Rain is me <3 - Dreamer _ (free ereaders .TXT) 📗

and will spend their lives wandering blearily around a loveless landscape, hoping desperately that their circumstances will improve, but suspecting, in their heart of hearts, that they will remain unloved forever.            

I tried but couldn’t sleep.                                

Putting on a pair of sandals on my feet, I walked out of the house.

I looked down at my shadow, moving silently beside me. We take our shadows for granted, don’t we? There they are the uncomplaining companions of a lifetime, mute and helpless witnesses to our every act of commission or omission.

On this bright moonlit night I could not help noticing you, Shadow.                                            

And what of my echo? I thought of calling out to see if my call came back to me; but I refrained from doing so, as I did not wish to disturb the perfect stillness of the dark roads or the conversations of the trees.

The road wound up the hill and leveled out at the top, where it became a ribbon of moonlight entwined between tall deodars. A flying squirrel glided across the road, leaving one tree for another. A nightjar called. The rest was silence.

The old cemetery loomed up before me. There were many old graves- some large and monumental- and there were a few recent graves too, for the cemetery was still in use. I could see flowers scattered on one of them- a few late dahlias and scarlet salvia. Further on near the boundary wall, part of the cemetery’s retaining wall had collapsed in the heavy monsoon rains. Some of the tombstones had come down with the wall. One grave lay exposed. A rotting coffin and a few scattered bones were the only relics of someone who had lived and felt lonely like me.

Part of the tombstone lay beside the road, but the lettering had worn away. I am not normally a morbid person, but something made me stoop and pick up a smooth round shard of bone, probably part of a skull. When my hand closed over it, the bone crumbled into fragments. I let them fall to the grass. Dust to dust.

“Zoof” I sighed.

A deep sound-denying silence fell upon the dark roads. My shadow and I walked home.

I sat near the window, curtains fluttering in a light breeze. Outside, I could hear the sounds of crickets chirping and, faintly, of cars driving. Summer nights have a distinctive smell- I can’t say of what, exactly- and, as I ran my fingers over the worn body of my guitar, I can’t help but let a soft smile curl at the corners of my lips.

It was not a happy smile, but it wasn’t sad or fake either. It was more just… there, a reminder of what happiness once felt like, of what smiling once felt like. I can’t see my smile, but I imagine that it looks wistful and nostalgic, thinking back to better times and reminiscing about the glory of the past.

The guitar strings were familiar under my calloused fingertips. I remember when I first began playing, how blisters would form on each finger, how each plucked note was painful. Not anymore.                                             The song came to me automatically. It was something that I remember Zoufishan always playing.

The thought dampened my mood, as it always does when I think of Zoof. I didn’t know why I kept playing the song, as it just reminds me of her and makes me more depressed, but I can’t help it. I felt like it keeps the two of us connected. And it was beyond agonizing, to be continually reminded that she was not with me, but it would be so much worse if I had no reminder of her, nothing to help hold onto those memories of the two of us.

As I lose myself in the music- in the chords and the lyrics and the sadness- I blocked out everything except for the feel of the guitar underneath my fingertips and the sound of my voice blending with the notes, beauty in pain and comfort in grief, music as therapy-never a replacement, but something to fill the gaping hole in my heart, if only temporarily.

 

#

“Yea, I’m alright.” I muttered, munching the toast.                                                                      “Okay,” Mom said.

I took my laptop and opened my Facebook account in it. I was scrolling down when I spotted a message on the news feed. I quickly opened it. And there, I was shocked. It was from some user named ‘Zoufishan Kausar’.

Swallowing hard, I opened the display picture of the user. I blinked several times- it was Zoufishan in the picture. I checked the ‘about me’ column on her profile. Her date of birth, hometown- everything was correct. I sat back to read the message.

It said, ‘Hila, I need you. Please, come and help me…’ The message was enclosed with an address, ‘House number-7, Block 3, Hilton Street, Shimla.’

My heart skipped a beat. I didn’t reply. Taking my laptop, I ran upstairs.

Was the message really sent by Zoufishan? She said she needs me. Does that means she is in trouble? Why didn’t she write anything else? Is she alright? Is she at Shimla? And…Is she really my Zoufishan?

“I got to do something.”

Turning the laptop off, I went downstairs. I took my cell phone and put on a pair of sandals on my feet.

I began walking, swaying the long and black dupatta, like mist draped around my body, and smoke reeking from the hem.                             

The trees were still, not a leaf moved. The crickets were silent in the grass.

I have always been a giver, warm and loving. Even as a child I never cried, seeking to make others happy. Often people sought me in times of trouble and I gave all I had - my whole heart and showered love upon them. By age nine adults leant on me, told me of their woes and I was their spark of light. Yet when my time to suffer used to come, when my world used to be a hurricane of ice, every light but one used to switch off. All but one offered a deep love. Moments of emptiness used to come like an ambush, yet I knew in company of a true friend a real smile can return, a real laugh, real warmth. A true friend.

