Never An Absolution..

It was weekend and my sister had come home.

She’s working with an IT giant, writing programs and managing datasets. Off recent, her status updates on watsapp had been quite disturbing. Gloomy, often accusatory, and sometimes teary, they had all hallmarks of a breakup. But i kept quite giving her her space, hoping she would call upon if needing help.

That evening, as when she came home, she was in good cheer. She smiled broad and bright at sight, and was up with the usual chores at home. Later the night, after dinner, i invited her over to terrace. We sat together looking up at the stars as a pleasant breeze set the coconut tree lulling to a dull rhythm.

Neither spoke anything. After a while, I looked at her and asked if she is alright. She looked up to me, and her eyes welled over. She blurted that her boyfriend left her between sobs. I pulled her to a tight embrace with her weeping her heart out as the tears left a wet patch on my shirt.

With tears streaming down her cheek, between sobs, with a choked voice, she told her story with him. She spoke with tender love of the happy times together, and with bitter resentment of the things that transpired in the end that caused her to part ways. She spoke for what seemed like hours, and all along, i couldn’t muster anymore than holding her and saying ‘here, it will be all right’ in between.

Finally, as she weared down with her heavy heart, she slowly slipped into sleep laying her head on my shoulder. Her face looked pained, her breath tired, and her delicate self crushed.

It pained to see my cute little darling in such torment. And it pained equally that i couldnt do anything about it.

Later, i slowly took her back home and tucked her into her bed. As i left, i couldnt sleep for her pain made me realise the pain i would have caused this other girl, my girlfriend, with whom i had so unceremoniously broken-up some half a year ago. I felt guilty. It felt like i was equally responsible for my sister’s pain, for how different was i from this other guy who left her.

I hoped both get well, my sister, and my girlfriend who saw the world in me and whom i so heartlessly ditched. Life indeed does teach lessons. And the hardest are the one’s where we come to realize our folly and repent, but absolution, well there is none.

The Pressed Rose

I brought for her a rose.

She was already waiting by the cafe. Wearing a pleasing blue and a pleasant smile. The very embodiment of idyllic charm. She saw the rose and with a coy blush gracefully accepted.

It had been four years now. Two as friends, and two as significant other. And we went through the entire ritual of discovering the charm and thrill of the other’s presence, persona and personality. It was a healthy relationship, constructive and conducive. But no more.

Love, that potent potion with its perks and pain, while still flamed ablaze, it ceased to be a pleasure. We fought. Hurt. Criticised. Though unfailingly sought for the other to lay balm to the wounds we inflicted. The longing for the other remained.

Over seasons, it morphed to the ferocity of a habit. A habit, tenacious and temerarious, veiling the supple tenderness of love. Love which relegated to the backstage, the underbelly of our hearts. Which we convinced selves, is a thing of past.  We contrived that love need be better. And stated in a stately air, love isn’t the sole contender of mans’ fate.

With hearts’ heavy with banked affection, teary eyed, we parted. She drove the other way, on a long drive, to calm her nerve, while I sat by a lake to look at the water glimmer, and in quiet solitude, relive her memory.

It’s been not too long, just a season since. The void still unfilled, the heart still unhealed. Words have logged up unspoken, moments unshared, memories withheld in a clenched fist, seeking her open palm, her gentle smile, her loving gaze. Things of past, burning bright in memory fields.

While the other side, she still once a while leaves through her diary, reading about the days together, times we laughed, smiled, held hands and walked along, and gently picks that rose pressed dry, between the pages, that still retains a faint fragrance of the love, we denied.