A Conversation
She opened the tap at the basin and rinsed her hands. She pulled out a tissue paper and wiped her hands. As she did, she saw someone in the mirror. It was the reflection of her. That person she had wanted to see her for a long time. A wave of shock and surprise swept over her and she froze with the damp tissue paper still in her hand. Her eyes were wide and her mouth fell open.
"Close your mouth while you can.You do not want me to see you drool," the reflection talked.
"Err.. sure," she said.
"Do you know who I am?" asked the reflection.
She didn't answer. For a few seconds, no one spoke.
"Aren't you supposed to be, I don't know, dead?
"Oh I am," the reflection said dismissively.
The girl squinted her eyes trying to find logic in the reflection's statement.
"If I turn around, will you disappear?" the girl asked.
"Why don't you try turning around?" the reflection asked back.
"But what if you disappear?" she asked. "I mean you are THE author!"
"If I do then you will have talked to THE author. If I don't you will have talked to the reflection of THE author," the reflection spoke.
Taking that advice, she turned swiftly. And lo, she didn't disappear.
Taking a quick deep breath, the girl smiled in relief. The stage of surprise lasted for a few more minutes as she gulped down her saliva and wiped her clammy hands on her pants. After this stage of shock, she eventually moved on to the stage of acceptance.
"Oh my god. You are really the author. I don't know how and I don't know why but I don't care! There is so much that I need to talk to you about. There is so much I need to ASK you!" the girl rambled on.
The author stood there calmly. She held her hands in front of her and looked down at this girl, quite amused. She smiled at her rambling fan-girl (a word I assure you she wouldn't be aware of) moment. The girl realized from the expression on the author's face that she was indeed acting like a complete imbecile. She bit her tongue to hold back whatever she wanted to scream, ask, say and show to the author.
Seeing the girl step back from her moment, the author said,"Oh my dear, don't you worry. I won't say a thing. It is just amusing to see how after years of my demise, there are people who remember me."
At this, the girl said in disbelief,"Remember you? REMEMBER you? People don't just REMEMBER you, they talk about you. They read your books. They quote your words. They STUDY you."
"Why don't we take a seat in this white polished bathroom, yes? The floor will do, I suppose? Or would you like to sit on the seats and converse through the walls?" the author asked.
The girl smiled. That humor had always been one of the things that drew her to the author's writings.
They both took a seat on the white tiled floor. It was funny, the white of it all. They sat in silence for some time. None knew how to begin the conversation. Or so it seemed.
"Can I ask you a question?" the girl broke the ice.
"Sure dear. What am I here for?" the author smiled kindly.
"Why did you write the poem you wrote on the 9th of December?"
"Oh! Haha!" the author laughingly said. "Oh that poem was a spontaneous piece of writing. I was sitting under an apple tree when I wrote it. I had some cheese and bread with me and I was bored at a family picnic. Why do you ask?"
"Well, people like to talk about it. They say it is one of your 'masterpieces'."
"Oh is that so? Well, if sitting under an apple tree at a boring family picnic does it, I think any one can be a poet, isn't it?" she smiled naughtily.
"I don't think so. If one can make something out of a boring family picnic, then I think it needs a special skill set," the girl said.
"Do you like the poem?" the author asked.
"Of course. It is not your best work, according to me, but it is very innovative. Your imagery is brilliant," the girl gushed.
"Thank You."
"I want to ask something, but I'm not sure if you would like the question," the girl said timidly.
"Oh dear! I have been dead for quite sometime!" the author exclaimed.
"The book that you are known for. It is about that," the girl said.
"Well, go on. What about it?" the author asked kindly.
"The protagonist of the book. Everyone talks about him assuming him to be a fictitious character. But I beg to differ."
"Why so?"
"I don't know. Never mind," the girl dismissed the thought.
"Go on. Don't be scared. I won't flush you out," the author said.
"Well, it seemed like too profound and intricate a description to be a fictitious character. I mean, I have read your other works. And this was different. It felt like you were in love with this character?"
The author smiled.
