The journey was going to be long.46 hours to be exact.So I had to choose my seat-partner carefully.

Now Amtrak was being cute.Here:

It was time for me to ‘make a friend.’

I purposefully boarded the train late despite reaching the station early.It’s always better to determine with whom you sit, than your choice of seat. The 18-hour Amtrak from Washington DC to Chicago the preceding day had led me to this insight.

I had two seat options.Seat 18 and seat 22, right behind each other.Both aisles.On seat 17 and seat 21, window seats, sat two girls.I walked slowly to evaluate with whom I should sit.The one on seat 17 was scribbling something in her notebook while looking pensively into abyss outside the window, sported ear sets, and wore multiple layers, including a cap. She just looked weird.She gave a ‘do not disturb me’ vibe.The one on seat 21 wore a nice white t-shirt and was talking on phone.As I was approaching she adjusted her bag out of politeness.She’d won the pleasure of my company! Ha!

We started speaking nonchalantly as she put the phone down.She mentioned that she had a six-hour train journey, and that she planned to sleep through it.She would meet with her friends for a Christmas party.She wanted to be fully refreshed for it.I left for the café car as she slipped into sleep.

After a few hours of sitting in the café car, talking to fellow passengers, reading, writing, listening to music, and watching a couple of short documentaries, as I was readying to retire for my seat to sleep, I bumped into this really tall, athletic girl.I apologized awkwardly.She asked if I am the guy who’s doing the coast-to-coast train ride.I looked at her with bemusement.She mentioned that she was sitting in front of me and overheard me talking to my co-passenger earlier in the day.I invited her to sit and talk.

She spoke easily yet passionately. She mentioned that she was traveling from Boston to Minnesota via Amtrak, as it was the most environmental way of travel. She spoke about her time in Iceland and the culture she experienced.She spoke about her work as a puppeteer.I loved the shine in her big brown eyes as she spoke about global warming and about being a global citizen.

We didn’t sit facing each other.We both were sitting in the café car looking outside.Like you would in a restaurant on a bright warm evening in Aix-En-Provence.Except, it was dark outside.We could hardly see anything.Plus, it wasn’t warm.It wasn’t the usual Minneapolis December but still snowing.We saw each other’s reflection in train window, which now acted as mirror.It was almost as if we were talking to a version of each other and not the real selves.

I loved how she snapped her fingers when I said that the locus of control lay outside of us. ‘Our life is controlled much more by extrinsic factors than we give credit.We fail to be self-compassionate.We flagellate ourselves for our shortcomings due to the misbelief that we are in control.’She nodded.

She talked about how she absolutely loved her last 18 months.But now she wanted to be responsible for someone beyond her.She wanted to experience “nurturing a relationship.”That completely drew me in.I don’t think she realized the profundity of her statement in that moment.I snapped my fingers.

She spoke about her poet friend in India.She spoke about her family and her elder brothers.Some of her stories were dull.But it didn’t matter.Suddenly, for me, it wasn’t what she was saying but the fact that she was talking.I had been stuck at the thought about ‘nurturing.’

I turned to my side to look at her. The way her lips moved as she spoke, her hand gestures, they way she rolled her eyes — she was so animated.Her short hair made her long nape look beautiful.She sensed that I wasn’t listening.I think.We sat there in quiet for a few moments.

Train was approaching her stop — St. Pauls.She got up to move back to her seat and arrange her bags.I offered to help.She looked clumsy with everything she was carrying.Frankly, I wondered how she would manage this entire luggage without anyone’s help.On the station she showed me how she’d been carrying all this stuff after giving me a hug and bidding me goodbye.She was weird.An interesting kind of weird.

Originally published at rjhol7.blogspot.in on June 28, 2016.

Some of us tend to be subconsciously Marxist when it comes to love. Groucho Marx had famously joked that he wouldn’t want to be part of a club that will take him as a member. We suffer from same contradiction. It is not usual for us to want what we have. True love can only be unrequited. Love, when returned, challenges the Marx in us, and we end up devaluing that gift.

A deeper undertone of this ideology is that we all are broken in some ways or the other. When we ‘fall in love,’ we idealize the person whom we pursue. Such person is supposed to rid us of our shortcomings. In our idealization, we fail to view them just as human as we are. We fail to realize that they too are just as broken, albeit in different ways than us; that they too are looking toward us to mend them.

