I spot you at the airport and a gust of
breathlessness blows through me.
Tiptoeing up to your turned back, I whisper in
muted eagerness, “Hey!”
You look up from the cell screen; and time
stands still. Very still yet very fleeting; but long enough for me to sunbathe in
your happy surprise.
“Hey.” You echo and take my proffered hand.
Hands have memories and mine remembers: roughness and a faint imprint of heat.
You ask the polite usuals; and I answer with
the proper usuals. But time has resumed its flow and I feel an urgency welling
up: there is so much I want of you but time is sliding, like play-slime through
a kid’s fingers…….
“Could we sit?” I interrupt, impolitely abrupt.
“Sure.” You are still the ever-courteous.
“Coffee?” Then you correct yourself, “Tea, isn't it?”
Yes, tea it is; the plebeian kind: chock full
of milk and lashings of sugar. Quite unlike your coffee with its chic black
bitterness.
The paper cup is hot and the chrome seats are cold.
The tea scalds my mouth but you are here and I pacify the burning with the pat
of my cooler tongue.
“So,” you ask, “how is it going?”
I don't like the way you say it, as if you couldn’t
care either way. Maybe its only your acerbity, an old ill; but then, no one is
perfect.
“Very well, thank you.” My studied politeness
doesn't escape you.
You look amused, the amusement
deepening the hills and vales on your face. “No really, tell me how is it
going?” You repeat, eyes this time conciliatory, concerned.
I am at a loss as to how to answer your innocuous query. How do I choose what parts
to tell and what parts to omit: whether to talk about the job, the family, the past-times, the city, the parents,
the car, the friends, the health, or the kids………or what? How do I condense a
lifetime into these paltry moments?
I choose counter-attack. “And you, how is it
going with you?”
But you deflect, choosing silence. You were
always the smarter one. I smile within and let you lead, opting for silence
too. Side by side, we sit with silence and watch the airport flow around us;
here where meeting, partings, goodbyes and welcomes play out all day and night,
like a never-ending prime-time soap……..
I so like sitting thus beside you, not
touching; no never touching, but the warmth and the want that wells up and wafts
around us makes me woozy…………………….
And the wooziness makes me wanton. I touch your
arm, but carefully with a single finger, lightly……. “Tell me, what if….?”
You move ever so slightly away from beneath my
touch. “Don’t. Touch me and I’m mortal.”
I make a face. “So then, what are you now?
Immortal?”
How you learnt to smile like that, I could
never know. Your smile, heavy with an ancient knowing yet light, playful like
butterflies on a summer day, pulls a thousand laughter lines to
your eyes, making them dance with tender amusement…….. All I do know is
that it is this smile that draws me to you, every-time………………………..
“We could leave this question of mortality
aside and go back to your 'what if'.” You offer, still sparkling your champagne
smile at me.
“What if you loved me?” I blurt. The champagne
smile pushes the wooze two notches higher.
“But I like you. Very much. A lot.”
I feel let down. Goddamn, that’s it? “And here
I am, all in………..”
“You like me too. A whole lot.” You pause and
then challenge, “Why, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course I do.” I’m petulant. And
surprised how brazen I am with the expressing of my feelings.
“Love is over-rated don’t you think? Isn’t this
so much better?” You ask.
“This ‘liking’ ?” I snort. And mentally slap
myself for daring to be so careless in my demeanour before you.
“Yes, just this liking, sans the baggage of
expectations, responsibilities and all the hidden, heavy agenda of love?”
“Yes, it is.” I concede. But I cannot resist a rejoinder.
“And it gives you freedom. To always go away.”
“You go away too. Every time. It's not just me.”
"These going aways are so terribly, terribly sad," I am now thinking.
“Your eyes are great lakes.” You remark
kindly; and then point to the gallery lining the first floor of the lounge. To take my mind off reality.
“See that?”
“Yes.” I see it, though wavy, refracted.
The eight auspicious symbols of Tibetan Buddhism, carved in huge panels of wood and painted
with beautiful bright colours, hang against the wall of the gallery. I
recognise the lotus, the conch, the fish and the wheel. The others are
unfamiliar. Your finger is pointing at one particular carving: a loop, entwined
over itself, again and again.
“That is the Endless Knot.”
I’m both intrigued and amused by your sudden interest
in spiritualism. I tell you so.
You run your gaze over me, carefully. “Well, I’m
happy that it has at least helped dry the great lakes from your eyes.”
I dab at my eyes self-consciously. “So then, what
of this Endless Knot?”
You run your finger on the back of your palm,
tracing the pattern of the knot.
“See how the loops of the Knot have no start and no
finish, representing eternity.” You explain. Your voice comes from somewhere far-away.
“Like the interconnection between all sentient beings in this Universe, between
life and death……”
“Yeah, like between you and me……” I finish for you, sarcastically. “So, this is your measly excuse to go away every time?”
You look towards my girls, standing a polite
distance away but making great exasperated eyes at me. Our flight is boarding too and the
gate is all the way at the end of the terminal, a good half a kilometer trudge.
All the boarding passes are with me.
“It seems you too are going away. Again.” You
accuse but I know it is in jest.
Yes. It’s that time again. But this time, I don’t
offer my hand. “I prefer your immortality.” I tease. And wonder whether you
picked the catch in my voice.
I hoist up my duffel and hand you your case.
“Thanks. See you then.” You smile and walk away
with rapid measured steps.
But I linger. For a bit; to watch you pass under the gallery, beneath and beyond the Endless Knot.
*********************************************************************************
That morning, all e-papers of any worth had carried your obituary. I came
to know of it the moment I awoke, thanks to the Twitter notifications on my
mail.
I had thought no one wrote obituaries any more,
had thought it was passé, a relic of the British Raj. But for some reason, they
had made an exception in your case. And they all had nice things to say about
you. I had gone through a few, reading carefully, savouring the bits that
I had not known and reliving those few I was aware of; till the great lakes
spilled over and hid everything from view.
********************************************************************************
And ever since that morning, we meet every now and
then, here and there....
At train stations.
At ISBTs.
At the Metro.
At airports with Tibetan auspicious signs carved in wood hanging from their walls.
At all such places where going away is the norm.
But then that's quite ok.
Because now, every time you go away, along the
twists and turns of the Endless Knot, you always find your way back to me.
