And then there were two girls, blossoming under the shade of Gulmohars. Their meet was a chance of fate, pole opposites yet hearts in the right place.
Under the watchful eyes of the orange blooms, they learnt, cried, laughed and fought. Weaving petals into the braids of each other’s hair, they shared secrets, and over cups of badly made chai, poured their hearts out.
On most days you could find them lying on a thatched cot on the terrace, legs hanging and heads dangling over edges of the cot. A sky of green leaves over their heads, punctured by blue clouds.
Love is a strange thing, it makes you understanding, and comforts in time of need, pushes people together but in their case drove a wedge between them.
Words that could never be stopped, stopped.
Eyes that spoke, bore a grudge.
Tears hung from jaws that once carried smiles.
Parting ways, they swore wouldn’t trace their footsteps back to each other. The city was divided into two, still not enough for the sea and salt to separate.
One winter, long after the blossoms died, one of the two found a crumpled wilted flower, one she was about to step onto. Safely tucking it in between pages of her diary, she reached out, unsure of how large the distance between them had stretched to.
Two texts. One nostalgic phone call.
They stood under the shade of the tree, all these years and nothing changed.
Half a foot taller.
Yet the same appetite.
Off season the flowers didn’t sprout, but a pair of orange ice gola stained tongues turned out to be a good substitute.