The Girl - VII

The Final Question

The caring warmth of the afternoon sun chasing the distant horizon seemed almost as surreal as the mildly stimulating embraces of the December breeze. The unearthly silence of the most abused street asymptote to the local market, the fortunate yet suspicious absence of civilization, but above all the overpowering magnetism of the girl, almost characterized his most intimately cherished dreams.

It was an aura of musical silence, when an unselfconscious touching of the forefingers would ruffle the alchemy of attraction, as if yearning to evolve into that invigorating sensation of contact poets call ‘romantic’. The feeling of her-charming-self walking beside him was, for all he knew, ‘Nirvanic’. Capitalizing on the graceful setting he had so tried- and destiny contrived- to accomplish, he knew it was time…

Last Night
Had it not been for the blissful silence in his wrecked hostel room two nights after the last semester final, the calming company of solitude which was Vitamin D to him, the comfortably numbing chill of the invading winters and of course for the ‘chance blessings of causality’ he so loved to call ‘signs’, he would perhaps never have managed to muster up enough courage to compile the 4 kb text message that now flashed on his cellular phone-

‘You free tomorrow? Can we meet? Any time.’

It had taken him 6 edits, 4 recursive reconsiderations, 2 spell checks and what seemed like an eternity to set the SMS to the precise point on a scale calibrated between ‘a casual encounter’ and ‘downright desperation’- working with just 26 alphabets can be tricky sometimes. His left thumb hovered over the ‘Send’ button as if possessed by those Gods of love he had never believed in. Few minutes later the questions were a stream of electromagnetic waves, bouncing off the nearest cellular tower to the intended destination.

Nearly all his friends had already rid themselves of the place and there was little reason for him, or The Girl, to still be there and yet now he knew there was nowhere else he’d rather be or no one else he’d rather be with. Perhaps the universe does conspire…

‘Yeah, sure. 11:30?’ she replied. Everything seems longer when you’re waiting for it.

‘Fine by me. See you tomorrow then. Good night.’ The way to a girl’s heart is indeed through her mobile. He mentally checked Step 1 of his Getting the Girl user manual.

12 hours from now he’d know exactly what he’d brought upon himself.

Morning
Moments leading up to the afternoon were surprisingly comforting. Maybe it was because he had always programmed himself to accept any possible response. Human mind is an amazing thing- regret, grief, despair, pain- it forgets almost everything, so you can go out and have some more.

At 11:20 he was headed to the meeting point.

Everything in the universe seemed like a blur against a constant foreground- her. He would find her in a stranger’s voice, in a sudden laughter somewhere, a phrase, a scent, a song, everywhere. Poets wrote about this, and singers sang about it and perhaps it was real, perhaps it existed. Who can ever know? They said love needed some falling and he was afraid of heights.

He saw her coming and instinctively realized he hadn’t seen a mirror that morning. By the time they met, he regretted it. She had deep soulful eyes and long hair that cascaded over her shoulders in countless ringlets, an infectious smile accentuating her loveliness. A long winter jacket enveloped her lissom form. There was that usual dignity about her he found appealing, sometimes appalling. Before her he looked like a leprous troll.

It took him a while to reboot couple of his crashed senses and by then she was already talking. Spellbound, and mentally preoccupied, there was nothing he could have added to prolong the conversation. Small talks was a social exercise he did not possess the stamina for.

‘There is something I need to say. Can we sit?’ he somehow managed.

She seemed pleasantly surprised by the interruption and followed him across the road to a desolate bench. He wasn’t sure she possessed the knees required to hear what he had in his mind and the uncomfortable silence that loomed over for the next few moments probably gave it all away.

So she sat beside him with that characteristic aristocratic grace, resting an elbow over her crossed legs and hiding a hint of a smile by the forefingers of the palm which gently held her chin, as if ready for the story. You should see how beautiful (and intimidating) women look when they are quietly expecting you to talk. He was moved by the sheer poetry of her face but as mercury boiled out of his emotional thermometer, he started making sense after a few gibberish syllables.

He had always believed that, statistically speaking, out of a zillion possible permutations of words in the English language, there did exist one which exactly encapsulated all that he wanted to tell her that day. One that could cause sentimental inductance and make her resonate at the same emotional frequency. Something he could say that she would remember for the rest of her life. But that perfect proposal is only for the movies. Guys like him always have to manage. So, what followed was the most unsophisticated prose but he meant it more than she knew, in case that matters.

At first it did seem like a story, one of that hopeless sentiment people call 'love', and she listened intently. But as more astounding subjects and predicates came up, the girl realised. She buried her face in her palms on her knees and for just this while he knew she was more vulnerable than him. For just this while he did not have to plan conversations in his head he would never end up having.

He left nothing for a tomorrow that he knew might never come.

The Evening
The bulky guy seated next to him was rocked back from sleep as the rickety Roadways bus hit another bump on the Martian road. He pulled out his cell phone as he adjusted the spectacles on his nose- no new messages. He slid the useless device back into his pocket. The guy was on the ‘home’ run.

His familiarity to the concepts of courtship was no more than a Kardashian’s understanding of Relativity. He just wished he had ‘perspectacles’, glasses which could have helped him see her perspective of things, especially him, for there was no reference frame for him to judge how well the events of the day had transpired. He had never met someone he thought was unworthy enough to be his girl.

But he no longer cared.

He knew he felt more content than anyone with a pulse and for him it was enough. It wasn’t the happiness he felt when he aced a pre-final once upon eternity or the relief he experienced while reading the SMS- “Your account has been credited with INR 3000…”- at the end of every month. It was different, more permanent and ethereal, whatever that means.

In hindsight, all the hiatus about the girl felt like an extrapolation of emotions. Reveling in the thrill of an infatuation is fine, craving for it as a momentary distraction- also acceptable. But emotion is a dangerous investment and an impediment to effective thought, with an incredibly simple but very destructive chemistry. Nature just has a peculiar way of denying what you want the most until you no longer crave for it anymore.

Or is it?

Only time will tell.

The Girl - VII