The Silk Touch...a short story by RoshanC    

     

I held her hand and bubbled; “I’ll miss these days." It took me five years to hold them and it felt an arduous task. She smirked and then silently wept. Her rueful tears were aqueducts of our years of togetherness and now the detachment. We were at the terrace of her building and the arena just mystified me. I was leaving the place forever and somehow knew that days from now would never be the same. All my years of seeing her around me, all the excuses of brushing across each other whizzed past like a flashback. It was probably our last time in the terrace and the reality resonated so strongly. Her tears spoke volumes and I was running out of words. With a bedazzled look at the open space around me I left in haste, leaving her behind in the so-called eternal darkness. I was leaving...

A Few Years Back:

I had just instituted the habit of reading and threw myself into any genre that crossed my desk, be it comic, adventure and fiction; just anything. I had just done Eric Segal's "Love Story" and the next one on my hand was a Cosmo (politan). That is when she came into the picture. She smuggled some books for me from her Dad's huge collection and it never stopped. Sometime later, I found a small handwritten note, neatly folded and pressed along the voluminous pages. She had a beautiful handwriting but the content was heavenly. I clamored out of bed and all the bells rang in the tower of my personal church of sacred epiphanies. With happiness radiating off my words like supernova remnants, I barely managed to write a complete sentence. The letters never stopped since then....

There was something about her, something peculiar-some charm that she carried. Unlike most other 13yr old, she was glowing, amazingly witty, she was a gold dust; someone who could make me laugh and preen with pride. She smelled like a waft of paradise, had the most beautiful pair of eyes and a dimple created a whirlpool on her right cheek as she made the slightest effort to smile. Her thick black hair made way down her shoulder like a waterfall and she gently used to gesture her locks behind her rabbity ears. She liked chocolates and had terrific taste buds. She played the violin and was good with the paint brush. She was well read and had ample space, though immune to mundane topics. She was far more ahead of her age, a characteristic that got trapped into my imagination. I felt far behind her and two years older.

                        After the winters, I returned back to school. We were physically apart and the only string that attached us together were letters, and letters we wrote many. When most of my friends were engrossed into books, I was singing love songs perched from the guava tree. Any slightest opportunity, you could find me at the backyard with my friends trading my newfound love story. Ironically, the postman had become my best anticipated friend. This was to be the irony in my life for years to come. Every winter I used to be back at her place and those two months were spring time in winter for us. Sneaking to the terrace of the building we would be engrossed for hours at a stretch. She would prepare lunch for me, usually burnt naan, or like in many instances overcooked noodles. But her tea always made my day......serendipitous (on a lighter note).

The initial years were very demanding, like staying closer to her family and not letting my illicit desires unfold across, my pan-tilt-zoom eyes popping out of the socket, the finger gestures signaling whatever had to be our next move, and everything had to be anticipated with utmost precision. One such sojourn at her place, we found ourselves alone. My sister had gone for her vacations leaving the house under my surveillance. That day I got a chance to rest my head on her lap, playing with her hair and she caressing mine. She gently whispered on my ears;" What will you do if my parents oppose our marriage?” I was startled. Those lines were too titanic (read “big”) for our age, but the intensity in her voice and her farsightedness made me respond to her almost immediately. “I’ll come mounted on a horse and take you along with me like Prithviraj Chauhan." My rebuttal here was nothing but the fresh history lesson revisions. She didn't say a word and we stayed there in silence for a very long time. That was the first instances when we had made the earnest effort to take our relationship that far and the feeling left me in peace.

Seasons slowly unfolded every passing year and we still were hopping around. Age brought about many changes in us, made us strong every passing day and the letters simply exchanged hands. My letters were rather essays now and I equally cherished hers. Winters were still visiting my sister to be close to her, sneaking to her place (at the slightest opportunity) was my new-found hobby and I had by now befriended her Mom. “The best way to reach a girl’s heart is through her Mom."

That night her parents invited me for dinner. I climbed upstairs much too early and met her in her room.

We went to the terrace, one last time and there I held her hand and bubbled; “I’ll miss these days." It took me five years to hold them and it felt an arduous task…