A Walk with Her

“Kya soch rahe ho?” Her voice rang softly into my ears.

“Kuch nahi, soch raha hoon if it's better to leave or stay.”
“Let’s leave,” she replied to a question I asked myself.

I nodded with a soft smile. Leaving this crowded place late at night, we walked home.

Cold winds blew strong as spring was taking over winter slowly. The leaves rustled, some fell and skittered along the road, some crunched under our shoes and sandals. It was a full moon, yet the sky was overcast, almost clement for people like us. Lightning flashed lucent from behind the clouds. Clouds that threatened to fall any second. Wind whispering, “A new season is about to arrive,” as it breezed past us, teasing our hair.

We walked, as her metal bangles rang in one hand, sandals tapping the road like a metronome. She was in a white kurti, hair resting down from her small shoulders. Lightning reflected from her silver earrings peeking through her black hair that framed her face. Eyes jaded from all that troubled her, after all she had endured a lot.

Occasionally a car would zoom past us through the empty roads, burning rubber over asphalt.
Street lights accompanied our silent walk, shadows playing with each other as if children running around, guileless and gaily.

She, a bosom friend of mine, one laconic, filled with isolophilia. I have known her for years now. An open book she is, I think to myself as a soft smile creeps across my face. My eyes glance beside me, over a presence I love endearingly, a presence I find solace with. Her eyes glisten as faint claps of thunder reach us. She exhales a long sigh.

“Kya hua, baccha?” I ask, as a strong gust of wind passes by us. Cold it was.

My eyes observe, and I give my cardigan over to her. She hesitates, but I insist.

And my eyes glimpse

Sleeves falling past her wrists, shoulders slipping lower than they should. The rhythm of her walk changes, from a metronome to a melody. Her eyes lift up, and a smile adorns her face, the mischievous and embarrassed kind. She softens in my warmth, sensing a familiar scent, not strong, just enough to make you pause for a second longer than usual. Her heart melts, and she starts whispering to herself.

“Thank you, for listening to my silence, for being patient with me. Thank you for being with me.”

“Chinta mat karo, baccha. Main yahin hoon, hamesha, to listen,” I reply.

“You know, itni saari cheeze dekh ke ab sochna bandh kar diya hai. Par abhi bhi jab koi galti hoti hai, I freeze. Wo puchte reh jaate ‘kya hua?’ but silence is all I ever give them. Perhaps because it’s easier than explaining it all. Perhaps because no one was patient enough with me.
It’s hard being kind to oneself when every cell in you screams the opposite.”

I see a boy beside me, dressed in all black, wearing shoes, a black high-neck and formal black pants, sleeves pulled up to the elbows, wearing a silver watch in one hand, bigger than me. Looking winsome. A boy that I become a child with. A boy that has listened to all my ups and downs. A boy that I feel tenderly for. His fingers move to lock with mine and my arms wrap around his.

The night is deep. We walk, talking about all and nothing. The insects respond to our whispers with their songs, and for a moment I had forgotten all. But the night too had to end.

He moves in front of me. My eyes give him permission. And he leaves wet imprints of lips over my forehead, as I find solace held in his hands.
A.V