Missed Call

One ring. The next. And the next. And it went on. The phone kept ringing, and it went unanswered for what seemed like the thousandth time in a row. I banged the receiver down before the recorded message started playing asking me to leave a message after the beep. There were just too many words. And yet, like every time, the tidal wave of emotions in me all culminated in a long stretched out silence, when it mattered. No, I couldn't leave a message.

I stretched out on the bean bag, my eyes shut tight, humming a tune in my head to block out my thoughts. But it all came down to the one thing. I missed him. Simple as that. I missed him so much, it physically hurt. I could hear his voice if I conjured it up in my mind. His face and his beautiful smile. I could reproduce the images in a matter of seconds. It was like I had him memorized. Every tiny detail. I had him learnt and committed to memory.

Pushing myself up with my elbows, I stuffed the phone along with the base unit under a large throw cushion on my bed and rushed out, slamming the door tight behind me. I had already switched off my cellphone a couple days ago and stashed it under layers and layers of underwear in my closet. Out of sight; out of mind. At least that was the hope. It was just more painful to keep checking for calls or texts and to find none.

Ever since the word "us" had come to mean Ryan and me, I had consciously or subconsciously distanced myself from my handful of friends. It hadn't been a planned move. In a twisted way, I fancied them not noticing how the the loosely interwined strings of our lives had come so easily undone. My life had somehow gotten to be associated with Ryan completely and absolutely. There was little room left for much else.

When something as important gets taken away from you, the emptiness you're left to bear is inexplicable. It feels like a big chunk of your body has been hollowed out. Like whats left of you is pulled back by some sort of dead weight. Constant dull pain emanating...radiating, from inside and out. They say grief is easier handled when shared. But going through the details of exactly what had led up to the state of events in my life was something I was not willing to even attempt. Wording the desperation would just make it that much more real. And reality in the face of grief, is the last medicine you want to taste,

In the kitchen, my mother was chopping what seemed like a month's supply of carrots, with the Food Network turned on in the tiny portable television set on the counter.

"Did a mad rabbit bite you?" I murmered, sliding into a high chair opposite her, popping a tiny Julien strip into my mouth.

"No, I just found these in the Fresh Produce aisle at the supermarket and they looked so...fresh....I had to have them honey." Reasoning doesn't go much further with my maternal unit. Her Martha Stewart complex is something you just got used to and made peace with. After a point of time, ironed and folded-into-triangles panties don't rattle your insides as violently as they started off as.

"We'll make halwa." She offered as a means of explanation. When I cocked an eyebrow intelligently, she pointed to the recipe book lying open before her that I hadn't noticed, with a large glossy picture of a very orange very rich looking Indian dessert.




(contd.)