The Visitor

There was a knock on the door. Three quick smooth raps. Uniformly spaced.

It reeked of an easy comfortable familiarity- the kind which makes you fearful: what if you had never known this, what you would have missed, how much you would have missed and worse what if this suddenly disappears.

I do not know why she knocked. She knew the doors were open. Perhaps she was announcing her arrival in case I had company. But who else would visit me at this hour? It was half-past two.

She pushed the door. A gentle squeak and squeal that followed alerted my heartbeat and lungs. The door was opening. My heartbeats were growing at an increasing pace. The door was being opened. My lungs, it seemed, were not able to keep up with the heart. The door swung open. The room became noisy. It was the noise of thoughts, of breathing and of beating heart. It was the noise of life of trying to hold on to anything- anything for hope and purpose. It was the noise of life trying every way to live and keep living.

It added to an already uncomfortable summer night. It was a sweltering July in Delhi. The wind was infuriatingly still. It was a day when perspiration surfaced on your forehead, your cheeks, the bridge of your nose and ran in rivulets down your face. I had sprinkled some water on my bed to absorb some of its heat. The desert cooler had given up a long time back. The sweat had salted my eyes and salted the cut over my eyes and on my forehead. The back of my t-shirt clung to me like I was its sole companion.

As she entered, she was accompanied by a gush of cold soft wind. It was as if the breeze carried her spirit and gentle ways. It fluttered around and the cold tickled against my expecting skin. It ran through my veins, caressing my lungs and insides of my heart, filling me with a nostalgic, calm happiness.

The wind rushed in and filled the room with a faint and delicate perfume- the one she often wears. Earthy and mossy. A light blend of flowers. Tad woodsy and musky. But I am seldom correct about these things.

I heard tick-tacks of her feet. Her steps were out of sync. A little heavy on the third. Perhaps one leg was stopping a little short. Anticipation filled between these increasingly prominent clicks. She came and sat beside me. 
….
She visits me often.