The Coffee Break
It was a rainy evening, yet CCD was crowded. And, he was late. Again.
From the empty tables and occupied chairs, she could guess that most of the crowd was there to seek a stylish refuge from the rains than fill themselves up with Black Forest Gateaux and Cappucino.
Seated near the glass window, in a pretty white dress that she’d taken much pain to shield from the flying wet brown spots, she checked her watch and sighed as one more call to his phone went unanswered.
Coldplay could still be heard amidst the noisy chatter, as the vehicles clogging the roads outside made their way along in silence. Every now and then, the door opened with the ringing of the tiny bell, and the honks filled the room for the few seconds before the door closed again.
After a substantial amount of time had passed, the waiters passed by a little too often, looking at her, then at the empty table. The plastic chairs outside were filling up, and a noisy group of boys has just been asked, unceremoniously, to leave.
The two girls on the next table get up to leave, and an old man whose been waiting for a seat for a while now, ran to stake claim. His wife soon joins him. On their tray are two black coffees and a single sandwich.
She looks on as they eat, sharing the sandwich between them. Smiles, their only conversation.
It’s been nearly half hour and the couple are on their way out. They have no umbrella and wait under the already crowded awning. The old lady places her head on her husband’s shoulder, and they silently watch the traffic go by.
She wonders if 50 years on, he and herself would share moments like these. .
The ringing of the bell and the accompanying blare of horns interrupt her thoughts. It’s him. Without a glance in her direction or maybe he hasn’t seen her yet, he makes his way to the counter for some coffee, maybe.
Without a first or second thought, she gets up and leaves. He does not notice.
On her way out, she passes the old couple, and smiles at them.
Tells them that it’d be a pleasure if she could drop them home in her car.
The man smiles his gentle smile, and tells her that they’d rather walk.
It’s cold, and he pulls his wife closer to him.
It’s best to leave them alone, she thinks, as she makes her way to her car.
Fifteen minute’s later she is at a traffic signal. Her phone rings, it’s him.
The signal turns green.
She drives on, leaving the phone unanswered . . . .
Goodbye, Baby
As I turn it upside down to rid it of odds and oddities; shards of glass, pencil shavings, a long lost earring, erasers , pen refills and small change pop out in cacophony.Then I open another compartment, a small one on the inside of the first compartment, and out come a rain of little bits of printed white paper. Torn bits of a whole. Indecipherable bits of the letter that had once been.
Indecipherable to another, but not to me.
Try as I might to resist, my mind races backwards.Those eyes, the passion, the basement, the tears, the hugs, the hands, the warmth, that fire, that hope, changing colours and inconsistent promises.
And the ensuing abortion. Of the child I allowed to grow within me for a whole six months.
Do they ever abort six month babies?
I don’t think so.
But then again, I would not and cannot bear half a child. Half a head, half a body, half a heart, half a soul.
Half a child, who would receive only half the love it deserves.I walked the corridors of the clinic, lighter, no longer carrying the baby, who was a part of me for so long, whom I nurtured and nourished, in the hope that when it finally came out, it would be a whole, healthy being.
The corridors, which seemed like an endless white maze when I entered, are now just nine white tiles before the clinic’s door.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Then a little leap to the ground, where a white horse carriage waits to take me away.
I cannot take the leap, I’ve just been cut.
So I sit on that ninth white tile, then push myself to the ground, make a steady landing on the firm black earth and climb the carriage that awaits me.
Back to the present, I collect the bits of printed white paper. Torn bits of a whole. Indecipherable bits of the letter that had once been. . and burn them in the fireplace, wherein there are no flames, only the last few twigs, almost burnt out, and lots of smoke and ash.
Walking back to clean up the mess on the floor of my bag, a get pricked on the toe by one of the tiny glass pieces. I wince, then bend down, smile and collect the remaining trash in the plastic pan.
Just then, almost unnoticed, a tiny white bit of paper, floats onto my hand.
I turn in back and forth, but it has no print.
I toss it into my little box of memories instead of into the bin and retire to bed.
The next day, I come face to face with those eyes again. They look at me, as I walk past. . without the usual hesitant steps and the suppressed blush.
How is it, that the something that consumed all of me just a month ago, now fails to evoke even a spark of that once raging fire?
-Written 9th March 2009
Sixteen plus Three
The nimble fingers move along the black and white keys in an all too familiar pattern, the drum beats, and, on cue, the sweet-voiced girls; in their Red, Blue, Green and Yellow uniforms sing the same old tune, with utmost sincerity. .
My youth my truth my loyalty and love
Your name your fame shall ever be my care
To keep unsullied, glorious and fair
One day we’ll part but ne’er shall I forget
I must achieve the aims that you have set
To put in practise all that you have taught me
The high ideals the good that I must do . . . . .
Misunderstanding all you see
Of the school days of yonder. A faraway yesterday.
But three years couldn’t be a long time; or maybe the way time seemed to fly since she stepped out of the portals of her Alma Mater, with the yellow batch and lanyard fading already.
Jolted back into the present, the clock ticked away to ten, already half an hour past the morning’s first class. The anti-tan was little use in the harsh summer heat she felt, at least her curls were spared the sun by the red scarf.
Approaching the very last signal post before the college, she accelerated to make it past the green arrow, but fell just about five seconds short. As if the agitating heat weren’t enough, she felt a tug at her bag; an outstretched dark hand, tanned far more than her own, jingled with a couple of small change. But it was the girl’s attire that struck her; dirty, faded, tearing and torn, it was the same uniform. With the yellow emblem and the three eye-holes where the faded batch should have been hanging, lanyard and all. .
Oh Mater, Alma Mater
I’ll keep faith in God and you
Oh, Mater, Alma Mater
To you I’ll be true
Self forgetful, serving all
Pure and good and truthful too
I pledge then, myself, worthy of my school
There’s a stage. And a variety of dancers dance in their varied costumes, with torches, to different tunes. The torches, varied coloured torches. Some have many, some have one. Some hold it below their chins to look scary, some above their heads (if they have one, that is) to look broody. Some hold them too close to their faces, only to get blinded by the light, others are busy shining their torches in others faces. Some hold it too far for anyone to see their faces. Others are trying to figure out how to switch the damn thing on.
Alma Mater didn’t tell her about this ‘stage’.
Wasn’t it supposed to be a big, bright, beautiful, sunny world?
Wasn’t God, whoever or wherever He was, supposed to be the only light?
And people were just . . . people.
Black and White.
Or at least Red, Blue, Green and Yellow.
I’ll dream of school and friends and days of gladness
I’ll see our motto set in flaming colours
“With God for God”, bought forth our best endeavour
With courage then must I face life anew
Remembering always God will see me through
These happy thoughts will banish every pain
And once again Ill sing the old refrain . . .
What is this it?
College, of course.
As a friend said, college is indeed another school, And you never stop learning.
Happiness is a relative term really, so are friends, but what the hell?
The dreams she dreamt back there, are a reality down here.
God, she’s found within herself, and in God, she trusts.
Then there are actions without thought, and thoughts without action.
It doesn’t matter much to me
After all, it was there that she climbed her first step, to the nursery class on the ground floor; it was there that she was picked up by a kindly nun, when she fell down and bruised her knee; and it was there that she learned the primary colors; red , blue and yellow.
And that Blue + Yellow = Green
