There was a crackling of leaves in the deadly silence of the afternoon. His polished shoes were taking eager steps towards the hilltop. She saw him, just fifty meters away. But their eyes would not meet.

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Purabi hitched up her saree and began to ascend. Her steps were slow. She wanted him to reach first. There was joy in making your lover wait. Waiting was essential to their longing. Deliberately, her soft boots took small steps. The silver anklet adorning her ankle was missing. Anklet, her nose ring, finger ring, and the gold chain bearing a pendant enclosing two long married individuals were left at home. To Purabi, they were the testimony of another lifetime. To Digvijay, they meant failure. His failure.

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On the bench, at the top of the hill, she could see him. Digvijay’s broad shoulders and an outstretched arm. Purabi quickened her pace. He could now hear the rustle of leaves caused by her hurry. But the man didn’t move. It was his time to feign neutral indifference at her being late. They loved to play this game of hide-and-seek. Hiding their true love and seeking a show from the other. Neither had confessed to the other about the little sapling in their heart bearing red flowers. Yet, the scent of love couldn’t be contained, and each could feel the flutter of the other’s heart.

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Purabi came to sit next to Digvijay. The bench was cool. Under the vast canopy of the Jacaranda, the April sun felt strong and unwelcome. Purple, delicate flowers carpeted the ground. Purabi picked one and tucked it into her taut bun. Though deprived of a heady fragrance, the flowers were still attractive. Like her love for him, there was no passion, no impatient yearning, and no furious beating of the heart. There was stillness. Absolute calm.

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The sun burned the earth. But the sky appeared a cool blue to them. Without looking at each other, they were absorbed in the sight before their eyes. A kite circled in the cloudless sky. Before swooping down into the valley, it hovered under the sun for some time. The bird was strong enough to take the plunge. They thought. But strength is not a blessing for many, they reminded themselves. Their thoughts, emotions, musings, and breath were coalesced in that space where the kite dominated a while ago.

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Such rulers came and went. Power is tiring, draining, and then, like the kite, the rulers left them to their passivity. Purabi and Digvijay smiled at the empty sky. It was vacant expanse to the Jacaranda tree. It appeared blank to the bench. But it was full of colourful memories for the two worshippers of unrequited love.

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Every day for twenty years, they sat here in the afternoon. Purabi hadn’t never dwelt on the grey in his hair. Digvijay hadn’t lamented on the thinning of her hair bun. The vow to neither see each other nor surrender to longing remained uncompromised in their hearts. They remained passive in love. Floating, allowing the current to carry them.

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From noon to dusk, in the rains, and otherwise, the two met. Breathing the same air exhaled by the other was their elixir of life. Listening to the silence of their love was their reason to live.

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Purabi knew he was not a man who looked for salt in food. Rather, he was the lover who had fallen for the song of her heart. Here, in this nothingness, her heart sang. It chirped and whistled, fluttering its little wings in the sky that they watched.

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Digvijay watched her flight. Once the kite soared, her merry dance would be over. She would take refuge amidst the leaves of the Jacaranda. He, too, would divert his eyes as if she never existed. Once the avian parole was over, she would emerge with a tiny twitter in her beak. Purabi was still the fourteen-year old girl he had met in the bazaars of Mussoorie.

The sky was still the colour of her soft blue jhumka. Every time she turned to steal a glance at him, her jhumka quivered. On getting caught by his intense gaze, the jhumka turned a shade deeper.

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He could never soak in the golden glint of her eyes. The moment he decided to dive deep into her eyes, his heart melted, and suddenly, a man who played catch with enemies at the border felt defenseless. He who was once entranced by the shimmer of her jhumka’s delicate motifs—how could he withstand the radiance of her gaze?

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Under the Jacaranda, on top of the hill, sitting next to each other, memories were relived.

The sky dropped its blue shawl, and now, parts of its pink skin glowed in the diffusing sunlight. Purabi plucked out the jhumkas from her purse and wore them. For twenty years, the shine was eternal. Some things don’t change with time and weather. Lying locked as a treasure, they gain polish and lustre.

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The tinkle of her jhumka was like the extension of her shy hand. He would hold on to the moment. Like he had clung to the memory of her walking through the bazaar.

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Just before the night fell, the kite again brushed into their sight.

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The day he fell in love with her; she was busy shopping for her engagement. The day she lost herself to him, he was called away for the war.

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But not everything was lost. The Jacaranda tree was kind to them. The sky was benevolent enough to let them love beneath its grace. The bench never overheard their muted musings. The purple flowers showered them with approval. Yes, all is fair in love and longing.

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As if a bottle of black colour was splashed, the sky plummeted into darkness. Purabi detached the earrings from her earlobe. She carefully removed the purple flower, beautifying her mane. Placing it on the bench, she got up to leave.

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The downhill descent, buried in darkness, was arduous. The longing to glimpse his radiant face lingered like a weight upon her heart. The defiant voice that defied every vow would awaken in her, driving her straight into his waiting arms. Then would her love remain the same once she was united with him? Was she ready to see the lows that came with the happily ever after? Strength is not the blessing of many; she was reminded by his steady, watchful eyes, admiring her retreating figure from the top.

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Digvijay picked the flower that had caressed her. The flower smelled wonderful. The scent would enthrall him through the night. Tomorrow, when the sun would scale up in the sky, he would return, and she would follow. The night was a short interval in their love story.

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Till then, the tree, the sky, and the bench would dream about their happily ever after. They would retire to the world the kite had ascended to with a promise to soar again.