Letters to Emily

When I first saw Emily she was a vision in scarlet red. Not just her attire or her hat or her red nail-polish or her shoes. She had a healthy cherubic glow in her face which seems to exude an extraordinary redness. Like a blossoming red rose on a rainy season, said Chris, my buddy. I thought it was way too much red to be life-like. It was as if she drew blood from mankind. I was crossing the street for my first sophomore class, when she came sailing through, ignoring the traffic signals, as if the world is going to pause at her will and crossed to the other side of the street. We crossed each other and went in opposite directions. As she walked passed I took a deep breath to suck in her scent. It was a strong perfume, lingered in the spot for a moment before it dispersed in the air and remained in my nostrils for 2 seconds and in my memory forever. Could I have missed her sight that day? I don’t think so. It was supposed to happen, for some weird reasons. Or maybe it was the visibility factor in the color Red. That day, after coming home, I took out my diary and wrote those first lines of my letter to Emily Dahlia Jones.
To a Nameless Stranger,
I had never imagined that I could be pulled by a force that could be as strong as the gravitation that held us to the earth or the magnetic forces that keeps so many things unified or the attraction of the opposing charges. I could feel myself being drawn towards you; the one who is nothing more than a nameless Enigma .The whiff of the scent of your perfume filled my mind until I could smell nothing but the overpowering fission. I stopped to catch hold of myself as I fell into that strange abyss that I dreaded so much. I could feel myself falling. What could this be? How could I explain to myself a phenomenon as explainable in chemical terms as "infatuations" and so unexplainably feel-good, that it lifted me to a new stratospheric level. This is the first time I saw you and mostly the last time. I have no lofty aims to hunt you down. But I shall dedicate an hour of my life to you- your thoughts and how you walked in and out of my life in swift strides as you cross the road that day. I could have turned for a second glance if I were not so preoccupied with your thoughts. And with this I shall rest my rest my case. Because I do not wish to see you again. Once was enough. Once was good. The world is a better place with a knowledge that you exist somewhere in it.
Yours, Micheal.
That was that. I thought no more of it. One of the very many different daily chronicles of my diary. A useless piece of literature, but the one that I choose to keep up with. But I was wrong. I saw Emily again a week later, on the same day. She was an art student at the same university as mine. And who am I? The small-towner, the bicycle lover, the never to care about the world, baggy jeans and T-shirt guy. Being a student of Physics has its pitfalls, I don’t get to go around with a lot of cool people, or wear cool clothes, or shave often (although that is a personal choice) or to live in the world of torque, quantum, numbers and relativity. Or maybe it is a personal choice. Maybe that’s who I am. Quiet acceptance of my own self that came after I met Emily. How? Because I always thought I was that piece of puzzle that never really fit into the zig-saw. A grand manufacturing defect. Emily showed me the world with her arms wide open, showed me the realm of possibilities, to savor the joy of being different, to care a little less about anyone else and care a little more about her, each time I met her. Anyways, I saw Emily near the amphitheater that day. I was cycling down the slope. I saw her painting a picture of the sunset. I saw her frame silhouette against the dusk and the tangerine sunlight, her hair wildly flying against the wind. She cared not. The tree around her made long shadows and almost gobbled her up. I did not stop; one glance at a time. I just stopped peddling for a while; let the wheel roll down the slope, accelerating speed at its own will. She was engrossed, her face at a close inch from canvas when she was not looking at the sunset vacantly. I passed by. I smiled as I peddled hard to the class, I’ll see you again in this world or the next, I said to myself. What are the chances?
To Not so much of a Total Stranger,
You are not so much of a stranger any more, since I saw you the second time. And not so much of the red. So what is that one chance in a million to find you again. You seems to drop from the sky at place I least expect you. You also seems to be so into yourself, totally oblivious of the whole world going to the dogs, the bicycling passer-bys, the date-hunters. You don’t seem to care much. Today it seems that your world comprises of the sunset, the canvass, the paints , the brushes nothing more , nothing less. My world too small for anything more to fit in and yours was the space. You seems to perfectly content to let in all, but remain as one in the all. Its not an observation, it is who you are. You face tells our story, as much as I hide mine.
Yours, Micheal.
I met Emily in a bus next time after a month. It was one of those days, when without warning things don’t work. I burnt my breakfast, my dog had chewed half of my notebook and my cycle brakes were not working. I took the bus. You were at the bus stop with your bags with paints and brushes sticking out of it, your oversized drawing book. Your head nodding with the rhythm of the music you were listening in your i-pod. You barely looked at me; I barely tried not looking at you.
The bus wasn’t very crowded. But I sat in the last seat near the window at the back of the bus, tried not to look at your shadow, tried to read Stephen Hawkins. My head was down so I never saw you coming. You came and sat next to me. You were managing your stuff clumsily, when the brushes fell out your bag. I bend down to pick it up. Still not looking. I dare not.
“Thank you”, you said, taking the brush from me, “Hey, I think we are from the same university.”
“Oh really.” I replied, of course we are, I thought.
“Hey I am art student, and I bet you are one of those physics or mathematics guy”, she said, looking at my book.
