He didn’t leave a hole when he left. It’s because he’d left a big hole even when he was there. Because even when he was there, he was not really there. Sometimes, he was lost without traces. All she could do was wait, for him to come back home. Sometimes, he packed his bags and ran away to some mountains. All she could do was learn about his adventures through the letters he’d send. Sometimes, he took jobs that took him all over the country. All she could do was plan to visit those places in vacations only to realize he was home before that.
The hole grew bigger with each day passing. It became bigger with her realizing that he has been walking in and out of her life, like she was some public parks in the city. It became bigger as she learnt more about how he was absent in her past. It became bigger as he failed to be there for her every time she needed him.
The hole had been filled though. Half of it was filled by her mother. A portion was filled by his brother, another by her grandfathers. Another one by her best friend and another portion by her boss. Then there were the portions filled by boys she sometimes call lovers, always getting replaces for she always believed that men always leave, nobody really stayed.
So now that he is gone, she doesn’t feel a hole in her heart. That hole was filled up and sealed with cement, long time back. Maybe it’s time to dig it up again.
Kathmandu doesn’t flinch
when I openly flirt with Patan and Pokhara.
He doesn’t show any sign of envy or anger,
he pretends not to notice.
But when the night comes
and the cities are fast asleep,
Kathmandu slides into my bed and hugs me tightly.
“When I closed my door for you,
I didn’t want you to go and open your heart
to the next city you meet,”
I wanted you to explore the world,
experience new thing,
meet New York,
have a summer fling with San Francisco,
have a one night stand with Istanbul
and possibly settle down with London.”
Before I could protest,
he kissed me softly,
making me change my mind.
Kathmandu knows me too well.
Kathmandu knows me too well.
Mother always used to tell me, “Be careful who you choose to love.” I used to shrug her off, as if it’s a choice. Love for me, always happened just like that. You can’t choose who you fall for, you don’t get to decide who your heart wants.
But you see, mothers are always right. Right now, I think what she meant was not to be careful who I fell in love with, but who I decided to stay with. Because staying in love, in a relationship, in a place is always a choice. You can’t choose who you’ll fall in love with, but you can always decide whether you want to stay or move on.
So now I tell myself, be careful who you stay in love with; don’t let a weak soul destroy your strong heart.
“How can you let go of people easily?” he asked.
“By giving them time and space, when they are sad. By not asking them what’s happening time and again when they say they don’t want to talk about it. By trying not to worry about them when they tell you not to do so. By realizing that you’re not important or close to them as you thought to be, after all people do share what happened when things go wrong no matter how closed off they are.
And every time, you feel like you’re starting to get worried, distract yourself. Read books – on loss, on happiness, on moving on. Watch a new tv series or movies – tragic, comedy, action. Go on vacations – with your family, other friends or alone. Take classes – dance, ceramics, kickboxing. Learn about politics, science and development. Attend events. Meet new people. Make new friends. Experience the world. Write about these experiences. Share them with your other friends.
And finally, resolve to start fresh.
So that when you meet them next time, you will realize that you’ve grown, and evolve into something else. Something they won’t be able to relate with. And when you talk to them, you will realize that they no longer understand who you are and who you’ve become. And you are a perfect stranger to them. That’s how you can let go of people easily. Because if someone isn’t ready to share what’s bugging them, if someone needs time and space from you during the bad times, then know that you never mattered enough at the first place.”
“Who are you waiting for?” she asks.
I take a good look at her face. Her dark brown hair is tied up in a bun, but not in the way you usually see those young girls of her age do it. Her tied bun looked more like maa’s hair tied into a bun. There are a few strands frizzy and dried, flying off as if they are naked wires, searching for plugs. I laugh remembering how mother always complained that she looked like a grandmother from behind when she tied her bun like that. She must be looking like one even now. My eyes fall on her forehead. It is covered with tiny indistinct spots, almost invisible if you aren’t concentrating hard enough. There are dark bags hanging below her eyes because she had lost sleep for a couple of weeks. Although a sleep lover, she’d been refusing to sleep for some unknown reasons to both of us. Her nose is sunburned and a little tanned than the rest of her skin. There are light speckles and scars in her face. Sometimes, I feel like if I looked hard enough I could find more furrows. But right now, she looks tired and worried. Even as she looks straight back at me, I somehow feel that she is looking beyond me, searching for answers, seeking escape, looking for a way out. She is tired and worried.
“You,” I finally say with a sigh. “It’s time for you to come home.”
Because I’ve realized that even the girl in the mirror needs a reminder of the love you have for her. Especially during time like this.