unconscious with one stroke. She didn’t know what happened next. Probably he hit her more, because now that she was awake she felt more pain. Or probably he just made more love.

She continued strolling her eyes around the bed until it halted the moment they fell upon him. He was fast asleep, his back towards her, resting his palm under his ears. She could feel the mild rise and fall of his back with every breath.

She wanted to reach out to him, this time to press her fingers on his back so hard that her full grown nails would pierce his back and blood would ooze out through the shape her fingers made on his back. And she would move the fingers across his back tearing his flesh, tracing a distinct outline like creating a modern art, like what she used to see in the Museum of Art and Painting in her childhood days. She would create a work of art; an artwork made of blood and skin – his blood and her skin; one she would claim as her masterpiece, a dedication to her love.

She moved across the bed, shuffling the pillows to the other side, bent lower over him and kissed him on his shoulder.

* For the next part of the story, I tag Amrita. Am, take over!

Short Story: The Tavern

Even as she lay cuddled with a coo in my arms, I knew Lizzy was already an individual in every sense of the word, and I would have to learn to let go of her someday, albeit painstakingly, although she was born of me. Nevertheless, I couldn’t wait for my Lizzy to grow up, so one day as a teenage girl she would scream at me that I’m being too old fashioned, and then years later we would talk head to head like how elderly women do.

I packed a bag with diapers, towels, two bottles – one with warm water and one with milk, dressed up Lizzie in what I considered her favorite white gown and drove downtown to grab some luxury clothing for her and a nice dinner together. ‘The Tavern’ was the latest happening place in town. And I was not to be disappointed. I felt Lizzie would love visiting that place when she was grownup, and promised her we would visit The Tavern every month.

I tried some clothes on her, and she looked too gorgeous for my own eyes to fathom. There was jubilance in her little smile and her wide open eyes rolled around the enormous structure of the mall. I walked around the mall so she would see everything her eyes fell upon and showed her the Tavern mascots in the ground floor welcoming the visitors. There was excitement all around, and Lizzie was enjoying herself. And neither of us knew we would be dead before dawn.

The last thing I remembered before losing conscious was a blasting noise, and a grip of heat that permeated my legs as the floor below cracked open pulling me down with it. I fastened my grip on Lizzie not wanting to let go of her on whatever it was that was about to befall us. Then there was a deafening rumble, followed by a blackout silence.

I opened my eyes not knowing how long had past. I couldn’t move my arms or legs, or felt any pain. There was darkness and dirt all around, and the place smelt a damp stench of faeces and urine. I couldn’t hear any voices, although I was hoping some rescuers would soon remove the debris over me and pull me onto a stretcher and place a smiling Lizzie near me. And suddenly that reminded me of Lizzie and I started rolling my eyes in panic trying to locate her amid the deathly chaos around me.

I tilted my face to look for her and a pain seared through my neck and back. I screamed. But the darkness swallowed my voice, and I desperately shook my head trying to look around for Lizzie. Barely two feet from me, I saw a baby smeared with blood and dirt and her face distorted beyond recognition. If at all anyone could recognize her, it was me.

I’ve cried many times before, but when I cried that moment, it was different. There were no tears, no sobs or sniffles, no nothing. There were sprinkles of water that escaped through the debris and fell on my damp face. Some of it diluted the blood on Lizzie’s face that looked as if she were bathing in a rain of blood.

I felt sleepy. I closed my eyes as a rapidly engulfing peace took over me and whatever was left of me began ebbing itself out. I felt I was standing on a long stretch of green pasture fondling Lizzie in my arms and showing her a group of white flamingos dancing under the bright sunlight. Lizzie, in her white gown, was laughing the way only she could. I tugged her close to me and kissed her, knowing nothing could ever try to separate us.

We continue to be together, though not exactly the way I thought it would all be. There’s peace here, and fun. And I don’t feel sad for what has happened. If anything, I’m only sad for what has not happened – a teenage girl screaming at her mom that she’s being too old fashioned.

