“…..and the inner, delicate layer of eyeball is retina………ten layers…….fovea centralis…….. site of maximum acuity of vision…….”

I am in the lecture hall trying to grasp the Anatomy lecture.

“…….so, injury to it causes blindness…….”

But my mind reels back to the day…One and a half year back….

Midsummer. 21st June, I vividly remember the day. I was elated, joyous as never before, I was going to meet my best friend after five years. After SLC exams, Ojaswee left for Darjeeling to continue higher studies, the first time we parted ways ever since I can remember. We were like Juno’s swans from beginning, we learnt babbling and waddling together but cruel time, it rendered us apart….Thanks to the internet, we were in constant touch but I always missed that closeness we shared before.

I missed her all the time; while eating our favorite ‘Selroti’, watching the ‘Harry Potter’ series, appreciating rosy cheeks of sky painted with hues of setting sun, aimless cycling rounds through the lanes……all the time, every time!…I missed her the most when I completed any abstract painting . She used to be the first person to observe and adore my completed piece. Those were not mere glances but deep contemplation for quite a while, “…the red tinge…..the hidden lines…the delicacy of the curves….colors…much of them….” until I interrupted- “Alright…that’s enough my critic, you have explained enough for a blind to see my painting!” …..gales of laughter…

She used to be my inspiration to splash yet another canvas. Ojaswee, as her name suggests was ‘light’ to my creativity and my life. For me, she was the only one who truly understood my passion for art. She was the one who always had had time and attention to listen to my boring and most pronounced line, “you know, one day I will own the best of painting paraphernalia…”.Within those five years that we were parted, I painted and sketched…piles waiting to be gazed at, contemplated and scrutinized. Those five years were tough, both on me and my paintings. I painted without any direction. I straddled around alone, without a friend. The wait was over; I was about to meet my companion, my confidante, my critic, my best friend. My Samaritan.

The aroma of rice pudding, Selroti, French fries filled my house…the DVD of ‘Harry Potter’ lay crisp clean beside the TV set…They say you can smell vision, taste sounds. The house smelled of our childhood, sounded like her favorite dish, tasted of her laughter. I had been waiting for her since early morning. She had been trapped in traffic jam on the way, arrived her home late that evening. It was already dark. She then called me to inform that she couldn’t come to meet me the very evening, her father wasn’t at home and it was pitch dark to come alone. I was baffled; my plan of a perfect meeting after all these days was shattered. I couldn’t resist the tear storms, “Ojaswee, I waited for you to come back this long but you don’t care…” and flung the receiver violently.

Childish, maybe I was. Whenever I wished to have her near, these silly saline drops would work, she would come rushing to my home!…. “I know my friend, she will scoot right to my house in no time, things will fall right into their places, her laughter, her smiles, her words”…..I waited, waited waited waited. Minutes, an hour, next hour, another hour…..Her house was only half an hour ride by cycle. I was sure she wouldn’t come. Chills ran down my spine. She might have changed; my tears might mean nothing anymore. I might have been thrashed somewhere dark in her memory. I called her to apologize. No one picked the call even after a long full ring…second full ring….third full ring… maid at her house answers, “Oju has been hit by a truck…was on the way to some friend’s home……is in emergency room….hospital…head hurt…..bleeding profusely….” I am awake but I cannot move…I fade… awake but unaware…breathing…limping….senses gone…I rushed to hospital…reception….Ojaswee…emergency…Ojaswee…blood…. Ojaswee…her parents… Ojaswee…head hurt… Ojaswee.. “lost her eyes”…..retina deeply injured. I am the culprit, my selfish need to give and take love, my eyes hurt…feel out of place…feels like they’ll weigh down my face…. burnt of salt and water. I don’t want images. I want to fade the colors. Eyes are cruel. I want every single eye in the world gone…I want no eyes….

I don’t want to face her. I can’t face her. But my best friend doesn’t even bother thinking it was my entire fault, “One of your eyes is now mine, artist”…she smiles…a sad smile but a genuine one….Her mother hands me a gift wrapped in golden shiny paper adorned with writing- ‘Dreams come true!’ She thought of me all these years, of my paintings, colors. “A gift of colors” it was…48 hues of poster and acrylic colors, pastel colors, rolls of fine cartridge paper and canvas, charcoal colors, various hues of pencils, ranges of painting brushes in a single set…my dream collection…and she knew it….she knew it through all these years….her eyes gone.

