It’s raining by the time I reach the bridge. Under me is the Nila. On both sides. On my right is the broken bridge. I wonder if someone fell through it when it broke. It’s raining heavily, each drop heavy and full. I look at her, she’s barely there. It’s the first rains I think, she will emerge soon enough.
It’s raining again. We stop to pay the toll fee. The new bridge was built years ago, but they still collect the toll fee. It’s Rs 3 for both ways. Crossing the bridge we reach a different district altogether. Is it a different her in this district? I look down, she’s barely there. Sand, sand and more sand.
Two drops, one on each shoulder. It hasn’t rained in a few days. Evening walks have become more regular now. Today I took the narrow bridge that crosses over fields. I imagined the grass beneath sitting on a bed of water. If I fell over, each foot would feel get enveloped in wet mud and water. It’s going to rain. I wonder if she’s arrived yet. I wait for another drop to fall, this time right on my forehead. There’s a peacock, a kingfisher and a cow on one side of the field. The side where the sun is setting. I turn and walk home.
It has rained all night. There is no power at home. I lie down in my box-like room, windows wide open. But the air is still and I begin to sweat. There’s a single green mango, hanging from the tree outside. I lay staring at it. There’s not much else to do, on a balmy afternoon but wait for it to rain again. I imagine getting up and going toward the window. I reach my hand out, squeezing it between the rods of the window and pull the branch toward me. The mango is not easy to pluck, it’s nowhere near ripe enough. I pull and twist and tug and pluck it. The branch swings back sharply, the leftover rain from the leaves spraying into the room. I imagine going back to bed and biting into the raw mango, it’s tartness not causing the slightest twitch on my face. I eat till the seed is white and bare. The trees outside begin to sing in chorus. It rains. I sleep.
Endless green stretches out in front of me, to the sides, leaving a trail behind me. It’s a bright green as if every single leaf holds a drop of water. I wonder what a blade of grass would taste like. Green, I suppose. I walk hastily. It’s almost irritating how long this is taking. I wonder why I am waiting, I didn’t come for this. But then again I can’t imagine having been here and not having seen her. I see glimpses through the trees now. I’ve forgotten where the path gives way and leads down to the bank. When I find it,I find sand. I keep walking on the sand. Someone is doing yoga, that someone is White. I walk till my feet hit water. And then there’s just enough water to slip between my toes. There’s more ahead but even that holds little promise. On the other side there are some women walking down to take a bath. They seem to have enough water to take a dip in the river. But she isn’t here, not for me anyway. Not today anyway. Not the her I want to see anyway.
I don’t step out today. I didn’t yesterday, or the day before. And maybe the day before that. I don’t know why I’m not going back. Maybe I will tomorrow. It’s what I said yesterday. It rains everyday, every few hours. Sometimes a drizzle, sometimes with thunder and lightening. The mango has fallen. I stare at the empty branch and will another one to grow. It hasn’t yet, so I continue staring.