She waited by the ocean. In the distant horizon she could see the familiar sails of the boat. ‘Don’t your eyes ever get tired of waiting and watching?’ Boy asks. She doesn’t have any answer; her eyes are still hooked to that same distant point. Boy mumbled something that she could not make out. She knew that everybody thought her to be out of her senses. Nobody saw the ship with its fluttering white sails. ‘One day they will come’, she would say over and over again, every now and then to any person who paused to listen or sometimes even to nothingness, to the passing air.
Rain poured; incessant, dispiriting rain, drenching all those who ventured out devoid of black umbrellas and bleak raincoats. It did not spare those who stayed inside, within the safety of their cosy houses. It lashed at the window panes, it poured in through cracks, holes, ventilators. The rain spared no one. She still stood there, rooted like a marble statue of the virgin goddess. Rain did not blur her vision, something else did. The rain was not bitter for her, it was salty.
It was by the maple that she always stood, house of squirrels, giver of shade, a grandfather figure to all. The green slowly became a slight orange, then a bit darker, darker. Soon it was a flame of color. The trees looked as if they were on fire. Slowly, one by one at first, then in torrents they began to fall. On that one solitary branch a single leaf still stood, braving all the odds. The songbird perched on the branch and the lonely leaf went down to join the others. For many, hope went down with that last leaf. But there was something green that never drooped nor fell; it was she who still stood waiting, her eyes on the horizon.
The branches of the maple became heavy again. It wasn’t full of green, it was white. Snowflakes adorned the window panes, blazing fires burned in the hearth of each house. Families huddled together, dressed in woolens, near the fire to keep away the cold. Many dreams were buried under the snow and the sleet. The morning next, someone strew salt on the sidewalks and shoveled it all away, the dreams and the snow. Eyes glazed, lips blue, limbs numb, she stood there next to the snowman the children built, by the frozen stretch of water, for her, the fire kept on burning in the hearth of her heart.
The sun’s rays trickled through gaps in the snow. Slowly, the gaps became wider, larger, the world bathed in the glorious sunshine. Green, red, yellow, orange, the earth was blooming in multiple shades. Life seemed to ooze from every grass blade, from the breeze that blew, from the endless chirping of the birds. Children came out of their homes, dressed in bright shades, singing and laughing loudly, their mothers chasing them with bowls of food they refused to partake. They chased the butterflies, smelt the freshly bloomed flowers, and mimicked the songbird’s doleful song. The world was a burst of color; a delightful cacophony of voices, a celebration of the joy of youth, of all things growing. She stood still, her eyes fixed on that point afar. Still, stationary, static…. Wait! The corners of her lips curl slowly, could it possibly be, in a smile?
She stretched out her arm, as if to touch something. She said, her voice hoarse and otherworldly, ‘They are here’. She reached out again, groped the air, her face fell, the smile drooped a bit, she mumbled, ‘Just a bit more. Almost here’. Boy went near her, tugged at her skirt and looked into her bright lively eyes that for some reason seemed full. She said in rapture, “See, I told you they would come! They are almost here”. The boy looks out into the expanse of the blue ocean, sees nothing. He starts to ask where but realizing that it is pointless, shakes his head and moves on, smiling sadly.
Anger, seething, boiling hot, the earth dried and cracked, the leaves drooped, the flowers wilted, the water in the ocean seemed to dry up. Parched tongues, cracked heels, sweaty necks, burning eyes, they crowded around the wells, fought for water. She stood there, near the ocean, that vast body of water, the sight seemed to quench her thirst forever. She held out her arms, hugged someone, kissed the air, laughed at the jokes that others could not hear, blushed at the unseen someone's compliments. The onlookers knew that ‘they’ had finally come for her.
Who were they? Friends, relatives, family? Where had they gone? Why could not the others see them? Where they as real as the blue leaves and the pink trees? They did not know. They saw her smile, her bliss: the thirsty and the angry became pacified, filled with some sort of vicarious joy seeing her return to childhood, to happiness. Now! There she was with tears on both sides of her face, waving her hands as if in goodbye, holding someone in tight embrace. She cried out, ‘Goodbye, I will wait for you. Come back soon’. The thirsty and the angry, the children and the adults got water, salty water on their cheeks. Who was she? Why did she cry?
There, by the accustomed spot, she stood still and pensive, wounds raw, waiting for the next summer, waiting for the warm embrace, for the company she hoped, for her unseen, unheard beloved. Yes, she had something, or rather somebody to wait for, to look forward to and to long for with hunger. The boy went to her, patted her on the shoulder. She turned to him. ‘My sons, they will be back next summer. I have their dinner ready, their beds made. Wait with me for them, won’t you?’ She shivered, she cried, she gripped Boy’s arms tightly. ‘The sails, where are they? The bright sails!? The ship! Where is it? Ah! Is that what I see sinking?’ She fainted, fell into Boy’s arms.
Is it rain? No, it wasn’t, someone was sprinkling water on her face. She starts, leaps out, rushes to her spot, pushes all the onlookers away from her path. Huffing and panting, her frail form looking ready to break any moment, she stood leaning onto the maple tree, her eyes fixed on the horizon. Waiting for the rains to wash her and to immerse her in misery. Waiting for autumn and the impending despair. Waiting for the cold, dreary, bleak winter and the lively spring. For summer to come. Waiting, waiting, waiting….
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