An incomplete story.

They say, all your life flashes before you, in a moment of clarity, just before you die. Mine did not. Maybe because I knew I was not ready to die. I knew that the images that flash would not complete the story they recount, because the story is still not complete. The story of my life and now death. Incomplete.

I was happy. That was the irony of it all. I was completely immersed in my life, in myself, complacent and satisfied with who I was and what I did in life. Although I had nothing that I could identify, nothing to call my identity, nothing to argue passionately about. I was still happy. And then he came and threw my world into chaos.

***
"Thayyum thath thath, thayyum thaha", she intones and we dance. Sometimes, I dance with my eyes closed. I feel the rhythm better, hear the melody within my head when I do that. I am Meenakshi teacher's favorite student. At kalakshetra, I am a different person - confident and capable. I excel and I am aware that I do. Perhaps it is this vanity that draws me to him in the first place. Not my vanity itself but the fact that I feel none of it, in his presence. He does not allow it and I submit to his wishes, unwillingly and completely.

I dance, with fury, with energy. I am alive when I dance. Transformed. This is probably what Meenakshi teacher notices in me too. My hands and legs move in perfect synchrony, as if they move of their own will, effortless, in smooth movements - it's as if each mudra comes from within, emerging from my soul to give my body a purpose, a shape. We are not separate elements - the thalam, the ragam and my dance steps - they compete and complete each other to form a whole. He tells me this, leaning casually against a wall, just outside Kalakshetra. His words flow all around me and linger behind, long after he has gone, the import of each syllable impressing itself upon me, with each passing second; their intensity dawning upon me, as I stand there listening to them in my head. His words, over time, replaced by my voice, explaining to me what I knew not about myself, my identity that he helped construct, one bit at a time - my vanity withers and yet I am more aware.

The first time after practice, I don't notice him. The second time, I do. It's not anything about him as a whole that makes me notice him. It's only if you take the time to notice, his eyes that hold your glance for so long, you have to look away; his mouth that taunts you with a hint of a smile; his hands, constantly active, restless? the way he stands, unconcerned, almost indifferent? And I would notice them, not all at once, but would take my time to be drawn to him - slowly but intensely, madly, passionately. How I wish I had known then, that time was the one thing that I had not?

But, I notice him for none of these reasons. I notice him because he criticizes me.

"You missed a step."

"Am sorry?"

"Alaripu - as soon as you began."

And I spend the next three hours fuming over this non-conversation. I cannot take criticism easily. Especially about my dance, the one savior in my otherwise insignificant existence. Yet another revelation! I know I like to dance. I just do not attribute anything more important to it. Talking to him makes me think of priorities in my life. I don't know that yet for this is just the beginning.

***
The next class,

"I did not miss that step."

"But if I say you did, will you react to it better now than before?"

"Are you saying you criticize for the sake of it and not for a reason?"

"Is there not a reason?"

"Yes, there is! You want to put me down because..."

"Because if I do before someone else does. Maybe next time, it will leave you with just a tear and not a scar."

"And why do you care?"

"I do and you know. Does anything else matter?"

Always questions. Questions that make me think, evolve. I don't blame him for making me lose myself. I love him for making me find my real self. Does it matter that I don't live long to spend time with us? Maybe not. Aren't all epiphanies short-lived? They make their mark and are lost forever, carried away by the winds of time to guide some other lost traveller's journey. My gentle philosopher, my epiphany, I wonder if you will be lost too if I don't exist? Did you die the day I died?

***
What is this invisible bond that ties us together? Music, perhaps? In my dance, in his words, in my naivete, in his beats...two people entwined so completely, it is not for either of us to decide when to break free - it is beyond us, dictated by a consciousness that we , as separate individuals do not possess....but together, we create magic. I wonder if he thinks that? My artist, what goes behind that powerful gaze? Do let me glimpse...

He plays the mirudangam. Better than I can dance, I sometimes feel. I will admit that to noone, not even him. I don't need to for, my eyes betray me when I watch him play.

He plays with his head slightly tilted towards his right. His eyes closed. Brows furrowed in concentration, as if constricting, to prevent the music that plays within his head from escaping. His fingers dance across the either ends of the mirudangam - fleeting, light touches or so it seems and yet they evoke such powerful feelings through their rhythm - subliminal yet mesmerizing.

I wonder if he is playing the mirudangam or if indeed the mirudangam is making his fingers dance to its tune. His senses perceive nothing of the reality all around him, he is in a world away from where I stand - a world where music fills the air and the soul, a world of melodies and beats...

and I long to be transformed as he is and for even a moment to step into this world and lose myself, where the only consciousness is music and I am one with it.

***

Love, you ask me? Is this love? I don't know and I turn to him for an answer.

He laughs.

"Don't we all wish it were love?"

And as my eyes brim over, he replies,

"When,
to see you, I look into my eyes,
to hear you, I listen to my heart beat,
to find you, I look into my soul
to feel all that is you, I need only to feel what is within...

And when I feel thus, how can I say anything but that I am in love?"

And that is the moment, I wish with all my heart, that I would live, live forever to be with him, my dear poet. That is the moment that I begin to love. And that is the moment that I hope will surround me just before I take my last breath.

But it does not.

My accident is like all other accidents - a car wreck, flashing lights, shivering people huddled around and silence. No music now. Just silence. My melody has died. So perfect even in death, did I imagine that you called my name when I died? Did you cry when I wouldn't open my eyes? Did you shiver, not from the biting wind but just a gnawing feel deep within you, as if your soul died but you lived on - incomplete and helpless?

And even if you did, how would I know? A million questions yet to be answered. How did I have the heart to leave them all unanswered? My philosopher, my artist, my poet, answer me now - why did I die?

