A day I am going to miss

O life, you honour me. Why so? Are you sure I am worthy? 

Not a word. Only a smile. I don’t understand.

 

She honours me twice: by stepping into my life and inviting me into hers. I look around. There’s music in the kitchen and I can smell mushrooms first thing.

 

There’s no clutter in the bath. The wiring sticks out of chipped paint. The basin is clear, the ceramic isn’t. Latches are rusty but don’t creak. Half of the toilet floor is garnished with coin-sized dry leaves. Amusing. There may be room for upkeep or enhancement but nothing seems to be demanding it. Nothing seems wanting. ...I don’t know what she thinks. 

 

She asks my preference for ingredients in a salad. Please don’t ask me, o woman. Bless me. Continue to grace me. If you ask for my wish I might fuss about like any human fool, crushing the remnant of your voice that floats on the indistinct quiet.

 

The single window in the hall looks out on the balcony which seems to have noticed the mango tree just in time to avoid collision. A thick cobweb on the part of the windowsill where one usually rests one’s hands. Who would want to look out a window that overlooks a balcony when they could stand in the balcony instead! - Maybe I would, sometimes. 

Hmm...I like taking guesses at the way she moves around. 

 

A pile of pretty journals on the dining table. I stand there with an irresistible desire to open the one at the top. This reminds me of a film sequence: A woman takes shelter in a Buddhist hermitage. It’s frozen winter. The lake-house is inhabited by a single young monk. The woman’s face is wrapped in a semi-translucent fabric. She keeps it on even while going to bed. The monk approaches the sleeping figure and reaches out for the veil in curiosity. The woman sees him through and, with touch of a hand, urges him not to. He then retires. 

Something - the woman inside the journals or the woman inside me - urges me not to. 

 

We eat. We talk. She lights a cigarette. Another one. One more perhaps. She’s part of the night already.

 

O life, I cling to you in fear (as if you didn’t know!) Time and again you leave me in care of the unknown. Unable to recognize the face of love; too small to remember the kinship I wail and scream and throw a fit. I make trouble for myself. You smile. You honour me by letting me be. 

I hope my existence honours you.

 

Mukta 'Asraar'

© Mukta Asnikar