The Walk

As I take a walk in the moonlight on a breezy evening, an evening where the many trees refuse to talk to me, I remember you, Muskaan, as much as I push it away. As much as I remind myself of how the paths of my evening walk are filled with girls my age I still have a sharp memory of us, you and I, going around ice cream vendors and sitting on the park bench in my colony. I remember describing the night skies to you, like you couldn't see it yourself and you wondering why I had such an obsession for the night sky. I remember sitting beside you after calling you to come out even when it was late just to tell you how stressed I've been.

Do you remember how I'd hold your hand in fright every time we crossed the road? Or how you'd patiently wait for that one truck or motorcycle to pass by because I told so? Do you remember how we'd search around for the big dustbin in my colony (that would magically teleport itself every few days) because we refused to throw ice cream wrappers on the road?

Forget about ice cream wrappers; do you remember how the chaat bandi bhaiya knew exactly what we wanted - normal golgappa with paani and chole for you and meetha puri with no paani for me- without even saying a word and us laughing about it saying, ‘He knows the North Indian likes with paani and the South Indian with meetha’? Those were the best days of my eleventh and twelfth grades.

Above all, do you remember how it used to be between us? How every part of me started to like every part of you and vice versa. How we started to put up with each others quirks to liking each other because of our quirks. My heart melted the other day over our conversation on the phone when you told me, “Of course you're nerdy. But that's what I love about you. That's what makes you, you!”. You're one of the most beautiful people I've come across and evening walks will always remind me of you, every part of you that I got to experience outside of school. Speaking of which, wouldn't the roads in my colony be feeling incomplete, now that they don't feel our footsteps anymore?

- Farewell 2017 - 

21.02.2019