Short Story: Reunion

I decided we’ll meet at the airport. I packed a pack of chips, a bottle of orange crush, some steamed rice, the Miss You greeting card carefully placed in a flowery envelope with nothing written over it, and drove to the airport.

We had promised we would never meet again. That was one day of perverse words, and tears that never fell. Our story wasn’t after all having the “and the frog turned into a prince, and they lived happily ever after” ending. I spent the next few years in fear. Fearing he would someday come in search of me. Or perhaps fearing he would never come looking for me. I didn’t love him anymore. But still thought I needed him. On some days, his images bridled my eyes and I drifted into the world I thought I would live in; into his world. So when I suddenly got that call from him, I acted shocked to hide the fact that I was actually shocked.

The flight was on time. Every head in the crowd seemed like him, as I had no idea how much he had changed over the years. He might have lost some hair, I suppose, and if he’d continued eating as much junk food, he would have gained some weight. He was not spectacled, but his job and reading habits could have earned him one. He wouldn’t have a moustache, he hated growing one. Probably still as brand loyal to Reebok; he never changed his favorite brands. I was sure he still used Close-Up and Gillete.

Between the stream of thoughts I saw a man in a light blue tee, blue jean, a backpack in his hand emerging from the crowd. I didn’t smile yet. From the distance it seemed he had lost some hair, put on some weight, and was spectacled. Soon his eyes fell on me and he started walking in my direction. I let out a thin smile as he approached a distance where we could hear each other.

“Hi”, he told smiling just as much, “you haven’t changed”. “Neither have you”, I lied. We took a place in one of the tables outside McDonalds and I gave him the greeting. He opened the envelope, unfolded the greeting and I repeated the lines he would be reading, within myself. “Me too”, he said smiling. But for some reason I thought he was crying, and quickly changed the topic opening the bowl of rice and chips, and placed the orange crush next to it. “Want some?”, I said pushing the bowl closer to him, “hope your tastes have not changed”. He ate one spoon and looked at me. “No. I’m going out for dinner tonight”, I replied.

So that’s how the next four hours would pass. Neither of us had the courage to ask about each other’s life, and what we were up to all these years that we were not in touch. I learnt he had changed two companies, commuted by car, and that his backpack was a birthday gift. He told me everything I cared less, while I sifted unfamiliar feelings returning to certain memories that interrupted me again and again from listening to him. I didn’t ask him if he still used Close-Up and Gillete, or if he still went to the same library. Between his words and my silence, it seemed I had grown up to be different during his absence. His sudden presence strangely alienated me from my feelings, like a trauma that ejects you out of your emotions. I felt numb. I felt – nothing.

The speaker called out security check for his return flight. “I got to leave”, he said. I started packing the boxes and leftovers. He was keeping the greeting carefully inside some book in his backpack, zipped it, and ran his fingers over the zipper. He hadn’t changed his habits.

He was about to leave and I was clueless what to talk. We were standing at the airport – that place of reunions and goodbyes – where there was always so much to talk in either case. And there I was staring blank into his face, perhaps confused if this was a reunion or a goodbye. “How’s your wife?”, I blurted. “Yeah”, he paused, “Good”. And he turned and walked away. As I watched him disappear into the crowd, my mobile beeped announcing a message. “Booked a table for us”, it said.

Short Story: Remains

He cringed his eyelids after sunlight struck his eyes. After years in darkness, the streak of a bright summer morning sun made him wince and stand still until his eyelids adjusted to the light. The road appeared long and broad, with petty shops and tall buildings, more dusty than when he had stood at that place, three decades ago.

He started walking slowly past the buildings, both hands in pockets, as if he were feeling cold. Habits die hard. He wondered if the same old houses and places still existed, and peered at every person walking beside him, the modern day houses with designer bricks, shiny cars zooming past without a sound, a young girl riding a bike – nothing was like what he was used to seeing in his days.

