Saudade

Dear Ma,

“Who is Rumi?”

You asked when you saw the panda keychain. I found it hard to answer you initially.

“I met her at the Delhi airport,” I said.

So why would an airport meeting lead to a panda keychain, you wanted to know. I wasn’t sure how to answer your question. Who exactly was Rumi? At first, I tried telling you that she was a journalist. But that’s not it. That does not even scratch the surface of who she is, Ma. So, here is the story of Rumi.

We were waiting in the same queue for check-in together. She hadn’t noticed me then, but I saw her. She was wearing a rather faded jacket, with a white crisp shirt and jeans. Her hair was tied tightly into a bun at the back, and there were three clips placed on her hair, to keep them in place. She had tried putting nail polish, but it clearly wasn’t her style, and the polish was rather blotchy and smudged. That was surprising, considering everything else was so well-maintained.

She almost overtook me in the line, not because she was one of those brash and obnoxious sorts, but just because she was really that oblivious to everything around her, at that point. With earphones in her ears, she didn’t mind patiently standing in the queue. Of course she wouldn’t, she was three hours ahead of time. She was observing people around her carefully. There was the elderly couple near us fighting over who gets the window seat. She smiled. Another couple were holding on to each other and exchanging a few kisses here and there. She valiantly tried to smile at them too. But it was fixed. She rolled her eyes and changed the song on her phone. She looked away.

Everything about her seemed in place, from her carefully tied hair to her eyeliner to the meticulous file of travel documents that she was carrying. A strange look came over her face when she rushed to grab her phone. But then she looked calm again. In this little rush, however, she dropped her file that had her passport and tickets. I offered to help her. She politely gestured to me that she could handle it. And that’s when I spoke to her.

“All sorted?” I asked, as she picked up everything.

“Yes, all in place,” She said with a smile.

The smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“Are you going to Prague too?” I asked.

Clearly, she hadn’t wanted more conversation.

“Yes,” she answered and went back to her music.

We checked in our baggage and headed for immigration, which was another long queue.

“You’ve dropped your boarding pass,” she called out curtly to me. She picked it up and gave it to me.

“How long are you in Prague for?”

I was surprised that she had decided to initiate the conversation.

“For four days,” I answered.

“Holiday, or for work?”

Her questions were often flung-out and crisp, as she never wanted to ask them in the first place, but had a moral obligation to do so.

“I need a holiday. Going to Berlin after that,” I answered calmly.

“Don’t we all,” she said with a rather wry smile.

I nodded, unsure of what to say next.

In silence, we passed through immigration. Next was security check.

I passed through without a problem. But then I heard some commotion and I didn’t have to take long to guess that it would be her.

I turned around. She was frantically rummaging through your bag. Her stately composure had evaporated, to be replaced with much annoyance and irritation.

But this seemed more than that.

“Is everything okay?” I asked nervously.

“I forgot to take out a perfume in my bag. I always keep it with me. It’s my favourite perfume,” she said, while taking out numerous items from her backpack. It was a curious assortment that included a cookie box, a battered and stuffed panda, and a pencil box.

The pencil box fell to the floor, and the pens were scattered on the ground. The woman security guard clicked her tongue in patience. Other travellers politely stepped over the pens. They didn’t offer to help.

I gathered the pens and put them in the dented pencil box and handed it back to her.

She found the perfume bottle. It was half-empty.

“You cannot take this with you,” the woman security guard told her curtly.

Rumi nodded. With shaking hands, she kept the perfume on the stand.

“You’ve to throw it away,” the officer said and continued to inspect other bags.

“Alright,” she answered, keeping her voice steady.

And then she picked up the perfume and threw it in the nearest garbage bin.

But before that she did something rather strange. She sprayed a little bit of the perfume on her hand. And then on her bag.

And that’s when I realised that I detested this perfume as much as she did.

She took a deep breath and turned around.

As if nothing had happened, she put everything back in her bag and took the pen box from me too.

She marched straight ahead.