I walked home.                                                                 

I didn’t talk to anyone and didn’t eat anything.

They say the happier you are, the less sleep you require to function in everyday life. Sadness increases the urge to sleep more.               

I wanted nothing more than to lie down and be enveloped by the warmth of silence. Whether I wanted to rest permanently or not, I did not know. I never thought silence would be considered warm but there I was lying in my bed prepared to be swept away by the hope that my sleep would be filled by light.

When I opened my eyes, it was still dark. Half asleep, I got out of bed, and entered the bathroom. As I emptied my bladder, I checked my face in the mirror. For an instant, I couldn't recognize the person reflected in it. Only when I waved my hand and person waved back that I realized it was me. A slight headache came upon me. After washing my hands, I searched the closet for some painkillers only to realize there wasn't one. Shaking the water off my hands, I walked across the room, but then stopped abruptly in the middle. An unsettling feeling began welling inside me. My heart started pounding at an increasingly rapid pace. I checked my watch. Almost midnight. I turned to look at the window. The trees were still swaying in the wind and the leaves still rustling against the ground.

She needs me. I need to go to her.  Some friends are for a reason, some are for a season and some are for life. She was for life. I loved her.                                                                              

I sat on my chair, with no strength to move. My shaky fingers finally come to stop after running restlessly through my messed up hair.

I grabbed my laptop and booked a ticket- Chandigarh to Shimla: Kalka express.

Zoof needs me. And, I need her too.

 

#

It was dawn as the train trundled from the depot. The train was sleek, running over the black railway track so fast that the passing greenery became a hazy blur.                                

The Kalka-Shimla rail route was beautiful, set amidst lofty pines and lush green, misty mountains.

The rail line, like twin threads of silver, clung to the steep cliffs and ventured boldly over bridges, built over tiny streams that showed off their radiance in the sunlight. Inside we were a curious mixture of cozy and bored, all of us itching for the destination that will come eventually.                                            

Sitting by the window, I breathed in the cool breeze and took in the greenery, smell of fresh dew on the vegetation, the chirping of birds and the sight of cattle grazing around the track. The fresh wind swept across my face as the train made an arduous climb of almost 4800 feet from Kalka to Shimla in almost five hours.

Shimla: Beautiful and tranquil, just like her.

I sighed.

The air was frozen lace on my skin, delicate and cold, like winter waves on sallow sand. The sky was washed with grey, watery light illuminating thin patches to brilliance. In some moments I was watching my boots over the slightly-frozen sidewalk, perfect concrete slabs, flat and square, and in others transfixed to the interplay of cloud and sun above. Only the slipping of my feet brought my attention earthward once more, the need to stay upright pulling my mind into the present.

I took a cab to a hotel. It was a small white bungalow with a garden in the front, banana trees at the sides and an orchard of guava trees at the back.

The hotel didn’t look very impressive. The whitewash was coming off the walls and the cane chairs on the veranda were old and crooked. A stag’s head was mounted over the front door but one of its glass eyes had fallen out. Perhaps the hotel was deserted.

I saw a woman dusting the sofas as soon as I entered inside.                                                   

“Hello,” I said.                                                           

She turned at the sound of my voice and looked at me for a few moments with a puzzled expression. She had a round cheerful face and crisp black hair. She smiled slowly. “You have come to stay?” She asked in a slow, easygoing voice.                                                   

“Yeah,” I said.

She picked up my suitcase and, unlocking a side door, took me into a small, sunny room that had a window looking out on to the orchard. There was a bed, a desk, a couple of cane chairs, and a frayed and faded red carpet.                                                                            

 “Is it all right?” She asked.                             

“Perfectly all right.”

After she had gone I shut the door and went into the bathroom to bathe. The cold water refreshed me and made me feel one with the world. After I had dried myself, I sat on the bed, in front of the open window. A cool breeze, smelling of bananas and guavas, came through the window and played over my body. I thought I saw a movement among the trees.                                                                          

And getting closer to the window, I saw a girl on a swing. She was a small girl, all by herself, and she was swinging to and fro and singing and her song carried faintly on the breeze.                 

I dressed quickly and left my room. The girl’s dress was billowing in the breeze, her pigtails flying about. When she saw me approaching, she stopped swinging and stared at me. I stopped a little distance away.

“Hello,” I smiled at her.                                        

“Who are you?” She asked.                                      

“I’m Hila. What’s your name?”                         

“Sona,” She said, “You are very pretty.”                

“So are you.” I replied. One pigtail lay across her chest, the other behind her shoulder.

She blushed. “I’m ten.” She said.                       

“You’re getting old.”                                             

“Well, we all have to grow old one day. Aren’t you coming any closer?” She giggled.                  

“May I?” I asked.                                                    

 “You may. You can push the swing.”

I pushed the swing until it went higher and higher and then I stopped pushing so