It is not a story. It is an account of truth. A journey penned down in words. A factual representation of two people in love.
Yes it is not a story but there is a girl and there is a boy. The girl is indifferent to the boy but finds his ardor charming. The boy loves the girl and he knows in his heart it will never change.
What if this was a story? Will it make a difference to the readers? I cannot be the judge of that.
Suhaani was sleeping, she slept awkward. I watched her sleep, she was on her stomach head resting on two fluffy pillows, her arms were flayed on both sides. Her posture made me smile, she slept peacefully it seemed nothing worried her anymore.
I like to read at night, there were many nights like this one in which I could see the night turn over. The sun coming up in all its glory. It was her beauty which kept me awake, I would lose the book midway and keep looking at her and sometimes il just sleep off while I admired her tranquility.
The flying newspaper hitting the window sill woke me up, it was a cold morning and I had to get ready for work. Suhaani was still sleeping, she preferred waking at her own pace. She worked but it was only to distract herself from the nothingness around. She told herself everyday that in one of these days I will have my own thing up and running.”
Generally by the time I was having breakfast she would prance around the house getting ready, juggling between tooth brush, curling irons and clothes to be worn at work. She was a true blue queen, the morning rituals were simple, I had to make her elaichi n adrak waali chai, then wait for her to decide when to get up. She liked things to come to her ,so, by the time she was through with her juggling of a million things she expected her breakfast to be on the table or packed depending upon her mood.
She wore whatever Salma picked out for her. Salma had been with us since she was a child and she loved us like family. We never treated her with indifference. She was an integral part of our family.
The world saw Suhaani as a cold and tough person. It was an image she was happy to portray. Her approach to life was simple ‘I don’t care who you are or what you are. I just don’t’ she took no offence when people thought of her as a cold person. It was exactly what she wanted them to believe cause from within she knew what she was.
The time in which these facts are being documented is/was/would be the time when it is very hard to find a person who had the gift of trust. And she was a person who had this gift, she won’t trust anyone but if she did then she would never judge them. It’s a volatile gift, people misuse it so she chose to be the cold one. The less people get to know you the better chances are there to stave them off.
She garnered a lot of attention for how she looked. She was beautiful. As it’s an account based on facts, I will put the facts forward. These feelings are not feelings, these are not biased judgment calls but only facts. She was not very tall, her complexion was fair and she had beautiful long hair. Her eyes were a deep shade of brown, it seemed as if your falling, real large eyes, so expressive and innocent. You just could not do anything wrong and get away with it when those beautiful eyes accused you. She was lithe and confident, she smelled like fresh lilies combined with the smell of morning. A chilly freshness, her sight gave hope. There are so many things that I should tell you, the facts I mean, this is not a story, it’s a compendium of facts and I am not a writer but a more of a person making a journal entry.
I had been hurt so had she . She was hurt by the person she loved and I was hurt by the person I thought I loved. Being hurt is an alien feeling, when people say “I know what you are talking about” I feel like telling them “no, you do not know what I am going through!!! I do not want you to even anticipate the sense of my loss”
So when we met we were two weary people who did not trust anyone. I am a romantic, I fall in love with the same passions every time but this cold person who was trying to prove a point as to how bad she actually was, was making me feel something. We spoke on the phone once, I liked her voice, I told her that. She was cordial but she told me that she is not a nice person and I should definitely stay away from her.
Till date I will never know was she trying to entice me into chasing her or she truly meant that. It’s confusing when people talk in riddles. I chased her night and day, did not give her any space. The more I knew her the more innocent she seemed. A girl driven by simple passions of being loved and wanting to love back in return. Her giggles still ring in my ears, a continuous flutter of childlike emotions.
I never realized when we came so close. Every time I think of her I sigh!!!, a sigh of relief knowing that she is safe as she is with me and then I fret what if we lose each other one day, what if the days which seems so promising become dark and corrupted.
Her immensity of emotions baffle me, it seems as if she is evolving. I do not know what it means but its what I feel, I do not think she is changing, somehow change has a negative connotation attached to it. Whenever I feel that “I am so lucky to have her!” she would dazzle me with something else. How does these things work? I am a romantic but I have always been confused between true love and the make belief world of being in love. I feel people like being in love, it s a warm sunny comfortable feeling. But I was believing again in something beyond what I had experienced.
When I look back the reason I was attracted to her was not because how she looked but how she made me feel. I felt sure, certain. I felt! I had been numb a long time and just to live again was a blessing.
I observe her. She just knows exactly what I need. I keep on observing her, there is no scope of ambiguity when she knows when you need her. She knows when I need her, she picks up the things that I need. I am trying to find out how does that work? Does telepathy really exist? Can two people think alike? Sometimes it makes me emotional but I won’t talk about that. I am just here to present facts.
I know someday she will go away from me. I have a bad feeling about it but I know it is bound to happen. What makes me so insecure? Is it because I feel she is reaching out and settling for me? Why could I feel her love and still feel insecure?
The chilly weather continued, I woke up to find a note on the fridge. A sticky memo, it had just seven letters written on it. “Goodbye”. It made me aware that finally the day had come when she did leave me but I did not understand why it happened. I went about my day to day stuff and kept thinking the goodbye was written with the same green pen I had bought her at the store, she had loved it and I bought it for her.
Why did she use a gift to write those seven letters? Why was I thinking on those lines? I do not know. Am I expressing myself? I should not digress. I sat down and waited for her to call. The whole day passed, I made no effort to call her. I stared at the phone sitting on my bedroom. I kept looking, I kept looking at her clothes and her stuff. I laughed aloud, she had forgotten her pretty dresses and her favorite comb. She will come back I thought.
I felt asleep waiting for her and then I was jolted awake by someone, It was Suhaani, her delicate hands running on my face and her soft hair falling on my chest. I looked at her and my eyes were filled with tears. I said “I, thought you left, why did you come back?” to which she replied “Hatt!!!”
I do not know how could I assume the worst, I would leave the details of her sudden vanishing act for another entry in my log. However as my readers should not be agitated, I found another note beneath the fridge, a sticky note which read “ baby I have to go to work, something urgent has come up. Love you loads. Breakfasts ready and be a “ “Goodboy” the good boy was written in the second note which I found on the fridge, my perception made me feel it’s a goodbye. I decided not to live my insecurities rather to live my life. We have been married for fifteen years now and while I pen the facts, I can hear the kettle whistling. It’s a chilly morning and I still have to get her the same tea.
I walk up to her with her cup and she still sleeps funny, body splayed all over, neck in some twisted form, silky hair falling on her face, delicate hands with orange nail paint. I feel she is old for orange now, but I cant say that to her, she can punch me, I know it for a fact.
I sit next to her and wake her gently, she moans and does the whole routine and says “luv uuuuuuuu” and for some reason it strikes me the way it struck me fifteen years earlier.
This journal entry is messed, I have involved too many emotions. But I am not a storyteller but a documenter of facts. The fact is we lived happily forever and after.
