In Memoriam

I love her. You know you love her when all day you crave to sit on that uncomfortable step, caressing her fingers and listening to all the tales they tell, both before and after you look how she closes her eyes when she kisses you with those oh-so-soft lips and even the yellow light glistening on her flawless skin can’t distract you. When you can voice that erupting sentiment only with a touch. When you discover more meaning to your existence because she was there.

She was there. When he did all those things of which we don’t speak. Both of them. How could he? After I made myself so vulnerable? After being there and staying there for him? After making mountains out of molehills and molehills out of mountains? I huffed and puffed and blew the house down. Sure enough, the three little pigs moved into the brick house. “Let’s see you break this,” they said. You know you’re in love when that sort of thing doesn’t bother you. When you’re telling her how bad you feel about this and that and you know she can’t for the life of her understand why you’re fussing so much for something so small and doesn’t try to either, you think to yourself – that’s not a flaw; it doesn’t take away from perfection. Thoda sa hurdurra, was it? Or the whole verse? Rehna tu hai jaisa tu. I’m humming again. She didn’t like it when I hummed but said she liked it when I sang. I’ll stop humming now. Sorry.

“Sorry. Can you forget about it?” You know you’re in love when the last thing you want to do is ‘forget about it’ but you tell yourself, “if that’s how she wants it, that’s how it’s gonna be.” When you silence all those skeptical voices – “no ifs and buts. So what if she’s being unreasonable? She’s having a hard time….… Oh come on! You need to be on your guard only with people who will take advantage of you when you’re being nice.” Fool. When it doesn’t take much to convince yourself that she knows who you are and has loved you for that, loves you for that. Right, that was Present Perfect and Present tense. That describes it better than anything else. It really was.

It really was. So tuneless! Oh if that isn’t a sign of love nothing is. When you remember that off-key, tuneless tune and words like ‘tumhari siva’ pregnant with meaninglessness for you. I really must have loved her if I can recall that. With fondness.

With fondness, she says it again. Makes me unforget what I forgot for her. Fondly makes me out to be a villain. You know, the-no-time-for-wife-I-must-work variety. And she, the ever-compromising wife who is willing to end it all – “talk about” “us”. But here’s the twist, one that Agatha Christie herself would have been proud of. She killed Roger Ackroyd. And to think she fooled me into thinking it could have been me! Roger Ackroyd, that pleasant Present Perfect man who would have grown old and happy if not for her. The motive? Not the usual ones – not money, not rage, not anger. No no, certainly not love. What was it then? If only this murderer kept a diary; if only she didn’t like everything off-the-record. But I do know one thing and believe it to be as true as the sky is blue. Yup, she did it. It was her.

It was her. Unrushed, the soft appeal of the Sunday white (not the strawberry suit this time). Walking towards me with the usual swish of her below-the-knee-but-just-above-the-ankle skirt, casually stopping the lovely hair from sliding across her yellow light reflecting cheeks. You know something is wrong when it’s not a Sunday or the Sunday white. You know something is wrong when you can’t bear to look at her. Earlier I needed a touch to convey meaning, now sight alone brings too much of it – past present and future Imperfect. You know something is wrong when she walks right past you. And you past her. You know something is wrong when the three little pigs in their brick house bother you again. You know something is wrong when she walks right past you and into the brick house with them. Them? Really? After all that they’ve done and undone? Despite crossing the uncrossable lines in the intoxication of the night? When did treachery, lies and seduction become less culpable than I? Unpoetic Justice from a self-proclaimed hater of poetry. As I walk past her and she past me, I notice that she’s left clues everywhere. I know why she murdered Roger Ackroyd. Both he and I were the red herrings all along. We couldn’t come between she and them. Maybe that’s why she killed him so cruelly? As I mourn over his death, I know something is wrong when I force myself to think – I loved her.

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