Pact of Act

The day was strange, the sky, stranger. It began with a hostile sunshine giving way to a mellow colour taking over the clouds. Overcast, one could say. Humid, thought Abhimanyu. His list seemed unending. Twenty nine bullets marking out the monthly grocery, and one text declaring a death. He could not decide which weighed heavier. Rev Alexander Joseph's sudden death must be calling for a reunion at the hills. And the batch that they were, he was sure most of them would turn up. Damn you Father! Not now. Meenaxi would surely make it if she was in the country. He looked into his calender marked with bright little red cirles on certain dates in a span of three weeks. His wedding. Via the marriage market website. The ensuing step included a flight to the Maldives. This morning when he left his flat, list in his pocket, he believed it would be one of the last times he would need to do so.

His office was his comfort zone. Now a label's worth at the work hierarchy, he even had a room to himself. It read 'Abhimanyu Arvind, Senior Creative Director'. This was not what he knew he would become. 'Engineering is in your blood!' How many times had he heard this? His father headed his grandfather's construction company specialising in bridge building. It was Meenaxi Mathuraman who had explored his ability to conduct an orchestra with words. And how he had sky-dived like a multicoloured feather. The sky of thought would be costumed in his flight. They were wonderful days those. An unworded relationship of superlative dependence developed between them. No promises ever came their way.

The wilderness of the valley grew up on him. The post-funeral retreat was touching. The weather was enticing. Or was it a combination of nostalgia and the preoccupation with Meenaxi. She was here, in all that made her, her. Her dark kohl-clad eyes, her bright coloured dupattas, trademark trinklets of silver all over her, voicing their unity in shaping up the sound of her steps. For all the mastery he had over words, he could not fathom an instance with which to approach her. Occasional smiles and awkward conversations filled up the variable blanks in between them. Abhimanyu also ran out of answering the why's and what-could-have-been's that led to their beautiful, poignant demise. 'We cannot be. No marriage, no living-together and certainly no keeping-in-touch as friends. I do not want to live as sediment, having been the waves for so long.' No further discussion was allowed to breathe. It was impossibly unreasonable and reassuringly difficult with each passing moment. He did not know how he survived the ordeal of ignorance. He survived it tonight with the collective narrative of stories and memories.

The next morning, like a return of the deluge of the past, Meenaxi was not at breakfast. Absconding was her favourite act. Possible probabilities of having a peek into the past was completely erased. Abhimanyu was never more ashamed of his name. He could not break the myth of Meenaxi. Not then, not now.

Far in the foothills of Imphal, Meenaxi continued her mourned living. An act of promise. An act of foolish continuity. An act too many.