We’re back at your dim-lit, straight-out-of-a-Spielberg film house. I have complained about the unkempt kitchen sink and the leaking tap so many times, and yet, I find myself here every Tuesday morning. The ritual is to walk in discreetly, get in bed next to you and run my hands through your hair. You open your eyes, gently, and close them again, smirking.
I get to the kitchen and make both of us chai, without sugar, and a wee bit of milk, and elaichi, only because you said it smelt of museums, Old Delhi and happy days. We’ve known each other for thirteen years now, you know every crevice of my skin, every movement of my eyes, the hint of sarcasm in my voice when I talk about how much I love football and hate summers. The flames try their luck at covering the saucepan entirely. I get lost for a moment in the fire’s beauty to consume, to perish, to destroy us.
When I get back, you’re lying in bed, intertwined in cotton sheets. Never have you looked so pure, so innocent. I see the sunset in you. The process of sleep evading you is one hell of a scene. I still believe it leaves your hands first, because your fingers always etch the bedsheets, in an attempt to find something to hold on to. That is closely followed by your breathing, which gets faster as consciousness crawls in. Before I can say anything, your phone rings.
You answer, your tongue still struggling to find its way with words, but as your eyes dart across the room, I know something has caught your attention. The phone disconnects. You head straight to the shower without another word. Something is wrong, I can feel it, but can’t seem to understand what it could possibly be.
When you get out, I’m flipping through your sketchbook absent-mindedly. You often paint scenes of turmoil. There is a sense of disturbance in each scene, as if something is amiss. As if things aren’t right. A little boy, in a half-torn t-shirt, holds up a sign for help, for a fair trial, the sketch speaks to me. It scares me. I often wonder how people like that little boy, who feel so much, can sleep at night. Ironically, it is this question that keeps me awake most days. You take the notebook from my hands, and sit at my feet.
You tell me you have to leave. That it might be a few weeks, maybe months until I see you again.
I don’t like change. I don’t like to wait. And I certainly don’t like distance. You say they need you, pointing to the little boy between the pages I had taken a personal liking to. I might not hear from you for some time, but I am supposed to know you will be safe. I don’t remember saying I understand, or that I hope you know I believe in you, or that it will be okay, or I will wait. But I hope I did say it. And I hope you know I meant it.
You tell me you love me, ruffle my hair with your fingers, and light a cigarette.
When I leave your house that evening, I don’t quite feel like myself. Something in my gut tells me my fear is justified, that my anxiety is necessary.
For the next few weeks, I keep my eyes glued to the television till they burn. I eat headlines for breakfast and lick articles for lunch. I write to you. Everyday. They become a pile of letters I am too scared to send, so I keep them. Missing you comes in waves, so I take longer showers. At night, I say a silent prayer, but I don’t know to who. I beg for safety, but I don’t know if my prayers are heard. I get left on read by the universe, but I do it each night. My Tuesdays are empty, so I stay home and immerse myself in hot coffee and cold hope.
You said you’d be back on Christmas. Christmas is less than a week away. In my wish-list for Santa, I create acronyms out of your name. My current high score is 18. Christmas comes and goes. I go to the neighbours’ house, to check if Santa made a mistake.
Later that night, I receive a letter, which says you won’t be able to make it for Christmas. Or New Year’s. Or anytime soon. It has autopsy reports, and a ten thousand dollar cheque*, which I must submit to the bank as soon as possible. They say they are sorry, that it happens all the time, but that it wasn’t supposed to. Look, I show my mother, his life was worth ten thousand dollars. Look.
I spend the rest of the night, and the coming week in my room. Curtains drawn. Doors bolted. Loneliness doesn’t scare me anymore.
When I emerge from my dungeon, not much has changed. Life has gone on for the world. It’s Tuesday. I walk back to the dim-lit house where the doors creak and the sink is still dirty and the tap still leaking.
I make myself some chai with elaichi, and turn to complain, but my voice echoes into emptiness. Nobody listens. I don’t remember saying I understand, or that I hope you know I believe in you, or that it will be okay, or I will wait. But I hope I did say it. And I hope you know I meant it.
*The person referred to, was employed by the United Nations, hence the amount paid was in Dollars.