What’s the solution? How to rid ourselves of this Marxism? I don’t know!

Originally published at rjhol7.blogspot.in on June 28, 2016.

She first took him to her favorite restaurant in the city. It was a quaint and an eclectic café serving organic food. It had such a charm to it that beseeches one into meaningful conversations. He loved the ambience. She knew he’d be hungry after a long day. She ordered all her favorite dishes. It didn’t matter to her whether it was significantly more food for two people to finish. She just wanted to see him eat, at least a part of, every dish. It was almost as if she was offering herself to him. Like every flavor represented a dimension of her.She wanted to make sure that he felt satiated. He did.

They later walked along the queen’s necklace, holding hands. It was enchanting. The sea breeze was singing for them. Their conversation ranged from the mundane to the spectacular. He wanted to hear her talk. He wanted to continue being with her. But it was time to go. She, always a reluctant planner and organizer, looked at her watch with acute sadness. At that very moment, as he looked at her face, he was overcome by grief and guilt. He had no control over those emotions; as if the sea breeze had carried a mountain of those sentiments from a far-off shore and deposited on him.

He hugged her. Tightly. And for a long time. It was as if he was hugging her a final goodbye. She felt uncomfortable but sensed his pain and fear. That long hug had its own language. It was communicating for them without words and without eyes. He was a broken individual. He couldn’t see her go through the pain of piecing him together and get bruised in the process. She was a strong woman who could undertake this journey to mend his soul but he wouldn’t let her hurt herself in that process. She deserved better. They remained silent after that long hug; they didn’t need to speak. He left.

Her smile personified innocence. He was convinced that anyone who saw her smile could never know sadness again. Her crackle knew no bound. She laughed without any regard for conventions. It was infectious.

He beheld her as she chuckled. She looked away, pretending not to look at him. But then would look toward him from the corner of her eye. He was still enthralled by her face. She would smile again. This time with a tinge of shyness that starts from eyes and ends on cheeks.

Her eyes were big and brown. And clear and pretty as lake Winnipesaukee. Perfect symmetry. As if God wanted to show-off when he created this pair. He wished he could explain her eyes better. Yes, those eyes had a language of their own; yes, they were window into her beautiful soul; yet, they were more. Much more. He wanted to be guided by her eyes. He couldn’t be sure what was so truly remarkable about them, but they sure spoke more than her lips and sometimes not in sync.

Oh and what a joy it was to watch her talk. The way her jaw moved, the way her lips swirled. It was breathtaking. Her lips commanded to be kissed. And kissed well. Perfect bow-shaped, full lips. ‘Such a shame it would be for those lips to be touched by someone who didn’t know how to honor them,’ he thought. He wanted to show her what she must expect of a kiss. He wanted to show her how those lips deserve to be kissed.

They kissed. He couldn’t believe he was kissing her. He waited for her to signal before going deeper. He looked to her eyes. They were shut. He was glad actually as they would be such a distraction right now. He felt her smile during the kiss. That filled him with joy.

She too leaned in. As if she was kissing her previous self. She saw in him a soul reflection. She was melting, as the kiss grew deeper. The only part that seemed to remain real of her was the part he grasped. He clutched her entire body with the fear that she might just thaw.

It started raining outside. She lay in his arms. He smelled her hair. He caressed her skin. Her taste was in his mouth. They hugged. For what seemed like an eternity. It was pure.

He cupped her face. He couldn’t take his eyes of her face. It was a face of nervousness and disappointments. It was a face that had seen rejection and didn’t know how to move beyond that. It was a face from which the charade of masks had been taken off in that moment. She didn’t smile now. Her eyes went hollow. She talked about her fears. She laid her soul bare. She hadn’t felt such in a long-long time. The more he understood, the more afraid she became. Of herself. She retreated. He pulled her close.

She somehow wasn’t sure if she could love him. He wasn’t sure if he was capable of loving her true self. He just wanted to be given permission to continue loving her. He only wanted to deserve her, even if he could never have her. But he dare not speak so. And in that silence and in that confusion, lay their connection. It was as if there were a third person in that room. Watching them. Imploring them to come to terms with what they have. Encouraging them not to lose it. But they couldn’t listen. Or could they?