PRESENCE OR ABSENCE?

My grandmother once told me to ' be like table salt...don't make much noise about being there, but then when you aren't , let everyone notice your absence.' At that time, it seemed like the most sound piece of advice. It probably also meant to be around for your loved ones unconditionally, doing things for them relentlessly, let yourself be seeped into their subconsciousness - but unconsciously - and to let them realize your worth only in separation. Or death. Much like grandmothers - they are always around doing sweet things so naturally, you only realize their full impact on you once they're gone.

But is that how we really are?

We secretly want our presence to be appreciated by every single one, every single time.

We enjoy attention because we all want to feel wanted.

While for some, we want to be wanted much more, we want to be needed.

Isn't that why we all absolutely resent being 'taken for granted'?

So many relationships usually fail, because people, usually men, try so hard to get the woman they desire, that once they finally have them, they mess it up. They are so used to her absence, they don't know what to do with the presence!

Or also because people, usually women, slip into such a comfort zone once they've found the man they always wanted, that they think he'll always, 'obviously' be around, and don't even notice the dimming spark!

Once lost, the cycle reaches 'absence' again, and only then do they value what they once had.

But is that how we really want to be?

We want to make a difference by us being there or not being there?

We want to be valued for our presence or absence?

A STRANGE CONNECTION

             

The loneliness does not stop.

It begins with the first splash of cold water on my face and infiltrates into every part of my body under the shower. It blossoms as I dress, it mixes in my coffee. It closes on me slowly, as I close the door of my home.

As the day progresses, the feeling also grows. It interrupts my work in office. It continuously lingers on my mind. Like that slow, last kiss years ago. I can feel it residing in my footsteps, heavy, as I board the local train back home.   My loneliness – my disability.

And then I see her.

Sitting in her usual place by the window in the train, oblivious to the crowd. Her long, silky hair, moving swiftly with the wind. Her delicate fingers interlaced with each other. Her face, so soft, so naïve. Her eyes, looking outside the window, searching for something, as avidly as I am trying to find, something of purpose in my strange, closed life.

I always manage to sit around her. On lucky days, I get a seat right opposite hers. On luckier days, she notices my presence, breaking her intense reverie – she breathes in, turns her head quickly to look in my direction with those deep, brown, mesmerizing eyes, but only for a fraction of a minute. She then looks down coyly, smiles slightly to reveal a small dimple, and continues her blank, unblinking stare, outside the window. It is an interlinked pattern, which never fails to repeat. It’s a repetition I wish to always be repeated.

I remember that evening when I got a seat just next to hers. I received a phone call from my distant mother – distant in terms of time, place and person. As I spoke, I noticed her letting go of her endless gaze outside and looking at her feet, as if listening to every word intently. To confirm her eavesdropping, I cracked a small joke (much to my mother’s surprise) and she laughed! That was it – it is another of our patterns from that day – I always call my mother on my way back from office, and she always lends a listening ear. However far I am from her, she manages to interject my conversation with her responses - a look of surprise, an expression of melancholy or that slight tinkling laughter – matching perfectly to everything I say. The talk with my mother now encompasses a variety of events and emotions, only to see deviations from that blank look of hers to a wide array of expressions. So much so, that sometimes I forget who I am actually having the conversation with! My mother thinks I have finally changed my strange ways – keeping in touch with her like a good son, having such upbeat conversations – but well, the less said about the underlying strange reasons for it, the better!

She gets down a station before mine, being very cautious to not disturb anyone in her attempt to reach the exit door of the compartment, but nevertheless ends up bumping into some. In the few instances where she accidently brushes against my legs, I see her stop dead in her tracks for a few seconds, bring a thin hazy smile on her lips, and continue her intermittent, staggering walk like the other many passengers. Once she exits, it is impossible to see her again in the pool of people. Her station is an extremely crowded one, and she gets lost in the crowd. But she makes a cozy home in my thoughts till the next evening. I see myself waiting to get done with work and catch the train back home. I hear myself hoping that she has caught the same one, which is usually the case - it is as if the universe is conspiring for this recurrence to occur in an eternal loop unless one of us breaks it with words. It has been three months since this repetition of events began, and it is starting to bring about a subtle change in me.

What is this sudden beauty enveloping me? I can see it withering away – my loneliness- like noisy, autumn leaves, shedding slowly, but surely. Out of all the hypothetical situations with her,that I create regularly in my head, I have never even had a real conversation with her. But there is this unsaid, untouched association which links us together. What is it about certain people that you feel completely at ease with them? I don’t gaze at any other girl so incessantly, notice such slight differences in anyone’s behavior, or try to catch someone’s attention all the time. What is making me share a comfort zone with this unknown person… her Aura? Her Energy? Or simply, a Strange Connection?