Suddenly he started feeling conscious of himself. He felt eyes watching him all the time. Including that of the kid near the garbage dump. What if somebody recognized him? He heard someone call out a name. He turned around panicking, thinking it was his, only to realize nobody even noticed his presence. His was one such name that faded in the eventualities of time, after being in a dubious limelight for a while. People had known him as The Killer. That’s what the newspapers had named him. And that’s what had become of his name. Killer Acquitted. And then, Killer Convicted. He still remembered the headlines, and the dirty odor of the room where he had read them.

He caught dust in his throat and began coughing. He walked to a nearby shop and asked for a glass of water, cautious, fearing the shopkeeper would find his identity. He was given a glass and he gulped it down. Water still tasted the same. Tasteless. Atleast, something had not changed with the outside world. The shopkeeper smiled, and he smiled back. He resumed walking, feeling calmer. Times and lives had moved. Probably the shopkeeper wasn’t even born in those days. May be, no one really knew him today. No one alive, that is. It was as if he had travelled forward in time, and felt like a lonely alien in a world that is too busy to notice anything unusual. It felt so good to be lonely again.

And he continued walking down the streets taking a turn every now and then, watching people talk on strangle little phones they carried in their pockets, and little discernible voices rising amid the assorted sound of motor vehicles. In one such turn he saw a ruined building, which seemed wrecked and unattended for ages. He remembered seeing one like that, on the last occasion he was out in the morning sunlight. “Eight men. Possibly nine. We counted the limbs.”, a rescue person had told him. He had seen blood spattered all over, limbs visible from the gaps in the rubble, dusty smoke and the smell of burning human flesh. He had heard a squishing sound as he tried stepping in and nausea rose from the pit of his stomach when he realized what he had stepped on. A shattered torso.

He felt nauseous again.  He wiped his face and walked past the wreck followed by his elongating shadows, until he spotted a quaint looking restaurant. He suddenly felt famished. He needed to grab something, and then find a place to sleep. Tomorrow, when there’s sunlight again, he’ll think what he wanted to do with the remains of his life.

Short Story: Wreck

He walked into the wreck, stepping carefully over the debris. The dust of eroded wood was strewn all over the floor. There was a pungent smell of spoilt food and something else that smelt like dead rats. The cockroaches were alive and moving, just as only they could. He moved carefully, bending and sliding beside the hanging rooftops, so as not to disturb the spiders that had now made it their home.

He stepped into what once was their living room. There was nothing as living in the room though. But there still were marks where there was the teapot, the television stand and the television itself was lying close by, now with a hollow at the spot which used to be the cynosure of all eyes in the house for everything from soaps to sports. A few newspapers lay beside the newspaper rack. He bent down and picked one, holding it between his thumb and forefinger and gently blew the dust off its top. He coughed, but that wouldn’t stop him from bringing it closer to his eyes to read the date on the newspaper. February 8, 1986.

With the newspaper held gently between his fingers, he went into the kitchen. A thin stream of sunlight was sneaking in through the overhead ventilation, which was now just a hole in the wall. The sunlight scattered the dust particles moving around in the kitchen illuminated by the beam of light. Tyndall effect, something reminded him from the back of his mind. Light scatters dust, or something like that. He had learnt in schooldays, sitting at that very spot. And there were some utensils and plates. All rusted unused by time.

Time could be so cruel, he thought. If time had a heart, it would know to differentiate the good and the bad, it would retain beauty where it should, it would rust only the bad, it would… His thoughts were interrupted when his eyes fell on an open book in an adjacent room. He skipped his thoughts and quickly stepped closer to read the title on the page. Indrajal Comics. The Phantom series. February 6, 1986. The best memory of his childhood was his waiting for Indrajal Comics that was delivered to his home along with the Wednesday newspaper.

It was then he realized that he was standing in his room. His room. His comics. His toy train. His crayons. Everything he saw in that room were his own. They were a piece of himself. His childhood lifelines.  Things he would never have parted with on any day. Except that – he ended up parting with all of them. He opened his shelf. His shelf. And there, staring out at him from the dull white wall, was a black and white photo. A man,  a woman and two kids. And an animated say-cheese smile. His heart began pounding hard. He dropped the newspaper he had been clutching all the while and ran his fingers softly over the photo. His 10-year old face smiled at him.

