A Stranger
A Truth,
stranger than
A Fiction,
truer than
A Reality,
more fictitious than
An Imagination,
more real than
A Friend,
more imaginary than
A Stranger.
stranger than
A Fiction,
truer than
A Reality,
more fictitious than
An Imagination,
more real than
A Friend,
more imaginary than
A Stranger.
When truth is a stranger, real love ceases to be true, and true love is not real anymore.
When truth is a stranger, real love ceases to be true, and true love is not real anymore. This one of the many phrases that were swimming in and out of my head from the jumble of different words dropped in there like alphabet soup by fleeting glimpses of paperbacks whipped up all around me. Not that I mind it, the white noise was the perfect prelude to the deafening roar of the engines as the plane took off. Take off; the moment never fails to exhilarate me. There are very few experiences that every time thrill you like the first time, no matter how many times you've been through them before. In that moment, when your guts are almost pushed out of your back, all the chatter ceases. All you can hear is the roaring of the engines, and you're one with the plane, and everyone else in it. Try catching faces of fellow passengers, not so strangers anymore. Everyone, is holding their breath, waiting to exhale, metaphorically speaking.
As the plane prepares to land, after circling the airport umpteen times, I look out of the window. I see little matchboxes running down the highway and wonder, where they all are going to. I wonder, if anyone of them is looking up at the sky, the underbelly of the plane and wondering about the high flying strangers. I wonder, if anyone of them is wondering about me, the way I am wondering about them. Soon the plane lands and strangers come together once again, waiting to pick pieces of their lives off the belt. Unluckily, mine is first one and am on my way, unsaid goodbye to strangers I never knew. I catch a cab and as it drives down the highway, a plane passes overhead. I wonder, how many of them are coming home and how many running away from one. But most of all, I wonder, if any stranger up there is wondering about me the way I wonder about them? What if, someone in that plane right now is staring down at the top of my cab and thinking about me?
"Told you, it would take at least two hours from the airport."
I try to sneak a look at the yellow post it which has become stuck to inside of my jacket before it becomes obvious I don’t even remember her name. I greet her, using her first name, which once upon a time would have surprised me. I try to locate her face, in the mail she mentioned she was in same school as me. I don’t even try to scrape away dust of all those years from her face to see if a familiar face is hidden within. Am just glad to have a place to stay for couple of days in this city.
I enter the living room of her apartment and first thing that hits me is... I haven't even exchanged any courtesies. Once upon a time would have been very unlike me, but now, I don’t even try to correct the situation. She also doesn’t mind, but goes on about the traffic problem. I look around, as she talks about the venue for my presentation and how early I will have to start to reach in time. Her demeanor is of one who is friend from a long time, or, someone who has attuned to monotony of a mechanical life and is in no mood to waste time in trifle obligations of social behavior. I am not sure which is a more comforting thought of two.
Pastel shades on the walls. Cubist paintings strive for wall space with fake Mayan relics. Tables and desks devoid of any furnishings save for a small photograph. I walk upto it, its her with a little girl, who must be her daughter... a certain memory stirs in back of my head, but not for long.
"I'm going for my run. There is the bathroom, the refrigerator is in the kitchen over there. If you feel hungry there is some pasta that you can microwave for now. In case you need anything else, don’t call me. You're smart enough to figure out on your own"
It’s only when she leaves that the sudden silence in the living room tells me how she been talking all the time. I go to the shower, water is too cold. I play around with the knobs to set the right temperature, not warm enough. SO I turn on the water heater and wait for sound of water bubbling.
Strawberry. Apricot. Peach. Pink. Blue. Translucent. Pearly white. Black. White. Cream. Black. Black. Red. Black.
