A Present for Christmas: A Story on Love | Thursday Tale No. 17

  Love is complicated, as we may all come to learn. Perhaps one of its greatest challenges is learning when to hold on, and when to let go. Love is not always about grand gestures or perfect timing; sometimes, it is about discernment. 

  A Present for Christmas is a story of tender devotion and intimacy, capturing the quiet courage it takes to honour both your own heart and the heart of someone you love.

A Present for Christmas

Photo by Cnrdmroglu on Pexels.(Cropped from original)

  “I sit on the bench by the beachside, the coldness of its stone tickling my thighs through the thickness of my suit. The yellow lamp that warms the chill of the purple winter evening doesn’t suffice to warm my icicle fingers. The jazz of the crashing waves, the passing breeze, and Mumbai’s traffic behind me fail to entertain my senses. My gaze remains fixed on the lady—clad in a sleek black dress, clutching her lucky black purse in one hand and a brown fur coat in the other—walking towards me. With a gentle movement of her fingers around her ears, she fixes her black hair, which flows to the length of her hip. She smiles, casually outshining her sparkling diamond earrings. I rise as she reaches me, and we meld into a hug. The sudden rise in my pulse hushes as the lavender of her aura suffuses my lungs. Our heartbeats play the same rhythm for a brief moment before we part to sit on the bench that has, in its stony particles, encapsulated our many conversations and silences, smiles and tears. A stillness, but that of the restless and exciting kind, clouds us. We exchange a few pleasantries. Stillness again. I try to smile the uneasiness out, but catch myself becoming mystified by her wine-red lips spreading into a sparkle. Her disposition reflects her poise. My throat bubbles with a blob of praise, but I purse it shut, fearing the escape of any ungraceful remark. I divert my focus and fix it on her fingers, steadily fiddling with the button of her purse, filling the air with clicks. As the moon rises a few degrees above the horizon, the sky grows into a darker hue of indigo, and as the silence slowly relaxes, she mutters. Although I understand, I cannot exactly decode what she says. She clears her throat and, in a feeble sound, unusual to her, says, “I thought I’ll ask you…” and goes on her knees, not minding the sand dusting the blackness of her dress. She holds out a burgundy velvet box, which holds in its chest two priceless things—a single diamond-studded ring and her love for me. Nodding, I kneel with humility and hug the lady, as a warm tear surrenders me to her, and her to me.” 

  “Men too have fantasies of being held,” I had once declared to Ryan.

  And as if she were my eyes, looking into my mind, I was sitting on the bench, its coldness touching my skin through the thickness of my suit, and she was walking towards me in her sleek black gown, clutching her black purse and smoothing her long black hair. The purple winter evening, warmed by the yellow street lamps, was indeed ineffective in warming my brittle fingers. The crashing of waves, the humming of the breeze, and the buzz of Mumbai’s 7 p.m. traffic, with her every stride, that day—the twenty-fourth day of the last month—seemed like an orchestra amplifying into utter pandemonium. 

  Shuffling, I stood up as her steady arms drew me into a hug. The contact of her fur coat, the firmness of her grip, and the steadiness of her heartbeat could not prevent my cold palms from rupturing into a river of precipitation. I felt my heart pound, not faster but denser. I gasped for some air that did not carry the scent of lavender. So I held her shoulder with both my hands, their sweat getting absorbed by the silk of her gown, and gently pushed her away, weaselling out of the hold of what felt like the longest hug we had ever shared.

  I took the support of the bench’s back, which squeaked under my clumsy motion; I watched her sit deftly beside me without stirring the air. She passed a few ceremonious remarks, her smile dazzling as ever. I nodded with smiles, having been defeated by my lips’ resistance to open and my throat’s to produce words. Exhausted, I exhaled deeply, stiffened my back, and gazed ahead, attempting to match her composure. I lost myself in the maturing night, searching for warmth outside my coat. 

At that moment, I felt her cosy palm rest on mine. Momentarily, I felt assured; my pulse fell, and I breathed normally. Feeling secure, I met her eyes with mine, and everything returned to how it had been for many weeks now—coreless.

  She steadily patted my palm, alleviating its chill with a grip neither too constricted nor too unfettered. And as the moon rose a few degrees above the horizon, the sky grew into a darker indigo, and as the silence no longer bothered us, she murmured in a feeble sound, usual to her. I could not decode what she said. She cleared her throat and, in a modulated tone, worded, 

  “I have been thinking about it for a while now, and I thought I’ll ask you…” 

  She got down on one knee and proffered a black velvet box, its chest holding a diamond-studded, illuminating ring. 

  “Will you marry me?” she smiled calmly.

  My heart dropped to the hollow of my feet; I shuddered as the crispy, salty wind of that winter night crystallised me into a pillar. 

  “I turned back. I have failed to follow my reasons,” my mind kept whispering. 

  But I wasn’t always like this. I had always been confident about love. Even when Ryan complained that it was complicated, I seldom agreed. It was not that I ignored the bumpy trajectory of love, but that my understanding of it as a choice, an emotion backed by logic and determination, meant I could never sail the same boat as his. And as if to punish me for my supreme understanding of his mysterious artwork, the God of Love chose to capsize my boat. He pushed me into a perpetual vortex. I was being punished for being too sure, too determined to love the right way.

