I’ve always maintained that there is a limit to the amount of insanity one person can bring to the table. What I seem to have neglected is the effect caused by multiple insane people gathered under one make-shift roof. Not only was I at my wits end with all the people chattering incessantly over the joys of bonding, but the few ‘friends’ that I’d invited to this party had decided to stay away. So, here I am, cornered, alone and angry.
It therefore should come as no surprise that when she walked into this picture, I could not help myself from looking up at the gods in silent reverence. Maya. Suddenly colors began to look lively again; the music that once seemed drab now seemed to follow her in beat. With each step she took towards me, the beats got louder. It did take me a while to recognize the music my own heart made.
“Maya! What are you doing here?” I blurted out with an opulent energy burst that made a few odd heads turn this way.
“Hi Andy. It’s nice to see you too.”
“Sorry.” I said, recovering from the initial shock. “It’s just that I’m a little shocked to see you here after...4 years is it?”
“Well, I met Aunty last weekend at the market. She invited me here, and I’d been planning to take a few days off work as well. So it all came together and here I am.”
“Good good.” I mumbled, wondering if the earth around me was caving in.
“So how’ve you been? Aunty told me you were working at Whitefield.”
She had always been the initiator. So calm and unfazed by this weird conversation that seemed to bury me as I stand. There’s something really scary about a girl who looks calm. I’d never observed that before.
“Yes, I’m at Whitefield. Work’s good, work’s good”
That sounded bad, I heard myself saying it again. It sounded really bad.
Amusingly enough for me, a lot of pleasantries were exchanged- Work, life, friends and so on.
“Hey, do you guys still have that big swing on the balcony?” she asked.
Was that a trick question? I mean, unless I’m getting it wrong, she plans to ask me to escort her to a rickety swing on our balcony, away from the crowds.
“Yes, it’s still there” I said, rather eager to know what she would say next.
“Good.” And she stopped.
An awkward silence came between us. For what seemed like eternity, she stared at the hanging light behind where I stood, while I had a few options between looking at my shoes, which had not been buried, yet, and also at the nearly empty cocktail glass in my hand.
There are times when a man will shut his mouth and hold onto dear life. As I came to realize much later, this was definitely not one of those times.
“So do you want to see the swing?”
Did I just say that? Did I just say that?
I was going to ask myself a third time, but she quickly replied, “Yeah sure”.
With those reassuring words, I led her through the maze of overly happy people, noticing that my parents were cajoling some of their old friends onto the stage. I don’t know if this is how people feel when they wade through large crowds, but right this moment, as I made my way through this crowd, with her behind me, I felt a surge of power within me. It was as if a giant had been woken, a wave risen, a peak conquered. Well, you get the picture.
We reached the balcony which was well lit, thanks in no small portion to my ideas for lighting it up. As I imagined a hand patting my back for a job well done, Maya took a seat on the old swing.
“So how’s everything else? Find your girl yet?”
Is that supposed to be rhetoric?
“Not since you left. No”
I was surprised I said that. Evidently, so was she.
“We were young and immature, it wasn’t love Andy. We had merely let an infatuation grow.” she said.
I stood silent. I guess I did not know what to say to something like that.
“We did the right thing you know” she continued,”It was time for us to move on with our lives. You had to get into college, get a job and so on. I had plans of my own. It simply wouldn’t have worked out.”
“It’s not like we really tried anyway” I said, irked by the theory she was selling me.
“God! You’re impossible! I’m just trying to have a conversation with you after so many years and you’re jumping at me like it’s entirely my fault.”
“Fine, I’m sorry.” I said, realizing it probably hurt her.
There was another long awkward silence. This time she didn’t break it.
“You remember that play I wrote for the youth fest?” I asked, trying to get her to change thought.
“I surely do. The only romantic play you wrote in college. Mr. Andrew Adams, playwright. I used to love the plays you wrote.” she said, deep in thought. ”The stage sessions by your group at the open air theatre, you remember those?” lighting up her brown eyes once again.
Remember? I could never forget those days. One of my lesser known traits at home, that of a playwright; a side of me that surprisingly, even I had loved. Memories of a stage that lit up on evenings, with stories that people cried over and laughed with. Of lights that told a story of their own, curtains falling and rising. Of “Love and Monsoon”.
…
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