"Moving on”

Today, while staring listlessly out of the grimy bus window, that refuses to open completely, willing the red light to turn, my eyes fall on a bright red motorcycle.
There’s nothing unusual about a couple sitting on a motorcycle waiting for a green light, right?
Except, there is.

My eyes are immediately attracted to the bright red bangles decorating her arm, playing hide and seek with the fading henna that stains the arm a pale orange, one last burst of colour before losing the battle to soap and water. This arm is wrapped possessively around a waist, a waist that is yet to get used to the intimacy of this public touch. Like the blood red Vermillion on her forehead, this orange tinted arm is a proof of their state- that of recent matrimony.

She is of course, beautiful.
All Clichés non-withstanding, I have to concede there is certain radiance on her face.
The sequined sari, creased from sitting for too long (Have they been travelling far? Or making the obligatory post-marriage lunch visits to various relatives, which usually involve a lot of sitting and tea- drinking?); the necklace around her neck shines in the fading sunlight, challenging the setting sun, to dare take away its sparkle.
However, her face is the most interesting. Half-hidden among the tangle of wind blown curls, there is a deep assurance, a faith, a trust. The same trust, enshrined in the black thread around her neck, that emboldened her parents to hand her over (perhaps accompanying this shiny ride) to this man.
Perhaps this is her first visit to the big city.
Perhaps this possessive arm-hold betrays a sense of holding on to the only thing, or the only one she knows, in the midst of varied unknowns, her husband.

I make my eyes focus on the man now. Crisp new shirt, floral tie, and an arm around his waist: constantly reminding him of the new responsibilities on his slender shoulders. He seems profoundly conscious of this innocent touch, his back slightly arched, feet squarely on the ground, eyes straight ahead.

I have seen that stance before, countless number of times, right in front of me. I dare not look into his half- turned face, the face I know is now looking at me while I slowly take in his passenger.
I don’t want to look into those familiar eyes.
I don’t want to know. How. Why. Where. When.

He knows that I don’t want to see him. Not now, not ever. I had made that quite clear the last time we were together.
Ah, the last time we were together.
The memory shocks me into looking square into his face.
And I see him. He sees me.

He doesn’t seem surprised; maybe he has been anticipating this meeting. Rehearsing what he would say. That would be exactly like him, to have a plan A, B and C.
But I’m sure even he couldn’t have planned for it to be this way.
“So un-poetic”, he would say, “so crass”

Ironically, This meeting would have put an end to our eternal argument, one that neither of us could win, on the essential nature of life- lyrical? Or prosaic? This unexpected victory makes me smile, forgetting that I am still looking at him, and he at me.
Seeing me smile, not knowing the real reason, he reciprocates, hesitantly. The familiar half upturned smile brings an unexpected reaction from within me. Nothing.

The smile that drove women crazy, the smile that drove me to him initially, five years ago, a long time ago, does absolutely nothing.
This realization makes my smile broader, less nostalgic, more real.
The clean break leaves me pleasantly surprised.
The part of my being that I had kept locked up these past two months is freed in an instant.
Instead of the crippling pain I had expected, I feel only relief. I am free.

The revving of the bus’s engine brings me back to the world, I find myself looking into his big brown eyes, eyes that I can no longer read, eyes that are filled with an emotion that does not belong to me anymore.
I smile again.
Telling him I am okay. Telling him I understand. Telling him all is forgotten. Telling him that I am once again free.
Free of him.
But can he still read my eyes?
The question lingers in my mind as the bus rolls away, just as the light turns red again, leaving him behind.
Only an image remains, burned into my mind, of him, in his crisp new shirt, floral tie and a henna tinted arm, wrapped possessively around his waist, smiling at an old friend.