I didn’t follow her. The scent of the perfume was still in the air. My eyes smarted.

It was her perfume, Ma.

And I’m not talking about Rumi.

I wish I understood what it is about certain scents and mention of places that can wring your heart and shatter your composure in an instant, Ma. I don’t know why these things appear out of nowhere and hit you in the face. I do not.

The airport didn’t seem cool and comforting anymore. I could feel a trickle of sweat on my forehead and for a few seconds it was a little hard to breathe.

There was a click, and the universe resumed the order of things again.

Everything was fine.

“Are you alright?” I turned and I saw her, with a rather worried expression on her face.

“Yes, why?”

She didn’t answer and offered me a hankerchief. I took it gladly and wiped the sweat off my face.

Feeling rather embarrassed that she had seen me at a rather weak point, I manufactured a smile and said,

“Let’s head to the boarding gate shall we?”

She raised her eyebrow and I could have bitten my tongue. Obviously I was a stranger and that statement was pushing it a little too far.

“I’m going to the shops. I’ll see you around.”

Then she turned and said,

“Do you realise that the most conversation that we have had today, is asking each other whether everything is okay?”

That was true. I nodded with a smile.

“You’re still sweating.” She said.

“I don’t know why it is suddenly hot here,” I said.

She shrugged her shoulders and left.

I roamed mindlessly around shops. Everything was too expensive and I had no intention of buying anything. When I passed the earrings and necklace shop, I thought of things that I should not have. I’ve tried blocking thoughts, like you said, Ma.

But were you sure about that being sound advice?

There are things that you cannot block from your mind. But I worked hard to follow what you told me. You always said, “Take a deep breath. Count to ten. Ignore the thoughts. Do not succumb to them. You’re too strong for them. Don’t fall weak. Think of happier things.”

Falling weak. It was a bad thing to feel weak, that’s what I learnt from you. “Stay strong and keep fighting Shams," you would say.

But that day I did not feel like fighting. I was rather tired. Maybe it was the perfume, the monotonous tune in the airport, or looking at scarves and necklaces that reminded me of her, but all the thoughts were swarming over me like some dangerous disease.

I wasn’t strong. I didn’t want to go to Prague anymore. It seemed like a foolhardy decision and I felt it was unbelievably futile.

“You’re really not okay, are you?”

Rumi was back. She was standing next to me, holding two bags. She had already done some shopping.

“I’m just tired. I need some food,” I said instantly putting on a smile again. She rolled her eyes.

“Let’s get some food,” she said. She pointed at the nearest Pizza Hut.

And so we sat there. I felt a little better after devouring half a pizza. What would she think of me, I wondered.

But she was observing me with those hazel eyes as if trying to read my thoughts. The worst part was that I felt that she could see through me.

“Our flight has been delayed by three hours. We’re probably going to miss our connecting flight too, but they’ve promised that there will be arrangements,” she said, breaking the silence.

“Perfect,” I mumbled and ate the last slice of pizza too. I realised that I should have offered it to her.

“Did you want?” I asked nervously.

She laughed. It was the first time that I had heard her laugh.

“It’s too late.”

I never had a response to her clear and incisive responses.

“I’m Rumi. You?”

“Sameer. But everyone calls me Shams. I have never understood why,” I laughed.

Even to my ears, my laugh sounded hollow.

Rumi said quietly, “You don’t have to keep laughing and smiling. It looks…so fixed and artificial.”

I was rather taken aback by this blunt statement. I said rather defensively,

“I’ve noticed the same thing about you, too.”

Which was true.

“Well, we both should stop then, shouldn’t we?” She said quietly.

There was silence, except for the normal din of people talking and rushing about their daily lives, dragging their suitcases around.

“So, what do you do?” I asked.

“Journalist.”

“That sounds fun,” I said.

“You say things for the heck of it, don’t you? You don’t even know what kind of a journalist I am.”

Once again, those brusque statements.