Next morning, he sat with his coffee and recounted everything to Reshma, as it happened, moment by every tiny moment. Just then little Rehan Junior walked out of his room rubbing his sleepy eyes and moaning the way that only kids could. He quickly cut short his words, looked at their son and said in that baby voice he always uses with their son “Look who’s waken up. Happy Birthday little master”. And displaying all of his bright milky teeth, his 10-year old son smiled at him. An animated say-cheese smile.

Short Story: Mornings

Don’t you love mornings? The rising sun, chirping birds, waking afresh, the proverbial morning rush to work, the brightness. Mornings are where the life happens. A sign that things are going to be great soon. The brighter side of living. And all those quotes – After the darkness comes the light. The dawn of a new age. Remember them?
 
I don’t remember when I started to fear mornings. I used to love it in those days though. My first sighting of the morning was my dad spanking my little brother awake and his sleepy moaning that I often imitate during breakfast. There was an innocently wicked fun in putting him off guard and laugh aloud at his “I would never have said that” look. The morning music was my mother’s clanging utensils, getting the family geared up for the morning rush. Four slices of bread and jam, sometimes with an omelet and forcibly gulping down a glass of milk listening to mom’s ranting how it is so bad for a young girl refusing to drink milk.

Then there was dad’s newspaper from which he peeped out every other minute to look at the clock on the wall counting down the minutes for the morning news on television (radios were already out of fashion). When the news got over, it was also time for the school bus and we rushed out waving our hands at mom and dad, grabbing our water bottle, fastening the school bag, to the bus stop to join a bunch of other children in white and blue uniforms. I kept waving at mom and dad not losing their sight, until I turned down the street.

Such are my images of the dead. Later in life, I found comfort in Rehan. I was not the romantic kind. My romantic days passed over along with my teens. So I wouldn’t say it was romantic, but it felt secure to be in his arms. To wake up in the morning sensing that he’s been hugging me. Or atleast knowing that he’s sleeping just beside me, if not hugging. I always woke up before him and softly shook his shoulders and whispered the arrival of morning. We followed this ritual every morning – I wake up, shake him, and he wakes up. And then one morning, he didn’t.

My bed is rather vacant without him. Like my mind. I keep the other side of the bed disturbed before going to sleep, so I don’t miss him too much in the morning. May be he’s just gone somewhere. And he’ll wake up from that side of the bed one morning, and then everything is going to be great. What if he doesn’t? That’s not a sad thought. Because I know he will not. But I’ll just as well keep waiting for him every morning.

These days I feel lonely. And that’s what makes me happy. The morning rush and the crowd scares me. I prefer the darkness and its silence, sitting on my bed, holding on to my pillow, closing my eyes. I don’t feel like talking to anyone, only to myself. I live two lives. By the day, I’m the woman who doesn’t talk much, minds her own business at work and gets back home as soon as she can. By the night, I’m myself.

It’s now time for my sleep. How I long for this minute. I don’t know why, but I’m particularly happy today. So this night I’ll dream. And in my dream I’ll meet my family, have four slices of bread and omelet. And a glass of milk.

Short Story: Long Year

I let him do what he likes. Today, I let him weep. The flight was delayed by four hours. But having been used to waiting, I sat at the visitor’s lounge, moving not until I saw him come down the escalator. After we greeted with our silence, I took him – as he followed me not knowing where I was taking him – to the new take-away coffee outlet that had a bunch of circular two-seater tables.

It was in our sophomore years, when he was my best bud and the class clown, who always found ways to make people laugh. On a day, he wore a circus clown cap, painted his cheeks with large red lipstick dots and imitated all our professors. He also invited some awkward comments that I would never tell him, lest it would make him sad. I let him do what he likes. I always did.

