'My heart is young / And always
hard pumping / How old am I? What’s my age? / Remain it a secret, don’t even
guess / I know not, in truth, even myself'
These were the words he had penned
to me the other night. It was as apt a rejoinder as I would ever get in answer
to my question, "How old are you exactly?" It was a question I had
asked him repeatedly half an hour into our second meeting. My obsession with
his age I guess can only be said to be natural. Here I am- a twenty-year old,
pretty as far as the saying goes. Bright, as can be deciphered by the fact that
I work as a journalist in addition to doing my graduation, and, in-demand, as
is evident from the number of calls I get in a day from suitors of all hues.
Yet, one more Saturday, and here
I sit at the corner table at Melina's Café, waiting expectantly for my ageless
wonder to make his appearance. And here he comes now, swaggering across the
marble floor, dressed as usual, which is not saying much. I swear this guy
doesn't seem to have a care in the world. Not in the matter of what he wears,
nor in the manner of his appearance. But you got to hand it to him, he's quite
good looking and doesn't look old at all. At the most, about to be middle aged.
Of course, he is a bit more than that, this I know since last Saturday.
It had been only our second
meeting. "You don't seem to have any responsibilities," I had asked
probingly. I was attracted to him, sure as there are stars in the sky, and
obviously wanted to know more. "Well, I do have a family to look
after," he had replied. "A wife and a daughter," he had added,
anticipating my next question.
"In which class does she
study?" I had hoped the question sounded casual enough. He has a mind like
a razor and can get to the root of things like no one else. He had given a
tight smile and replied, "Class Twelve." I couldn't have hidden the
look of surprise on my face, I'm sure. And by the way he had looked at me
wryly, I knew he had noticed. "I am only twenty," the words had just
blurted out of my mouth.
For the next five days he didn't
call me, nor I, him. I don't know what he must have been thinking. This much I
knew, he seemed to genuinely like me. The way he had looked into my eyes as he
spoke, even a fool would know that he was infatuated with me. "I love your
hazel eyes," his words were mesmerizing. "You're really beautiful. I
envy the guy who will marry you." Needless to say, I had negated his words
by saying, "I don’t think about marriage at all. I am only twenty."
Then he had called yesterday,
"Katrin? Hi. Long time, yeh?"
"You could have
called," I had replied.
"I did. You weren't
in." Well, he had called after all. It was only right that I take a step
forward now. I remembered his words from the last time we met, "Kat,
sometimes we have to give destiny a chance. Let fate decide the future."
"Will I be seeing you again?
Soon?" I wanted to know where all this would lead to.
His reply had been quick,
"Tomorrow? Melina's?"
So here we are sitting on two
sides of a table, having a couple of milk shakes, and trying to fathom the
mystery of why two people of such varying ages should be getting along so well.
Maybe falling in love. "What does your father do, what type of man is he?"
he wants to know.
"He's into business. He's
the councilor type," I reply. Then, God alone knows why I say such things,
"He's fifty six." I look at him as I speak, searching for a reaction.
That look again. Wry. And that
tight smile, a curving of the lips. Then incongruously, "I'm sure my
daughter would love to meet you."
"I would like to meet her
too," I reply. However, enough of probing back and forth. "How's your
work going on?"
"What work? Didn't I tell
you I don't have a regular job?" he says. "But my writing's going
well. Lots of assignments."
He's a writer. At least since the
last four months, that's what he told me. Before that, he says he had a
business that collapsed because, " business is not for me. Too many
hassles. Too mundane."
"If what you say is true
then I must say you have progressed remarkably well in such a short time.
Editors seem to be supporting you well."
"I guess," he agrees.
Then, "But one can never know when they will begin to not like me so much.
And then?"
I don't know how to respond to
such a statement. Says he doesn't have a regular job. Has a family to feed.
"Yet you don't at all look worried," is the best thing I come up
with. "In fact, I think you are one of the happiest persons I have ever
met."
"Am I?" A tiny shadow
flirts with his face.
"Of course you must be
having some worries too," I say. "But you don't show it right?"
"Well I don't let worries
affect my life," he sounds reasonable, even if I know his logic is not. He
adds, "cancer, little children dying, these are worries. Rest, everything
is nothing. Can be solved. Shouldn't affect your happiness."
Did I mention that he is the most
intelligent man I have ever come across? "Aids?" I ask.
"Yes that too is a
worry," he agrees.
I just love the way he talks. I
adore his way of communicating. I am in love with this man who is much older
than myself. Married. With a kid almost as old as me. Yet how do I commit
myself? How do I let go?
"Let fate decide the future,
Kat," his words come out just like that, without me having to voice my
thoughts. "Enjoy the present. What if we were to die tomorrow?"
"Yes, what if?" I
agree. I wish he would say something more definitive, like maybe, that he has
fallen in love with me. Like maybe, we should be a couple. Sharing things,
feelings, ourselves. But what about his family?
"My wife is getting prettier
as she grows older, you know?" he says. Again, that remarkable insight.
"But beauty is everywhere. One has to look for it. I find everything to be
beautiful. You are very beautiful. And intelligent too."
From any one else such words
would sound like flattery, but not from him. It's not even been a month since I
knew him, yet he has opened himself so much that I believe I know all about
him. The normal things that is, like what he likes, like what he doesn't, his
family, his habits and so on. "Are you thinking of going abroad?" I
want to know.
"No, and yes. I really don't
have any fixed plans for anything. If it happens, it will happen," he
replies.
"But why should I want to go?
Here I am with a beautiful girl like you, enjoying myself. I'm doing work I
like. No."
Then giving me a deep look,
"What about you? What are your plans?"
"Like you, nothing," I
reply.
"You're deep," he says.
"Mysterious. Don't change."
I told you, he can say the nicest
things. This is one man who seems to know what a girl wants. It's evening
already. "Got to go home, Dad will be worried."
"It's only seven. Is that
late?"
"I have to be home by six thirty actually. Rule."
"Okay then," he pays
the bill and we walk out into the cold air. "I'll walk you to the taxi
stand."
We walk side by side, as any
regular couple would. We haven't even got to the hand holding stage. I long for
his touch yet am afraid of it. I can see in his eyes that he lusts for me as
much as he longs for my company. Will we meet again? I can understand now that
if he doesn't call me, it's not because he doesn't want to. He's giving me all
the options. He's letting me go free.
As for myself, how do I let go?
And what if I don't? I am still lost in such thoughts as I check my mail that
evening. There's one from him.
'Know not I where to I travel /
Nor how far my needs do take me / Care not I, let it remain a mystery / Winged
am I, my heels are feathered / I’m mercury: fluid, cold and slippery / And I
daresay, hard to hold.’
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