Memories

His mind was tasteless now, being stung by the memory.

Steam was escaping from the arches of his body. Warm water flowing down in streamlines over his body. He felt the water hitting at the back of his head. He could feel the tiny drops landing on the nape. He could see the grey water leaving his body, and hoped that the memories were grey as well. 

Somewhere, far from the hills, a pyre held the body to free it forever. He was crying for the father he wanted to love. Time, before the heart could melt, had melted away.

He tore the drops apart from his body, put on the clothes and took the road for he needed something to put off the fire the memory has started. He went inside the church, a place with stern outlook but large and soft insides. He often found the Hindu gods too busy for the confessions. He sat on the bench just at the right of the entrance. Alone. Hundreds of meter cubes produced no sound and offered the ideal stillness he needed to speak. He spoke, without sound.

There are times when one's own body feels incomplete, suddenly. It becomes the prey to its own master, the mind. And is, then, left alone to feel the pain. Then the body, the heart seeks something. A certain shoulder, a certain eye, a certain touch. The touch of the crucified, however, proved helpless this time. The wooden floor of the church was providing a sweet chill that he liked. 

The hills were offering nothing but resistance. He found it a little hard to walk up the road of the little town on the hills. There was piercing chill in the air. The hills were this cold some years ago, they said in the shanty tea-shop in which he sat for a while. But for him it was a first in his six long years here. Few people, few open shops, few lights as the evening was about to set in. One little moon, across the hills, was fighting to go up in the grey sky. He moved forwards, now looking for a known face hoping for the unknown.

Few meters ahead, a bonfire was dying down. He asked for tea from the shop across the road where the fire was. He came back and sat near the fire. A little boy came and put some wood in the fire. The fire rose. The valley below could hardly be seen. The cold had wrapped the white shroud around the hills. The warmth, however, was near his body. The orange was comforting. 

He could see her while she was making the tea. Though, the sale must have been less in this weather, she was not heavy. She was floating in the kitchen. Or did she see him when he asked the boy for the tea? She poured the tea in the white, thermocol cup, and sent it to him. She turned back and looked at him. Few lost smiles were found.

He asked for a cup of tea, again. ‘A bigger cup, if possible’, he added. The boy went and repeated the request. She raised her brows a little but they could not go across the road. She wanted them to, and sensed the feebleness of the body. She poured the tea in steel mug this time. She put two cups in the tray and went out with the little boy. The boy handed the bigger one to him and took a small cup and sat along with her on the bench on the opposite side of the fire. He glanced at her as she cupped the hands around the tea-cup.

Now, they looked at each other, again. The moon looked tired. The sun was trying its best to shine behind the ruthless clouds. She rose and went in for she expected few to come in as the chill was rising. So, it was time she close the shop for the day.

He stood, paid to the boy and left. Only few, the natives, could be seen, walking up and down the street. He still preferred his shivering self in the open than his lone self in the comforts of his home, today, as if hopes flourished in unbolted volumes. He found, few steps ahead, a bench and thought to spend some more time there.

He sat still- absolutely still- for about half an hour, with his arms clenched to his chest. 'What is it?', she whispered as she sat on the bench with a besides herself. He did not answer. He looked at her but did not answer. He wanted to; he had the answer but could not spell it.

She did not ask again. She pulled off the black muffler and tied it again, tightly. 'Can you walk with me? To my home?', he asked. She saw the pleading eyes. The answer was never sought.

He set up the pan on fire to make the coffee, almost as a routine on her visit to his place. And he hoped that words could be filled in coffee cups. She smiled.

She took the notepad and started flipping pages. She knew the pages by now. They held months in them. They had been the witness to their thousand minutes together. And she was the witness to their turning blue, rather slowly.

She read the most recent lines. Somewhere, far from the hills, a pyre held the body to free it forever. He was crying for the father he wanted to love. Time, before the heart could melt, had melted away. She, now, understood the pain he brought to her shop, today. He had killed a father in his novel. But he had remembered his own and their lives that were apart. She went inside the kitchen and put her hand on his head. He dropped his hands on the rack and the shoulders melted. He did not cry.

'I touched his feet every day. But I could never touch him, Meera. Love always dissolved when we were together. And hatred never outreached. Both, do not soothe, Meera. I wish I had a mouth more and, perhaps, an eye less.' The sound had gathered the weight of the ages, it seemed. He broke, as if words had now cleared the channels inside him.

She held him. With eyes, with arms. An unknown touch, a first, they shared in three months since they got to know each other. The words were left behind. The unknown language reigned then. The steam from the cups were becoming indistinguishable above them. And the fire within him was being vaporized, he knew.