So I never told him many things. For example, I never told him how much I loved him. Even after we had to part and go our ways. I had condemned myself to the curse of the ordinary. There was an element of ordinariness to my life, a seeping wish for those little gifts of laughter and merriment that are always confined to the better people of this world. Dreams are not meant for the ordinary ones who are left to the mercies of an eternal hope for the simplest joys.

When I heard he was married, a searing pain pierced my stomach. I dreamt of him embracing the woman in his life, running his fingers through her forehead and telling her his life would be nothing without her, and I woke up feeling terrible. May be I was jealous, but then I had already resigned to the curse of my ordinariness. Ordinary ones like me don’t deserve to get what they want. We are those sundry entities, who were sent into this world because God wanted to cover some holes in His creation, just to make the creation look complete. We are an accident.

We reach the take-away coffee outlet and sit with a hot cup facing each other, but not actually facing. We kept staring into our coffee with an awkward silence that seemed to provide a strange sense of long awaited comfort for both. That’s when he began weeping.

“It was a long year”, he finally muttered a low whisper. He was choking to talk anything about the mishap or the loss of his family. Sometimes ordinary things happen to extraordinary people. They are used to happiness, unlike us, that anything slightly bad tears them apart. And something this bad throws them out of the system.

“I know”, I returned his whisper, still staring into my coffee. And we suddenly realize our coffee was becoming cold. How much stranger could this life be – amid the pains and tears and memories, our immediate worry seems to be to finish the freaking coffee before it’s cold. If you look at it that away, all tragedies are funny. When you cry, you are actually laughing at yourself. We drink the coffee and he walks beside me as I head to the parking lot.

We had some steamed rice and cookies for dinner. He helped me with the plates, rearranging them along the shelf that had a decoration of tiny red dots distantly resembling his cheeks from the sophomore days. And when we had to call it a day, he came and sat near me. I took his hand in mine. His eyes glared at mine with a mix of pain and comfort, as if resting after a long journey. He placed one hand around my shoulders, softly ran a finger tracing the perimeter of my forehead and rested it in the middle of my cheek. I sit without a stir. I let him do what he likes.

Short Story: Garden of Bliss

The night gave way to a pleasant spring morning. I walked across the slippery road one little step at a time towards the garden. It’s called the Garden of Bliss, they say. It’s watered by the heaven and its fruits never perish. Its trees grow short bark and long branches that spread all around itself like an umbrella of leaves and shelter all who need. And you’ll never come out unhappy from the Garden of Bliss.

My legs carried me fast and I could see the Garden of Bliss only a few more paces away. I could even smell the fragrance of its early morning dew. There seemed to be some eyes all around me watching me scamper through the road but I continued to walk swiftly. As I neared my destination, I began hearing strange voices playing noisy tunes in my ears. I recognized one to be the song from the radio that, like a noble friend, always accompanied me when I drink my morning tea.

I walked faster, and the noise became louder. My tea song dissolved into other noises and I realized I couldn’t recognize it anymore. I suddenly felt lonely and started walking faster. The noises became even louder. I closed my eyes and ran straight up to the gate. And when I slowly opened my eyes I saw a green panel embarked on a beautiful green plank over its pearly gates. Garden of Bliss, it said.

I stepped in, and all the loud noises that tormented me, abruptly ceased. It was only the serene fragrance that gleefully dragged me into its fold. The trees were gleaming, the chirpy birds singing praises of heaven, tiny squirrels scurried across the lush grass moist with the morning dew, tiny pieces of fruits clasped between their teeth. I saw a flower with its bud closed, as if it were feeling lazy to wake up from the coziness of its sprout. I bent down and slowly touched the head of a dewdrop over the bud. And it bloomed with all its magnificence revealing a beauty I had never known to exist in this world. I was so staggered by the splendor of its bloom that I fell on my back, but quickly recovered to wonder at its colorful radiance.

