याद है, एक दिन मेरे मेज़ पे बैठे-बैठे cigarette की डिबिया पर
तुमने छोटे से एक पौधे का एक sketch बनाया था?
आकर देखो, उस पौधे पर फूल आया है
–Jagjit Singh
Translation
Remember, that one day sitting on my table, on the cigarette box
You sketched a small plant?
Come see, there’s a flower on that plant now.
Today when I looked into my mirror I saw you. I smiled. You’re beautiful, and you’ve been away for too long. The t-shirt you handed me when you held me last, I have spent everything I had in me to keep it smelling like you till you can wear it again. I will repeat that process as mechanically as I must, because I don’t have any other choice. But I don’t complain. I shouldn’t. Life gives me one you, and I will keep what I can of that, for as long as I can.
I will wait for you, everyday. What other purpose do I have?
I watered the tree which we planted together in my backyard. It’s grown since you left. It has lush green leaves and it smells like an embrace from an old friend. It has a very long way to go – it will bear fruits one day, it will give birth to newer trees. I’m waiting to water a whole garden with you. I think it misses you. It’s waiting.
That’s the thing about living in limbo, right? I wouldn’t do it for anyone else. I hate uncertainty. But I hate the certainty of life without you even more. So I will silently, in the smallest of everyday actions, defy all the natural laws and nobody will notice. Nobody will stop me. No, I’m not doing it as a declaration of love, but I will not move from where you left me. Not one step.
I studied science with you, we were in the same class. You sat next to me on that wooden bench, the third one in the last row. It still has our initials etched in it. Right there, you taught me what entropy means. I remember I laughed, because you gave such a fancy name to such a simple, natural concept that I have inevitably witnessed all my life. Did I tell you that I kept that high school textbook with me? I opened it yesterday while I was clearing my cupboard. It still has our tic tac toe scribbles on the last page. It reminded me that I don’t care for entropy. I never did. Let there be disorder and chaos, let the world move towards doom. I won’t. I will create order out of this chaos, and I will hold on to it with dear life, to wait right where you know you will be able to find me when you return.
What will the universe do, when I laugh in its face?
It’s cold here this time of year. I’ve taken out the winter clothes from the attic. It has so many old photos of us. Even your old grey cardigan which still has the stain from when you spilled the tea I made on it. You are so clumsy sometimes, it makes me fuzzy. I have started spending more time in the attic’s damp than in my bed. It’s somehow warmer than all of the house. I wear all the layers I can, but there’s not much I can do about the freezing cold I feel when I wash my hands. I miss yours. I’m yet to knit gloves. It keeps slipping my mind, because you occupy so much of it.
The tree and me, we’re both waiting for June. I remember your touch feels like the birth and newness of spring. That’s what I felt when you first smiled at me. I didn’t know what it was that time, don’t blame me, I was too young. Now I do. You are a funny mix of the brightest yellow and orange and you smell like blooming. It’s December, and I’m waiting for spring. It is my favourite season.
Why have you stopped replying to my texts as frequently as before? What happened to our bi-weekly face-times? I think it’s because you’re busy, and I’m waiting. So I am making sure you know that you can drop the heart you hold in your hands, whenever, however. I have given you my blind trust. And I will screech and cry and break, but I wouldn’t like any other pair of hands on it. I don’t mind the risk. The reward is greater. So if I haven’t made it clear yet, I am a stubborn, stubborn girl. I will wait, like a dew drop enjoying the elusive company of the leaf knowing fully well it will fall to nothingness the next moment. Everyday with craze, I hope you turn out to be the childhood sweetheart who returns to his hometown on a Monday evening in a chilly breeze when the charms of youthfulness have passed. And I know you will. Because you, too, are waiting.
Come back soon. Your home is restless.
My friend asked me something a few days ago at dinner, when we were sipping on wine and slightly intoxicated. You know Estee, she has no filter after one glass – “Why are you waiting?” And I just sighed. Because how do I explain it? It comes to me so naturally because one day on the road when I was on edge about hailing a cab to work on time, you grasped my hand. You looked me directly in the eyes and gave me a hug. You were good at waiting, and patience was your best friend. That’s when I knew time could in fact, stop, if you made it. Science likes to lie to us. Your eyes taught me patience, and I eagerly learned. I learned how to wait because I waited with you – at the restaurant, the road, the hospital, the bookstore, home. So Estee, I wait because I cannot do anything else. I know no other skill. I am the best at it.
If you ask me when I realised you were worth waiting for, I think it was the first time you ran back into my arms. After a long while of me tapping my fingers away at your wooden desk which had my initials etched in it. Whether it was hours, months, years, didn’t matter when I saw you. I would wait endlessly for the most elusive bits of you. Because I love you. The most fleeting moment I get with you trumps all of my otherwise consuming wait.
So I do it again.
And again and again.
And I wait
To wait again.
Me? Wait? For you? Of course. What other purpose do I have? If you hear the sounds of the trees on a moonless, windy night you will know what I mean.
Waiting, and loving, are one and the same.
Anyone who says otherwise has never waited.