The parting

Trying my hand at short story writing. I submitted this story to Write India Season 2.

Don't kill me if it's too sugary; the script demanded it :)

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                                                     The parting

I didn’t think I would ever fall in love again. I know that everyone says that after heartbreak, but the difference is that I’m not heartbroken. I’m not cynical, or pessimistic, or sad. I’m just someone who once felt something bigger than anything else I’d ever felt and when I lost it, I honestly believed I would never have that again. But... I was 22 then and life is long. And I’m feeling things right now that I haven’t in a long, long time. 

It’s a bright October morning, one of those pre-Puja mornings in Kolkata when the entire city seems to be in a festive stupor. The Ola cab is speeding towards the airport, reminding me of similar times many years back. Twenty- two, Forty-two or Eighty-two years? Who knows?! It seems like a fuzzy eternity.

“It’s not time yet”, BD says (I always called Bishaka Debroy by her initials, imitating those funky Yankee movies I used to see in college). Tears were streaming down her eyes, red from crying for the last two hours. I stayed silent, because emotions did not come easily to me. It was truly not time yet I knew, but we had to say goodbye once again, twenty- two years down the line.

Real life resembles drama at times. And so it was, that after a week of being with each other again, it was finally time to say goodbye.

Déjà vu?

But then, life is complex and largely beyond our control. You fall in love with the wrong person, despite your better senses telling you not to. It’s a bit like Chinese chequers, not knowing which piece fits where, and at times like Bollywood, where hearts are aflutter and love always perches on the wrong roof, creating complications. But once you find the object of your emotions was, well, attached to someone else, and then she decides to venture back, it doesn’t resembles Bollywood anymore. It is very much real life, with all its practicality and heart break. Emotions did not easily come to me, and once they did, it was never easy to let go, because my life has always been a strange mix of caustic and sentimental.

Just like it was twenty two years back. I tried hard to resist, but went into flashback.

A bright morning of October, 1996. I was seeing BD off to Howrah station (the good old days before air travel took the romance out of travel). The taxi was moving towards the station. My final year college semesters at Mangalore would begin in a week, and she was moving off to her parents’ house at Delhi.

The night before, we had returned from a late night dinner at Hao Fao. It was our favourite Chinese hangout because of the simple reason that it was easy on the student pocket, and offered an uninterrupted jamming session till late night. We were the last customers, literally entering at the eleventh hour, almost forcing them to keep the service going, though it was past 12 (required a bit of greasing of the palms).  I could hear the patrol cars of the Kolkata Police go about, sirens blaring (it was against the law keeping restaurants open after 12).

“Be a bit fast”, the restaurant manager, who had become our friend, whispered.

“Fast?” I whispered back, “Hello, buddy, this is our farewell dinner.”

Buddy looked a bit sad. Whether at the impending break-up or the prospect of losing his frequent customers, I did not know.

And so, under closed shutters, in dim light, hiding from the cops (call it candlelight dinner if you will), we had our farewell dinner.

“Kisses in the moonlight”, is that how the old song went? Whatever, moonlight or not, we had our fair share of dallying over the preceding one month. Exploring the old buildings of Kolkata (we had a common interest in old architecture), strolling by the Calcutta Lakes (Calcutta had not been renamed to Kolkata then), early morning walks along the Maidan (which couples simply don’t do anymore), film shows at Nandan, and well, late night hungama at Hao Fao  . We did the common things that couples did, and the not so common things. Like dancing in the rain by the Calcutta Lakes, shouting, hands held, onlookers gaping at us as if we had just been released from the lunatic asylum!

We hit it off like a spark, because both of us were unconventional, and didn’t really care what others thought about us. It was a very unconventional, no holds barred relationship.

But the tender moments were the real ones to cherish. Listening to Ghazals by Jagjit Singh, eyes moist, spinning a thousand emotions:

“ Honthon se chhoo lo tum, Mera geet amar kar do.”

(Caress me with your lips, And make this song of mine immortal).”

A slow, serene, embracing dance at my house, swaying to Richard Clayderman’s music.Soft, sensual, engulfing us in the moment, something that neither of us had done before.

And, the serene exploration of Rumi’s poetry together:

“Sometimes you hear a voice through the door calling you,

As fish out of water hear the waves,

Or a hunting falcon hears the drum's come back, Come back.

This turning toward what you deeply love saves you. “

This verse had actually started our relationship. “This turning towards what you deeply love” defined our relationship. A couple of failed relationships and a deeply disturbed life later, I was happy, well, very happy. You really need good wine to tide over gloom, don’t you? And what better wine than heady love? I had thought, uncharacteristically and contrary to my caustic character, that I had finally found a relationship that would stay the course.

I was, of course, proved wrong.

Let me rephrase Hamlet, "Frailty, thy name is young aged love.” I had never an idea that her conscience would come back with a bang, and whisk her back to someone else, whoever it was.

The taxi was speeding towards Howrah station, and the city was buzzing with early morning activity.