The colors and flavors that you find in a woman's bathroom. Face wash, loofah, bodywash, shampoo, lingerie, towel, face pack, moisturizers, body lotions... similar colors, similar products, but different combinations found in different bathrooms. I take a deep breath. There is always an overpowering aroma, above all others. Peaches. I smile, could never have guessed. I pick up a magazine from the rack, put it back and pick another. Time, National Geographic, Forbes. I smile again. Just when I thought I'd figure her out, another curve ball comes my way. The water heater beeps. Nothing more comforting like hug of a warm shower to make you feel home, comforted.
I drop on the couch in my T-Shirt and shorts, with over baked pasta in one hand and remote in another. Somehow I can't eat without some noise around me. I flipped channels for a news channel, not for new, but coz they feel as if someone is around, talking to you. I ignore the news and stare at the Mayan spear on the wall next to it as I take first spoonful of pasta, not bad. Just then the door rings. I open it without even checking for who it is.
Her gray sweat shirt is... well, full of sweat, more so around the underarms and can also see a outline of her breasts. She is panting, number on elevator tells me she took the stairs. She starts talking about the traffic on streets and a colleague of hers who comes for walks in her car the moment she comes in. Remote is still in my hand, I switch the TV off.
I turn around; she removes her shirt and throws it on the couch. I can see the scar on her stomach, caesarian and the stretch marks on the underside of her left breast which remind me very much of a photograph of Ulluru I once saw. I head for the couch and pick up my pasta once again. As she turns I see another scar just under her right shoulder blade. Deja vu. I burnt piece of cheese almost makes me throw up, but I shove it back. She goes to the bathroom. I head for the kitchen, to grab myself some orange soda, nothing washes down taste of burnt food better. When I come out, she is in the living room, putting on another sweat shirt, rusty shade of red, her back to me. I poke the paste for any more traces of burnt cheese and the moment I look up she turns around suddenly and...
Time stands still. Inches away, my nose form her forehead. I see the bleached hair on her upper lip stand on their ends. I become aware of a shivering chill running down my arm. We both hold her breath. She is looking down, not talking anymore. We can hear our hearts beat, even as sounds of next door kids entering the elevator try to drown them. I feel my guts pushed to the very end of my back, and somehow know it’s same with her. Somehow, in that moment we're one, both of us, waiting to exhale.
And then she looks up, straight into my eyes.
Stop!
When truth is a stranger, real love ceases to be true, and true love is not real anymore. This one of the many phrases that were swimming in and out of my head from the jumble of different words dropped in there like alphabet soup by fleeting glimpses of paperbacks whipped up all around me. Not that I mind it, the white noise was the perfect prelude to the deafening roar of the engines as the plane took off. Take off; the moment never fails to exhilarate me. There are very few experiences that every time thrill you like the first time, no matter how many times you've been through them before. In that moment, when your guts are almost pushed out of your back, all the chatter ceases. All you can hear is the roaring of the engines, and you're one with the plane, and everyone else in it. Try catching faces of fellow passengers, not so strangers anymore. Everyone, is holding their breath, waiting to exhale, metaphorically speaking.
As the plane prepares to land, after circling the airport umpteen times, I look out of the window. I see little matchboxes running down the highway and wonder, where they all are going to. I wonder, if anyone of them is looking up at the sky, the underbelly of the plane and wondering about the high flying strangers. I wonder, if anyone of them is wondering about me, the way I am wondering about them. Soon the plane lands and strangers come together once again, waiting to pick pieces of their lives off the belt. Unluckily, mine is first one and am on my way, unsaid goodbye to strangers I never knew. I catch a cab and as it drives down the highway, a plane passes overhead. I wonder, how many of them are coming home and how many running away from one. But most of all, I wonder, if any stranger up there is wondering about me the way I wonder about them? What if, someone in that plane right now is staring down at the top of my cab and thinking about me?
*******
"Told you, it would take at least two hours from the airport."
I try to sneak a look at the yellow post it which has become stuck to inside of my jacket before it becomes obvious I don’t even remember her name. I greet her, using her first name, which once upon a time would have surprised me. I try to locate her face, in the mail she mentioned she was in same school as me. I don’t even try to scrape away dust of all those years from her face to see if a familiar face is hidden within. Am just glad to have a place to stay for couple of days in this city.
