When Rumi came alive- I

An auburn autumn sky begins to indulge in colours of the imbrued, colours of yore. Sitting at one of the numerous road side cafés that dot this part of the world, I await the perfection of a steaming hot latte, with half a spoon of sugar, please.
Life looks exactly the same with the sky, the overbearing cold about to break and cause red cheeks, the Scotsman at the next table whose accent reminds you of a love far away, of a love from yesterday.
So what went wrong?
Something always goes wrong, doesn’t it, or there would be a solitaire on these ink stained fingers yet. Let’s see, what went wrong the last time?
It is difficult to tell which was worse, the one cheating who was trying to have a baby with another woman, or the one who was not in love at all but was in it for who knows what?
It’s all just blah right now, anyway.
Waiting for no one at cafes like this is the most romantic thing you can bear to do for yourself right now. The banal paper napkin with squiggly stories written all over, the tip of the pen sauntering over it, careful enough not to rip pieces away.
It is the collective whole that makes sense, the entire scheme of things has a way of falling into place.
Across the street is a young man. Early twenties, you figure, standing in the trademark grey University sweatshirt. What could he be waiting for? He stands on the pavement, walks up and down slowly, looks into the shop windows mindlessly- you can tell he is not interested. You can tell so well, mainly because you were him not so long ago- one of those outsiders who spent all their time looking in. Looking into other lives, families, happiness, as time and its many winters quietly slipped by.
Maybe it is a lover he is waiting for. Or maybe drinking buddies. The waiting game is not fun to play all alone. You think of beckoning him over, so he can warm his fingers over your cup of latté.
Something from your classroom days passes over your mind silently- what was it, it is hard now to remember what once was the very fabric of your life. I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.
Life, but a mere streetcar?

As if validating the presence of a thing as telepathy, or is it the power of staring real hard from behind Kohl smeared eyes, in a skirt riding up your knee on a cold evening, the young man in the grey green eyes casts a long look your way. You do not know where to look, what to do, but instead hold his gaze for a few fleeting seconds. The both of you look away.
Other things quickly capture your attention- for instance how few people there are sitting out, the waitress’s black skirt, and the Scotsman with the nostalgia inducing accent.
You make eye contact again, with a little smile this time. He does the same. No hurry in his eyes, just an overwhelming sense of the magnitude of here and now.
I am here. So are you. With that he reaches out and gives your hand a quick squeeze. When was the last time that happened, and why is it getting increasingly difficult to remember?
By now you figure that whatever he is waiting for is running terribly behind schedule, if it exists at all.
You make eye contact one time more, and silently give a profuse bleeding of apologies. He nods his head, as if to say its ok. Or is it another way of saying you’re being silly?
Before I know it, the boy in the grey green eyes is at the table next to mine. Whatever he was waiting for never arrived, just like so many other things in life.
I was a nice beetroot red by then, taken aback at my own childlike desire to touch another passing person, feel the texture of their nose, smell their perfume, and consequently decide whether I like it or not. Or maybe even stay up one night crying for it?
The familiar voice asks him what he would like, a garbled response follows. Garbled because I was trying so hard not to listen, not to pay attention, and like a kid in a candy shop, trying so hard not to get into trouble.
Don’t talk to strangers.
My mom told me that once, when I was young and full of life, and thought that nothing on earth could do me harm. Why was her voice ringing in my years today, when I am so far away from home, on a Saturday afternoon that is pregnant with the chills, following a destiny I chose for myself? Agreed that the destiny bit began to get a little blurred around the edges and I just toss myself from getting hurt to not getting hurt to everything else that lies in between.

I continued scratching my paper napkin winter afternoon notes, with my third latté for the day. He was somewhere in the back of my mind, kind of merging with the scheme of things. There was a sound that came from the next table that made me look up in his direction. The shuffling of pages. He was bent over this book, trailing his fingers through the pages, and from where I was seated, I could see the tips of his almond brown hair almost falling over his eyes and his cherry red lips that showed complete lack of emotion, looking so seemingly engaged.
Now this is an opportunity not many from my clan will pass up. Discovering somebody who lived in the same world as you do, living between the pages of books, thus seamlessly fleeting lifetimes and emotions. Like how immortalised in tales from other lands, where women move to strange countries with a book tugged below their arms, hoping to find more of their kind, more who belong to the same state of being. Was that really a story, or is that your story? I tried hard to tell fact from fiction, to remember what I carried under my arm when I moved to this country.
I had to know what it was. I remember mumbling something, and the grey green eyes looking up at me. He smiled slightly and I lipped another apology. The book was passed on, and then his coffee moved to my table. It was a collection of poetry by Rumi, and on the first page was written this, in hand:

Listen to the reed, how it complains of separation…

Ah, could anything have been more appropriate?
The talk continued from literary, of writers and such, to ecstatic flights into the infinite. Between the discussions, I looked into his eyes and saw the bitter sweet light of things to come. Sometimes all you need is a little magic.
With a little time and the barely there sun tugging its mattress over the sky, our conversation moved to places not seen, things not told, and stories that nearly wrecked your life, and are told as if it is but little deal.



To be continued.

The continuation can be found here:
http://apurplebreeze.blogspot.com/2007/01/when-rumi-came-alive-ii.html#comments