We were in two
different hemispheres of the Earth, two years apart in a strange way of life,
meeting only in this winter season. She in a distant land, I in the land where
I feel like I am left behind.
“Do you miss the smell of “maato” after it rains?”
– Yes.
“Do you miss the smell of “khet ko dhaan” when it blooms?”
– Ahhh… yes, I do. I miss everything about Nepal back there.
By now, she must have started feeling a little irritated. My questions were not just questions; they were memories I was slowly unfolding, one by one, as if trying to bring her back to a place she had already physically left. But there was a reason behind this slow build-up. I wasn’t just talking about soil, rain, or fields. I was leading somewhere I was afraid to reach directly.
And then I asked the final question.
“Do you miss me?”
There was no
reply.
Not even a
typing indicator. Not even a pause filled with words that never came.
Instead, after
a while, her call came through.
I didn’t pick
it up.
Not because I
didn’t see it.
Not because I
didn’t want to hear her voice.
But because sometimes silence feels safer than answers you are not ready to understand. And somehow already felt answered.
“J! You drunk again today?”
– Nope!
“Don’t lie. Aru bela ta timi message nai gardainau. Not even a single word when you are on conscious state.”
– NO sachchi! chhod diya yaar maine peena.
……
……
……
The next morning, I woke up later than usual. The room was quiet, but my phone wasn’t. The messages were still there, timestamped at 2:21 AM-staring back at me like evidence I couldn’t erase. There is a certain kind of embarrassment that doesn’t come from what others saw, but from what you can no longer pretend didn’t happen.
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