She perhaps chooses to never end it. She continues living the stories which is not even a part of her story. Hence, the story apparently goes on.

It was the first page of the newly-hung, glossy calendar. Ever since then the doleful time has come a long way. Seconds galloped and hours cantered and days trotted and months walked. Eventually, the first of the dozen quadrupled to the fourth of the year. April. And, her phone was grown accustomed to the change – to never again ring because of him. Sadly, she was, too. She had no choice, either.

Last night, just when she was about to begin her age-old ritual to take on the story forward from the bookmarked page, her phone beeped. Strange and familiar. Unusual and unexpected.  But, the beeps always hoped for. While her phone technically shivered, much against to the weather, she too shivered. Emotions bedazzled her. Joy, sadness, hope, euphoria, surprise, nervousness, too much and too many to have on a plate together, huh?

‘Hello’, she said, holding back laboriously the oceans of things she has been longing to share.

‘Kahan?, he said. Like always, his hello remained missing, which she was always used to.

“Uhm, I still don’t like that unshaved face of yours, but I strangely like it too. Only because of the fact that a new DP came up after months”, she uncontrollably hurried out.

person reading red covered book near grass And She Never Completes Her Book

“Ha-Ha, your never-ending review on my DPs! Any more comment, Writer sahiba?”, he chuckled.

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“Chalo, meet me once you are back”, she uttered the final words before she could hang up.

“Ek bar kyu. Thrice, may be. Bye! See you when I see you”, he replied and hung up.

Enigma of her euphoria knew no bounds for that moment. She drenched herself in the hope to get back with him again. She smiled. She cried. She imagined. She exhilarated. She lived. For two minutes, she did everything that was closest to ultra-happiness.

With the quarter-finished novel right on the table before her, with the bookmark seated on the 113th page, she found herself comparing him to her thick paperback. Like she always connects to the story ante-bookmark and starts afresh there-after, she thought to herself if she was yet connected with him in the similar fashion. As if the non-fictional story of theirs’ was bookmarked, too. As if this sudden call was apparently a bookmark. As if their story, despite being not on yellow pages, would keep rolling over and over and she would keep bookmarking until the end. But, wasn’t it already ended long back? Or was she still hopeful of a happy ending?

By Prerna Daga

The blog was originally published here

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