Snapshot: Hiding behind the banner of The Chronicler: Love Is In The Air!
Oh, yes! Final week of lecture is over and now comes the study week. It's study week but to some, me included, part of it is a pre-holiday! And when it's pre-holiday, i'm off back to KL and what more, it's Deepavali!
But that's not for this post yet; lets recap the final week...
As usual, everything piles up nearing the end of the semester. Piling up, i mean, tests, assignments and reports. Yes, i had two tests in the final week and both proved real challenge. Time was limited and i can only hope for the best based on what i had done. And reports and assignments to be completed so that i can leave back to KL without bringing them home.
And event management and club obligations to finalize. The final event this semester from our beloved ELC was The Chronicler: Love Is In The Air. It was a night to remember, and The Chronicler will always be in my blood. It is an effort we had initiated and i believe that people can recognize The Chronicler with ELC and has ELC signature all over it. Either way, i'm part of making history!
The night was fun-filled with performances by ELC singing team, Flamin' Lips and a debut solo performance of my own, Falling Slowly, on the piano. If not for The Chronicler, i will never develop courage to sing in public and this is something i will forever cherish. Though i may not be an extraordinary singer with powerful vocals, the night was an escape to have fun and through this small thing, big things are initialized. And when these big things are initialized, it's an achievement altogether.
Since it was a creative writing competition, prizes were given to winners for each category on the night. The theme was love and as a fond writer of this genre, i submitted an entry for short story. First placings are known as the Papyrus Award winners. I won runner's up. Not that bad, given the limited time i had to craft the story. I posted it up here for, once again, your viewing pleasure!
Titanic
Standing next to her watching the waves on the screen peaked and collapsed in rhythm and in sync with her heartbeat, I could not fight a tear and withheld it from running down my cheeks. As I moved nearer to the bed, nearer to her, I reached for her hand and interlocked my fingers against hers. The sense of warmth and care that she had bestowed upon me was felt to the core, and in every visit, I had never felt any less than before.
Whenever I looked into the mirror, I don’t see myself. I see a part of her in me, and a part of myself that she had changed with her tenderly kind hands. Nobody could have predicted that I’d be with a woman as graceful and as perfect as she is.
The problem wasn’t her; it was me. I was never the most charming man, I was never an academic top-scorer, and neither was I an athlete. And I wasn’t just any ordinary, go-to-school-to-study boy. I was a bully, or a member of a bully team that everyone feared. To say the least, it was fun playing catch with nerdy boys’ lunchboxes. But those joys were temporary and never satisfying, until one day when I realized we were over the limit and it was time to stop. How ironic, bullies never know where the line is drawn and when it’s crossed. But I wasn’t any ordinary, go-to-school-to-bully boy either. I was a bully with, at least, a heart.
She was the victim; it had to be her for it to knock onto my senses; but not of lunchboxes, of course. It was her physical appearance that grabbed the attention of my buddies. They called her names, they gave her labels, and every time she meets them or they meet her, it was those dirty, foul languages coupled with the unpleasant names that greeted her before anything else. I thought that she couldn’t care because she never responded to us. But when I was walking home after school one day, Tuesday, I heard deep, sorrowful weeps. Somehow, I was not the same person as when I was in my group. I was attracted by the sound and followed to the source. She was there, sitting by the drain with a damped tissue in her right hand. She used the back of her left palm to wipe the remaining tears off her cheek.
“Are you alright?” I asked and she jumped from the ground, retracted. She was silent and trembling. “It’s alright. I won’t hurt you.” I thought how silly I was to say that. In her eyes, I’m a bully. “Are you ok?” I attempted again, hopeful. She shook, then nodded as if I was going to attack her if she says she’s not fine. I lifted my hand and tried to touch her but she took it the other way and pushed my arm away.
“You’re just like any other bully!” she barked, turned her back towards me and ran.
“I’m not like them,” I responded, chasing her.
“Just get away from me. And stop disturbing me!” She turned the other way when ran in front of her.
“Look. Tell me. What did they do to you?”
