A Morning to Remember

Eleven thirty in the morning, and my phone began to buzz. I reached toward the bedside table half asleep, ready to silence what I assumed was an alarm, and there, glowing on the screen, was a name instead. A name whose sound had been echoing in my ears for longer than I cared to admit. She apologised for waking me. If only she knew how long I had wished to be woken by her voice, every single morning.

I used to wonder if the laws of attraction really worked the way that book, The Secret, claimed they did. I doubted it. If they did, she would have called every morning, since I fell asleep thinking of her almost every night, for longer than I can say.

Have you ever, living in Delhi, silently prayed for the roads to fall into gridlock? I did, a hundred times over, while she spoke to me on the phone. Murphy was right about one thing at least, whatever can go wrong will. And that day, of all days, she made it from Saket to Connaught Place in under half an hour.

There is something about a girl talking to you while she drives through the city's uneven roads that makes you switch off the air conditioner, still every fan in the room, and retreat to its quietest corner, just so nothing comes between you and her voice.

I suppose men will always be men. Though in this case, it felt like something more than that.

Why does it happen, that you never tire of talking to one person, that you wait for their call the way you wait for very little else?

Lost in these thoughts, a cup of ginger tea warm in my hand, I watched the light spill through the window panes. I opened the door and a cool gust of breeze brushed my face as I looked out at the clouds, white and unhurried above me. What a morning it was. What weather.

Thank you, whoever you were.

You made my day.