“I really didn’t want it to happen this way”, she said. “You know, it’s more about family wishes. I know it’s too early in life for an engagement, but…I hope you understand?”  “Oh sure”, I said in my mind, “I do indeed understand. Why not? What did you think it was?  A casual holiday encounter? ” I didn’t speak anything, because it would lead to the familiar debate of how she couldn’t go against her parents, of duty versus love, etc etc ad nauseum.  Some people are like grown-up children, and don’t know what they want. And when certain inevitable things must pass away, just let be and let go, because holding onto dead embers only burns your hand, it does nothing to the embers.

“All things must pass”, the Beatles had crooned long back.  And they truly do.

“Do keep in touch”, she whispered.

I had my doubts on that that one, but said nothing.

We were still holding hands. The intimacy was still there, like the hangover of some classic fragrance that still churned the innards, bringing about bursts of emotion from moment to moment. I was not sure of what to feel- the dramatic developments of the last few days were yet to dawn upon me.

The usually long queue of taxis at the entrance to Howrah station was mercifully thin, and as we alighted, it struck me that this was the very place where we had met for the very first time.

Time to go. I could still whiff the Davidoff perfume I had gifted her (it burnt a hole in my pocket, but it was her favourite, and it was the only time I bought something expensive for someone). In fact, it lingered on to my clothes also, due to the omnipresent  mechanics of human entanglement😊

But well, it was well and truly time to go.

We looked at each other, hugged (kissing would be too dramatic), held each other for some time, and then, picking up our bags, moved on.

Did we turn around and look at each other? Well, standard filmy fare, like DDLJ, would predict that we did. Alas, real life doesn’t really resemble Bollywood, and we did not turn around. We simply moved on, till we walked out of sight of each other.

The next few months were pure gloom, but I had to come out of it eventually. Moping does nothing great for the human soul, coping does. And life has to go on.

We never kept contact after that, out of practicality and also the need to steer clear of emotional complications. Exes are, well, exes. And exes settled with someone else, a no-go.  But that one month stayed in my memory through the years, resurfacing especially during tough phases in life, when I could simply switch on the button of the mind and delve into the past for the comforting balm of memories.

And what a memory it was, till a week back. When we met again. Did we always have to meet in railway stations or airports?

We are arriving at the airport now. The cab shudders, picks up sudden speed and jumps the queue at the entrance to the airport, triggering off those endless traffic squabbles that my dear city is famous for.

What a setting for a farewell, I reflect!

 “Ashte, Dada (go slow, brother)”, I shout. Just like the taxi driver twenty two years back, this fellow was ruining our journey.

“Arre, Dada, sorry”, his smirk says it all. He probably thinks we are a couple of middle aged nuts who were making out.

We get out, enter the terminal, and search for our respective flights.

Déjà vu? Only this time at the airport instead of the station.

We check in. My heart is thumping hard. Hell,it had not been this tough all those years back. Was middle age softening me a bit?

Might be,  considering that the last week had been a recap of the old times. The Kolkata Lakes, the old buildings (some had broken down) , Nandan and Hao Fao ( its reincarnation was funnily called Tung Fung now, and the manager had changed, but the present one was equally cooperative). But the rules had changed now and so I did not have to sentimentally pressurize him to keep open beyond 12 last night.

“I will give you something.” She disappears, and remerges fishing out a book from her cabin luggage.

It is yellowed, dog-eared and clearly belongs to a different age. 1996, it reads, to be precise.

“Rumi, a new translation” by Farrukh Dhondy.

Higginbothams, the Railways book retailer, is absolutely great. They even stock Rumi, which I didn’t know!  And so, twenty two years down the line, she presents me a copy of Rumi’s verses. She had bought it back then, and in her typical quirky way, forgotten to give me. (My mind wants to believe that she had actually kept it with her all these years so we could meet again 😊 . The truth, I really don’t want to know.).

“Sometimes you hear a voice through the door calling you,

As fish out of water hear the waves,

Or a hunting falcon hears the drum's Come back, Come back.

This turning toward what you deeply love saves you. “

And so, like the beginning, many years back, Rumi witnesses the end.

My eyes are moist this time, and so are hers. This is probably the last time we are meeting, my intuition tells me. No more action replays.None.

The slight parting peck on the cheek finds its way this time around. A slight quiver. I can sense she is crying. So am I.

And then, we pull away, walking in opposite directions.

“This is the final boarding announcement for passengers on board Indigo 6E5324 for Delhi.”

I am never going to see her again. My complicated life will ensure that.

We are walking away.

And then, suddenly, in a fleeting moment, we turn around and look at each other. This time around, life does indeed resemble Bollywood! A bit like DDLJ? Probably clichéd, but yes it does! A longing glance, a trembling of the eyelids, a quivering of the lips, and then twenty two years down the line, she finally throws me a parting kiss and I reciprocate.

We turn around and depart for our respective journeys.