My mother always tells me that I see only what I want to see. Is this the case here too? Am I misinterpreting her responses? I would probably have an answer to it only when I muster up the courage to talk to her. Which is the most difficult thing to do for an isolated person like me. I live in my own world – a private me-zone which forms a thick, non-penetrable layer around me. What if I let her into my personal space and I have to face another rejection? Sometimes, confusion is better than clarity.

But it has been three days now since I have seen her and the unrest in me is spreading everywhere in my consciousness. And so, on the fourth day, when I see her again (thankfully)I realize, that I must have a word with her, lest I never see her again…I pray hard to a God I’ve never prayed to before and decide to get down on her station. I have no idea of what I am going to talk to her, but her absence has given me a strong push.

As I get down, I lose myself in the swarm of people, unable to see her. I push myself through the crowd, searching frantically for her, but she is nowhere to be seen. I see a lot of familiar faces from the journey, but not hers. How can she just vanish in thin air?

Just as I am about to dismiss her as probably a paranormal presence, I see her long silky hair, moving swiftly with the wind a few steps ahead of me. I walk towards her till she is at an arms distance from me.

I put my hand on her shoulder and call out, “Excuse me!”

She turns around and seems frozen to my touch, with that thin hazy smile appearing on her face like before. She breathes in and tilts her ears towards me, like she is waiting to hear my voice again.

“Hello”, I say. She smiles, deepening her dimples.

But something is wrong. It seems like there exists a window between us – because she stares at me with that same black, unblinking look like she does, when she looks on the other side of the window in the train.  I see something shining against the light below. I look down. She is holding a white cane with a red lining, tipped against the floor.

I go blank.

“Are you the boy from the train? The one who talks to his mother every day?”

Blank.

“Hey! Are you there?” She instinctively moves her cane around which hits my feet. This time, it is my reverie that breaks.

-“Yes, yes”. I say.

“Oh!” she blushes. “Out of all the hypothetical situations I created regularly in my head, I never thought we will actually have a real conversation like this!”

-“Oh, OK…”

“OK?” she frowns for a minute, disappointed. Then she smiles, as if realization has dawned upon her. “Of course, my disability must have surprised you and pushed you away. It’s alright. Nice to meet you.” She starts to leave.

“Wait!” I cry out. “I am sorry. My lack of responses is a part of my disability.”

“Your disability?” she instinctively reaches out her hands to touch mine, checking its presence.

“Well…all handicaps cannot be seen.” I nervously laugh. “Or felt.” I correct myself.

“Oh, I see.” She says and then laughs at the pun.

As the smell of brewing coffee, at a stall nearby, intermingles with our first real conversation over the next couple of minutes, she asks,

“What is it about certain people that you feel completely at ease with them?Their Aura? Their Energies?”

“Or simply”, I say, “a Strange Connection?”

                                                     -Printed in New Woman,  November 2015 

                                   The   Open   Door

               The stars continue to twinkle in the dark hours of a time, somewhere between an early morning and a late night. They sparkle and stop, and do so again, synchronizing with every blink of her eye. As she peers down her window, the beauty of her garden seems to dissolve itself into shapeless figures, still in the night, wary in the darkness. So different things seem in the night! So profound. So thoughtful.

                 Since sleep has left her for the night, she decides to make it constructive rather than staring at the ceiling, hearing the wall clock tick and failing at attempts of calling on sleep. She picks up a book from her Archer shelf and climbs her way down to the kitchen.  A cup of beaten coffee, a giant book and some late night reading on the hard couch. Perfect plan for a sleepless night.

                As she starts heating the milk, her phone beeps. At this time? As she walks towards it, it starts ringing. At this time ?!  She hurries towards it, quickens her pace, and picks up that call from an unknown number.

              “Hi,” he says. “It’s me.”

              She stops blinking. For a minute. Or two. Then, she turns her way to the coffee-to-be and switches off the gas. The perfect plan of her sleepless night is about to change, after all.

             “Hi, you awake? I’m sorry you must be sleeping at this time and…I just called you like that…you do know who this is, right?”

          --“Yes, yes. I know. I’m awake. Pretty much. Tell me .”

          “Oh, so you’re awake? How come you’re awake?”

          --“I don’t know. I’m just awake. Tell me.”

          “So, are you half-awake or fully awake?”

         --“ I am fully awake, Ray. Tell me ! What is it? What happened?”

         “OK. So you’re fully awake. Then open the door.”

         --“What?”

        “Yes. Open the door. I mean, if you’re alright with letting me in at this time.”

        --“But…”

        “Yes.” Click.

