Next Wednesday, it
will be the third anniversary of my last visit to the clinical psychologist. I
should not have lost my cool with him.
After weeks and weeks
of pointless talking, he told me ‘You are depressed…’
I had to reply, ‘Of
course, I am depressed. Am I paying you thousands by the hour to hear that?
What the…’
I had stormed out of
his office, deciding to treat myself.
I pulled out of life.
I quit my job. I stayed in my room. Not completely, I did go to the stores and
all that, but more or less so. I cut off connections with kith and kin, quite gladly
I should admit. It worked. As the weeks stretched into months, I could feel the
power of non-existence. She stopped stalking me. Three months back, I started
to make forays into the outside world, testing out old haunts, checking if I am
ready for the normal. Then, after a month or so of that, I tried out day long
trips she and I had loved – the long rides to the countryside, the hill-station
nearby – just trying to be sure.
Yesterday, I boarded
the train to Kochi at 6 am. I had reserved a seat in the a/c chair car. Without
the office-rush, because of Independence Day, there were few in the
compartment. I took my reserved aisle-seat. There was a lady next to me. She
sat half-turned away, staring out.
I felt like joking,
‘It is really interesting, isn’t it? The railway track, I mean…one can just
keep on staring at it....’
But I was not yet
ready to touch the world without. First I had to deal with that within.
I waited for her. She
did not come. For years, I had gone around with her as my shadow. When I talked
or wrote to a friend, she came in between, reminding me that I was wasting time
without the affection or the care. In lovely places, she would vanish along
with the ephemeral loveliness without even a lingering caress or a swiftly
snatched kiss. At a movie-hall, alone or with some acquaintance, I would be
distracted by the emptiness next to me and I would wait for the end of the
movie, unable to bear those moments without her hand in mine or my fingers on
her thigh, without her breast pressing against my arm when she leaned closer.
But there, in that compartment, she did not come.
I looked at the lady
next to me. She has premature grey hair. The face too has aged early. I knew
that I was being rude, staring nearly lecherously at her face, at her lips, at
her eyes. I think I made her uncomfortable. She looked at the empty seats
around, possibly pointing out to me that I should move there or that she would.
Then, she turned towards me and I realized that she was going to give me an
earful. I should have turned away. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I kept looking at
her. She too stared back, just for a few moments, and then turned and looked
down at her hands.
We slowly talked the
talk of fellow-passengers. We were both going to Kochi. She was going for a
family friend’s engagement. I told her that I had no plans and that I just
wanted to walk around in an unfamiliar place. We talked about the weather, then
the books we read, the movies we have seen, that we have been out of touch with
the latest. With the boldness of those that promise to disappear, we confided to
each other that we were recovering. Her husband had died in an accident and my
girl had died of an illness. Long back, we told each other. More than a decade
now, we said. She asked me about what I do. I said that I do nothing. Then,
hesitantly, I told her that I am trying to write. Show me yours, she said. I
laughed. She blushed and then put on an air as if she was offended. I opened
the eReader I had in my backpack. I searched for something suitable. I could
feel her staring at the screen, leaning towards me. Then, she grabbed the
eReader from me, chose a story, probably a random choice, and then pulled up
her legs onto the seat, cross-legged, crouched over my eReader, hair hiding her
face. To me, her years slipped away. I felt young too.
She finished a story,
switched off the eReader and turned towards me.
‘Needs editing…’ she
said.
‘You are supposed to
say that it is great.’
She refused to yield.
I shrugged and pouted, inwardly smiling at her seriousness. She looked at me,
uncertain, wondering if she had offended me. I shook my head and smiled at her.
She smiled back.
I think I fell in love with her at that point.
I do not know if I would have felt that way if she had been lukewarm towards my
writing. I admit that I am not sure what it really means. If you accuse me of
feeling that way because I am sex-starved, I would agree that that probably has
a big role. Oh yes, I wanted to grab and crush her against me, kissing and
feeling her. But I knew that I wanted to be there after that. I wanted to talk
and share. I also got this feeling of reciprocation that I am not far down in
her list of priorities, maybe not on top but somewhere there. Isn’t that when
love gets a foothold in that craggy surface of relationships, when one is
half-sure that the other will be there, in body and in thought?
When we were at the
outskirts of Kochi, I asked her, ‘When will the engagement party end?’
‘Around half past
one, I think.’
‘Can you meet me after
that?’
‘Where…?’
‘At the coffee-shop of
the Taj…on Marine Drive…?’
‘Ok.’
‘At two…?’
She nodded.
I was there at half
past one. I walked past the indoor garden in the lounge. I looked at the empty
seats there, each neatly and nearly hidden by foliage. I wondered if I should
wait there on one of those love-seats. Instead, I decided to take my position in
the coffee-shop. I didn’t want to miss her.
At half past two, I
was still waiting and there was no sign of her. At three, I asked for the bill.
I should mention that I had also waited for my old one. She did not come
either. I was half-glad, or is that half-sad?
I walked out of the
coffee-house. I nearly walked past the seats in the lounge without looking. But
something caught my eye and I spotted her sitting there, hiding, with her head
in her hands.
I went up to her,
knelt on the floor and took her hands in mine. It must have looked to any
onlooker as if we were praying together.
‘He wouldn’t let me,’
she tried to explain, breaking down with anguish and frustration.
I held her, trying to
comfort her. I didn’t know what to say. All I could say was, ‘I understand.’
‘Oh God, I hate love,’
she said or maybe I did.
