Parle and Rocky

There is this girl I know. She is so fair that one of her best friends teases her all the time saying, ‘You have a bloody lit tubelight inside of you.’ Only Parle manages to see the love in this statement that Pinka makes so often. They have been friends for more years than either of them would have thought possible, when they first met. Others around them also thought that though the friendship was unique it might not stand the test of time. Fortunately, the two could care less about what others thought. They were too busy overthinking the decisions they took in the past, might take in the future or maybe never at all. Pinka, sitting in the office amidst stacks of school books and CDs, had this epiphany that their friendship was based on their unhealthy obsession with overthinking and over analysing things that others generally overlooked.

Even as Pinka came to this conclusion, she knew that Parle’s knee jerk reaction would be to deny overthinking EVER. Pinka would take a deep breath and explain to Parle, at first patiently, ‘Don’t confuse overthinking with remembering. You overthink. You rarely remember what you were overthinking about and over analysing.’ After Pinka would lose her patience repeating the sentence for the seventh time, Parle would make this peculiar nasal sound of an extended, ‘Ahaaaaan!’ Then she would agree whole heartedly, ‘You know what, jaaneman. You are right!’

Pinka was thinking of Parle a lot today. For the first time in over 15 years of friendship, Pinka did not know what to say to Parle to make her feel better. They were best of friends. While Pinka could say that Parle was her best friend, she knew that Parle’s best friend was Rocky. Rocky had come into Parle’s life eight years ago. He had healed Parle. He had been Parle’s constant companion. Parle would talk to him and tell him things that she did not share with any other living soul. She shared her love, fear and food with Rocky. Their day began with a round in the park and ended with both of them cuddling in front of the TV or in Parle’s bed. Rocky would often interrupt the telephone conversations between Parle and her friends. Thankfully, all of Parle’s friends also loved Rocky. I know not of a living soul who was jealous of the bond those two shared. Her friends would snap at her if she was distracted during a conversation if work beckoned or her mother called her to make tea or she was worried about washing clothes (her favourite pastime). But if while discussing a major life crises like a break-up, boss being a jerk, the country going to dogs, mother being diagnosed with cancer etc. were interrupted by her cooing mid-conversation at Rocky, her friends understood.

Today, sitting in her office amidst stacks of school books and CDs, Pinka did not see how she could make the world a better place for Parle. She was desperate to be at her best friend’s side at this hour of loss. Rocky was no more. He had said his final goodbye on Saturday. It had been 5 days. Pinka had spoken a couple of time to Parle. They had even laughed a bit after Pinka had made some usual politically incorrect and highly inappropriate remarks about Parle’s doctor friend. Pinka wanted to go and hug Parle to ensure that she was not crying anymore and even if she was, to ensure that she was not alone. But they did not meet. Instead, I see her today, sitting in her office amidst stacks of school books and CDs, typing a blog post in honour of Rocky, Parle’s pet dog.

Silly Question

He is in bed. Her naked body just inches away from him. Her white, creamy shoulder is barley a touch away. He looks at the stains of the lipstick she wore last night and thinks to himself, ‘that will be difficult to clean.’ He continues to stare at her sleeping, weightless body. He is thinking how best to answer the question she, his wife, had asked last night.  Fortunately, he thinks that the she from his past has already prepared him for this day.

‘What will you tell her when I come up in your conversations?’, she had often asked. He had brushed her questions aside calling them, ‘silly’. If she would insist, he would take a deep breath, hold her by her shoulders and then with one hand would push back the hair, which covered her entire forehead and seemed dangerously close to shading her eyes. He still believes that he wanted to answer her. Tell her, there will be no other her. The only one for him is she—the one with short hair, the lopsided grin, mischief in her sad, sad eyes. Yet, one look at those pink, soft, naked lips and all he could do was, kiss her so hard that she would forget her own doubts and questions.

She wakes up and as she does daily, looks at him, opening only her left eye. His eyes are closed, the calm rhythm of his breath betrays no signs of the wild night they were recovering from. She had tossed her long, luscious, black hair over her white, creamy shoulders in one swift move. She had lowered her eyes, just a little bit longer than necessary and then had raised her head slowly to meet his gaze. 

Earlier in the evening, she did have a headache. She was cranky and had wanted some answers. She had asked him about his past and regretted the question as soon as it had been asked. She had seen the same question for her in his eyes. Thankfully, she had recovered fast. She knew the only way to escape this exchange of information was passion. She had used that to ensure that questions were never asked.