          He kept the phone! What arrogance! What makes him think she’ll open the door? All of a sudden. In the still of the night. To all that darkness again? No.

         “Hi. I was hoping you would let me in. I’m glad. It’s really cold outside! How do you live in this place? But nice house, pretty huge for one person.”

        --“Uh…”

        He is already midway in the room while she still is at the door. Mouth half open. Eyes wide. What just happened?

          “ Oh, sorry Binny. I just came in like that. I mean this is your house and…OK. Sorry. Shut the door, the wind is cold. You don’t want to catch a cold, do you?”

    --“I don’t catch a cold in winters anymore.”

      “ OK, that’s great. You want to leave the door open then?”

      She shuts the door and sits on the couch. This arrogance.

       “ So don’t you want to show me around your house?”

      --“ Sit. There. On that chair.”

      “Yes..OK…”

      Silence. So finally, he’s awkward. She smiles slightly.

       The clock starts ticking loudly as they both stare at opposing walls. She can’t even try calling on sleep at this time. Sleep is a beautiful savior, it takes you away into a comforting world of nothingness when you don’t want to face a situation troubling you. She should’ve slept this night. Does she have to face it now? Had she slept off, she would’ve probably missed the beep. And the ring. And this situation would not have arised.But  why is she out of place? She belongs here. He doesn’t. Yes.

          --“So,” she cleared her throat. “How come? At this time?”

         “ I thought you’d say how come…after all this time?”

          She looked at him and looked away.

         --“I was making myself some hot coffee, I’ll fix you one too. You seem cold.”

         “I don’t have coffee, Binny. And you seem colder.”

        --“ I don’t keep that tea with me anymore, Ray. I don’t keep all these unnecessary things. I like coffee, and so I keep coffee. You don’t want one, I’ll make it for myself alone.”

        “OK, OK, coffee it is. Why are you getting angry?”

      --“I am not getting angry. I’ll go make it then.”

     “ Should I…”

     --“No. Sit here.”

         “OK.”

       She beats the coffee longer. Louder. It seems weird to pour two cups of milk. She is so used to pouring one.

         She notices him from the corner of her eye. He is the same! Same strong arms, muscular chest. Rugged hands. Brown rough hair. Has it thinned down a little? Is that a wrinkle next to his right eye? His eyes. His eyes are the same though – brown and soft – soft, such a contradiction to the rest of him. It is as if they belong to another person. A person who is caring, understanding, lovable. Very, very lovable.

            His eyes dart around to see what he can of her house. Only her house. Simple settings, meager furniture, subtle wallpapers. Is that a picture of her younger self? How much she has changed now! Old for her age. Unkempt. She looks so frail. But doesn’t seem frail at all. It is as if the sweet vulnerability he always placed his arms around has pushed her way up like a strong, but light water fountain – falling all around him, but never on him.

         --“Here. Coffee.”

        “Thanks.”

         --“So, you still live there, back in the town side?”

        “Yes.”

         --“With her?”

        “No.”

        Did he see a smile on her? No, he must have imagined it.

         “Nice coffee. I really didn’t know you make such good coffee! Appreciated!”

        --“That’s alright. You didn’t know or appreciate a lot of things about me.”

          “Binny.” He puts the coffee cup down. “I am sorry. I am just. Very sorry. For everything. Please, I’m sorry. Please.”

             He is already midway in a room of his own while she still is at the door. What just happened? What? What does he think of himself? He cannot just come, after five long years, in the dead of the night, like the ghost of a memory she thought she had long forgotten. And ask for forgiveness? Where is his arrogance? She needs his arrogance to hate him. Can one apology make up for all that pain, that suffering? Those bad days she once always had. Those sleepless nights she still sometimes does. Is every darkness supposed to be lit up? No.

             --“It’s okay, Ray. Put it behind you. It’s okay.”

            “It is?”

            --“Yes.”

          “Sure, Binny?”

          --“…Yes.”

          “Binny. Thank you. I just…thank you! You are so…easy. Unlike me. I am so…complicated. But you…you make everything so easy. Thank you. Seriously.”

           She laughed. A little more than usual. It is too ironical to not.

          “Just take care. Just take care, Binny.”

           She smiled.

          “ I..I think…I think I should take your leave now. You…you should be sleeping at this time.”

           --“Yes, maybe you should leave.”

            He gets up and walks to the door. He opens it ajar and looks back.

            “Bye Binny. Thank you.”

            --“Bye, Ray.”

             As she peers down the same window, he looks up and waves goodbye.

          --“You didn’t finish your coffee, Ray.”

          “And you’ve shut the door too tight, Binny.”

           He walks off.

          She stares at the open door.