Wednesday, 4 July 2012

Argumentative Hands

     It was a drizzle that confused everyone. The musicians and artists didn't know whether to pack up and go home, or to wait till it went away. The bridge seemed empty all of a sudden, with people rushing past each other to find a place where they could escape the unexpected raindrops. We were in the middle of all that, too busy to notice anything. We were having an argument, if you remember. That was how things used to work for us. How I wish we retained that reckless spirit of our youth. Now, we get tired of arguments faster than they reach anywhere.
     The spot where you kissed on my cheek still felt warm. It was soon after the kiss that we allowed ourselves to be lost in the meaningless argument. I don't remember what it was about, but the image of the bridge and our agitated selves stuck over it in the rain still remains fresh in my mind.
     We were meant to be stuck in places, through the seasons. We thought of each other as mere impossibilities in our life, but we got stuck somewhere. Was it the passion that we had for finding fault with each other? Or was it just the realization that there couldn't be a better one waiting for us in the near or distant future? We were too ordinary, with no exceptionally striking facial features or great bodies. But that was what drew us together, perhaps.
     Now my aged hands tremble more than yours. You try to hold them in vain. You may survive this winter, but I am not sure about me. The chill that escapes into our modest apartment through the gaps in our windows makes me shiver. Sometimes the shivering scares you, but you look at my eyes intently and try to hold my hands. Our hands tremble, like two young people in the heat of an argument. You look surprised as I smile.  And then you smile, as if you have searched out the image of us in the hands, from my blurry thoughts.

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