Unwritten

Now, I want to go back in time. To become those eyes dripping with hope, seen from a car whizzing past  one sultry afternoon some four years ago. No I wasn't crying, but I had never felt that alive ever in my entire life. My senses hadn't sensed exaltation of that degree, they were unused to it, couldn't gather themselves and at least fake a reaction. So I stood there, looking at him leave, with the most heartened smile stuck on my face, waving bye-byes. Impatiently wondering when would I get his next call, in the evening, or later at night. In my mind, I was writing already, every word that we had said, every pause that had made it slightly awkward, every gesture, every joke, everything. Excitement of that kind must be typical of that age, I must now say.

Those few hours were so hellishly jammed with memorable events, it was difficult to write about them all. That night I wrote them all down, like I would read them out aloud to my children one day. But that piece was a travesty of all literary prowess. My words were out of my hands, they were moving about on the sheet of paper, settling wherever they liked, not heeding to a word of what I said. I was breathless, panting to remember and write, remember and write. And in between lapsing into lulls of wishful thinking, a state that felt like a cross between reality and a dream. Many times I shut the diary, capped the pen, went off to close my eyes for a while. After turning sides a few times, I would shamelessly return to writing. Too much adrenaline.

There were these little things I couldn't encapsulate. Like I was a bunch of mixed emotions when he threw a pack of chocolates at me in the car. Without saying a word, with classic masculine nonchalance. I don't remember now if I thanked him then, but considering that I haven't been gifted chocolates in the last four years, I should have. But I was floating in the clouds, all etiquette and pleasantries were a waste of time. And as I scribbled in my diary that night I couldn't make a list of all the adjectives that could describe that chocolate flinging incident. Also there was his car. Rickety would be a severe understatement for its plight. It was almost falling off. I thanked God there was a windshield. Every time I would begin describing the car, I would fall off the bed laughing, and gave up in the end. Also, there was this moment, when he was pouring ketchup over my pizza in all possible design, looking at his piece of work, content, innocent, giving me the liberty to stare at him with all the freedom I had. I couldn't describe his face, it was a picture in my head and I couldn't translate it into words. So I let it be.

I wonder what would it be like to have moments in my life that my writing would fail to describe. I haven't had any such in as long as an era. The balanced adult, withheld woman that I am trying to become, I have disheartened those eyes dripping with hope, who waited there, four years ago one sultry afternoon. May be that is why, now I want to go back in time, feel something that can just be felt and not written about.

And if you still have such somethings in your life, then consider yourself very lucky. Happy Valentine's Day!