It was, no doubt, autumn. The wretched leaves, which conquered the world once, however, were now in a vulnerable state. Enshrouded with the rainbow mantelpiece, the leaves were easily carried away by the balmy breeze. They flew hither and thither begging for mercy, but all in vain. In the azure ether, the wanderlust clouds floated randomly in the mood of playing hide and seek with the sun. The river, adjacent to the park, vigorously gleamed while the sun shone from the mountains and flew through the sky. Within a moment, the sun would turn pale, dark, and ugly. The swan lying close to the bank of the green river danced and floated in the cold current of ebbs. It gazed at its own lucid reflection and saw its past carried away by the ripples to the shore, where present lived: Unfortunately, the shore is shy and imprudent and returns the past back. The half-naked and barefooted red maples, oaks, and willows — being a mirror and reflection to each other — were on either side of the vermilion meadows. The destitute birds, swirling and curling, flew aloof in the sky — hovering around for a shelter.
It was a mild day, to say optimistically!
Unlike the other days, the populace in the park was countable in fingers. Two garrulous old men were occupied in their gossips. They bestowed themselves in a bench facing each other, in front of the series of the trees. They travelled to the past and extracted anecdotes to wisely tell in the present. There were laughs and gravities; miseries and happiness; repines and prejudices in their talks. A bard, busy in compiling and writing a masterpiece, was leaning against a tree. An infant, innocently, was suckling his mother’s half exposed breasts. Also, the other child was dangling in her hair, and often peeped through her back to the other child with curiosity. The ramshackle pedestrian bridge, which ran over the river, had few standing people on it, who were capturing things as far as their eyes could lay upon.
In the golden path, which ran across the park, two souls were walking silently. Whilst walking, with the pace of the wind, everything was calm and quiet except the howling and the echoing of the dead leaves trampled under the foot with a rage. The boy, with his hands in pocket, walked with long steps, but the girl should almost run to be beside him. His one step was almost equal to two of her. Despite the difficulty, she managed to be exactly beside him. It has been a while since both have mourned and walked in the dale of silence. They walked. Silence did. They didn’t walk. Silence did. Still.
Finally, Mariam with gravity in her face broke the ice saying, “So, when are you leaving?”
“When did I say so!” cried James, “you know I will never leave you.”
“You have, indeed,” replied Mariam with a moist in her blue eyes looking now and then at him, “left me thousand times before. My every hopes and wishes were incarcerated in the cage of your wishes and wants, philosophy and illusion, and no more hopes flew again. There are no more me left—for you to leave. You say you love me, and you do. The very next dawn you come up with your hates, and you do.”
Again, there arouse a deep silence from every place they stepped. The silence made a room of compassion for the tranquil winds to pass by: the room of ego and envy. They have words in tip of their tongues, but were afraid to enchant it. There were lives in their fist, but were afraid to live it or leave it. There was love in their heart, but they were unable to express it. Sometimes, both made a certain, reasonable, voluntary gesture to grab the attention of each other and to let them know that they were present, either by seeing a watch, or kicking the pebbles…but the same was the same. And the different too was the same. The gay nature coaxed to bring whistle in the silence, but it turned out to be gloomy itself.
“Have you ever loved me James, truly? “ With a heaviness in her voice, asked Mariam.
“Yes dear, I have loved you without any reserve from the time when I have fallen in love with you. I have loved you in every single breathe, and every aching throb of my heart. But…”
“But you never lo…”
“But I didn’t,” interrupted Mariam, and he, with his half syllable said and half unsaid,
listened, “Love you, Isn’t it?”
“Why do you always,” with a hoarse sound, and rage in her eye, and reddening the rouge in her cheek, Mariam said after a minute or so, “do this to me? I reckon, you enjoy doing it forever.”
The silence was more than a yes in the reply.
He wore a blue jeans in an off-white T-shirt with the band named ‘Nirvana’ and a big round teasing emoticon. He had a black curly hair, an unshaven beard in a white complexion. Like the stars twinkling brightly in the blackest time of the night. He was tall, slender and beautiful. The eyes of his mother–black, innocent, and hypnotizing– twirled around from time-to-time, and bending his thick black brow he showed his clumsiness and dissatisfaction to the silence. While walking, his one hand lolled in the void. To and fro. To and fro. And the other searching for something lost long ago in the pocket.
