{Cont., from saltwater room}
..... There was a store room in the basement of the library stacked with records of people who nobody remembered.
She used to visit the graveyard, look at the timeline from someone's grave and jot down whatever details she got from the tombstone and find the story of these people, who ,she knew would not mind if she used their life tales in writing her own little stories.
That was why she spent more time in the dusty storeroom than in the main posh library. The librarian, a kind old soul Mrs. Woods, did not mind and had even handed the key to the storeroom to her.
The place was also a retreat for her.
All the time she missed him a little too much, she used to go down there with a study lamp(there was a sole bulb that she did not find very helpful while she read) and a blanket(for the room was west faced and underground, ergo, it had never seen the sun) .
She would burry herself in records and old files and moth-eaten parchments and sometimes play a song he sent her in the background.
It calmed her down when she needed his arms but he was just too far away.
That day, he decided to help her find a little more about someone called Arabella Brighton(1850-1921) and so down they went to the dusty old storeroom that morning with an extra rug.
Mrs. Woods quirked an eyebrow on seeing her eccentric customer with a young man but did not comment.
"This can be our ghetto," he chuckled when he saw the room.
There were papers everywhere. Thick books lay open on the floor. The room smelt like old parchment and black pepper. It was a mess.
They loved the mess.
They sorted out everything that had a mention of Arabella Brighton and kept it in a stack between them on the rug.
There was only the sound of sifting of pages and the scratching of pencil on notepads.
After a while, she looked up and caught him turning his eyes away from her back to the books...
She tried not to smile.
After a while he said," I'll go get some coffee."
She nodded and looked at what we had gathered about Arabella so fa r....
Arabella had come to this town when she was fifteen. She had only an elder sister who take care of her. She was an excellent cello player and used to play in the Four Seasons ballroom that was frequented by British officers' spouses. She ran a small charity called 'Anne On Street' in the 1900s to support Indian artisans during those times of Handicraft market ruin....she met an artisan who also was her financial advisor of her charity fund,called Darakhtsheesh and they apparlently fell very much in love.
Arabella married the artisan an year later, their union was strongly looked down upon by the town people.
She could conclude that because their wedding was not mentioned in the newspaper despite the fact that she and her sister were anglo-Indians.
They had found Arabella's letters to the artisan.
He had been reading the letters while she had been gathering whatever she could from the yellow newsprints and survey reports.
Before she could have a peek into his notes he was back with two steaming mugs of coffee.
"Decaffeinated, no sugar,"he said as he handed her the mug. Just how she preferred it.
"Thanks"
He sat down beside her on the rug.
"I wonder why Arabella fell for him..."she mused.
"People fall in love in mysterious ways...."he began singing the line from Ed Sheeran's song in his clarion voice.
She closed my eyes and listened to the song that sounded so much better in his voice.
When he was done, she put the mug aside and wound her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder.
He was baffled by the sudden hug but he wound his arms around her tucked her head under his chin.
She had missed him so much for the past few days. It was a bittersweet kind of ache she had been carrying with her.
He took away all the colours everytime he went away and her canvas was stained with salty tears that she had always managed to hide from him until that moment.
She could not bear it....she couldn't it hold it inside of her anymore....she let the sobs take over ....
He pulled back a little from the embrace and was surprised to find her weeping.
He did not ask questions.
He just held her in his arms.
Held her close to him as the tears came and she clung to him as all the pain she had been keeping to herself shook her body.
When the sobs died down he lay the two of them down on the rug and stroked her hair, caressed her tear-stained face with his lips, his arm wrapped around her waist....
"I am sorry...." she whispered.
"Its alright love....to let go...."he sighed into her hair.
"Sometimes I just cannot handle myself...it gets too much......I miss you too much..."
"I am sorry,love,....you have no idea....it kills me when we're apart...." he said, his voice trembling a bit.
He took a deep breath and composed himself.
"Every stranger's face I see reminds me that I long to be home with you....when you are not around all my days are murky blue and I feel like I left a piece of me with you..."he said, his eyes growing moist.
"That makes a good poem," she sniffed.
He chuckled.
"Lets just make the best of whatever time we get with each other, alright?"
"Alright,"she reached up and pecked his forehead.
He smiled.
He got up and then pulled her to her feet.
"Where are we going?" she asked him, wiping my eyes with her sleeve.
"We are going to Shamli," he said.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Upcoming Shamli chapter is gonna take a while.
