Shloke,
How different can a toothpaste taste? I did not know until you left. And how unwarranted was that going? Again like the tube of toothpaste we get used to, trusting it with sleepy-eyes, morning after morning, when one fine hour it refuses to come out. That is the moment we realize it is gone. It is a threat. As is your absence. I woke up this morning, as usual at my 7.30, lazed pace to take it in that you were gone. Initially it felt like everyday, when you considerately let me sleep and slip out without a sound. But when I went into the washroom, there you were. Your lather remains off your shaving-gel, blocking the holes of the basin.
The day passed. It is now late into the night and I am back to where we belong. There is a soft lullaby of an impending harsh storm playing outside. I missed you so badly, that I realized I know the thirty second beep of the microwave that goes off once you are home. It has not been twenty-four hours yet, and you must have crossed the Pacific. I missed your call when you must have called in from Hong Kong. Oh how I regret it. And post-dinner, I regretted it so much that I went out of my bed and back to the washroom, for a cigarette.
How naughty we had been in there, remember? How complete with each other in utter surrender? That is when I decided to brush my teeth with your toothpaste. And that is when I got to know how different toothpastes can taste. It tasted like your kiss -- refreshing, soft and captivating. I touched your shaving-gel and yes, it reminded me of maps I charted in your stubble. And that was when I knew I had to let you know I still love you.
I have decided to give us a chance. I wish you were here to make it, "we have decided to give 'us' another chance." If only life were as easy as letters...
I would know where to end, or how to begin.
Shambhavi.
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