Her scarlet stocking silhouetted against the sun. She had a satchel over her shoulder, which knocked her belly slowly, swiftly, and sultrily. The crisscrossed amber skirt rose high, when the army of the breeze caressed her thigh and serpentine move up and up (she tapped the skirt and moved her hands with it to the knee). She could feel the seduction, and the pain. But he could not. He wouldn’t. He would keep on blaming her, but not the breeze. The rhinestone in her watch sparkled telling the precious time, very precious indeed. Her blonde hair, which were very desperate and in a hurry, moved like the waves, in the cold air and often fell in the eyes, but, she without any delay moved it backward and kept in between her ear. She was young and beautiful, with an astonishing eyes, and a cheerful face. A room for the future breasts was managed on her skirt.
Memory is as fresh as Now to them. Neither drifting towards the future, nor lurking back to the past. It was not the first time that they have walked in silence, nor was the last. Silence begets Silence. There were few talks hence, there were few understandings and more misunderstandings. Both were unaware and anonymous of the pinpoint were the silence went on. The more they dwelt on the past, the more they were sure about their hands unstained. Confidence. Over confidence. Who was to blame, no one. Who was to give credit, no one. The co-incidence was, it was a valentine’s day. The say it was a lover’s day. The lovers fought, walked in silence in ever-widening agony, so it must be, in a way, love. A true love, indeed.
Still, they were walking on the same lane. Suddenly, James saw a rumpled paper drifting swiftly in the void, in a lapse he snatched it. And to his surprise it happened to be a poem.
I thought of searching the light,
With the stars in my hand.
I searched the sky everywhere,
With the feet’s on the land.
He read the poem and re-read it. There was a spark in his face, his lips stretched like the array of the morning rays over the horizon, not because he understood it totally, and precisely but there was a magic in that poem. How beautiful each letters were, blessed by the Heaven! He read it. Again. Again. He wanted to read it again with Mariam, but he was afraid as she may dislike it at the moment. And she may disliked it (when she is angry) because he liked it. She doubted he was more in love with the principles, and poetry, and philosophy than her. He, at the same time, thought a thought that it was the fault of hers to think herself weaker and less important than the philosophies. It was his likes, and she was his love. Love without jealousy is blunt, and love without hate is incomplete.
We become philosopher at a point where distortion of the language is the main philosophy we practice. You say a word and I understood the intention of your word, the meaning of it. No matter whether the word be said in another perspective but we don’t leave what we do, because it is what we have been doing and it is what we will do. Always. Who else can do better than us? No one. We are someone unbeatable, invincible, and immortal in our arena. We pass our thoughts, unnecessarily without any ado. We pass our judgments, no matter how ill we may be. We tend to listen what we have thought. We tend to see what we have imagined. We tend to hear from what we have understood. But still we are proud of who we are.
The last dreg of the sunlight was romancing with the darkness. While walking, the road in front of them with many fireflies moving in it in an organized way shade light in their face and shade shadow in their thoughts. The brightness sparkled in their face, then darkness, then brightness, then again darkness.
James in his shivering and serious voice, without looking once to Mariam said, “Goodbye!”
He slammed a ‘Goodbye’ in her face. She, hopeless and helpless, with beads of tears rolling down her eyes waited for him to say more than just a mere goodbye (she always hated the most!). She waited and waited. But he didn’t utter a syllable, instead, he walked away with the lovers of the wind. She waited there, with the utmost hope that he will return like he had done thousand times before (even though they were angry they never walked away with the dispute unresolved). But he didn’t. She waited. He didn’t even turn back. How cruel he was, who forget he had his world with him not another. What could have cost him to say sweet words, if not sweet words, then the words of assurance, the words of hope we’re going to meet and soon. Her feet went numb, which could now no more take her to the abode of her lover. She came to meet him with expectations and she returned home with the greatest expectations.