JUST MAYBE WE WERE FRIENDS

I stood at his grave, speechless and astound in the mid November sunlight. Not that I hadn't been here before, this place beside the brook. I have been here almost everyday since the last eight years. Through the sun and the rain, through the fog and the snow, through the good and bad, through it all. I was ‘still hung up on him’ I’d hear them say a million times, but they probably were beginning to get used to it now.

We’d often come here, you know, him and me, we’d sit below the arched bough of the mango tree and let the silence speak.  But again, sometimes we chirped with the birds, letting our presence dawn upon them, pulling at the grass, with that distant look in our eyes, chatting each other up till eternity. Many were sure what they couldn’t get us to admit, that we were in love, but I’m telling you, ‘no, we weren’t’, not the kind of love you hear about around you or those that you read in books. We were friends probably. Neither the childhood- still- going- strong ones nor the ones that always hangout together.

We’d known each other for fifteen years altogether, including the last eight. I cant exactly recall how we met, but it was probably at one of those literary seminars where everyone’s criticizing someone else’s talent or boasting of their own. I remember being introduced through a common friend and we not exactly having much in common apart from that friend. But one thing that we both actually really had in common was an intense loathing for the works of a new writer whose books sold primarily because of the catchy titles he painted the hopeless content of the book with.

He’d shown me this place one summer evening, the day after Bruno, his rabbit, had died. The creature liked it here and so had we. “At last! Far from the maddening crowds”, he’d announced during one of our visits. It was true, the silence here, was soothing, not the kind that screams at your face but the one that hums a melodious tune into your ear. We’d talk about books and poems, poets and writers, life and their lives, about the butterfly, the beast, the sunray and the rain drop, the crow and the cuckoo, the tiger, the wasp, the grass and all the small particles that made up the universe and every thing else.

“I’ll look over you” he’d said, right before he’d left.  His gaze fixed to mine. I just smiled, I couldn’t think of anything to say. No, I wasn’t choking, I didn’t cry that morning.  I was just ummm…. blank, uncertain perhaps. No, it didn’t take time to believe that he was gone, it was over, and ‘coz deep inside, I knew, his gaze told me, it wasn’t. He was around.

“Not everything in this world has to have a name” he’d once said to one of his friends who asked him about the bond we’d shared. And I believed that too, not that it never occurred to me, but I forgot to ask him if we were friends. We most certainly weren’t lovers. Yes, we were always there for each other but only when we met near the brook. We didn't have each other on speed dial; we didn't even have each other’s phone numbers till that last month together. No, we didn't know he’d be gone, it was just a big sudden shock. Yes, we did exchange emails, though not everyday. We never felt the need. We even hung out on many occasions together, but it actually never occurred to us, to exchange phone numbers till we did. And we never understood why we supposedly were ‘in love’ I’d been over to his place a few times, mostly when he’d be having a party or a simple get together and I was privileged enough to be invited. And I’d invited him over even fewer times to return the favor. We weren't very social beings you know, and we knew it clear enough, though I’d always wondered what drew us to this place, the facet that it offered quite time in abundance, or the time that we spent debating, chatting, eating muffins that he’d bake, or may be just the company of another human whom you could speak your heart out to knowing that you wouldn’t be judged. It was an obvious fact that I knew his deepest darkest secrets, his scariest confessions, and he knew mine. And these past eight years, I haven’t stopped; I've piled it all on him. Even the pebbles and stones that I drew faces on occasionally, I piled them on his grave. Though he’d always laugh at this talent of mine, I’d credit myself heavily for it. I could hear him laugh in the back of my head, each time I lay such a stone. It would make way for my momentary smile, but reality would slap right across the face and I’d burst out crying haunted by his absence,  troubled by the vacuum.

“Ahhhh….. One of the most common reasons…” he’d said to me as he lay on the hospital bed, his sister, me and his friends by his side. And for some unknown reason, they began to file out of the room gradually as we talked. I didn’t exactly notice them leave, but there was no one around, once I looked up from him, I didn’t know how long we’d been talking. But, it was late. I had to get going, he clutched my wrist as I got up to leave, the first time ever. We had always maintained the cordial distance, people usually do, saying ‘sorry’ if we brushed against or hurt each other, and ‘thank you’ every time it was needed. But this time around, it was different. His skin burnt into mine, he had really high fever, and he was suffering but I didn’t know what to say.

“Stay” he said, after a prolonged silence as we stared at each other.

“We won’t really meet again, please stay back.”

I couldn’t really comprehend why we wouldn’t meet again, and he saw it in my face, my eyes probably gave it away.

“I won’t make it” he explained.

I quietly sat.

I couldn’t tell him he’d make it, he’d stay, that he wouldn’t leave, that he’d meet me like always beside the brook, under the bough, for, deep inside somewhere, I knew he wouldn’t. He knew it too. He mostly knew it all the time.

“Yeah… I’ll tell you what happened,” he’d said before I could utter a word, “but you must promise to lay me in a casket solely of your choice where we both sat below the bough by the brook” he continued as he held my palm between his.

“I promise.” I probably choked.

“I loved our secret meetings” he winked.

“I still do.” Was all I could say.

“It was drunken driving...” he said, with that distant look in his green eyes. “I was careless, I’m sorry” he continued.”

I knew he didn’t drink, but now, I didn’t know anything. I was angry. I wanted to cry, I wanted to hit him.

“He was drunk and I was driving,” he smirked sheepishly as he pointed to a common friend who had just entered the room, still severely bandaged. I couldn’t suppress my laughter and joined him as he laughed crazily.

“She knows where to lay me to rest” he said, between what I thought were silent sobs to his sister, who had come in with the friend. And she put together a faint smile.

“I’ll miss you” he turned to me, and his eyes told me something I couldn’t probably understand. My head was cluttered.

“I’ll too” I replied.

“I’ll always be around,” his voice was fainter than before.

“I know. Thank you for listening, for being you.” I said, my voice hoarse, cold and distant.

“I’ll look over you.”

Before I could reply, he was gone, I stood there shocked, cold and uncertain, unable to pull out my palm from between his.

And I’ve been here everyday since, reliving the times we spent together. And maybe.. Just maybe we were friends.