“Yeah, I am a physic major.” I murmured. And that started it all. Emily started talking about herself, her classes, her aquarium at home and her dying fishes. It was short bus ride. She told me to come visit her at the amphitheater in the evening where she usually hangs out. I said I might. I did visit her, a month later. For a month I watch her at the steps of the amphitheater, stretching, painting and carving everyday. Sometimes she worked alone, other times she was with friends. Sometimes she saw me walking by and waved at me, never asked to come and join her. One day I did.
To Emily,
You came like a fresh warm breeze southern breeze on a cold winter day. The breeze that touched the surface of my calm waters of my life and send ripples of occurrences. I looked forward to meeting you, speaking to you, looking into your eyes with knowledge that you never really notice mine. You spoke casually of all great and small things in life as if they don’t really matter to you. As if, you were that separate entity, a plant that grows without sunlight and still manages to give out oxygen to the world. You forced me to come out of my shell, step into your world, with each coffee that I drank with you, with each laughter that I shared with you, with each word, in each of your action of casual defiance of the norm, I began to look forward to more. More of you. You were so different from the inscrutable modern art that you so loved to paint. You were as transparent as the elements. When I told you about theory of relativity, you just laughed and said you knew it all along. You said that it makes sense that when you go up in an elevator, things seems to go downwards, because they do. And that zero-gravity situation is possible on earth, “Every morning” you said, “every morning when I meditate, I am elevated, I swear, off the ground. I feel it, as light as feather, I float in air.” I did that day.
Yours, Micheal.
It was raining that night, raining like cats and dogs; I was busy with an assignment, when I heard a knock at the door. At this hour, I thought, who could it be? I ignored it. I have every few visitors and none at this hour. After three knocks I sensed that it was unavoidable and opened the door. You came in soaking wet, shivering with cold, your teeth chattering, but you eyes wide with amusement.
“My house is on fire,” you started laughing. You laughed and laughed until tears rolled down your cheek. I stood there watching you laugh, listening to the laughter reverberating in my small room; the sound filled up the space and made me smile.
“My roommate was having a barbeque party. It started raining. She took everything inside and apparently the curtains caught fire. Don’t ask me how. It’s a hilarious scene out there. So I am homeless for now. Can I ask for shelter?”
To Emily,
You, me, the rain outside and the city by night. It was your idea. To experience the rain, to experience the city-lights. “ Lets get the hang of the different beats of the same old city by the same old you and me” you said, “lets get the hell out of here before claustrophobia kills us both.” So it is, Emily. I’ll never forget the abruptness of the occasion, our nightly walk, watching the sunrise. I would have never done it, if you hadn’t dragged me into it. For once, left my world and ventured into yours. Learnt to let go. Learnt to live. Learnt to look through your eyes. I loved the innumerable art galleries, theaters, and movies that you dragged me into and then reproached me for sleeping through them. I loved the way you laughed and told that Quantum Physics doesn’t make sense. And time travel is not a good thing since you don’t want to see yourself old and dying.” And the way you called me “Invisible Mike, On his Bike, Going for a hike”.
Your Micheal.
Time is a grand-master of all games. Slowly I got used to expecting frantic phone calls from you at the most unexpected moments. “I think I am lost what should I do? I went for a drive, and I think I took a wrong turn and now I don’t remember the way. What should I do?” she called me one day.
“ I don’t know. How can I find you. Call 911.” I said.
To Emily,
I am not a “knight-in-shining-armor material” but I knew I could be part of the grand scheme of thing that you call your life. Just a small part. But a significant part no less. The “Invisible Mike” part.
Yours Micheal.
“Mikey, I got a job in an art gallery. I am moving to Chicago next month.” She sounded pretty excited over the phone. I knew you were dying to get the job.
A month past after you left for Chicago. Still the phone calls keep coming. I lost my apartment keys. My goldfish died last night. I am quitting my job and taking a holiday in Europe.
To Emily,
Years that past after you left, I seem go back in time. Go back to me old ways. My apartment went back to its ram shackled look. The wall-hangings went back inside the closet, the plants were given away. I can’t really say that I missed you. I had no time. I kept myself busy. But, I missed the part where I laughed at your jokes, where I started snoring in a Shakespeare play, where you told me that my work was crap and I am a Mr. Walking-talking Disaster waiting to meet Miss Walking-talking-Disastress. I missed you telling me that I am simply out-of-this-world when I tried to explain Black Hole and the Universe. I guess I would be fair to say that I missed you. Not Fair because I hear no news from you now-a-days. After that Europe trip, you disappeared completely from the face of this earth. I knew where you lived. Which only means I know your address or you telephone no, or even your bank account. I wait for your phone call which became less and less frequent as days past.
Yours, Micheal.
Days and Night, morning and noon, every hour and every second I thought about it. I looked back at my diary entries and tore down all the pages that I wrote about you. First I thought of throwing it away. Thank God I did not. I posted them to you.
To Emily,
All the miles, the six different states, the roads, the acres that separate us, have failed to do their job. We should be together. You and Me, in this whole wide crazy world. May be that’s crazy idea, but it’s worth a try.
Yours Micheal.
Few days later I get a phone call. An unexpected phone-call.
“Hey is this Mike. I am Emily’s roommate calling. I have a bad news for you. I am sorry to tell you this that Emily died last night in a road accident. She was driving down to meet you. I have your letter that you send her. Do you want me send them back to you?”
To Emily,
This is what is left of you Emily - just a bunch of letters and memories. This is how I shall remember you forever.
Yours Micheal.