She knew for a very long time that she must not change anything about herself in the world but only 'the world' as it shaped itself around and about her. "Oh! only if!" she wished, "if she could, how better and lovely it would be!"
"Forever!" had come in those moments of 'every-now-and-then', and now maybe gone, but "the happily & for-ever-after!", in her surreal she substantiated these, she was still waiting these patiently, these promising words shall arrive and enter her life, to be delivered in a big parcel sometime soon. She could believe - as she sometimes did - if she only waits, and/or tries hard and long, nearly for enough length of time, then they would come.
"the happily & for-ever-after!" will come bearing with them some name, a name that she had somehow known all along, they would then knock on the window of her heart, call her name and shout out "It is you I am looking for! Don't you know me? well it is me and it is time, "How do you do?", please follow me along the rainbow colours on the dotted line!"
She did laugh out loud and listened for the rose scented words that followed "I have seen you in some heavenly dream, seeking you there now I find you here...., together and now... I know we belong." How could she find her way through these foolish thoughts.
She continued to play, "There must be a way, some way to make the dream stay, change, turn it into 'the real'. She must change them, away from their living norm: 'the surreal'". These daydreams of hers they never ceased, they drove her high and then let her very gently down (she continues to live in both her paradigms).
She loved letting her day dreams grow, blossom and then go, sometimes to vanish from her mind soon after they lived briefly, like bubbles in a bottle of sparkling wine, everyone enjoys them but the bubbles do not belong and that is why they are there looking ridiculous for a few moments, and then they are bashfully gone.
Her soul always takes snapshot of her daydreams before they are ignored to die, and files them under the header of "Reflections" - just before that of "Recklessness". This is a much better arrangement. It is very safe, and with 'reflections' everyone lives their lives without any harm.
The Sun was directly overhead. Bright. The luscious green of the tree tops just outside her window on the second floor, waving their branches, greeting her playfully like small children waving at people from the windows of a slow moving bus, repeating this every time when she glanced up. She enjoyed their game, and loved the sound of their rustle, she thought they make it with such joy.
It was in another city and some other time that the leaves' rustling noises were one of her most favourite sounds there too. Every afternoon, past her lunch times, she would listen for them, carefully and there, they were - making the crackles and crunching noises that only trees and leaves can compose, telling the world of their stationary dynamism, describing "the colour green" one of greatest wonders of nature.
In a place where she had left behind her childhood times, there were many tall trees, two standing right outside her bedroom window. Those tree tops had a different kind of colour green. They were a gentler kind of green, a bit more friendly with the rays of sunshine going through them with more intensity and for much longer periods of times. Those leaves were a little less selfish, and a bit more respectful to the Sun - never garish, more like bashful green if there is one.
Always, in the distance, through every window and above every wall or house she looked, there stood this incredibly tall and massive mountain. In the mornings, at dawn, the Sun always came up from its right side. It climbed those ridges at the mountain tops. At first slowly, but it always gained speed as it began to rise further up. It was always suddenly too high, a burning disc too bright, impossible to look at. Children knew that Mitra (the God of Sun) punishes anyone disrespectful who stares at her very long by making them blind.
The mountain would change its colours as dawn happened, it looked more glorious with many shades of green at its skirt near the bottom with variations of colour brown in the middle till it reached the grey, near the top, just before the white began and itself disappeared into the blue.
These colours would also change by the sunshine. The white and the grey mist, the silver and sometimes darker clouds, they were asked to lift themselves up, to stroke themselves and to caress sideways but moving up against the mountain's vast front, and rub themselves against the mountain's many sides.
In her childhood days she always wondered how sweet it should taste: the white snow, placed always on the mountain top. Melting the snow in her mouth; tasting it, mixed with different summer fruit flavours, her Mum could make them if she could get her some. Especially when it was far too hot, she would daydream these with a big smile on her face.
In those slow stretching hours, in the scorching summer afternoons, whenever she played under the shades of their home's tall trees in the yard, or outside where she was forbidden to go - but she did. Often she would sneak outside, having to struggle to open the big iron gates, quietly disappearing into the forbidden side - into their street, where there was always more fun, laughter, screams, and singing aloud the words to the naughtiest of school yard songs.
In the street there was friendship who lived just next door. Her best friends, Layla and Meera, lived there, their brothers too. They used to sneak out just like her. Everyone had to be careful. It was important not to get caught. The punishment was always harsh and given to any one seen out or caught. This was unfair because she was the most careful one.
They would risk it all for loving to play the game. Risking a punishment, putting everything down on the line just for the love of the game - those days it was the hopscotch, - and today she was not sure, maybe it is the same game known just by some other name.
It was during those times that she learned about God. She would look up at the mountain, wishing to share some of the God's lollipop. After all it was so large, abundant, permanently wedged at the very top.
God's lollipop was not something any child could ignore, but...God remained selfish, she never shared – unlike herself, Layla or Meera who always did and never asked for or expected to hear any thanks when they shared. It is only God who never shares, how can she have so much of everything and behave so shamefully mean?
The girls always shared, even being told off was less hurtful when divided. She never complained - they were never as careful as she was for not getting caught, she was often punished not for her own fault.
It was nearly mid afternoon.
She woke up from a cat nap on her sofa. This was her precious day off, her Sunday. This was the only day of the week that was always fully planned for but rarely ever followed.
She had to meet up with her friend whom She had promised to be there for, to listen and to share.
All her Sundays were cramped with endless routines needing her time and efforts. Something more urgent than washing up always came up, she had tried, she had told herself many times this is the last time that she lets chaos rule all things around her.
She knew she must abjure. It just never worked out that simple. This time it was 'getting mixed up in friends' affairs', suffering some of their pains, that is how she made friends.
This time, and not unlike many other times, it was a break up - again, the mess of broken hearts, never easy to mend even when they share.
She is ready to leave, just before she closes the door, she has to rush back in. She runs to the bedroom, picking up her dancing shoes and shoving them down her hand bag, she tells herself "We might as well. To risk some more when there's nothing to lose, that is the best game in town. We must both go out. After the early tears and the late laughter we share, we must tango some of the night away."
She felt she would need her tango-fix later to clear her mind, make herself ready for the week that is yet to come. Her feet beckoned her to stroke a dance floor, with those rhythms and sounds she adores.
An embrace that promised her to dream is all she wished for as she made her way down the escalators to the train. An embrace from someone who could also understand her and her memories, someone without paradoxes and complexes but of harmony and knowledge of what it means to share.
(....Private Dancer continues!)
A Short Tango Story by MilongaCat.
