Who is ‘She’?

Maybe she is the only one who can love me the way I want to be loved. Maybe she is the only one who understands my love.

The train shuffles along rapidly, with the dying sun creating beautiful tapestries while intermingling with the clouds. The strong hues of yellow and crimson are taking over the gradually vanishing remaining traces of blue. I put my temple on the window glass and fittingly, flag off a train of thoughts.

I close my eyes, and I realise that I can see more now. Putting in the dormant earphones, I could listen to many things even more clearly. I try to block every sense I can control, thus liberating a hitherto unknown treasure of space and time insinuated by the subconscious and picked up by the unconscious. As often, every once in a while my heart decides to join in my odyssey; and then the night becomes the day, sleep is left unneeded and the world has only us – me and her.

She walks with a delicate poise, soft enough for you to never guess where she is going but strong enough to travel miles. Sometimes, she betrays a carefree hop, but it’s quicker than a flash of lightening. Her verve is infectious enough to revive a dead soul. Her smile reverberates around, radiating warmth in her vicinity. Her eyes are full of kindness and a brightness that shows you what you’re dealing with. Her laugh makes you feel like treasuring the joke that tickled her, if you can remember it while looking at her laugh. Her hands are as gentle as possible, yet have the dexterity and firmness that reek hard work. Her touch is a soothing force which can simmer down my storms.

Yet I don’t know how she looks like.

Her patience is a matter of great envy, like magically still water which refuses to be disturbed even if you throw large rocks into it – it would somehow take the rock in and be still. Her words are crafted with utmost heed, thought about and weighed in. Her talks can silence my raging rumination, solve my mammoth muddles and settle my angsty anxiety. Her voice, when she lets out her sagacity, is as supple as silk, but clear as a raindrop. To drive her point home, she looks straight into my eyes, and it sends a jolt which not only unties all the knots I have, but makes me feel sheepishly dunce for not seeing how simple things actually are. She reminds me, time and again, that success is lonely, rather than loneliness is success.

Yet I don’t know what she sounds like.

Maybe she is the one person I know I need, but I don’t know whether she needs me. And there’s a fair chance she will never need me, or that my need for her is greatly substantial. She’s the one who tapers my obtuse stubbornness, handles my bratty huffs, and manages to throw open my windows of constraints and let some fresh air in. She’s the one who takes me to places I don’t want to, and making me see why I miss out on a lot. She takes the resolute bull-headed blockhead in me and throws me into her sea of openness, trying to teach me how to swim.

Yet, I don’t know what she lives like.

She takes me to walks, hand in hand, along the river banks and on the beaches. We stroll around on the wet grass in the mornings, lay on them in the night and gaze at the stars. She rests her head on my shoulders, and I stay motionless for I don’t want to disturb her. She slides her arm into mine when I’m down, and locks fingers with mine. She hugs me for fun, or at times to take me into her, with her smells and her freshly washed hair. And then, finally, she kisses me voraciously to shut me up.

Yet, I don’t know what she feels like.

I think I am in love. I’m in love with the very idea of her. I’m in love with the unhealthy dependence I have on her. I’m in love with the very notion that she’s around me, within me even if I don’t know who she is. I’m in love with my obsession of her love. Maybe she is the only one who can love me the way I want to be loved. Maybe she is the only one who understands my love.

I don’t know where she is. She could be here, right now, in front of me, looking at me while I enjoy my reverie. She could be on this very train. She could be at the next station. She could be the one reading this.

Or, I could never see her. She would never know me. She would never read this, never realise that I think of her, so highly or such vividly.

Maybe I will never meet her.

Maybe I will.

And when I do, I’ll know.

Halt by Christina Duewel
‘Halt’,  by Christine Duewel

Author: Vishvaraj Chauhan

I read, I write. I slip and I slide. I live and I laugh. I love to listen to music, think about every thing that my brain thinks worthy of mentioning and take up a little too much load. But hey, that's why I'm here! The sage in a cage.

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