I don’t cycle anymore. I can’t stand the sights of pansies that she used to adore. I wish sun never sets, I wish I never have to see the crimson streaks across the horizon. Selroti sounds of her anguish when the truck hit her. Reading or watching ‘Harry Potter’ series ignites in me fury, a wrath, a jealousy of seeing perfect friendships and perfect eyes. Whenever I happen to come across my old habit, the ‘Harry Potter’, I wish Ojaswee  had drunk luck potion ‘Felix Felicis’ that day, she would have been lucky enough not to lose those radiant eyes or I would have spelt ‘Reparo’ with the magic wand and those eyes would breathe again…those eyes…most beautiful of all…her eyes are gone…

Now that I’ve got the best of painting paraphernalia, I have little interest left to drag me to the canvas. My mentor is gone. Her eyes are gone. But she remains….and she remains to inspire me into the world of colors. Oju used to be the first one to see my paintings back then. Now, she remains the first listener. Senses are senses…eyes can’t hear, ears can. I love ears. She has got the most beautiful ears in the world.  “It looks like a portrait of  a woman in pain, she seems to be crying…..a baby like magenta-colored figure is at the side…..the stature is surrounded by black cloud like portrait….it might be portraying dangers in woman’s life……bluish green, purple, pale orange, scarlet, violet, carmine, crimson, Prussian blue, Hooker’s green, vermillion hue, chrome yellow, Viridian hue……………”! She is the only one to understand my paintings. She stares, somewhere I don’t know of, not mere a glance, it is contemplation, then smiles that smile “alright Kshitiz, that’s enough even for a blind to…….”. Silence. Everything stands still.  Gales of pain rise within me….I feel helpless, breathless…my eyes hurt…they feel out of place…Every time a piece is done, I take it to her; describe it…try to find words for different hues of colors. An innocent smile across her lips and tears cascade down my face….. As she gestures how the colors of the painting might look like, I die inside for having lied to my only friend.  All colors in my canvas have fuzzed since the day her eyes were gone. All the colors that she listens to everyday are not even there. I don’t want colors anymore. ‘Black’ is the only hue in my paintings ever since.

She waited a little more. She believed a little more.

Big hazy eyes. Saffron kurta and classy earring. It has been perhaps six months since she is waiting with yet same restless eyes. Everyday. For him. For the man, whose name she doesn’t know. For the face, she barely knows. For herself. Driven by his words- Believe a little more.

“Perhaps I’m gonna be little late……”, beeped my phone inbox. Little. Irony. Not again.

It has been four days since we shared this seat at this busy metro station and twenty minutes since we ever talked.

But I’m quite largely awed by her little secret.

She had been here at nearly this hour, same station six months back, when she was new to this city. She came here to try her luck. This city tested her naivety. Nothing turned right. She got into the metro to reach her place. She tells me, “I had decided I was leaving this city next morning”. Soon she realized she was not heading the right route. She had missed to change the route in between. “I got confused by all those yellow, blue lines. Metro routes. “I almost broke down. Then, he helped me out. He dropped me to the right station, and then he returned the other way around.” The Samaritan. “I broke down and cried ‘I’m returning home tomorrow…’ He just told- “Believe a little more.” Simple as that; it drove her energy to achieve what she has today. A week later, she has been waiting for him. She has been waiting everyday few hours after her work, searching for the face, then boarding metro at 11 pm, the same time and the same compartment she had boarded that day. Just to thank him. Perhaps more.

I ask her why has she been boarding same compartment, same station, same time? Why not different compartment at least?

She laughs. “I don’t know. I was never good at Math. Better the same compartment, same time. It would be greater probability, I guess. And a better surprise, I believe.”

Her words, quite a delight.

“What if he never turns out?” I’m now little worried about her.

She smiles a bit. “It would be good if he turns out. But if he doesn’t turn out, I guess, it won’t matter much. This is just I’m doing it for myself, rather than him; I’m pampering myself, making myself happy. Perhaps I won’t wait for him forever. Or I will; don’t know how long; only till I’m happy doing this. What really matters is I waited. Because I felt doing so.”

The clock struck 11. She rose to board her habit. We smiled at our little secret.

Beep. “A little more time, I guess.” Not again.

The speed of metro passing by makes me wonder how paradoxically her wait relates to mine. She has been waiting for the man she barely knows for this long. And I was here waiting for Nishant, love of my life; at least I used to think so for 5 years. Only I couldn’t stand waiting for him.

It has not been good since Nishant joined new job. We have been fighting. He says he is doing everything for our good; I don’t see any reason how. He gets so busy in work that he barely talks to me on phone, let alone meet like we used to. He tells me to wait for him so we could board metro together to our home. Only this idea of his makes me miss the last train and travel two hours by bus to get home in the dead night. I don’t know what I’m waiting for…

Just when the ring for the last train starts to ring, I see a familiar hair out of crowd running towards me. And the smile.

Perhaps, I should wait for him a little more.

Perhaps, I should believe him a little more.

Perhaps, It’s a lot worth waiting for.