by Shiitaal Budhrauj
Friendship, according to Shiitaal Budhrauj, is a whole gamut of emotions and sometimes, in a friendship spanning a lifetime between a man and a woman, the boundaries may blur – the two may evolve into lovers with the comfort and history of friendship behind them. She presents this point of view through her prose poem.
Not so long ago, when people used the fixed landline to make calls,
and time for one another was still a prevailing norm,
a scene materializes in a gourmet chef’s home.
The power supply is cut all across the board, the city is plunged in pools of dark;
In one small apartment in the South end of Delhi,
the gourmet chef lights a matchstick, and carries it gingerly, across the hallway,
to the curved wicks of two slightly-dusty candles, standing nearly straight,
partially used, lying next to the oft-visited kitchen window
that overlooks a tall electricity pillar, nowadays
plastered with the poster of Shekhar Kapur’s new blockbuster release Masoom.
He lights the candles and carries the two waxy columns in his hands, one in each;
and, as he ambles into the living room, the blurred outline of an iceberg-hued sofa materializes
along with a cup of half-drunk, now-cold tea, on a barely worn-out teak coffee table
that he had procured from the famous Chor Bazaar,
during his job as Sous-Chef at the Taj kitchen in Bombay.
Placed adjacent to it, a box of Cuban cigars bought during his travels abroad, beckons;
but he withholds – ‘not just yet,’ he murmurs; old, redundant artefacts made of clay,
a copper sculpture of a semi-nude belly dancer, cookbooks with yellow and hot pink post-its
sticking out of the pages; all creating a quietly annoying busyness in his mind –
a reminder of tables to be cleared, drawers to be sorted, irksome clutter to be tossed away.
He gazes into the flickering flames of the descending duo,
as they hungrily devour the night;
the colours of the cylindrical, melting pillars visible now,
with the unsteady flames exuding a soft, glowing circle of light,
to etch out their complementary hues – ripe cherry and egg shell.
The disappearing columns thaw the isolation-ridden, dank night: iridescent, steadily-growing
flames – orange intermingling with yellow, entangled with gold – doing a silent waltz,
casting silhouettes resembling a dancing Rekha in Umrao Jaan
on the grainy paper lanterns, hanging in one corner;
reminding him of her; of meeting up with that one special friend today –
that one eagerly awaited soul, who’d come knocking on the door
and ignite his mind and spirit for the nth time.
The ambience awakens in him, a surging desire for a reassuring hug and
an on-the-spur-of-the-moment sort of entangle; a soothing embrace
with that same old friend with whom he has shared a gazillion memories,
dreams, hopes and much more – the solace of an implicit knowledge that,
that very soul can resolve all his inner conflicts and calm his turmoil
in a single lay-it-bare conversation.
She was a friend first and then a lover – they went back aeons in time,
or so it had always seemed to him; finishing each other’s sentences from the start –
a friendship now mellow and ripe just like aged wine,
and one day, as they had laid bare their heart and soul to one another,
after his return from ‘The City of Dreams,’ they had stumbled upon the delicious joy,
quite serendipitously, of finding nooks and crannies in each other; it was the deep bond of
heart and mind over age and time, that had rendered the pleasures of flesh so pure;
a bliss like that of two tributaries flowing into one big river;
it had been a dance like no other –
a perfectly synchronized pirouette of two ballerinas,
and the world had ceased to exist outside of them.
She could read his mind, in a split second’s gaze,
thanks to shared memories of watching movies together as kids,
having a zillion lunches at Bercos, Connaught Place,
attending hundreds of sound- and light- shows at the Red Fort,
decoding ‘The Secret Seven’ and ‘Hardy Boys’ mysteries,
scraping their knees while playing,
exchanging ideas, food, laughter, wine and everything in-between
over what seemed like an eternity;
she and only she could egg him on to talk about his fears, his insecurities,
his lows about things manifest and unmanifest; and then soothe him
with her eyes, words, soul and embrace.
The melting candles envelope the room with a welcome luminosity;
his eyes yearn to seek solace in hers,
as he waits for her to turn up before her usual time.
It is his most favourite day today – it is Friendship Day,
completely theirs to revel in to the hilt and celebrate!
Shiitaal Budhrauj is an English Literature graduate from JMC, Delhi University. She has had a brief corporate stint that led her to the realization that it wasn’t her cup of tea and that her interests lay elsewhere. Thereafter, she left her job and took up a short course in photography from NIFT. It was then that she started writing. Her creative non-fiction and short stories have been published in reputed publications in print and online. She is happiest writing or designing accessories.
