Not once did Payam take his eyes off the manuscript while reading. And then his ocean blue eyes looked into Theia's brown gaze holding the quiet moment steady. Putting the papers aside, he said, 'Do you realize you are narrating the story in present tense?'
'Yes, yes I do. I relive it again and again', Theia replied.
'Fascinating', he mused.
To which she retorted, 'What? The fact that it is I, who during first ten years of my relationship, had never shed a tear because I wanted to grow up? Or the fact that it is I who during the next ten years grew up immersed in anger. Challenging and achieving everything I thought I possibly could; shutting off dreams and going with the flow. Or the fact that it is I who with progressive years vowed adamantly to unlearn what I had learned to be beautiful.'
Payam was bewildered by her reaction. He held her face in his hands and whispered, 'I need to hold a pretty face, look at it long, and love it long. Do I make much sense?'
Then he drew her in his arms with gentle care close to his heart and asked, 'Tell me what these writings mean to you.' Without giving her thoughts a voice, silently she reflected: one day the simple act of seeing my words in print, noticed by none other than me, produced a pleasure so profound that I felt the falcon of horizon had opened the gates to life. I rediscovered the verve in living. The words whispered to my soul, saying they miss me. It allowed me to converse with myself, and laugh with others. Oh…I am aware that life cannot be captured within the literary parameters. Yet tucked away in that autumn landscape was a small space of serene comfort selfishly mine, where I go often to meet these words. I feel my songbird take to the sky. Unfettered. The stranglehold of empty space is now filled with a fistful of sunshine; and I stumbled upon it by chance. It has transported me to worlds unknown. Writing and I have become travellers together, laughing, conversing, and brooding. For me, the pleasure of connecting thus is a partnership with living.
Aloud she asked, 'Can you really give me a day of your life? Can you? …You cannot, but these writings can!'
And she walked out of the door. Payam picked up a few more pages and started reading:
“Fourteen years and a few months old, and they say I am getting married! There are no preparations in the conventional sense, no decorations, no shenai, no guests, no festivities, no henna. And yet my heart beats a bit faster! My mother had put coconut oil in my waist-long hair; parted it in the middle and made two braids. Then she pinned me up in a pink karolin sari, the color I dislike. I can hardly keep the anchal over my left shoulder and it keeps slipping off. I am not wearing any jewelry except my mother's gold bangles. It has pretty flower designs on it. And now I am sitting on our old family bed. This is a challenge for me. I can hardly sit still. It is my third visit to our village, and I wanted to do what a typical sheltered teenager wants to but not supposed to do, go out on a rickshaw ride and see the world! Instead here I am waiting for a young man who is to become my husband. Life is running ahead of me.
From my fleeting memories, because I did not think they were of much consequence or at least that is what I thought then, I now reconstruct events while waiting. This young man, Artay, who saw me whenever we visited, took a fancy to me and asked his and my parents if we could become engaged. In not so much of a commitment, but by subtle message he was given to understand by my parents that I needed to complete my studies. From his relatives' side the reaction, however, was a bit ambiguous. I was not his type but perhaps over time the union could happen. None of this mattered to me. I who like to excel in studies; who is very selective in choosing friends; who loses imagination in books and who comprehends the world in ideal terms had plans, big plans! And recently, there has been one more addition to these elements. With each visit to my village I was increasingly enchanted by the innocence of people here. They are more engaging, more open, unlike city folks, unlike where I live. As I went for walks through the paddy fields, I relished the evening glow, the green fields, and this vision was invariably mixed with children running around bringing the cattle home. Colours connected together and each day I hungered for more. I was enamored. This created a surreal picture with which I simply fell in love. My world was and is beautiful.
Unknown to me, my parents were inundated with proposals of marriage for their daughter, whatever that meant! And thus my husband-to-be was successful in convincing them of my right age for this union. My mother reminisced. After all her father, my grandfather who has passed away, had at some point expressed the idea of his daughter's child (me) being betrothed to one she knew, so she would not miss me and be happy. As I am her only issue it made sense to keep the sage one's word. He had the goodness of his daughter at heart. However, as Artay's family thought otherwise, he was left with no alternative but to take matters in his hands. Along with a friend of his and a relative of my parents he arrived at the local marriage registrar's office. Under such odd circumstances my parents could not participate in the scheme of things but gave him a go ahead with their blessings. The elderly relative was to be my proxy. Well, approvals were taken care of. Nobody needed my consent, nor was I needed to be present. At home I simply had to wait for Artay to come back and claim me! How does this work? I am not in love I can only imagine through a vague feeling of lack of some things; a strange sense of apprehension stirs in my soul. How do I work on happy times together, giving and taking in equal doses, companionship; shared ideas, understanding, unjudging; caressing tenderness…? Am I dreaming? Perhaps life will unfold gradually.
Then the worse news comes. The local registrar was bribed, by people, those who matter from Artay's side, and so the marriage registrar's office was closed. Ah…the chink! Now, this is a bad omen. I feel like a bystander on the sideline caught in this unfolding story. The script seems to be already written for me! Life was being imposed on me and now events seem to be scattered. My parents are worried and concerned. While I wait, a conference is held among elders and it is decided that the rickshaw that is to come back home with Artay and others should be diverted to a close by town where what was started could be finished. The only trouble is it is getting dark and the next registrar's office is approximately fourteen miles away. But because all plans were made for a good deed, the rickshaw-puller too wanted to see a happy ending. He agreed to take the three men to their new destination. The men are now gone for the whole night. Our home has no phone or electricity. In fact, my village is yet to be invaded by such modern amenities. That is what I love, cut off from the rest of the world, right or wrong the news travels by word of mouth. In my mind this is adventurous, perfectly unique! So now it is a waiting game. The clouds are heavy and the heavens are roaring. I am falling asleep.”
Payam looked up and said to no one in particular, I see the magnolia in you. Let me sometimes sit by your side!
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