Every time I boarded the bus I stepped at the back door as he used to be in the rear part usually, seated or standing. I wanted to remain close to him, to know him. I got acquainted with some other female members of his group and it made him quite accessible to me, virtually. But in real terms he was unattainable. He spoke to me sometimes in a casual tone, but I never spoke to him, just answered whatever he asked. Sometimes we looked at each other but lowered our eyes finding nothing to say.
I never allowed myself to miss the bus, but he missed the bus or took other means of transport sometimes for days. I desperately searched for him everywhere and prayed to find him. My heart sank in hopeless pain day after day. I tried to shrug off his absence, but I could not. Every day I accumulated my eagerness just to get frustrated. Every morning I used to get trapped in the same gyre of hope and hopelessness, tearing myself into oscillating pain. I could minutely tell the dates and the fortnights, and the months he was absent there, he was not for me. I kept apprehending, he might be seriously ill, might be going later, and might be tangled in some serious case. I used to swallow every word his friends shared, trying to get any clue. But sometimes I got angry at his heartlessness and over my insanity. Every day my life started with the expectation of finding him and ends with the anguish of not, sometimes for days, sometimes for months. And I was living in a perpetual curse.
Hey, I am Munmun, the phoenix fabulist who wants to tell you stories. I love to read stories and I love to weave stories. I feel life is an amalgamation of multiple stories, colourful threads, and threads of pain, pleasure, hope, and hopelessness. We just need to pick those hues and arrange them, knitting them with our own emotions and perception. So let’s celebrate the stories of life.