“Too much analysis for one day, Rumi. We’ve just met, let’s be a little polite to each other,” I said, chucking the pizza box into the bin a little too aggressively.

Her phone beeped and she stared at a message. A blank expression came over her face and she closed her eyes for a few seconds.

“Are you…”

“Don’t complete that sentence,” she said.

And she laughed.

I had got my answer.

Silence, again.

She began to furiously message on her phone. And then a call came. She answered it and it sounded as if she was explaining to some colleague how to go about an article at work.

This went on for twenty minutes.

When she ended the conversation, she looked drained and rather white. She threw her phone back in her bag.

“I think I’ll switch it off now itself, before the flight. But then my mother will try calling and panic.”

“I think you should switch it off.” Was all I could say.

She nodded.

I went to the nearest shop and got her an iced-tea. She looked rather surprised, but she finished it quickly.

The same song was playing at the airport. I wish it could just stop.

And I thought of her again. I thought of her smiles, and the way she would hum this song to me on the phone, while I slowly slept off.

And I remembered the way she said, “I’m sorry, Shams.”

That apology ran through my head. I thought of her clear and unflinching eyes when she said that.

You were so insistent that it all could be forgotten and it was easy to let go. “You’ll find someone else better than her,” you said.

And I believed you.

“Shams.”

I opened my eyes and I found myself almost kneeling over in the middle of the airport floor. Everyone was busy and rushing around to catch their flights. They were all a big blur.

I saw Rumi.

“Don’t say you’re fine,” she said and helped me up by the arm.

It was a strong grip.

My head was spinning so much. So I was relieved when I finally sat down on the nearest seat.

“Neither are you,” I replied.

“Is that going to be your only defensive statement for tonight? I am not asking what happened. I am asking you to stop lying to yourself.”

Her tone was sharp.

“I’ll get over it. It’s momentary. I’ll get over it,” I was telling myself more than her.

She looked at me carefully.

And we looked at each other for a long time.

She held my hand.

The world rushed around us, but time stayed still.

At last.

I had just wanted time to stop, for a bit.

Just for a bit.

“There was a girl in my life. It didn’t work out, though we thought it would,” I finally said.

“There was a boy in my life. It failed, just like we thought it would. But we tried,” she said with a sad smile.

“What do we do next?” I said quietly.

“We wait. We wait for the wounds to heal,” she answered, staring into the distance.

“Did he leave you?” I asked.

She looked at me and laughed.

“Everything isn’t so dramatic like they show in films. It’s not always someone cheating on someone, or someone having commitment issues. Parents loved him. It was perfect. The only problem was that we were two different people. It hurts, it does. I miss him. But I cannot expect him to keep changing the person he is to be with me. And I cannot do that for him. We tried so hard to be together, just because we loved each other. But we were so miserable. And now we are far apart. He’s still in my life, and we’re close friends. He’s with someone else. And I have to let go. Good thing I got rid of the perfume too. I shouldn’t think of him, now,” she said, giving a rather mischievous chuckle.

“It’s okay if you do. It takes time to heal, as you said, yourself.” I said quietly.

“What if I can’t?” she asked, her voice shaking.

I did not have an answer to that. I could just hold her hand and give it a squeeze.

I did not want to give her false promises, hopes and comfort.

They had left enough welts as it is.

“We just have to figure it out on the way,” I said rather hoarsely.

Her mother called again. She considered answering it.

And then she didn’t.

I finally asked, “Why are you going to Prague?”

She looked at me and said rather dryly, “Escape. To get away. To be far away from work, that’s consuming me every day. To be away from my parents. They’re insist that I should ‘settle down’ and that I will not find anyone after 28.”

We both laughed at that. It felt good.

“But you’ve to come back here after the escape. Is it worth it?” The question was more for me than to her.

“I’ll feel better. I’ll feel more in control, maybe,” she said.

She took a deep breath.

