It was winter when our paths first met. The fog aligned and settled itself around you; you in your beige sari, with a red shawl wrapped around your arms, blowing on the cup of tea in your hands. Even in 8 degrees Celsius you were looking so warm, so filled. Your eyes kept wandering to the little puppy playing around, and each time you put the strands of your hair, back in your bun, your cup would tremble in your left hand. I could see specks of paint on your fingers and a poster tube on your back. You were like the first dew drop falling on freshly cut grass, lone and grand.
It was raining when we first kissed. The drops were resting on your eye lashes, as they closed. I could taste the rain on your lips and it felt like ice cream in cold winter mornings. Nothing necessary, but completely exhilarating. I remember, how your bangles broke that day, and how it got stuck on my shirt, while you tried to lean away from me. We walked for a good four hours that day, the same path over and over again.
Sometimes I like to believe, that we all have different paths to take, each laid out in front of us in the shape of decisions we make. These paths lead us to many different places, and these paths separate us from many different experiences. We may be the ones choosing the path, but the destination is something nobody ever figures out. Sometimes these paths meet, collide and separate, and sometimes the collision results in an explosion, leaving all else in ruins.
Four years after, I’m back here, in ruins left behind. Only this time the sound of your nupur was missing. It felt deafening. I took my first step, on this path where I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve walked. But for the first time ever, you weren’t here.
It was summer when you died. I have failed to forget how you looked that day. We were driving to come to our path. To walk for hours again like we used to before. Your hair was open, and blowing in the wind. The smoke from your cigarette getting into your kohl lined eyes. Your smile had the softest shade of pink that day. The pink that got stained with my blood when the car crashed.
They say you’ll get over it. They say you’ll move on, to a different path, to a stronger path. But my path had stopped with you.
Sometimes, certain people pierce into your soul and never leave. They create this small little hole inside you and they reside there forever. Each time you’re with them, you’re gathering memories and storing them in the gentlest way you can, filling this hole. But once their presence leaves, this gaping hole inside, devours you from within. Destroying each fiber one by one. Stabbing you with each little moment, you had stored inside. But that is precisely why you must learn to let go.
That is exactly why; I’m here alone trying to walk off the edge. How can I possibly go on, when my path had ended before me.
One last walk wouldn’t hurt anyone right?