***
And that is the story that I would have told you if I had died. I did not die though. He did. He just took my life with him. That's all.
***Excerpt***

The Last Laugh.

The ceremony was small, unpretentious, heart-wrenching. No loud bawls, just tears silently shed. No stories exchanged that sung his praise, just a collective silence that recalled special moments that were shared with him, special because he made them special. The crowd soon dispersed, close friends stayed back to clean his apartment. A forty year old bachelor cannot expect to have a family to cry for him. His life and now death were no different.

A small apartment, neatly maintained – a living room, kitchen and a bedroom with two closets. Silently, methodically, they started collecting his possessions, each small object – an old football with their names scrawled on it, a faded photograph from their college days, his favourite T-shirt - only your wife will change you, they had claimed – summoning a fresh surge of tears, until they could cry no more. The frail woman clad in a black saree looked the most devastated, she often took deep trembling breaths and hung on to anything she could place her hands on, for support, her lips quivered but made no sound. The two men in the apartment were lost in their own memories, trapped in their own mental turbulence to help her. Friends for life, they had proclaimed proudly and happily. He had broken his promise, unexpectedly, unfairly – or so it seemed to them.

The woman walked, unseeingly, towards the bedroom and slowly started collecting his belongings; each movement seemed to take forever, her brain refused to respond, her heart, still in denial. She picked up the neatly stacked novels gently and placed them in a cardboard box. She stared at the picture on the cover of a novel for several moments – a happy picture, a man and a woman laughing, holding hands and walking down the street – she blinked a few times to look at the picture through her tears and traced her index finger along the man's face, life seemed to have come to a halt. The simple picture drew several powerful images from her past and painted them in front of her eyes; she closed her eyes and sank down - an absolute surrender to her emotions.

She was introduced to him by a mutual friend, she had nursed a crush for him, for quite some time. The first few years, she even thought that their relationship might lead to something romantic eventually; she did not realize when the definition changed. Suddenly, they were friends, and suddenly the bond had grown stronger than it ever was. He was always there for her, until today…

She dusted invisible cobwebs from the cupboard and started placing the old greeting cards, audio cassettes and trinkets into the box. Several cards were from her, proudly displaying years of careful maintenance…a small notebook fell down and she picked it from the floor – a heart was drawn on the cover, broken and over it his familiar scrawl, "Broken…still beating, for you". She had never seen him as a romantic, and she knew there was nothing about him that she did not know…yet the writing was definitely his. In spite of herself, curiosity prompted her to open the diary.

Today, yellow is her color…and mine! She is dressed in a yellow half-sari, blue pavadai…her hair is still wet, little curls bounce off her forehead, no anklets today but when there is music all around, I little need the sound of her anklets to make me dance…she is late again to zoology class, every second I panic – what if she does not come today? But there she is, my one indulgence, my one love…

Her eyes automatically looked down at the next entry dated the next day, again a few lines but just as mesmerizing and heartfelt...

Splitting headache, maybe because I dreamed that she would not be mine? If she will be by my side only in my dreams, I can desire nothing but eternal sleep…but even my dreams betray me!

She read, skimmed frantically, perplexed, not wanting to understand...

She cried on my shoulder today; I wanted the moment to last forever. I want her to lean on me throughout her life and I want to cry with her and care for her, forever…am I selfish? No, how can I be selfish? Every bit of happiness within me quells with her every tear drop…I ask not for her to cry. I plead for her to let me trail by, like her shadow, so that my heart knows what to feel, looking into her eyes…I feel because she does. I am because of her.

As if in a trance, she turned a few pages over, scared to comprehend what she feared it would convey…

Yesterday, we held hands…she did not let go of them the whole evening. I still feel her hands in mine – they are so soft, I am scared I will hurt her if I hold them tightly. We walked on wet grass, every little thing delights her – a butterfly, a rose, sunrise, my silly jokes. I want to talk to her till I can talk no more. Should I tell her what I feel? I am scared she will flit away like the butterfly…but her hands seem so right in mine, does she not feel the same?

More limericks, thoughts and doodles later, his past swirled in front of her, memories that they shared intervened and the pieces of the puzzle seemed to assemble themselves, new meanings extended their hands to her and she caught a reflection of herself in every precious line in front of her. Forgotten phrases made a quick appearance...

"Of course, I love you, you do know you are the one woman who can tolerate me, don't you?"

"Stay with me forever...I might just die laughing!"

"I can ask myself the question or you, it's all the same to me..."

She had lost count of the number of times he had made her play the guessing game with her, "Name the girl in my dreams and I am your slave for today!" She had laughed and indulged his innocent game, five, six names later, she would always give up and they would forget about it until the next time they played the same game. She had never been able to name her and had assumed there was no her.

A thousand "What ifs" surrounded her - what if they were meant to be together? Had he died of loneliness because she had been blind? Did she not recognize love that was so evident in the words that spoke to her today? He had been the perfect friend...maybe he was destined to be more and she had turned her back to her own destiny.

Inexplicable emotions gripped her and unconsciously, her eyes moved to the source of her uncertainty, despair, sadness, love...she resolutely turned to the last page of the diary.

Anjali, Anjali, Anjali...

She held her breath. She could almost hear him whisper her name...

Caught you? Didn't I? You were right after all, there was no girl. But, I did get you thinking there, for a while, didn't I ;)? If this book is in your hands, it only means one thing and I know for sure I will miss you, wherever I am. Ever yours.

The two men who came rushing into the room looked at each other in confusion. They had no idea. He had managed to make her laugh, one last time.

***Excerpt***