I saw her.
The fresh morning sun is on his way to sharpen his attacks over all of us. Unlike other mornings, I am not packed in a rush, my steps are light and bouncy on the black road, a slight breeze joined in some vague conversation with my linen skirt and I am yet to walk past that glass-walled bengali sweet house, that old man with a begging bowl, and his dog.
She was happy, the last time when I had seen her.
I could see that just by looking at her. She was preparing her bed on the pavement under the calm skies, beaming moon light and twinkling stars. There was an easy smile softening her face as she watched me entering the coffee shop with my man. The look in her eyes had a stable and pervasive calm. I felt as if she was in front of me and somewhere else also. It was weird, but more like a story leapt at me from the book.
This time she is much older, bent with age.
She seemed to be carrying a heavier burden. Of memories. Of indifferent feet and of humiliating glances. Her living room-kitchen-front porch, as in the past, is open to the world outside. She has a dog and a cat to feed from her meager bowl of rice. Have you ever wondered why beggars, people who sleep with empty stomach, most times, have a dog at their feet? Why?
Memories are like those castles hidden behind high walls, built on foundations of hurt, pain, and have rooms filled with stained walls, damp floors and drops of fresh tears on the pillow. As always, I fail to understand how those heavy castles develop wings, fly and hit one from nowhere, after lurking and smirking behind the pillars. Do not we lean against the pillar and stroke the smooth cheek of our new love?
She recognized me.
The old woman who sells dry flowers under the shady tree, near the coffee house. A few huge trees still wait in this street, to greet a circular saw and a few closed hearts. Have you ever touched a tree, when you are busy walking with your life? I touch my trees every day. They tell me different stories with different smells every time. *My dear old man says, a circular saw came down and touched earth in the night, like a planet. It circled the peaks of my country, passed with no thought for the larvae at work in my door and was lost in a sound. I tremble with tears and some unknown sadness when I recall his words. Do you? Why do they make still beds and chairs with trees that talk to us?
I, this time, feel a bit heavier.
A nice mix of good and bad memories. Nevertheless, bad ones make me feel heavier. And those unspoken thoughts, which I meet in the nights. I want to tell her my stories that I have not shared with anyone. But she seemed busy with her dry flowers. I walk past the sun-lighted glass doors of the sweet shop. I want to press my little nose against the glass and break my story about a man who I have not met, but whose photograph I stare at. He has his arms around her shoulders. Staring at them like watching an old lover walk away from me, when I wince with a sweet pain in the bed. Strange. I do not know if I know him at all, how would he walk, how would he talk, how would he smile, how would he steal a kiss in the car, how would he lean against the window, and how would he make love.
I do not know if he ever needs me to be with him, if he ever needs to know me a bit more, but the smell of his skin drifts sometimes : on my breasts, between the folds of the bed-sheets, on the faded pages of a book or on my eyelashes. Only on waking, I touch him all over again. This makes me drowsy again. As if, I am made drowsy by mohua-flowers silhouetted on a lighted window. I need to walk to the edge of the sea to touch them.
The sea may crack at my forehead any moment. I do not want to cry this morning! I do not want to cry…
I watched this.
Danced Swayed my thin waist and slender shoulders to this music from the shores of Russia. In the morning. My mom watched me dancing. *the old man who tells me stories on trees =Pablo Neruda, my master. The old woman = I meet her at the Barista junction,where I park my car.