11:04pm, 6th May 2007. Coach S7, Kanyakumari Express.
It’s a warm summer night. You, me and Jose’ (as you call dear Chikku), traveling back to Bangalore on Kanyakumari express. The cold war started just after I tried too much at pulling you leg. Your lovely fair well manicured (or is it pedicured) pink sox clad legs. I try to give an attempt at reconciliation, in vain; you’re still giving me the cold eyes. These are the eyes of my beloved. One of the deepest I’ve ever seen.
Guess I’ve told you this before – That I believe mascara was invented to be painted on your eyes alone. They’re like two lone graceful fishes swimming in perfect synchronicity on a sea of emotions. You’re lovely, and your beauty runs so deep.
You’re still avoiding eye contact and I feel like I’ve flunked my boards. On opposite berths, you decide to lie down with your feet facing my face.
Pink Socks again. Actually an assortment of pink shades.
I remember the weird beginnings. Could this be the end? Nay, out of question. My love for you is immortal.
You turn to talk to Joe, who’s perched on the side berth, to talk about some church stuff.
Indifference is stingingly painful, like liquid Betadine on an open wound.
Forgive me, but I am no vegetable. Your beauty to my eyes just reiterates the fact that you’re a prized masterpiece of the creator. You are a wet monsoon morning, a perfectly cloudy sky, the ice capped mountains, you are nature, and I love you madly.
You shuffle around with the multicolored blankets that you have carried with you. Strange. With all that sheer huge size of your bright orange mountaineering bag, you’don’t have a pillow with you. Could be the range of war paint accessories that take up the space, or the shoes in the shoebox. . Anyway, that’s not the topic now. You drape yourself with the blanket, hip down, covering your shapely legs, socks and all.
You remind me of the mermaids, as in stories told by the fishermen and sailors in the oceans deep. Like little fins, your hands gracefully move to turn the pages of Fulton Sheen’s Life of Christ. Jet black hair matching the starless sky outside, like sea anemones, they twirl, fly, and fall back, dancing with the swift winds that whip across the fields, bridges, rives and trees that we rush past.
A strange sense of nostalgia envelopes me. The nostalgia for a home that is yet to be discovered, yet to be created, and I somehow now it’s over the bend. On the hilltop, where there is life. Of woods and brooks, grass and fences, pebbles and creeks, poppies and dragonflies.
This was when Chikku switched off the lights, I tried my hand at using my dad’s pen torch, but you wouldn’t let me write..
Thankfully for me, you bestowed mercy by changing positions, Now I see your face in the dim overhead violet light.