The bloom gave way to an avalanche of events in the garden. The trees began to shake their branches fanning me with a cool breeze, the birds flew over my head and sang in a cohesive unison. A spurt of colorful water rushed out of the flower, like a fountain, as if all my dreams were given a shape and soared high up in the scented air. The water splashed over my face and I laughed out loud bathing in the rain.

Moments later, another gush of water splashed on my face and I began laughing out louder. And there was another gush. Another splash on my face. A large hand suddenly came from nowhere and violently wiped the water on my face. “You’ve slept enough”, the hand screamed into my ears, “The plants need trimming”. Another scream. And this startled me.

I opened my eyes and saw the morning light escape into my dark room through a hole on the roof. The tiny speck of brightness quivered my sight and I took my time to pull up my torn trousers, gradually brush the sleep and wake up. I got up stumbling past the wooden chairs and reached for the heavy pair of scissors and wobbled my fingers around to hold it softly, making myself set for the first of my day’s chores.

I stepped out across the road and went up to the gate as my mind mechanically read the large green plank placed over the gate. Garden of Bliss, it said.

Short Story: Unrequited Love

The clock ticked past midnight, as my painted fingers reached for some tissue and shred them into the tiniest bits. I sat upright on the bed, my face resting on my bent knees and half-closed eyes still strolling its way through the disturbed comforters and the moist pillows lying one on top of the other, and a lock of hair fluttering in front of my eyes in the noiseless wind from the ceiling fan.

I continued strolling my eyes around the bed until it halted the moment they fell upon him. He was fast asleep, his back towards me, resting his palm under his ears. I could feel the mild rise and fall of his back with every breath. I had a strange urge to reach out to him. And I would stroke his back with my fingers and feel his breath. I would tug him close to me and feel the warmth of his manly presence. He would wake up by then, and pull me closer and let me bury my face between his arms. And in the bliss of the moment he would tell me how much he loved me. And I would secretly shed a tear even as I pretend a sleepy moan.

But my eyes would only keep staring, handicapped by the very longing that made me urge close to him.“Would I ever want to belong to him?” I wondered. To me every day is the same. I have everything I need. Money, food, a job and loads of love. But on days I get weary of love. How much more do I want to be loved? In my dictionary love has taken a ghostly definition. It’s a phantom that burrows a hole in me and plays heartily with my deepest emotions. A trident piercing my heart, but not the way they show in those greeting cards – where an arrow piercing a heart is the symbol of utmost love. But how I long to be presented such a greeting.

On second thoughts, that would be the cruelest thing to happen to anyone who presents me with the greeting. May sanity prevail on him who shall dare so.

I stretch my legs through the comforters and rub my eyes, an involuntary sigh accompanying this eye-rubbing exercise. Between times of a hard work this exercise refreshes me and I’ve started adopting it as a routine these days. And I’ve also developed this habit of inventing new exercises to keep me fresh. They don’t work at times, but atleast they give me a chance to think – something that I otherwise confine to the anonymous entities that make my livelihood.

I’ve been in love. Far more times than one can imagine. I’ve been loved. Far more than anyone else would have hoped to be. But love is also what I miss. Its one of those things you tend to miss the moment you have it in abundance. Because it was not your choice that you wanted it in abundance. And now, you don’t have the slightest choice to live in its absence. I’ve learnt, not by choice again, to like what I hate. But I do want to know, how it feels to miss someone. Or, how it feels to be missed. Do you miss someone if you love them? Why did none who loved me, miss me?

I turn back and look at him again. He’s still fast asleep, contented with his magical moments with me, albeit weary. I do have a way about making people happy. But will he miss me when its time for me to go? Did he feel in me, the real human heart pumping its own delicate longings when he showered his intense love? Did he see me or his love? I don’t even know his name. Neither does he, I would suppose.

But it is, in either case, only a few hours that I’ve seen him. And only a few more that I would see him. In the between, I let him make me his. A wax in his candle, that he lit and blew as he pleased. Tomorrow, I will let another man make me his. Tomorrow, it would be another candle. And I look forward to it, as I intend to invent a new exercise.

Inspired by this Woody Allen short story.