M for Mary

I shall never be understood. A solitary story cannot carry the essence of who I am. ‘Stories’: well that’s a different issue. You know, Mary, had I not met you, I would have remained ignorant about so many things of life. Like when you showed me how to dance on that striped, gold buttoned cloud…or that rainy day when we splish-sploshed in the sun-dust?

Last Sunday I was cleaning my room. Mother has regained her health, and also her naïve love to keep everything in order. Spick and span. Neat and clean. Quite tempted, I made a poster simply to spite her. It read-

“If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, of what, then, is an empty desk a sign?”

– Albert Einstein

It didn’t go quite as planned. She pretended to be oblivious of its presence.

As I was saying, last Sunday, I was cleaning my room and chanced upon an old rusty wooden box with ‘Anne’s Property’ Frolica 3Ded on top of it. I opened it: forlorn love letters, chocolate wrappers, gift wrappers with bows on them, metro tickets, my first pen that you borrowed, birthday cards, that biology class glass slide on which you etched a rose for me with a marker, the Anne black wristband. It had been years. I simply didn’t know what to feel as I stared blankly at each item.

I held the Valentine’s Day ring and twirled it around my ring finger.
“Sokhi, bhalobasha kare koe? Se ki keboli jatona moe. Se ki keboli chokher e jol, se ki keboli…”
Was I humming to myself again?
Old habits die hard.

J mpwf zpv boe j bmxbzt xjmm.
Breaking the code. We spent hours and hours with our nonsensical meaningless syllables. It all seems a bit silly now, doesn’t it?
Dá Dum Dá Dum Dá Dum Dum Dum
Chocolate stains on my pinafore.
The paper plane landed softly at my feet. A little crumpled. A little scarred around the edges. I nursed its trampled ego. It purred.

I packed my bags. With it, a little bit of your soul perhaps. An advertisement paper fluttered under the Shrek paper-weight. Scribbled on its back, in shaking hands – “Mary, Going home. I need space. Don’t contact me. -Anne”. Not “Dearest Mary”. Just “Mary”. Not “Love, Anne”. Just “Anne”. Moments plucked, slaughtered, lost. None regained.
The indefatigable Post-its wagged their tongues as the door slammed behind me.
In the years that followed, I paid tax to Time…

Tick Tock. Tick Tock. Tock tick. A rambunctious feast. The clock skipped a beat. I fed on my past.
A soft beam of light followed behind my hop scotching heart. I picked up my cell phone. Scrolled all the way down to the M’s; stopped at your name, hesitated and dialled.
“Hello?”
Pause.
Warm breaths exchanged.
A whiffle, perhaps.
“Hello, Anne. “

(This is a story I wrote a couple of months back. Hope you liked it. Would love to hear from you. Seriously. ❤ Any feedback would be much appreciated. *Ta Dum* 🙂

Love,
Antara
)