Water on Stone … Story 4

I didn’t think I could tell this in my own words. It just boiled down to the surface from a vagabond thought to unspoken words. All this while, I thought I didn’t have much to say. How to express the vacuum of my mind? This was a stone-cold silence compared to the cool breeze of thoughts into words. Just gut-wrenching, almost engulfing in its darkness.

Then I found a pen and an old diary, covered in dust under the books. The old rusty thoughts at the corner of my mind came tumbling like a stack of books balanced unevenly on a bookshelf. The silence was cold, unorganised, like messy hair. The tuning of my thought was in disarray. I realised this confusion when thoughts swirl but could not acknowledge their existence in words. In the bylane of memory, she still exists. In my memory, she doesn’t sit on a pedestal with golden wings and a shiny tiara. She lives just like she lived any ordinary day. If she had been seated on a pedestal, I would have revered her, left that moment as it is, and moved on, but how can I ever forget her mundaneness? The simplicity with which she talks, her tone of voice, her simple jokes, the look of her tired eyes after a long day at the office. The greatness can be forgotten; it is simplicity that penetrates the pores of our skin.

It was years ago, but the memory of our first meeting is still vivid. I met Sangeeta in a coffee shop across from my apartment. It was dusk, and the sky was a mellifluent orange. A light breeze grazed my face as I entered the coffee shop. As if the universe was hinting at what was to come. I walked towards the counter to place my order when I heard a meek voice calling, asking for my attention. I turned around, and she was eloquent, effusive, looking straight at me. If we could collect all the moments and keep them stored to relive again, this was the moment I wanted to relive again and again. I can live this moment till eternity. Maybe that was eternity that existed from aeons of time. At that moment, our past, present and future became one.

It became a routine for us to meet at the coffee shop. Sangeeta has moved to an apartment two blocks from the coffee shop. She was a budding writer with tremendous potential. She passed away a year ago. Sometimes it feels like she never existed, and sometimes it seems she never ceased to exist. Death is an inevitable illusion. It makes life quantifiable. From death, existence becomes a make-believe. The memory becomes a reality because it is the only place the departed exists. Sangeeta’s memories are like the fragrance of roses, and they linger on. The inevitability of death is our greatest fear. The thought of complete annihilation can scare anyone who believes life is permanent. However, one thing that even death cannot annihilate is the memory of the beloved. But what about us who are tormented by the memory of our beloved? Is it really a solace? To whom? Maybe the dead feel compensated for the ultimate betrayal of life. To us who are left behind, our life becomes disparate.

Every day, I walk on the same path Sangeeta and I trod a year ago. The flowers on the trees on the sidewalk still exuberate the same fragrance. The same seasons come and go at the same time. Everything is the same, and everyone is the same. However, I feel undone! While at the moment, we forget to live. We contemplate about future and believe this moment will continue forever.

Meanwhile, forgetting that a moment exists here and now, we’ll never find another one like it. I took a sip of my coffee and looked outside. My bearings were heavy. Sometimes, moving out of my apartment and coming to the coffee shop is a herculean task. This walk to the coffee shop is my assurance of my perfunctory life. The moment has long passed, but I reminisce. This relentless torture is the only way I prove my fidelity to her. Remembering her is like a ritual I have to follow zealously. 

I took the last sip of my coffee and returned to my apartment. Is there any respite for me? Do I have to live this desolate life till the end? Like an answer to my prayers, a leaf fell from the tree. It is natural for seasons to change. So, is life! This dried leaf was once a fresh, alive, and breathing sprout. The dried leaf is yet to meet its destiny. It is its amalgamation into the soil when it arrives at its destiny. The soil that helped it to grow is its destiny. The creation and the destruction happen in the same place. Sangeeta did not leave me; she still exists in me. The part of me that loved her is still with her. The soil will nourish her in the journey to meet her. Her part, which loved me, is with me. It is nourishing me in my journey to fulfilling my destiny. My love is not unreturned. It exists in everything around me.

Sangeeta exists in every core. I found her in the fragrance of the brewing tea, in the slight nip of the morning. In the bloom of the flower, I reckon her. I found her in the depths of my heart. Death is inevitable, but so is life. It cannot snatch the countless minutes I spent with her. They are alive in my essence. I have become a part of her, and she is alive in me. Death could not win. In some quirky way, I’m still alive in her. In the thousands of particles of smoke that evaporated in the sky, I exist in all of them. It will be till eternity.