Hesits at the same table every day. He smiles at everybody politely. Small, shysmiles. The kind of smiles that make your lips automatically lift up at thecorners too.
He’soverweight, but that doesn’t stop him from getting up every two hours andfetching food from the canteen. Small, bite-sized Snickers bars. Chilli rice. Abottle of Coke. He sits and eats in perfect ease. His movements are relaxed andunhurried, as though he has all the time in the world to sit here and consumeLays, pulling the chips out of the packet one by one.
Whenhe’s finally finished, he reaches into his bag, rummages around and digs outhis iPod. Plugging the earphones in, he listens avidly. Tap tap tap. That’s his left foot striking against the ground,matching the beat of the music.
Peopleswill around him, me and my friends included. We laugh at weird Punjabi jokes,quip lines at each other, share spicy masala fries and pass around gossip. Wemoan over the results of our latest round of assessments, chatter aboutupcoming birthdays and school events. But he just sits there, listening tomusic. He’s enclosed in a cozy little world of his own. And he’s not lonely. He’sfully satisfied in his own company.
Butthat’s not to say he doesn’t have any friends. He does. And when his friendsarrive, he puts away his music and devotes his attention to them. But when theyleave, he reverts back into himself. I stare hard at him, but I can’t deriveanything from his expression. He’s expressionless, I suppose.
Andthen one day when he comes to school, someone’s written his name on the wallbehind the table he sits at. I ask him who did, but he only shrugs and says hedoesn’t know. I stare at him for a while, and then plop down next to him. Helooks Chinese in appearance, and I’ve always assumed he was so, but after Imake small talk with him I discover that he’s actually from Brunei.
“So,”I speak, and my voice is full of genuine curiosity. “Don’t you get tiredsitting here every single day?”
Helooks up, at me. He unwraps a Snickers bar, strokes the side of his iPod withthe tip of his index finger. “I have music by my side,” he replies simply, andhis words stir chords of faint envy within my heart.
* * *
Weused to be best friends, but now I can’t stand her anymore. She has long,jet-black hair, huge brown eyes, a round face. I used to think she wasimmensely pretty, but now nothing about her appearance appeals to me in theslightest. ‘Ordinary’ is the kindest word I would devote towards her now, andthat makes me realize just how influential and despicably fickle my feelingsare.
Weused to be inseparable, joined at the hip. Now I go out of my way to avoid her.I look up and I see her rounding the corner, heading in my direction. I want toget away from here, be someplace else. I start walking. The sound of myfootsteps is too brisk, too loud, too desperate, even to my own ears.
* * *
Theclack-clack-clack of the keyboard resonates as my fingers fly over it. Onlywhen the last word has been typed out, do I sit back and allow my spine topress up against the wood of the chair. Silence descends. I hit Send.
Idon’t know why I keep writing to you. I don’t know why I keep clinging onto thesweetness of past memories. The past, no matter how sweet it is, is still thepast. And no one knows that better than I. Yet I can’t help myself from writingto you devotedly, religiously. It’s not because I don’t have anyone else totalk to. It’s not even because I have all that much to talk about, really.
It’sonly because every time I see a new e-mail from you in my inbox, it’s likecandy waiting to be unwrapped. My pulse flutters, my heart thumps faster. Andthen I know that it’ll always be you. You’ll always be the only one to takeaway the deadness I sometimes feel inside.
Syndicated from: Random Ruminations