“As if you care! You’re just going to do what they did.”
“What did they do?” I felt agitated not knowing what terrible thing they had done. I had imagined the worst. And I wasn’t sure why I felt the fear for her.
She was a classmate of mine. I didn’t realize she was until I saw her sitting somewhere in the front two rows of the class the next day. She was smiling, as if whatever happened the day before vanished and disappeared. Our English teacher, Miss Azizah came in and she told us we were doing a drama. And it was Phantom of the Opera. I was the Phantom, she was Christine.
Even though we were given roles to act, she never wanted to look at me. She looked, but not really looking. It was the same fear I saw in her eyes the day I first saw her. And even though she was my drama teammate, I thought they would have respected her more but I was proven, miserably, wrong.
I stood up for her in front of them; I thought that was the right move to show her and the rest that I was not pure bully. From that one time, my head was on the chopping board between her and them. I thought the choice was simple; again, I was wrong. I suffered several bruises in a brawl, I became the victim, and I understood how it felt like to be physically threatened. She was not, but it was no less painful if it’s hurting from the inside. And I could not fathom the agony those I had inflicted upon.
It was a sacrifice that came with a reward. I earned her trust and she began to
reciprocate. It was a first step; a long-shot, worth-it first step. We played real-life version of Phantom of the Opera; I was both the Phantom and Raoul.
We grew closer and closer each day for years. And from friends, we became close friends. Then one day, she told me something perplexing.
“Jack, there is something you need to know. We can be friends and I like your company, but we can, and must, never fall in love.” It sounded like a warning. A foretell she had seen, perhaps a premonition.
“What do you mean?” I asked in hope of finding the answer but it was never answered. She always left me puzzled by her request.
“Because falling out of love is more painful than falling into love. Just, promise me that we will not be together.” I promised, but how can you keep a promise you never want to fulfill? And that you never fully understand?
I could feel a warm sensation against my face and when I opened my eyes, I was resting my head on her bed, sitting on the chair with my hands still locked between the fingers. It was like our memories were bound between us and never wanting to let them go. It was four years. Four years of loneliness, four years of frightened days to wait for calls from the hospital and four years of putting my hopes high up as the moon and miracles to shine. Four years of uncertainties. Four years, a long time had passed but one thing for certain that didn’t change is the love I have towards her. It was a promise I was all ready to bend and break.
I released her hand and slowly retracted. I wanted to close the curtain to shadow
the bright light on her face. I remembered how she used umbrella even when it was not blazing hot. But in the midst of pulling out, I felt a tinge on my hand. I thought it was me. Then, I felt it once more. And another time.
I pressed the remote excitedly for the doctor. She began to open her eyes. Little by little, I saw her dark hazel brown eyes shooting rays onto mine. She looked at me, stared at me, baffled.
“It’s me, Rose. It’s me,” I said, with a happiness that soon subsided by another fear. She said nothing and continued to stare at me. The doctor rushed behind me and I took a step back.
It was clear like crystal to me now what she meant. She feared a moment like this. She feared if she will lose me or I will lose her, and how we will both cope and live life. She believed that the first love is the hardest to forget, the hardest to let go. But when I’m now at this cross-road, there clearly is no cross-road at all. It was a one-way path, no returning back, and I knew that for the actions that I will soon make, I will never regret.
The doctor left and before he went, he told me Rose was suffering memory losses. No matter how scientifically right he may be, I choose to defy science and believe otherwise- that there’s a chance for love. I walked into the room with a confidence she had taught me.
“Rose, I don’t know if you can remember me but for one thing you need to know is that I was by your side the moment you woke up. I was beside you, sitting on that chair for the many days. And if you don’t remember me, you must know that I’m always by your side; past, present and future.”
In every sight, I see you.
In every touch, I feel you.
And in every life,
I find you.
I reached out for her hand and gently kissed behind her palm. She looked at me with
a radiant smile pictured across her face.
“Jack.”
(1493 words)
The organizing team with me and the banner.
wc10 & The Chronicler!
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