you see me for who Iam …a mess in tales of vulnerabilities behind a carefully crafted facade of lightheartedness ….& you so very beautifully craft my story from the very depths of my despair making me believe in every word and just when the walls come crumbling down and I want to for the very first time …you hurry back into your world….teaching me a harsh lesson to never look back….and perhaps to believe that in this mediocre life at least the expectations were great
She used to sit in the last bench
And had a crush on the guy upfront
But he wasn’t to know till they were done
And then one day life brought them together once again
But he had a girl and she hid behind her tea cup
And it was summer once more
They say she came everyday till the very end
And when he did walk in
The owner gave him a book from long ago
It had his name and a card dated 1965
An invitation to a birthday in a city he had lived
When he was 7 and she was five
I can spend a day and then some imagining what lies behind a window with lace white curtains ….is there much laughter and good food? do they sip endless cups of tea? books strewn all about of little known authors ….maybe hand made notebooks in orange and fuchsia for all the little reminders and curios hand picked to mark travels to distant lands, each one lovingly enveloping a memory. Art on the wall that is evocative of knowing it all….sepia photographs of where it all began…tea cups in gay abandon lined up against a corner wall to snooty tea pots that frown …a riot of flowers …surely sunflowers? and jasmine? Sunlight that roams like a vagabond, crisp white linen and turquoise walls, frankincense that meanders about and somewhere a glass menagerie that bears witness to all that is fragile.
At some point in life probably when the summer evening tangoes with an oncoming storm, I might wake up to the fact that my best days stand frozen in a time across that pond and though much is accomplished and much is wont…nothing really compares to those now bizarre days …life on the back of a cinnamon flute …flowing behind many a pied piper …on broken wings of a golden butterfly ….fragile as walls made of rice ….shining like a diamond in the nude .
1994 and the deserted cafe that Das and I were often to be found in, brimming with confidence and the insouciance of just being ….chattering away as we found our corner table for two, unmindful of the stares we may have got, hell bent on deciphering the intrigues of the tiny office over masala dosa and filter kaphi ….scandals building more in our minds then in the workplace and between many sips sometimes veering off to discuss whether we wanted to shop at sarojini nagar or GK M block. Often the place decided by what day of the month it was and how much did we really have to spend on our our frivolous buys.
1998 and the cafe was bigger brightly lit and much of the conversation had moved on beyond the passé workplace intrigues to twittering on ill found romance and the surety of just being. We ordered our cappuccinos nursing them to the last dregs and taking bites of the mango mousse undecided and restless but so sure of where life was headed and the desire to fit into a Levi’s slim fit.
2003 saw Das in the same city and me in a new one. All signs of comfort having being dimmed and yet a new found confidence of waiting for G to come pick me up. Often the drives aimless so long as the music was good and finally landing up at a deserted farm house where the rabbits hopped in and out of their cages and the fronds grew decadently strong. Sunrise witnessed over coffee brought from the nearby dhabha and laughter that echoed all around.
2009 spent hanging in corporate corridors awaiting word over mindless cups of tepid coffee and polite laughter. Exchanging surreptitious glances all the while aware that office romance was off bounds. Formal meetings in hotels whose stars were worth every pound. Sipping wine that came from foreign lands whilst mindful of stares and wrapping the scarf around. Dreaming of holidays in places everyone one was bound.
2013 lounging in torn jeans and flip flops high on a roof top watching folks from afar. Smile in the eyes and home made tea watching a custard moon romance a tangerine sky. Trying to recount the endless faces of kind strangers and awaiting a phone call…