Six Nine

It’s been six months since I spoke to you.

But I know you went to the concert of your favourite band last month when they came to the nearby city. I know that you wore grey and charcoal with white floral embroidery to your cousin’s reception the month before that. I know you celebrated your friend’s birthday last week and took three shots of vodka cheers. I also know that you had scrambled eggs over waffles and, fresh orange juice for breakfast today at the cafe two blocks away, in your black tracks and white tee.

You see, I know moments of your life through the lenses of your social media. I know of the pages that you’ve allowed the world to read; that you’ve allowed me to read. The pages of the stories we’d written together. Of those where I’ve become a character a world away. I know you’ve written sequels and I wonder, do they remind you of my absence ever? While sketching a new character? While speaking of yesterday? While creating tomorrow? Am I missing piece you’ve replaced or a missing piece you’ve build a garden of memories in?

I see another photograph from your life and I can taste something foul in my mouth that I’ve been meaning to spit out since the last five months. It is never enough to just cut the weeds. If the weeds aren’t uprooted in the beginning itself, you never know when they’ll hide the flowers in your garden. I look away towards mundane deadlines to distract my mind. It’s easier this way.

I’m amongst perhaps the first few to get the postcard of the big announcements. And in cue, I’ll still be amongst the happiest to receive it, and keep it in a folder safely. I’ve kept the postcards safely these six months but the one you sent last week went in as routine and set the folder on fire. I’ve put out the fire but you still smell the smoke if you went too close. Perhaps you smelt it too.

You asked me what’s wrong. And I told you deadlines. You asked me what’s wrong. And I told you not enough sleep. You asked me what’s wrong. And I told you nothing. You asked me what’s wrong. And I think I could feel the weed creep up my neck, entwining around it as it started choking me. The foul taste was back, making be gag first and then vomit it out. You didn’t understand when or why the weeds started to grow. And so you asked me what’s wrong again. I kept trying to tell you to come here and see the six you called nine. You kept telling me you tried but didn’t see it and asked me to come see your nine. I told you I did. We kept calling out six and nine. And everytime you said you didn’t see my six, I wanted to get mad at you because I could see your nine. But then I realised, I can’t be mad at you. Cause we weren’t seeing six and nine. No. We were part of a monochrome picture with a high degree of contrast. You were white and me, black. We were both a part of it; we completed it by being on the opposite sides. There is no absence without departure.

You didn’t ask me what’s wrong. I didn’t tell you anything. But I think, I’m tired of just the postcards. I think I’d like to see the photographs that never made it to the postcard, again.