whispering wind


Lost angel of a ruined paradise!
She knew not 'twas her own,--as with no stain
She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain. 
-Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822), Adonais  
 
Nyah ssss (the name always sounded special coming from him), what if… umm, hypothetically…I say, I love you”… and the question suspended like the cold air…

The response: “…..umm…”

“What if, I say… that it’s not exactly… hypothetical??”

A lilting deep baritone of the voice...and, the limbo of the cold suspended air, just received a sizzle and metamorphoses into mist.

“And, have I told you? That… you look impossibly beautiful in a soft light”


Just a skosh of seconds ago, she was happily chatting with him. The night ringing, with the sigma of their laughter; exchanging the most nonsensical jokes under the sun (or moon!)


He sure does spring surprises.


Another split second later, the composure regained… the threads of friends’ nonsense, began being spun in another one of those marathon cellphone sessions.


The loose ends of the steam still in Brownian motion.


The soft white lights still playing shadows here and Bertie Higgins crooning “Casablanca” in repeat there.


While the statements were being ignored and the friendly appearances maintained… the proverbial loose ends were spinning their own yarn. In the meanwhile two different story boards were being prepped up. Discussed and designed. With two other different characters.


Why? Because, that’s how operas of life are rendered. Because, the adit to this mine was one way. Because, they began the association of “acquaintanceship” with “complications” in place, of course, they were not viewed such then.


Little did she know that, not all meetings are by chance. That coincidence is not really an incidental phenomenon. And, he convinced himself, “this” was too good to be true.


So, not the kiss that could go on for ever neither the look that made love nor the conversation that fulfilled; could sway either one of them to commit.

Honest to oneself? A little too attached? When does the warmth of the fire turn into a smoldering excitement? And, when does this exhilaration begin to burn? The line, darling, is too flimsy to be seen, much less, taken into account. However....
...at the behest of the dreamy effect that it had, the story was left unfinished, untold…


After all, it indeed WAS too good to be true!

Footnote: Innocence scorched by its own vulnerability…the intrepid efforts to hide the hurt, flowing from the eyes is met with a rebellion, as one and then another disobedient drops roll down. And, before you know, the dam is violated…

Copyright © Neerja Yadav

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