The Soulful Atom

A tea stall
Small, on a small street, opposite an office building
There are few more small offices around
But just the one tea stall
It was winter
Bang in the middle of December
Cold and chilly in that part of the country.
He stepped out with his “tea buddies” for a cuppa after the daily morning meeting
After all the machine coffee didn’t have the taste of tea boiled and toiled for.
There were many people out and about..
It was quiet, as it generally is in winter mornings in this part of the country.
There was some chatter and scattered laughter.
The fog was settling, just then he saw her.
As if a vision in blue, his favourite color too!
She stood there, in a small group hands on her hips, smoking on a stick.
He noticed her hair tied in a ruffled messy bun
She listened intently to what her friend/colleague was saying
Then he noticed her eyes drift away..
There was a brief draught of wind and she looked up right at him!
Butterflies erupted inside him with a jolt!
She went off balance just a bit, looked like it had hit her too.
She hurriedly looked away, but he stared on, a bit aghast.. He never felt them with such strength. He never knew butterflies were supposed to be strong.
He continued to look hoping she would too
But she didn’t, or atleast he thought she didn’t as he made his way back to work..
Years later, he came back looking for the tea stall.
There was grey in his hair now, and specs too..
He located his first office, it didn't belong to the same organisation anymore.
He looked around for the tea stall but it wasn’t to be found.. there was a pang of sorrow, for he longed to see the place again and taste the same tea.
“Oh no! Where did he disappear?!” the winter wind carried her voice loud and clear.. years later, the tea stall remained alive in their memories. Their lives meshed together by the hot boiling sweet tea.

A rip here, a scratch there.. spilling black and blue..
A slap and a strangle painted red..
White skin blotched with colors.. All but that of love..
Or maybe this is love, a love so profound it goes beyond gentle..
A love so strong it has to be violent..
A love so deep it needs to dig deep into the flesh with nails till it draws out the blood flowing in veins..
A love that wants to see for its own eyes, the truth in the other's by gauging it out..
Its a love with all the shades of all colors, not just grey, so much that it has turned pitch black.
A torn pink lip here, a bruised blue hip there.
A gash on the creamy back here, a pinch on the murky sack there.
There is no pleasure without these colors now, they ought to flow.
A grip of the neck, a twist of the wrist.
A stone cold bare floor is what they look for, not a bed of roses.
A love that is naked and stripped to the core of existence, not just some mushy words on the surface.
They see each other through and through, robbed of any masks and labels they ever had.
They see one another in each other, as if one is possessed by the other.
They lay crumpled embracing long after, licking each others wounds, and the thirst boiling, barely beneath the surface, ready to pounce out and spew its colors, any moment.
For he is a sadist.
And she a masochist.
A match made in heaven?
One would think so, since opposites are meant to attract.

Alcohol helps ease the pain so that it can flow out freely.
Like a swollen up pus filled wound is bled.
Its needed sometimes to cut a wound open and drain it. Otherwise the pain just boils up to the throat and stays stuck, unable to find an escape.
Then it goes bad.
It hurts and it becomes bitter. Then it becomes hard to get it out, clinging on, becoming a part of you. The thorn goes deeper inside, making it harder to locate and extract. Many times it lays inside forgotten.
The pain eventually subsides, in most cases, but the wound is there deep inside and one fine day due to some blow close to it, it bursts out. Sometimes, alcohol helps ease the pain and helps it flows out. It may not help heal the wound but helps bleed it as much as possible. Just some times.

Mumbai.

He says he has someplace to be for work. It was a last minute thing. The place he talks about is almost an hour away from where I am. My face falls. He probably senses it on the phone but doesn't say anything. I tell him its OK and to go home once done. We hadn’t planned to meet anyway. I go about doing my thing when my phone blinks an hour later. He has messaged to say he is done with work and tries to joke saying he will go home if I want him to. I tell him that I know you wouldn’t be able to come and I don’t want to hear a no so its better I don’t ask. This way you are also under no obligation to come and I don’t have to hear a no. It’s a safety net. For both, so neither feels bad. Or to rightly put it “no one feels any worse”. He applauds me for my logic. I reply with the one thing I always feel that wrings my heart - when there is no option words are all you have.
Some stories last for a precious few moments. Precious moments being the key words here. They touch you in places no one else had or ever would. They remain to be a part of you, till always.

Kisses, moments, stolen.
Stolen from the unsuspecting.
Stolen glances, words.
From the fabric of time, from the wraps of the universe’s elaborate, seemingly perfect plans.
I steal these withering threads and weave myself a blanket.
A blanket to lie beneath on cold lonely nights. A warm blanket with colorful stories stitched into each weave, to sing me a lullaby every night as I watch the stars twinkling far away.
I steal their dying light and build myself a fire to go with the blanket.
Stolen. Everything. Never owned, always stolen.