Empty Pages - Episode 8

Initially there wasn't supposed to be an episode this week. I thought the extra time would make me productive. It didn't. I did have some form of withdrawal though, so here goes. Written over 4 hours, I think I've made up for numbers in word count. Psst: I don't know if that is fan fiction or what category it comes under - my last few attempts proved nobody understands when I try to be cryptic like @TheOtherBoban so going full on :)

#53 Word

Is there a word for it?
When thinking of someone makes you happy. Or being reminded of them. Their favourite brand of (shudder) instant coffee. Their favourite football player.
It has been years. The chances of your paths crossing are close to zero. The chances are zero but the hopes linger.

Yet when you see their photographs, you feel happy for them, no longer wishing you were a part of them. You see them succeed and feel proud, no longer wishing you had been the one standing by them through their pain.

Maybe you will never meet them. Maybe you will. The moments spent with them make you happy though. The memories are like a whiff of perfume amongst all your other thoughts. Just looking at their name makes you smile. You talk to them from time to time. To remind yourself. To pinch that thought.

You try to avoid them but they are too close, yet not close enough. Far away but not far enough apart. Distant but not detached. Not close enough to touch, not far enough to forget⁠⁠⁠⁠.
Not ordinary enough to forget. Not special enough to give it a name.

Yet the joy is pure, the smiles are genuine. Every time you talk to them, the day feels a little better, the load a little lighter. It's that warmth. Not hot enough to set you on fire, not cold enough to let you freeze those moments. Just warm enough to tranquillise your soul.

Is there a word for it?

#54 Melody and Rhythm

The music started playing.
The lights were focusing on her.She sat there, a 19 year old star, reflecting. She closed her eyes and the song flowed out.She didn't realise how the time evaporated.She opened her eyes at the end of the concert. He was there.

He was from a smaller town miles away, on the riverbanks where the language flourished and culture flowed.The big city didn't share his love for his language or culture. He craved to hear someone speak his mother tongue. Listen to the songs of his childhood. His friend dragged him along for a concert. He went for the music, his friend for the singer, at least that's what he maintained. He was mesmerised by her too but he was content just watching and listening from a distance.

He was always present whenever she sang. If he didn't show up she'd be antsy. Not that anyone would know but her she couldn't focus clearly till his face appeared tucked somewhere in the back rows. His black hair stood out in a room full of whiteheads. He was that dark handsome follower of hers who tried to blend into a crowd, but stood apart like the silent interlude in the song.

Their eyes met but their words never met. Neither made a move.Seasons later he approached her backstage . Her heart was thumping.She couldn't focus on the music. The songs. She didn't know what she wanted, but the anticipation killed her. He handed her a letter and drifted away. She pretended she didn't care but she was preoccupied throughout the concert.

She went home and opened the letter.She didn't think for a second that anyone else could have written this for her. Her songs had been for him, and today his words were for her.

His friend, sadly, had been the one bold enough to write but forgot to sign it. He had been careless enough to hand a girl a letter without reading it. Soon he had to develop the courage to talk to her father, even if unwillingly. It was an opportunity he could let go of. Sometimes, there are no second chances, what if this was a lifetime chance?

This was the sweet part of their story. The story everyone knew. Things would get worse. She would forget him, forget herself. She became the child he never had. She knew something

was wrong, but couldn't understand.

Maybe he didn't have to go through any of this if he hadn't taken that chance. Then again maybe he would have never had the chance to live with her. Wake up to the sound of her calling his name. Listen to her fine tune her instruments. Watch her put the shelled peas back into the pod. Never did he lose his temper or regret that chance he took.

She didn't perform these days but worshipped music all the same. Her life revolved around music, his life around hers. Melody and rhythm. She had set the tune to his life.

#55 23 hours

The train pulled into the station.
23 hours. This was going to be a nightmare.

He stood there with his bags, watching families pile in. He had hoped he could have just flown down. He hadn't booked early and now had to use a train. The last time he had to do that he was a boy of 10, travelling with family, bedding, food and comics. It had been fun then, now he felt like his precious time was being wasted.

After the agony of checking the tickets, the list for his name, his seat, he finally plonked down next to the window. He would just stay quiet​ and keep a low profile. He slowly gulped down the hot meals wrapped in banana leaves, wishing he could do just that, for all his life.

His neighbours started assembling their groups. He was happy to note no babies but lots of kids running helter skelter. An old couple. A middle aged woman and her young daughter. A huge joint family that spanned the whole compartment. He would just pretend they didn't exist. Earphones.

Soon conversation started flowing, punctuated by the tutuk tutuk tutuk tutuk sounds of the train speeding past small villages. The landscapes changed from white and grey to green and yellow. Less humans waiting impatiently at crossings and more cows patiently chewing in the middle of the field. The long slender stalks swaying in the wind. The rice plants shivering in their watery homes. The single graves amidst the farms. The semi clothed kids waving to him. The coconut trees dancing to an invisible tune. He wouldn't admit it was a refreshing sight.