I enter the living room of her apartment and first thing that hits me is... I haven't even exchanged any courtesies. Once upon a time would have been very unlike me, but now, I don’t even try to correct the situation. She also doesn’t mind, but goes on about the traffic problem. I look around, as she talks about the venue for my presentation and how early I will have to start to reach in time. Her demeanor is of one who is friend from a long time, or, someone who has attuned to monotony of a mechanical life and is in no mood to waste time in trifle obligations of social behavior. I am not sure which is a more comforting thought of two.
Pastel shades on the walls. Cubist paintings strive for wall space with fake Mayan relics. Tables and desks devoid of any furnishings save for a small photograph. I walk upto it, its her with a little girl, who must be her daughter... a certain memory stirs in back of my head, but not for long.
"I'm going for my run. There is the bathroom, the refrigerator is in the kitchen over there. If you feel hungry there is some pasta that you can microwave for now. In case you need anything else, don’t call me. You're smart enough to figure out on your own"
It’s only when she leaves that the sudden silence in the living room tells me how she been talking all the time. I go to the shower, water is too cold. I play around with the knobs to set the right temperature, not warm enough. SO I turn on the water heater and wait for sound of water bubbling.
Strawberry. Apricot. Peach. Pink. Blue. Translucent. Pearly white. Black. White. Cream. Black. Black. Red. Black.
The colors and flavors that you find in a woman's bathroom. Face wash, loofah, bodywash, shampoo, lingerie, towel, face pack, moisturizers, body lotions... similar colors, similar products, but different combinations found in different bathrooms. I take a deep breath. There is always an overpowering aroma, above all others. Peaches. I smile, could never have guessed. I pick up a magazine from the rack, put it back and pick another. Time, National Geographic, Forbes. I smile again. Just when I thought I'd figure her out, another curve ball comes my way. The water heater beeps. Nothing more comforting like hug of a warm shower to make you feel home, comforted.
*******
I drop on the couch in my T-Shirt and shorts, with over baked pasta in one hand and remote in another. Somehow I can't eat without some noise around me. I flipped channels for a news channel, not for new, but coz they feel as if someone is around, talking to you. I ignore the news and stare at the Mayan spear on the wall next to it as I take first spoonful of pasta, not bad. Just then the door rings. I open it without even checking for who it is.
Her gray sweat shirt is... well, full of sweat, more so around the underarms and can also see a outline of her breasts. She is panting, number on elevator tells me she took the stairs. She starts talking about the traffic on streets and a colleague of hers who comes for walks in her car the moment she comes in. Remote is still in my hand, I switch the TV off.
I turn around; she removes her shirt and throws it on the couch. I can see the scar on her stomach, caesarian and the stretch marks on the underside of her left breast which remind me very much of a photograph of Ulluru I once saw. I head for the couch and pick up my pasta once again. As she turns I see another scar just under her right shoulder blade. Deja vu. I burnt piece of cheese almost makes me throw up, but I shove it back. She goes to the bathroom. I head for the kitchen, to grab myself some orange soda, nothing washes down taste of burnt food better. When I come out, she is in the living room, putting on another sweat shirt, rusty shade of red, her back to me. I poke the paste for any more traces of burnt cheese and the moment I look up she turns around suddenly and...
Time stands still. Inches away, my nose form her forehead. I see the bleached hair on her upper lip stand on their ends. I become aware of a shivering chill running down my arm. We both hold her breath. She is looking down, not talking anymore. We can hear our hearts beat, even as sounds of next door kids entering the elevator try to drown them. I feel my guts pushed to the very end of my back, and somehow know it’s same with her. Somehow, in that moment we're one, both of us, waiting to exhale.
And then she looks up, straight into my eyes.
Stop!
[ The End ]
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