"I know people write and have written fictional characters so keenly. But there is something about the protagonist that does not feel fictitious. I may be wrong, and pardon me if I am!"
The author smilingly looked at her.
"It was a 'her'," the author finally said after making the girl dread the silence, for she feared she spoke about it irrelevantly.
"A 'her'?" the girl asked, inquisitive.
"You are right. However, it was a girl, not a boy," the author said.
"Oh yes. It all makes sense now. That poem in the middle of the page!" the girl said as realization slowly grew on her.
The author nodded.
"She lived in my neighborhood. She was beautiful and kind. We were friends. We walked to school together frequently. I fell in love with her. I fell in love with her in a way I didn't love any boy. Even the handsomest boy at school seemed ordinary in front of her. That was the level of her beauty. To me, at least."
The girl clutched her hands to her heart, an "aw" in her throat, waiting to come out.
"She never knew, of course. She later even married into a rich family. And I, an ordinary, good man of my class. I had to hide it from everyone: mother, father, her. It was quite unacceptable back in my time."
The girl did not have the words to express herself.
"What about your husband? People talk about you two like you were soulmates."
"Oh he was gentleman. I know telling him about her would not cause any major trouble. But I would break his heart and he was too good to be broken. He loved me very much, and I am grateful. Grateful for him and my three children and their children. Say, are there any of my descendants alive?"
"I think you have two great-great grand-daughters and two great-great grand sons. They aren't anywhere in the world of fame. Maybe that is why there is little to know about them."
"I am glad! God bless them."
"Why didn't you ever tell her?" the girl asked.
"I don't think I could handle the heartbreak," the author replied.
"But how do you know that it would end in heartbreak? What if she loved you as well?"
"Then at least I died without a heartbreak and that someone so close to my heart, to be my heart, loved me."
"I really hope you meet her wherever you are now," the girl smiled at the author.
"You are the only one that knows."
"Why?"
"I don't know! It was lovely talking to you. I think you should get back to reading my book now, eh?"
Before the girl could answer, the bell rang marking the end of the class session.
A girl barged in. The girl looked to her right. The author was gone. Now, it was only her, sitting in the middle of a white, polished bathroom, in all of its peculiar whiteness.
"Close your mouth while you can.You do not want me to see you drool," the reflection talked.
"Err.. sure," she said.
"Do you know who I am?" asked the reflection.
She didn't answer. For a few seconds, no one spoke.
"Aren't you supposed to be, I don't know, dead?
"Oh I am," the reflection said dismissively.
The girl squinted her eyes trying to find logic in the reflection's statement.
"If I turn around, will you disappear?" the girl asked.
"Why don't you try turning around?" the reflection asked back.
"But what if you disappear?" she asked. "I mean you are THE author!"
"If I do then you will have talked to THE author. If I don't you will have talked to the reflection of THE author," the reflection spoke.
Taking that advice, she turned swiftly. And lo, she didn't disappear.
Taking a quick deep breath, the girl smiled in relief. The stage of surprise lasted for a few more minutes as she gulped down her saliva and wiped her clammy hands on her pants. After this stage of shock, she eventually moved on to the stage of acceptance.
"Oh my god. You are really the author. I don't know how and I don't know why but I don't care! There is so much that I need to talk to you about. There is so much I need to ASK you!" the girl rambled on.
The author stood there calmly. She held her hands in front of her and looked down at this girl, quite amused. She smiled at her rambling fan-girl (a word I assure you she wouldn't be aware of) moment. The girl realized from the expression on the author's face that she was indeed acting like a complete imbecile. She bit her tongue to hold back whatever she wanted to scream, ask, say and show to the author.
Seeing the girl step back from her moment, the author said,"Oh my dear, don't you worry. I won't say a thing. It is just amusing to see how after years of my demise, there are people who remember me."
At this, the girl said in disbelief,"Remember you? REMEMBER you? People don't just REMEMBER you, they talk about you. They read your books. They quote your words. They STUDY you."
"Why don't we take a seat in this white polished bathroom, yes? The floor will do, I suppose? Or would you like to sit on the seats and converse through the walls?" the author asked.