  I can’t recall when this insensitivity towards her affection first emerged, but I saw it persistently swell into a bulge of impassivity in the pit of my stomach and gradually spread to every bit of my existence. She smiled, and I could not shine it back; she hugged me, but I could not return her warmth; she held my hands, but I couldn’t enfold them; she texted me every day, but I buried my phone under my pillow for hours. 

  Yet in all those weeks of inconstancy, she did not urge me to feel fine; she did not hug me to feel my warmth; she did not want her hands to be held, nor did she call to check on my long virtual absence. Sometimes her mellowness made me wonder whether she had ever loved me. How had I earned the attention, admiration, and affection of the woman of every man’s dream? 

  But then she would appear in front of me with twinkling eyes and a chocolate in her grasp, patting my back for cracking an interview, publishing an article in one of the esteemed newspapers, learning to write with my left hand, or merely participating in a marathon. I would see her joyous lips admire me, and I would melt again into her embrace. But things hadn’t remained the same. Slowly, I had begun melting cautiously.

  One moment I found myself returning to often was a late-night walk, when I had passionately announced, “You complete me.” She had silently agreed, but after a few steps forward in quietness, she differed. “I don’t believe that anybody completes anyone. We are complete in ourselves; we simply complement each other…just like chai and Parle.”

  Her outlook lingered with me for days. I did agree with her. But, perhaps, this was where it began.

“Do not overthink it, bro!” Ryan had said, with which I really agreed; but ever since then, I had stopped taking this matter to him. I hadn’t stopped loving her. I loved her; I still did. But the sensations associated with it had changed. I still admired her independence, her decisiveness and precision, that had crowned her, at the age of twenty-five, as the sole owner of a flourishing food enterprise, a published writer, and a language trainer. I still acknowledged her sensibility and sensitivity towards others. I still appreciated her efforts towards us, but I could no longer afford her as a lover, as another half. The puzzle piece that had once fitted perfectly had somehow enlarged, making me a misfit.

  I had attempted to convey my feelings to her several times, to empty out my thoughts, but I failed every single time. I had wanted it to end smoothly. I had tried to carefully curate the only moment of discomfort in our seven years of togetherness, but her smile, her voice, her touch, her joy, or her pain would always hinder it. Even when she tried to talk to me about it, I could do nothing but nod and assure her that everything was fine. I just couldn’t bring myself to hurt her. Giving up, I had decided to go with the currents of life. 

  And today, she was proposing to me, smiling, and I stood there like the salt pillar of Sodom, discoloured. 

  Not a word crept out of my mouth; all my mental rehearsal had been of little use today. 

  I quickly looked away, wishing to dissolve into the tides. I could not betray her, no; nor could I betray myself. Had I had a chance, I would have artfully eluded that barbarous moment, but I found this to be the only chance to break it off naturally, once and for all. It was at that point that her words from the past resounded, “You should be as important to you as anyone else, in fact, more.”

  A sudden crack of confidence made me wobble my head like a helpless toddler, indicating no. I knelt down. Holding her tender palms, I revealed, in a deflated voice, “I can’t. I don’t think we should be together. Are we not good as we are?” 

  Although anticipating a tsunamic reaction from her, for the first time in many weeks, I was able to look into her glimmering eyes, which, for a situation like that, had remained unflinched. Her wine-red smile widened as she helped us stand. The air, damp with my sweat, swiftly dispersed.

  She sat beside me, relieved. I was immediately drawn to her fingers’ movement as she pulled out another box in a sturdy black coat; it had a gentleman-like bow on top. I looked at her with the kind of confusion I had felt when I first began to know her. She held it out to me, exclaiming, “It took you so long!” I hesitantly grabbed it as she wished me a Merry Christmas. She drew me into a deep hug, smiled, and strode away from the lamp, the bench that steadily gleamed under it, and from me. She did not turn back, despite knowing that I was watching her silhouette grow fainter and vanish.

  I quickly but gently unwrapped the box and lifted its lid, and “puff!”—a butterfly that had been dying to escape fluttered ecstatically out into the cold winter night. I watched it slowly land on the grainy carpet of the sea. I reached out to feel its wings made of paper tied to a metal body with an elastic band. I bowed my gaze to read the text on a piece of white paper in the box; it read, “Letting it free!” lettered in her elegant cursive. Below it was another note, requiring me to squint a little harder to read what was printed: “Keep it not!”

  For a moment, I stood confused. I wondered whether she, the lady of every man's dream, had ever loved me. But now that she was no longer around, her usual remark occurred to me: “Look into my eyes, and you'll know I'm telling you the truth.” At that moment, I knew exactly what she meant; I understood everything that she had ever said and done. I could then, now that she was no longer around, remember the gleam of her smiling eyes from that night, projecting her congealed heart.

  I wound up the rubber band and let it off. I watched it twirl into the night’s breeze. Then I dug a tiny pit two feet under the bench, placed the box in its original construction, and covered it with the coarse sand. 

  I walked without looking back, her voice resounding: “You should be as important to you as anyone else, in fact, more.”

- Mercy Rebonica