Certain words created a certain kind of silence. Certain
innocuous sentences sometimes drove the conversation into a cul-de-sac, where
there’s no way to carry the conversation forward and no way to rewind the
conversation after it had run into that ditch. That much is the weight of those
certain words. But as long as silence persists, even when there’s cessation of
complete attention, that which is unspeakable still finds a way to be
communicated.
All it needs is a sign.
A whole different world can be created in the ocean of
silence, as long as it is left unexplained, because that is what makes it so
unique, a different song for every set of ears, where different possibilities
environ what may, sometimes, seem like the fact.
Its incomprehensibility is fascinating. It's fascinating how
revealing silence can be, how heavy some words can seem, so much so that you
have to come to a halt and put yourself into a reverie so that you may have a
few minutes to yourself, to get back in a time where the past now stood improbable
then. And no amount of scintillating wit can outshine this kind of silence. It
isn’t necessarily sad but it’s much more than that; it’s evocative. It's
bittersweet. If you try to add another layer to it, it might be lethal.
This kind of silence is special. Not only to the person
who's responsible for its inception, but also to the other person who tries to
develop it into something comprehensible so that they could caper with its various
possibilities.
Most of the times, there’s no way to know what it’s trying
to suppress or erase. So there’s a curiosity, an implacable need, to just know,
to make the other person divulge to quench your own thirst. But it seldom
happens, so you oddly stay connected to them. And that is what it creates. A
connection.
What do they know, right? You probably know all
that they try so hard not to show, but you can’t solicit for their validation
because one can never be too sure about someone else’s feelings. They know that
too. Here, all direct communication fails to hold the fort. This kind of
silence is clever.
But in your own mind, away from their thoughts or feelings,
you’ve already created your patchy story which doesn't have an ending, and
they're probably wondering how you're doing that. And you do too. So you might
worry, that the picture you've painted might be too grotesque than what it
really is, or too humdrum than how it really is.
Sometimes you wonder if they really know that you know, and
it is all that you search for in their eyes. A simple smile may reveal that
they cherish it, a certain clairvoyant look may tell you how much they regret
it; how much they wish to never have stumbled upon those words, how much they
wish now that they could start the conversation all over again and feel a
little less, how much they wish to learn to let go instead or...how much they
wish that they could talk to you about it. But will you be interested? What if
it's too much for you? What if you get disappointed to hear that it was just a
first world problem? What if it was "just nothing"? What if...
This kind of silence is a perpetual interval, it's an empty space. A pause. A time left unexplained. It's a hole in the history; for both of
you. So, how do you bring someone back from such silence?
Do you simply touch their hand and gently squeeze it?
Do you keep looking at them, placidly deciphering, and
watching all the small movements of their body until after it's over?
Do you just keep listening for a sigh and then say
"Anyway..."?
Do you just nod your head and then look down and then up
again?
Do you smile or do you feel sorry?
Do you laugh or do you frown?
Do you never say anything, do you never do anything?
And without saying anything, how do you end the silence
which has now become part of the conversation itself, the conversation which
amalgamated into this silence so effortlessly?
And without saying anything, or on having missed the sign,
How do you tell them...that you understand?
And how do you know, that they know that you understand...
