She moves to another city.

1:07 PM

The road was watery and the trees were more than green and there were hints of droplets on my leather jacket; winter had arrived way earlier. To put the stats in order, this was no ordinary year, anyway. She was going.

The girl, who dislodged my senses with her magnificent humor and a case study on balloons, and the girl who had a Vocabulary Quotient more than a native Britisher, and the girl who was almost always drunk with her thoughts and in her own world, she was going to the only goddamned place I ever wanted to go. And she was going today.

I was waiting for the phone to buzz, so that I could pick it up, which had supposedly fallen in love with the charging cable and leave. Looking out of that window, I could see her laughing like a mad-woman, with her hair tucked to her ear and her eyes, glittery, and a smile that could cure depression, and she seemed happy. The kind of happy a child is. The kind of innocence there's in a toddler was there in her, the kind of innocence that makes you question your own honesty and beliefs.

The phone didn't buzz and the scenes in my head changed but the paradise continued. She was sitting on the outside-stairs that are there in the city that never sleeps, with a beer in her hand and she was singing in her melodious-pure voice and she didn't care. She didn't care about the world and she didn't care about what others would think. It was her kingdom and she was the queen. And when the queen leaves, people shed tears.

Another day she was travelling in the subway and she remembered her life here and she missed it, not the kind of missing you do when you want something, but the kind of missing you do when you miss the people inside it not the place, Not the food, but the feelings.

And the phone rang, like the last bell rings at school announcing with its entire ferocity and lungs that you can now stuff your bags and get the hell out of here. She was going. 

I cruise passed the exit 27 and then steered on to the Airport-Express way. It's funny how the radio-stations don't play happy songs when you are happy but they know exactly what to play when you are sad. The long ride seemed short, and with every kilometre I passed, the distance between her and me increased thousand folds; Miles away. She was going miles away, not coming back, and why would she, and this was paradise and this was hell and I realised hell and paradise existed inside our heads and not in some lounge made by god.

Now, the security at airports is like the only terrorist in the history of human era is you and they might even agree to check the color of your underwear if they could and it was so damn boring to just stand there till they checked my bag. I mean, okay it was a bag, and okay it had a typewriter, but how can you expect a man as skinny as me and with a typewriter in his bag and literature in his eyes think that he could be a terrorist.

She was talking to her mother, about something that was not very audible and not very I-have-to-know kind, so I let it go and touched her mother's feet, not out of mannerism because I have to ace this beauty, but for her magnificent efforts in manufacturing a beauty so pure, who was sitting right in front of me, in a black dress and few brown strands of hair in front of right eye.

I imagined saying "Can I take your daughter to the other side of Airport because we have got stuff to do?" to her mom but it sounded boyfreindish and I was not her boyfriend and so I gave her the typewriter and her Mom went away.

"I am glad we are doing this, Abhishek." she said, still smiling like going out of town was her everyday schedule and this was nothing new.

"I am glad you are glad." I said.

She started and Typewriter came to life and the page was fixed, and the keys were punished and the key-heads were punishing the paper and we had blood on the paper which read something like this :

You are such an ass you didn't even tell me that you will miss me.

and then

I wont miss you, sweetheart. Do I even look like someone who misses anything?

and then

Liar. Liar. Your scrawny ass on fire.

and then

Bitchy Bitch. Why are you so stinking rich?

and then

Poor Pardy, why are you so tardy?

and then

You are not hot. You are a bread in the toaster, that mom just forgot to turn off.

and then

Fuck you

and then

I will miss you. I am missing you right now. Like you are here but a part of you is on that airplane, waiting for its engines to roar and fly you away and take you home because that's where you belong and I will miss you.

and then

You are a gem. And now Shut up, we are not going to ruin it and I am taking this with myself and I will bring thousand copies if you want but when I come back and I will frame this on the wall of my room, and let you be jealous.

And just like that. From Bitch to angel, from liar to gem, that's how we shifted gears. There is a thing about friendship that you just cant make the connection go away if the connection itself is real and if the feelings are genuine because even if you met them after a thousand years you'd still have the same jokes to laugh and same feelings to ponder upon and no demons could ever demolish that bond.

She stood up, put the typewriter inside the bag and announced, "I want a beer."

Alcohol, what a lovely creation. It makes you feel on top of the world and I wondered why couldn't I be drunk for the rest of my life? Then I realised I have a family and they hate alcohol.

After six-fifty-mili-litre of 7-8-percent liquor, things started to get blurry and she started to get more awesome, and time started to run and the engines started to roar and the airport people started to swift like the plane would leave them and leave. And I wanted the plane to leave without her.

She hugged her parents, like when the cricketers make a hurdle kind of hug, and there were salt drops on her cheeks and it didn't rain sweat inside the airport and she hugged them and they didn't let her go, and I wondered what do parents think of when they send their child miles away? And how do they calm their nerves? And I realised that's why they are called parents.

They eventually let her go and told them they loved her and she told them She loved them more and they smiled and even her dad cried and she walked up to me and I tried to give her a smile but it was like my smile was also departing on that airplane, and I put my arms in the air and she crashed on my shoulders and I felt stabbed, stabbed in the heart with a bucket of flowers ad stabbed in the face with a bucket of alcohol and stabbed in the eyes with a bucked full of love and stabbed all over my body, with a bucket full of life. She was amazing. And she was going. And I missed her before she even left.

She picked up her bags, all of them, like a Greek goddess and dispatched to the flight that would take her to New York. I hoped that sleep would never hit her, like it doesn't hit the city, because there is a thing called talking and another called time lag.

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