Shadows Of Youth Are Shy Kissers

A Partner-in-Despair Is Always Nice

It was also during this time that I met Mulan (Of course, not her real name). See calling her Mulan has a reason. She was the only girl in the group of wannabe Sigma-males who listened to my sermons. Yes, sermons; my talks had stopped being genuine advice by the time.

Mulan was lonely. She was miserable. Thus, she was a comrade. But, she was better at handling that sadness. She said, "I write poetry and stuff to cope with whatever the hell is wrong with me." I liked that line. I liked the poems she wrote during every lunch break on Tuesdays and Fridays. I listened closely to her when she ranted about how nobody appreciates her poetry. She later added, "They are not even that complex!"
As someone who was into poetry as much as the average-joe, I can't lie, but her poems were complex. Yet I got a hang of understanding them somehow.

On some random phone call, she once asked me:
How do you get my poems so well?

Trying to be modest I replied, "I mean they are good enough. I must not be the only one who gets them."

"Don't try to flatter me. I am immune to that crap." She had caught onto my illusory modesty, "C'mon, tell me. Do you read poetry in general?"

"You know my interest & knowledge on verses tends to zero."

"Then, how do you exactly know what I feel when I write?"

I had tried to avoid the question.  I simply had no explanation for it. It was a miracle, even to me, that I understood her poems. But her insisting finally removed the locks on my lips.
"Perhaps, because I know Mulan as a person, I can understand Mulan as a poet. Perhaps, because I know how you feel and think, I know what you mean by your verses."

I had just told you, dear reader, that I didn't know the answer. I was not lying then. The words that came out were not mine. They came spontaneously from some part of me that has been collecting dust in my mind. And they were correct. To their very core, they were right.

"It is also because the poems that you write are about you." I continued, "They might comprise various topics and themes, but all of them are a reflection of yourself. It is as if you are looking into a mirror. I know you, thus I know your poems. And yes, also you are quite good at expressing yourself." The last line was me trying to once again feign modesty.

A strange feeling arose in my gut. Pain. I feared for the words that I had said: how will Mulan receive them? There was silence on the other side. My heartbeat felt like the ticking clock and the seconds stretched into hours. I was having this anxious pain for the first time and it was harsh.

Then came a soft voice on the other side, "Thank you."

We didn't talk much after that. She excused herself with some work but asked me something. In an almost commanding tone, she said, "Meet me at the park tomorrow morning. ASAP." The next day was a Sunday, so I agreed. Despite my affinity to wake up late on off days, something stirred in me to be diligent to her words.

Next day, after finishing the necessary tasks, I headed straight for the park where Mulan and I sometimes took walks on Friday evenings. It was a cosy small place. Far from the bustling of the centre of the town and usual fare of cattle and cows. A pretty good place, in my opinion, to relax.

I found Mulan standing near the old Banyan tree when I arrived. It was 7 in the morning. I was surprised she had reached there earlier than me, that too on a Sunday. Waking up any earlier than 6 on a Sunday would ensure a headache for me.

"What's up? Following some morning cardio routine, are you? Let's hang out nonetheless."

She didn't answer me. At least her actions told me why she had called me to the park. You see, she didn't say a word or anything. Just straight dashed and squeezed me into an embrace. And she was strong, for I felt my lungs being wrung out of air.

Even as she pulled away, I remained in a solemn silence. I gazed at her face. There was little yet deep smile. A smile that your entire face contributes to. Yet eyes were glittery, like when you have a cold.

"You're crying?" I whispered despite no one being in our vicinity.

"Thank you" she said. "Thank you for saying what you said yesterday. Thank you for understanding me. Thank you for understanding my stupid poems."

"Don't call your poems stupid. And welcome, anyways."

I was squeezed once again, this time though with a little less vigour.

"I really needed to hear that."

"You did say thank you on the phone, you know. Why so much setup for a hug?"

"Do you hate it?" Her voice instantly turned cold. Ice.

"No. I love it. I love it." I feared that she would crush my leg if tried to be remotely funny.

"Dummy, I can't hug you on the phone. And it's odd, you know, to request a hug on the call."

"I am pretty sure there are businesses that do that."

"Well, I am an employee of no such shady business."

"Quite noble! Quite noble!"

.....

I spare you the rest of our odd little conversation. But the highlight is this: it was the first time I felt my words had helped someone. I had finally licked the nectar of meaning and it was delicious. I was in a general happy mood for the next few days. Finally, I have genuinely helped someone.

Nothing was light or dark. Ever after. Those lines ricocheted like a awry bullet within me. Again and again. On repeat like a broken stereo. It was a sweet feeling. Like the 5 cents candy you bought from that store which was only one to sell it. I am being unnecessarily poetic. But I guess that's also an influence of Mulan. 

......