Snigdha

It is very soothing when amidst a vast expanse of heartlessness you find someone who listens. They don't talk or give you any miracle advice, or point out your follies. All they do is listen. And understand. Make life easy. This is in the memory of such a friend.

I had first met her in college. In the dark labyrinth of the floor above the chapel, there she was. Snigdha. For all things nice and beautiful. For peace and love. And comfort. Often I felt like sleeping on the couch in her room. To me, her room held the promise of a world where all the dark fears would be banished by her radiance. 

When I talked to her, hours slipped by. She rarely interrupted, only punctuating the conversation with an occasional nod or a half-smile. Something in her eyes told me she could feel it all. Sometimes I wondered if I could see a drop glistening in her eyes. Sometimes I wondered how could she could see right through me, empathise so much.

In the final year, I was very busy. I let go of the habit of going to the chapel. Or climbing up the stairs to her room. Then one day I did. She wasn't there. Her husband had been fighting cancer, and he couldn't keep it up. She loved him too much. I knew nothing of this. At a time when I was moving on, she must've been struggling. At a time when she listened to me, she must've wanted to talk too. I called at her number after that. I don't why. The phone just kept ringing.

I wonder if she ever thought of me. If during those days she wanted to reach out to me. Or maybe I was just another needy kid. The feeling that I get when I think of her is a strange mix of peace and grief. Of knowing that she was there. And that she'll still be.