“Glad to see you three together”, I saw him texting. There was a bright expression of happiness, gratitude and pride rooted in the past, I saw, on his face. He looked at his phone, his fingures waved his face, his lips pushed in and cheeks out. A man controlled by memories.. His eyes turned to me. I lifted my eyebrows with a calm smile.
“They are my friends”, he came up with a photo. He looked at it. Danced his Adam’s Apple.
“We were always together, after we met, at our Higher Secondaries. Our lunch breakes never counted without everyone launghing, criticizing, wondering, teasing and mocking each other creating loops for future to roll back, recreate, endure and move to the next. Positiveness was always a fuel, understanding a bless and brotherhood a boon. Speeches, rhythms, boredome, problems we faced. But they never turned to be villains for comments and consolations were never weaker than worldly criticizms and despairs. Lackness and absence was never a matter for they were weaker than togetherness. ‘Wh’s had nothing to do for brains were never drained. Great, wonderful masterpiece got granted”, he paused pale.
“Where are they now?”, I broke the silence.
“Its all a matter of time”, he was good at answering in a manner which gave me enough words to get bored with. “I really fail to remember whom those words belong to. But he is great, may be bacause he lost himself in the past, lived with great passion and had a desire to be what he wanted to. Let it not bother me.”
“Why? You too have spells in the past?” I waited. The rhythm of night was then vivid. May be the depth of the partially understood emotions of his or the nostalgic paranoias of the past that made me listen to my heart beat. It is a magical rhythm that feeds me with time to travel and my body to hold my soul and to serve a presence to the ones who love me. The rest-less organ…
The silent screams of darkness, as I think I heard some, from the muted chords were more catching than the loud shouted audacities; they holded meanings, sentiments, the pain of bearing, loss and helplessness covered by a faint smile not to make the younger weep, anger, protest and revenge that they wish for deep inside to the tyrannies and powers that run the chariots beating the whip to the backbone of the silent. Senses they had, something that not everyone has. Something that can be even guessed only by the hearts that beat to the rhythm of silence; silence of being lost out of hope.
Her hands came close to me. A shivering hand, cuts announced her age, hold one in another and wide open. An age’s sufferings were painted on her face that was well decorated with hopelessness, but kind, fallen eyes with a focused lens on fixed hope. I remember my hands moving near her’s and that hot, thankful kiss it received. I sudden pulled my hand back. She with no much time for the same coordinates to spare, moved to the next.
“Why”, I annoyingly made it a little loud.
“Yes. I do”, my question was not a misplaced note of flat pitch to him. “Something that always mattered to me was difference. Difference from the rest in the parameters, as I loved to refer to them, may be of possessions or of love or whatever it is, magnitude was never nogotiable and avoidable. It made us break, it made things change, screams silent, oppressions weak, status blank and expressions null. Everything and anything depends on it and are characterised by haves and have nots and dos and do nots, something that can never be stopped for being the nature’s law and it loves symmetry in framing games for the puppets to play and to write tales with undefined and unbound pages to start them get numbered, to meet the ends for one day it should.”
“Your fait is your own decisions, I like to believe it so”, I suggested.
“Why? Reason it.”
Silent and simple. I was back to the silence and now I have my answer to my ‘why’ with me. The improperly placed resources and the never-matters-me anything phylosophy has changed the world to a beautiful numb to conscience and its calls, as he said.