It is raining, rather drizzling and as I open the windows, the pitter-patter sounds a little louder drowning the stray noises around. At times like this your absence become more pronounced.
Do you remember our long arguments over cups of steaming tea?
Yes, of all things you only remember our arguments.
I do remember those silent moments when words were superfluous too, the stupefying silence, like there were millions of words passing between us, each one understood exactly as they were meant to be, no disagreements, the perfect conversation, like a little prayer that doesn't ask for anything, feeling satiated with a never diminishing abundance.
A raindrop lands on the empty teacup, and takes the color of the residue. A fly buzzes around, circles and settles on the cup. On the first day we ever agreed on something, you made me tea, do you remember? How many spoons of sugar, stronger or lighter, cardamom or ginger... an endless list of questions for a single cup of tea!
An endless list of questions? I just wanted to make you a good cup of tea, though I am sure I always make a decent one. It was the first time I made it for you... But for the never stopping chatterer that you are, all that you did was leave everything to my wisdom.
I have never been particular about all that, and it never sounded that important to me.
Did anything ever sound important to you? I remember I was so excited about that sketch you made, spent hours choosing the frame for it, something that was good but simple enough to highlight your sketch, got it made and asking you where to place it. Do you remember what you told me? Throw it into the dustbin!
Sorry, I know that was rude. But it was one of those crappy days ever in my life, and I was feeling very low. I was telling you about all that, but you were not truly listening. You were just immersed in your own thoughts, not even bothering to hear me. If you did you wouldn't have asked me that question.
I thought it would lift your spirits.
It didn't. It only further dampened my spirits... like you were more bothered about that silly sketch I made and not me.
Silly sketch? Silly because it was me you sketched?
No, silly because I sketched it. I am sorry I always end up being rude, it just happens unintentionally.
I turn to the library, the sweet little library you left me with. Smelling each book that sits there majestically, I run my fingers across them like a ritual until my fingers brush past the wooden frame that holds my silly sketch of you.
What did you see in the childish pencil strokes that I made after your coaxes and woos? Do you know it was while sketching these lines, tracing your face after looking at the model picture you gave me, that I fell in love with you? Did the lines I etched betray my feelings to you?
You have stopped talking. Say something. The drizzle has stopped too... and it's so eerie. What happened to your... what do you call that... vocal diarrhea?
I chuckle. You know it felt yucky when you said that, but it always made me laugh, laugh so loudly mouth wide open, eyes closed, completely blind and deaf to the world. Conversations have turned to monologues these days, It is difficult you know, throwing questions and answering them the way you would, the words you use, the intonation, the rhythm intact with the laugh, anger, stress and everything that was you?
At times it sounds so silly, childish. This can't go on forever. It has to stop. This is draining me, taxing me. This absence, this vacuum is just imaginary, I know.
Yes, you know. You know everything. That is what I always said. You know everything but still choose to behave like you are inane.
You know something, I am feeling better now, after this soulful talk we had, imagining you are right there listening to me, talking to me, grinning at each of my words, like you understand me, and of course these books that we added to our shelves, our own little library that we both loved so dearly complete, with that silly framed sketch.
Do you remember our long arguments over cups of steaming tea?
Yes, of all things you only remember our arguments.
I do remember those silent moments when words were superfluous too, the stupefying silence, like there were millions of words passing between us, each one understood exactly as they were meant to be, no disagreements, the perfect conversation, like a little prayer that doesn't ask for anything, feeling satiated with a never diminishing abundance.
A raindrop lands on the empty teacup, and takes the color of the residue. A fly buzzes around, circles and settles on the cup. On the first day we ever agreed on something, you made me tea, do you remember? How many spoons of sugar, stronger or lighter, cardamom or ginger... an endless list of questions for a single cup of tea!
An endless list of questions? I just wanted to make you a good cup of tea, though I am sure I always make a decent one. It was the first time I made it for you... But for the never stopping chatterer that you are, all that you did was leave everything to my wisdom.
I have never been particular about all that, and it never sounded that important to me.
Did anything ever sound important to you? I remember I was so excited about that sketch you made, spent hours choosing the frame for it, something that was good but simple enough to highlight your sketch, got it made and asking you where to place it. Do you remember what you told me? Throw it into the dustbin!
Sorry, I know that was rude. But it was one of those crappy days ever in my life, and I was feeling very low. I was telling you about all that, but you were not truly listening. You were just immersed in your own thoughts, not even bothering to hear me. If you did you wouldn't have asked me that question.
I thought it would lift your spirits.
It didn't. It only further dampened my spirits... like you were more bothered about that silly sketch I made and not me.
Silly sketch? Silly because it was me you sketched?
No, silly because I sketched it. I am sorry I always end up being rude, it just happens unintentionally.
I turn to the library, the sweet little library you left me with. Smelling each book that sits there majestically, I run my fingers across them like a ritual until my fingers brush past the wooden frame that holds my silly sketch of you.
What did you see in the childish pencil strokes that I made after your coaxes and woos? Do you know it was while sketching these lines, tracing your face after looking at the model picture you gave me, that I fell in love with you? Did the lines I etched betray my feelings to you?
You have stopped talking. Say something. The drizzle has stopped too... and it's so eerie. What happened to your... what do you call that... vocal diarrhea?
I chuckle. You know it felt yucky when you said that, but it always made me laugh, laugh so loudly mouth wide open, eyes closed, completely blind and deaf to the world. Conversations have turned to monologues these days, It is difficult you know, throwing questions and answering them the way you would, the words you use, the intonation, the rhythm intact with the laugh, anger, stress and everything that was you?
At times it sounds so silly, childish. This can't go on forever. It has to stop. This is draining me, taxing me. This absence, this vacuum is just imaginary, I know.
Yes, you know. You know everything. That is what I always said. You know everything but still choose to behave like you are inane.
You know something, I am feeling better now, after this soulful talk we had, imagining you are right there listening to me, talking to me, grinning at each of my words, like you understand me, and of course these books that we added to our shelves, our own little library that we both loved so dearly complete, with that silly framed sketch.