Where will we meet again?
It feels like an end of an era
To the ones I know and the ones I don’t,
I am on the move again, after years of pause and the peace. I am supposed to gather up the objects I call mine or even leave them behind. But where will we meet again? Where should we meet again? Will we meet again?
Maybe we will meet as if our lives continued parallel, far away but together, but where? It should be somewhere I can be the same, and so can you. How about meeting in the sabji bazaar (Vegetable Market)?
It will be around 6 of the summer evening, the sun settling down, and the blue of the sky evading the yellow and winning. The wind can also be there, preferably cool, but slight warmth is welcomed too. I’ll be there in the bazaar buying dhaniya (cilantro) in my black faded shorts, an old shirt about to be worn, and blue rubber chappals, which will be a bit similar to my father’s, as I’ll be his age, though it doesn’t matter which part of his age. You’ll be there too, wearing something comfortable and a little embarrassing to imagine.
I’ll be arguing with the vegetable seller, feeling that the amount given to me for the amount paid is unjustified. You might see me from afar and open your eyes wider, trying to recognize me in the fluorescent light. You’ll come from behind and watch me up close. I will continue with the seller, but later let go. Our clothes would not describe anything about our life; there would be no pretension or lie, as we’ll stand eye to eye. You will complain about the weather while wiping the sweat with a cotton cloth, and I’ll whine about the inflation while paying the seller. We won’t show that we have missed each other’s lives, a chunk of it, it will be inevitable.
I’ll ask about what else to buy, and you’ll mention some mundane vegetables and fruits I don’t like; maybe I will still be a picky eater then, too. We’ll buy them together, being a nuisance to the entire market for the sake of old solidarity, and I’ll tell you some gossip from the lives of celebrities we don’t actually care about. You won’t reply to this gossip with words, as your eyes will be enough.
After a while, our jholas (bags) with tobacco advertisement will be filled to the top and our backs wet with sweat, but still I would offer a cup of chai, and you might say yes with delight or even ask for the orange packet biscuit on the side. While standing beside the tea stall under the white bulb covered with green polythene, I’ll ask about your husband or wife or about your parenthood to a pet or a child. You might give a vague reply, and I’ll wait, looking at your eye, and then I’ll tell you something personal, and you’ll reply with clarity this time.
In the summer heat, sipping chai beside a noisy iron fan, we’ll melt into the old times. I’ll tell you my woes, and you’ll tell me yours. Sharing these details might not do anything, but still, I hope you’ll feel better at that time. I’ll pay for it, or you’ll win again, and we’ll walk together for a little distance on the wrong side of the road, away from the side we are supposed to go, lost in conversation or maybe well aware, doing it for the mundanity of it. I might cuss at the vehicle for honking at you, and you might laugh or give me an eye to stop, but I’ll be embarrassed either way, and you might smile.
The more courageous of the two will remind the other to stop and come back to the present. Just like that, we will part ways until we collide in the sabji bazaar again, being our old selves again.
I hope we never become strangers. I hope we meet soon or never at all.