Soon all the older women took it upon themselves to feed him. He tried resisting but he knew they would feed him till they felt satiated, just like his mother. The girl was annoyed her mother was trying to feed a stranger. He agreed. There was no way he could tell her though so he smiled. She looked away. Great! Now she thought he was a pervert.

He tried to go back into his shell, but soon the old man was enquiring about everything in his life that mattered to him. The kids came and handed over some treats- their parents wanted them to learn how to share. The vendors who kept screaming chaaikaapichaaikaapichaai. There was so much like happening. Less like ruckus and more like happy chaos.

Mealtime. He waited for the next major junction. He wasn't really hungry after all those snacks, just a quick bite. Obviously his co-passengers wouldn't let him sit in peace while they ate. Before he knew it, he had an assortment of foods on a plate in front of him. The blue skies had long turned inky black. He slowly savoured the food while following the full moon hiding between canopies on the way.

He wished he could take pictures of that. The moon in the night behind trees. The moon reflecting off the water. He didn't know how to do that. A tap on the shoulder broke him out of his reverie. The junction was here. He grabbed a quick bite and settled down. Not quick enough though. An ice cream vendor made his way past, it being late summer, everyone was in a mood for more. She was rolling her eyes, as her mother handed him an ice cream. He wasn't sure if he should smile or not, he had damaged his image enough.

He smiled at her mom though and found her very easy to converse with. Soon they had been talking for hours, long after the ice cream. She slowly dragged her daughter into the conversation and now he didn't regret the food, the ice cream or the train travel at all. She didn't seem to say much initially but when she did, he didn't want her to stop.

The compartment started getting dimmer. The lights were being turned off. Bedtime. He didn't want this to stop, but she was bundled off to her berth and he sat there feeling empty. Till the old woman's husband came and ask him if he'd swap berths. No, he wanted his lower berth, he paid for it. Till he saw her slowly ascend to the top berth on the left. Sure. Of course he'd help an old woman.

He rapidly climbed onto the top berth, got his stuff in place. Turned around to find her asleep. Cursing his luck, he started checking his phone. When he turned to get his earphones she was peeping through the tiny grill holes. She saw him see her and scuttled back into her bedsheet shroud. Just like the rat two berths away. He kept quiet. A few minutes ( he was positive it was much longer) later she turned around again. She saw him awake and pretended nothing happened. Soon, she was sleeping and he was stewing.

When he woke up the next day everyone was up and about and taking turns to brush. He cursed his luck and made his way to the loo. She was there, hair unkempt, mouth full of foam and sleepy eyes. She looked into the dirty mirror, revealing just part of her face, to find part of his face in it too. There was a jolt. Her pink cheeks and the white toothpaste foam looked like strawberry and vanilla.
He pretended he hadn't noticed and went on to use the stinky, wet, railway toilet with the whizzing tracks visible below. He got out as fast as he could. His interest was replaced by a father who was trying to wash his child's hands. He brushed and got back to the compartment resonating with chaaikaapichaaikaapichaai. She liked coffee and didn't seem to like teabags. He was going to ask her when they were rudely interrupted by multiple food vendors.

Energised by the oil, soon everyone was discussing everything and he didn't get an opportunity to talk to her again. Soon he became a part of the conversation and everything else was forgotten. Soon the green turned grey, the trees into poles. Everyone was scuttling around to get their stuff ready. They were almost there.

He sat there wondering where his time had gone. Had he had fun? There was a slow happy feeling that would linger. He hadn't even checked his phone in a while. His interest was stealing glances at him but not moving. What was moving was a whole new set of emotions inside him. His thoughts chugged along, slowing down a little bit to savour that moment.

23 hours. It felt like a dream.
The train pulled into the station.

#56 Day job

To him it was a day job, He was good at it. He liked the hours.The pay, He had enough holidays to the year. He felt a sense of accomplishment that he had done something. He never felt like a teacher though. Like he was the older one.
 Most of the time he would talk to his students like they were his friends. 

He knew they loved him, but always thought they'd forget him over the next few years..or maybe the next few months. 
A young teacher, he had no idea how profound his impact would be on each of their lives. 
He didn't know.
Till the last day of school. Farewells had been bid. Numbers exchanged. Homework given amongst groans. He was clearing his desk after the students had left. He found a note - in a scrawly handwriting, little cramped, but filled with love, it was from one of his students. 
It was hazy, he was tearing up as he read it. His student had never met his father,(which he didn't know till that moment) and was thanking him for being his father- like figure, feeding him, hugging him. Being the father he never had. His words of praise- about being awesome, being fun, that didn't sting his eyes. His student's words that would make him tear up were : I love you, I will never forget you.