It
was winter. Twilight began to fall and there was no trace of wind. He was
sitting at his usual spot in the park; it was a few minutes away from his
house. Usually he would take a book along with him to read or he would listen
to music. While reading, he would shift his attention for a brief moment to
observe the people around him. And then again he would become completely
oblivious as he would resume reading. He believed that the purpose of fiction was to combat loneliness which gave an assuring sense of belonging. He enjoyed solitude. He felt that it was perfectly alright to spend time alone and not be defined in the presence of the company of others'. But today wasn't one of those days. The grey clouds had cast a penumbral shadow on him. He felt
sucker punched and miserable. He had built those walls around him as a line of
defense. He wanted someone to get those walls down. Tears had stained his
cheeks. His eyes were still hazy. He dabbed them with the sleeves of his black
cardigan. He wiped his spectacles and put them on. He gazed at the swarm of moths
which were lingering around the street light. He quite liked the design of this
street light because it had an ancient and rustic charm to it. But the same
street light which had a charm that he liked made him sad today. The swarm of moths made him sad. People
around him made him feel sad.
She
came and sat next to him, keeping her bag next to her but not between them.
They didn't talk. Not a single exchange of words. He felt comforted in her
presence. She knew exactly what he was feeling. She knew how unhappy and broken
he was. She began to search something in her bag. Her movements were very calm
and she was composed. She drew out a candle followed by a matchbox. She lit the
candle, picked up her bag, hung it on her right shoulder and stood up. He
looked at the flame of the candle. He loved candles. Then he looked at her face which was
illuminated by the candle. She turned and began to walk. He too got up and
followed her. The flame of the candle flickered as she walked ahead. He still
walked behind her hoping that the candle shouldn't go out. People looked at
them. They didn't really care. They reached the apartment. She opened the door
carefully as she had still held the candle in her hand. A few drops of wax had
fallen on her hand. She didn't wince or anything of that sort.
She
entered his bedroom. He was still behind her. She mounted the candle on an
ornate candle stand that lay on his desk which was surrounded by many books. The candle filled the entire room with an aura
of positivity. She hugged him and left. He sat on his bed and found a folded sheet
of paper torn from a spirally bound notebook with rounded corners that lay on his pillow. He unfolded
the paper and read the words which were written with a fountain pen of blue
ink. Those words written in her cursive handwriting made him feel wanted and
loved. He then looked at the flame of the candle and began to cry silently,
tears streaming down his face. This time he was happy and was engulfed with a
sense of euphoria. The words on the sheet of paper read –
“Lights will guide
you home.
And ignite your
bones.
And I will try to fix
you.”