The girl smiled. That humor had always been one of the things that drew her to the author's writings.
They both took a seat on the white tiled floor. It was funny, the white of it all. They sat in silence for some time. None knew how to begin the conversation. Or so it seemed.
"Can I ask you a question?" the girl broke the ice.
"Sure dear. What am I here for?" the author smiled kindly.
"Why did you write the poem you wrote on the 9th of December?"
"Oh! Haha!" the author laughingly said. "Oh that poem was a spontaneous piece of writing. I was sitting under an apple tree when I wrote it. I had some cheese and bread with me and I was bored at a family picnic. Why do you ask?"
"Well, people like to talk about it. They say it is one of your 'masterpieces'."
"Oh is that so? Well, if sitting under an apple tree at a boring family picnic does it, I think any one can be a poet, isn't it?" she smiled naughtily.
"I don't think so. If one can make something out of a boring family picnic, then I think it needs a special skill set," the girl said.
"Do you like the poem?" the author asked.
"Of course. It is not your best work, according to me, but it is very innovative. Your imagery is brilliant," the girl gushed.
"Thank You."
"I want to ask something, but I'm not sure if you would like the question," the girl said timidly.
"Oh dear! I have been dead for quite sometime!" the author exclaimed.
"The book that you are known for. It is about that," the girl said.
"Well, go on. What about it?" the author asked kindly.
"The protagonist of the book. Everyone talks about him assuming him to be a fictitious character. But I beg to differ."
"Why so?"
"I don't know. Never mind," the girl dismissed the thought.
"Go on. Don't be scared. I won't flush you out," the author said.
"Well, it seemed like too profound and intricate a description to be a fictitious character. I mean, I have read your other works. And this was different. It felt like you were in love with this character?"
The author smiled.
"I know people write and have written fictional characters so keenly. But there is something about the protagonist that does not feel fictitious. I may be wrong, and pardon me if I am!"
The author smilingly looked at her.
"It was a 'her'," the author finally said after making the girl dread the silence, for she feared she spoke about it irrelevantly.
"A 'her'?" the girl asked, inquisitive.
"You are right. However, it was a girl, not a boy," the author said.
"Oh yes. It all makes sense now. That poem in the middle of the page!" the girl said as realization slowly grew on her.
The author nodded.
"She lived in my neighborhood. She was beautiful and kind. We were friends. We walked to school together frequently. I fell in love with her. I fell in love with her in a way I didn't love any boy. Even the handsomest boy at school seemed ordinary in front of her. That was the level of her beauty. To me, at least."
The girl clutched her hands to her heart, an "aw" in her throat, waiting to come out.
"She never knew, of course. She later even married into a rich family. And I, an ordinary, good man of my class. I had to hide it from everyone: mother, father, her. It was quite unacceptable back in my time."
The girl did not have the words to express herself.
"What about your husband? People talk about you two like you were soulmates."
"Oh he was gentleman. I know telling him about her would not cause any major trouble. But I would break his heart and he was too good to be broken. He loved me very much, and I am grateful. Grateful for him and my three children and their children. Say, are there any of my descendants alive?"
"I think you have two great-great grand-daughters and two great-great grand sons. They aren't anywhere in the world of fame. Maybe that is why there is little to know about them."
"I am glad! God bless them."
"Why didn't you ever tell her?" the girl asked.
"I don't think I could handle the heartbreak," the author replied.
"But how do you know that it would end in heartbreak? What if she loved you as well?"
"Then at least I died without a heartbreak and that someone so close to my heart, to be my heart, loved me."
"I really hope you meet her wherever you are now," the girl smiled at the author.
"You are the only one that knows."
"Why?"
"I don't know! It was lovely talking to you. I think you should get back to reading my book now, eh?"
Before the girl could answer, the bell rang marking the end of the class session.
A girl barged in. The girl looked to her right. The author was gone. Now, it was only her, sitting in the middle of a white, polished bathroom, in all of its peculiar whiteness.
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