Rumi’s story reminded me of you and Baba. Both of you have always said that you love each other dearly, and that your marriage of 30 years has been sheer bliss. Everyone was happy, because you were all from the same community. You were happy. You told me that so many times that no wonder you believed that stale tale. For everyone else, both of you are perfect. You go out on your anniversaries, and get each other sweet and thoughtful birthday gifts.

But all of us know the truth. It has been painfully clear for a while. I did not want to admit it, either.

We know that you’ve tried very hard for all these years. But the love had faded quickly.

But it was just for us.

We know you tried hard, Ma.

But all the loving words and the air kisses in front of us; the flowers on the tables and the Sunday cakes could never hide the real truth.

The curtain would drop and both of you would stop acting. The void was inescapable.

You had nothing to talk about. You couldn’t even be friends.

Both of you tried and didn’t want to give up. And you are so miserable now.

But you will never let us know.

But we are not fools.

And then Rumi threw my question back at me, “Why are you going to Prague?”

The same reason she was. To escape.

To escape from myself.

Because I could not face myself anymore.

I did what you had always warned me not to do. I spoke about Satshya. You had said that speaking about her ‘increases pain’, and that I should never speak about her, but distract myself from thoughts about her.

I had always done that.

But today, I won’t.

“I fell in love with Satshya in college. We were together for four years. And we even wanted to get married. But I was a coward.”

I said that Ma. I admitted it. I did.

You know it, as well as I do, that I was.

“Coward?” Rumi asked.

I continued. I explained why I was.

“My parents did not like her. They did not think that Satshya was good for me. Ma kept saying it was her instinct. I believed her. I began to see Satshya through her eyes, though I knew the truth. She didn’t like Satshya’s blunt manner of speaking. She didn’t like Satshya’s parents either, and said that they were too ‘different’ from us. I tried fighting at first, saying that I didn’t care. But I had always believed that my mother was right. I was stupid. And slowly, my hesitation and reluctance drove me and Satshya apart. I was a coward.

At the end of the relationship, I came back to my senses and tried telling her to come back. But we both knew she had had enough.

"Sorry Shams. I’m sorry," was all she said. I knew she would never come back. And she shouldn’t.

"A few days ago, I found out that she was getting married. And I realised that three years later, the wound has not healed.”

I said it Ma. Because that’s the truth. I never said anything to you about it. You didn’t like her but always told me ‘to follow my heart’.

I followed yours instead.

You told me not to cry over Satshya and to always stay strong. “She’s not like us, you won’t be happy with her. Stay strong, Shams.”

But I am not.

And I’m done.

That’s the truth.

And so that day with Rumi, I cried.

The forgotten years caught up with me.

I do not care if you are ashamed to hear that.

I am not ashamed of crying, anymore. Tell Baba that too.

I was a coward.

I did not fight when I needed to.

I let geographic idiocies decide my life.

I listened to you, when I shouldn’t have.

And I’ve been fighting with myself, since.

“These tears are not for her. These are for you. It has been a long time coming. Don’t stop yourself,” Rumi said quietly.

It took a while, but I stopped at last.

And I felt a little lighter.

Not completely better, but healed, in some way.

Closure. That damned word.

I never thought that I would get closure while clutching a stranger’s hand in a Delhi airport, while waiting for my flight to arrive.

Holding each other’s hands, while other people walked around checking the timing of their flights and the airport announcements buzzed constantly in our ears, made us realise that closure could not come from foreign lands.

Healing did not always come from escaping.

And we could never escape from our emotions and ourselves.

The tears and laughs always found a way.

After years of loathing myself, I could breathe a little easily.

The monotonous song in the airport was still painful to listen to, but was not torturing me like it had, few hours before.

We weren’t fine. We hadn’t been for a long time. But maybe, we could be.

We walked to our boarding gate slowly. It was time.

We would soon be sitting in different seats.

But then Rumi said in trademark curt tone,

“I want to see Prague with you. If that’s okay?”

And so she did.

We’ll be seeing other places together too.

And this time I’m not asking for your permission.

Love,

Shams.

PS. The panda keychain is from Prague.