Love Short Story – The Awaited Call
Photo credit: mconnors from morguefile.com
It wasn’t just a mundane Friday. The newspaper boy whistled and flung the Telegraph, targeting our balcony in the same manner he had been doing it, for the last three years, the milkman cycled at our doorstep and casually placed the milk cartons on the stiles as usual, our maid-servant washed the utensils with the same shabby Scrotchbite, making that same cranky noise and my father bore the same old satisfied look in his eyes as he took the first sip from his tea-cup, just like every other morning. Yet, it wasn’t an ordinary Friday.
It was a special day for me. I was thrilled. I felt peace that prevailed all over my mind and felt happiness every time I inhaled and exhaled. I perceived the joyful quivers which overcame my body on and off, sensed my heart jig, was conscious about a demure smile that I wore since I woke up and a pair of wistful eyes and ears keeping a vigil on the red telephone set, pensively longing for a single phone-call from Anurag. He promised that he would call me that day, to confirm the time when he’d be free on Saturday so that we could spend a few hours over a hot cappuccino at Flury’s!
My father read from somewhere that cell phones are tremendously detrimental to our brains and resolved to put a strict bar on the usage of it, in our home. So both my mother and I, were left with no other option other than taking refuge in the medieval modification of Alexander Graham Bell’s creation- the landline telephone set. And all the calls from far and near were sent and received by it.
I decided to sit close to the telephone, with my books, so that I could be agile enough to pick up Anurag’s call, even if he had rung it for a fewer number of times. Analysis has always been my favourite subject and I betted that nothing in this world can shun away my fascination for it. But, that Friday was surprisingly different. My vision swayed into some unknown direction and my thoughts wandered away for some unventured destination, which even my Analysis failed to hold back. I never noticed when I let my neck lean behind on the backrest of the sofa, looking up at the ceiling, until I was startled by a vivacious ringing of the phone. In a fraction of a second, standing up on my toes, flinging aside the “Tom Apostol”, I vigorously grasped the receiver and answered the call with an enthusiastic “Hello!”.
The voice in the opposite was a familiar female voice that said, “Where’s your mom ?”.
–“She’s in the kitchen, please hold on…”
I called my mom who hurried in, wiping her hands with her anchal to answer the phone of her ex classmate Debjani Mitra, while I returned to the sofa with slower paces, a thin layer of despair veiling me all over and a sigh. Dragging my old chum “Apostol” closer, I placed a pitiful glance on the Constant of Integration. Or perhaps, I pitied myself as I related my inner soul with those harmless constants which are always ignored, once the integration is over. I wondered, how did the constant feel when the mathematician reduced it to an insignificant issue? Didn’t it want the integrating process to be quite prolix so that it could stay in the process for some more time? Were those constants happy with their roles in an integration? … Several other abstract thoughts started hovering over my mind, when I suddenly noticed that my mother was still on the phone and figured out from the conversation that it wasn’t going to end soon. It was almost an hour, my mom and Debjani aunty had been talking and that annoyed me! I grew restless.
What if Anurag called me in between and found the phone busy? What if he didn’t try calling me up for a second time? What if he had tried to call me up a hundred times in this one hour and finally gave up?
I grew so angry on my mom and also my father for not letting us use personal cell phones. I blamed both of them, mentally and tried to concentrate on my old friend, Analysis. Just a few minutes past an hour, my mom hung up the phone and went away. And I gave away a sigh of relief as if I meant “Ah finally, it’s all mine again!” But it took me no time to shed my loyalty towards my Analysis and indulge my thoughts in sailing away to the telephone and the call from Anurag…
Hours trudged like years, still no call yet. At one point of time, I got up from the sofa to check if the receiver was placed properly and the line wasn’t dead. Ensured that everything’s fine, I returned to my place and started fidgeting with my book; both my ears remained alert. Just after I had my lunch finished, our red telephone-set shook once again, with a vigorous ringing.
“Now, this has to be Anurag”, I told to myself and answered the call with a poised “Hello!”
The solemn masculine voice from the opposite answered, “Hello, may I speak to Mr. Bose?”
–“Sorry, I think, you have dialled the wrong number”
Disheartened again and with the veil of despair more thickened than before, I sat down loosely on the sofa. Keeping aside my old friend, I closed my eyes and started recollecting every moment I spent with Anurag before – the day we first met at Park Street when he caught a bad cold, blowing his nose in his vest that he carried with himself, the moment I first came to know that he is a vegetarian, the moment when I looked into his eyes and smiled at him, the moment he first held my hand in a crowded metro rail as he travelled all his way to see me off to my home, the moment I sat beside him and not in the opposite so that I could touch him “accidentally”, every moment we speak of life and philosophy, the moment he smashed the puny mango-shot glass, the moment he brought French fries for me as I wanted to have some, the moment he first gave a “heart” and “kiss” emotion in my fb chat box, the moment he first told me how he wanted to kiss me when I smiled and the moment when I wanted to kiss him back but immediately cast away my glance, so that my
desire is unnoticed. I never realised myself, how he started to mean so much to me, how unknowingly, his actions started controlling my emotions and how I started to fall for him, without any preparation!
Yes, at times hours do trudge like years as it did that day. I waited for Anurag to call but received no call from him, yet. But I didn’t have the guts to call him and confirm the time. I wasn’t afraid of him, but may be I didn’t want to disturb and allowed him to inform me at his own time. Or perhaps, I was afraid of my call not being answered or deliberately rejected as I’ve always been scared of rejection.
The afternoon sun bade farewell and introduced us to the wintry evening of January. Putting on my indigo jumper, I logged onto my fb to check if he had dropped any message. But no, he didn’t do it either. And that made me so cross with Anurag. I wondered, how could a person be so busy, reckless and more specifically “insensitive” that he didn’t even care to inform! I was vexed and made up my mind at that very minute, that I’d be calling him and ask about the time when we’d meet the next day. I marched straight to the phone, confidently picked up the receiver but drowned every morsel
of my newly-gained confidence as I started to dial his number. My fear of rejection held me back again, so tightly this time…
The wall clock ticked to late hours of night and with that my disappointment escalated. No call from Anurag yet. Thoughts made my mind heavy -did it mean, he wasn’t zealous to meet me the next day? Or, was he trying to circumvent me? Did he unfasten every term with me? Had I been so insignificant in his life that he became completely oblivious to informing me about a mere time? By then, I was completely veiled with melancholy. My heart stopped its jig long back and listlessly sat in one corner of my soul. No longer there was gaiety in my breath, rather I sighed. My joyful quivers
disappeared while my eyes moistened on and off. And then I felt a sensation of crying accumulating inside my throat. I realised that, one small imbalance in controlling my emotion and it would become impossible to stop myself from letting it outburst in the form of weeping. Grieved and heart-broken, I skipped my dinner as I didn’t want my parents to figure out from the twitching of my lips and a pale face, that I’ve been morose about something.
It was fifteen past eleven and I didn’t expect any more call, not from Anurag at least. I retired to my room, closed the door behind, crept to my bed and rested my head on the pillow. The soft pillow tried it’s best to comfort my exhausted brain and it’s protective skull, but my uncontrolled tears drenched it in return…
__END__
