A bend in the road

It was the month of July. We could see the waves of the sea, bobbing up and down, washing the deserted seashore. The same stars that used to light up my life on the terrace so many years back, when I used to spend nights devoid of electricity but rich in enjoyment, flickered above the dark waterbody, like a canopy of lights. The bare minimum that I could be sure of in my life, despite all the tumult, was their reassuring presence. On the shore, the lights from the houses were burning, glimmering in the distance like fireflies. The lighthouse was making its periodic revolutions, the beacon shining out towards the sea, where I could see the dark hulls of ships, far away in the distance, their lights gleaming under the evening sky. A gusty, moist wind was blowing, carrying the saline smell of the sea towards us, wetting us with the moisture, and depositing specks of sand on our bodies.

All this, while enjoyable at other times, meant nothing to us today. We had come here to spend an evening together one last time, and to say goodbye.

“I really didn’t want it to happen this way”, she said.

“Then why did it happen this way?” I asked.

“You know it as well as I do. It can’t go on this way. And you know my plans for the future.’

“We could have easily had both. Don’t you see that?”

“No, we could not. You know that. And I thought we have had all these discussions before.”

“Fine. Then let’s just close the topic forever.”

We remembered the incessant fights, the cold, indifferent moments, the bitterness which always lurked below the surface like a pesky brat who refuses to go away, and finally the decision to part ways - and then we sat and brooded in silence, together. This was like one more of those dreadful nights which I had to endure, smile through, and hope to emerge through, as my mother in all her wisdom used to say all those years back ,” After every dark night, there is a bright morning.” I think she used to say it in the context of those fairy tales she would read out to me. But, in real life, often there is often no bright morning after a dark night; the shadows extend on and on, engulfing the day, like a lunar eclipse, drowning out the faintest hope of redemption from one’s state of affairs.

“Will we still be in touch?” she asked.

“Does that really matter much, now? Do you really want to try keeping the embers burning after the flames have gone out?” I replied, a bit melodramatically.

“I would suppose one could always be friends.”

“Friends. Ha! Like in those colorful greetings cards and the chocolate boy movies! You really believe in all that?”

Silence. For once, I was sure of what I wanted to say. When a person is standing in front of a precipice, the least he is bothered about is social correctness. Somehow, despite all our talk, there were no arguments today. It had all been discussed before, as she said, and there was nothing much left to talk about. But the sense of dejection and desolation refused to exit the mind.

The bitterness. The constant juxtaposition between two completely separate personalities, as different as chalk and cheese. One, a social engineer whose faith in Karl Marx was still very much alive, who thrived on social incorrectness, probably too unorthodox to fit into the mainstream. The other, a bubbly, energetic neo-entrepreneur for whom the balance sheet was adrenaline and the ark of survival, her family the greatest source of sustenance and comfort. Then, there was the inter-religious factor- love in the times of Godhra had become highly complex. What, I wondered, had really brought us together? And how had it really taken this long to come apart? I knew the answer- that great deceptor called destiny had somehow put our lives on an intercepting path, programming us to meet and then part ways but not after we had spent some of the most beautiful moments of our lives.

Beautiful it was. Running in the rain through rain-swept Calcutta streets. Impromptu outings. Late night dinners at road-side stalls, who we both swore made the best food, far superior to any fancied hotel. Movies. Art shows. The Xavotsav. Lazy Sunday afternoons just watching the world go by from the terrace of my house. Zipping across the city, and beyond, on the trusted steed- my Yamaha bike. And the warm glow of being with someone who understood your needs and emotions. Or so you thought.

We held hands. Her hands felt clammy and cold, as I suppose mine felt to hers. I could feel a certain tremor in her body, and I knew that behind her steel façade her heart was crumbling, like mine. I had to push my feelings away. It was all I could do to prevent myself from holding her in my arms, hold her tight and shower her with kisses like I used to a few months back, and reassure her that all was right, things would be okay, and there was no need to worry, “ We shall work it out.”

But, deep down in my heart, I knew that it was I who needed reassurance the most. I was the one who needed to be held, probably even told a fairy tale or two, so that I could believe in life, goodness and happiness once more.

“So, we begin a different phase of our lives from tomorrow?” was she asking me or trying to convince herself?

“Every day is a new phase for me, a new beginning”- was I getting defensive or merely philosophical?

“Fine then- time to move, I guess.”

“Yes.”

There’s a power in monosyllables and short sentences that can have more effect than even the most eloquent of speakers. It’s called the power of silence.

As we got up, walked together, touching but not feeling each other, towards the lights in the distance, one last time, I recited out: “You have indebted me by accepting me; farewell, my friend “ , from Tagore’s epic novella of living, loving, longing and parting, Shesher Kobita (The last poem). The only way I could think of saying goodbye to her was by thanking her for having been there at least for a part of the journey of my life. Despite everything that was happening, I was still indebted to her for having gifted me this phase of my life, and I wanted her to know that.

As we parted at the bus-stand, she turned to face me. I could see she was making a brave effort to stay calm, and her chin-line was set, determined. But behind those steely eyes, I knew I saw warmth, and there was no mistaking the tears in the corners of her eyes, as in mine. I felt my eyes welling up, and, for once, I was not ashamed to show that I was crying.

“This is it, then”, she said.

“Yes, Rehana , this is it. The end of the road. We walk on different paths now.” I replied.

“Despite whatever you said, I will still email you.”

“Despite whatever I said, I will still reply.”

“Goodbye, Neil. Wish you the best in whatever you do.”

”Goodbye, Rehana. I wish you all the best. You deserve nothing but the very best. ”

The bus had arrived, the driver was honking for the passengers to get aboard. She smiled at me, weakly, one last time, turned, boarded the bus, and then was gone, forever from my life.

I could feel a terrible constriction inside my chest, an acute pain inside the abdomen, as if my pent-up feelings were trying to come out, jerking themselves free from my body. I walked towards my bike, head down, shoulders drooped. Then I started the bike and started the journey back to the city….…alone. The wide canopy of stars above had disappeared behind the clouds , and the sense of despair seemed so oddly like yesterday once again- a sense of déjà vu.