Dreaming a four-leafed clover
Summer day. The cheery yellow color of my t-shirt was somehow suggestive of the bright sun shining above merrily. There was this place, nested in the lap of a nearby lush green hill, with wild flowers and a small flat spread. This piece on earth was not mown, landscaped and adorned as the many luscious-to-the-eye lawns I had been to, neither were the weeds plucked out as chastisement for what us superior beings would condescend as their audacious dare of survival in an otherwise fairly uniform patch of green grass. However, I was never bothered about the different green botanic species or the ungroomed wild flower plants there, because above any charlatan eye-candy, this place was one I sensed some inscrutable comfort in. The place was close to my college and I would sneak there all alone, never notifying about the mere existence of ‘my place’ to anyone. Despite my college having been quite a landmark, this place was surprisingly untainted and for me, there was a welcoming solace in my solitude here. After college hours, I stealthily went there, with the flat scentless evening breeze gently greeting my face, and fondling my hair. My hair was something I held very dear, for it required so much patience and care growing it out. Many were not particularly fans of my hair, but this somber greeting wind would never miss a beat caressing it and thereby flattering me. Then my bag with college niceties would rest in the grass, and my burden of thoughts would sit down there with myself. I used to most often rest almost laid down with my left leg stretched out, the right twisted and the right hand resting on my knee while my other hand stuck back affirming me in this pose. However my mood would be, a rehearsed staring at the abyss dwelling around my thoughts was a constant. My resting hand always somehow left my knee and ran through the grass, then plucked out a clover at the very instant of my fingers sensing the frail stem of it. My eyes would then close and a “please be a four leafed, please be a four leafed, please be a four leafed… “ pledge ran through my mind before my eyes opened. And to my disappointment it would never be one. It felt as if the three leaves in front of my eyes used to giggle at me in sync. Then I would throw them as far from my sight as I could, and then have myself smiling at this hopeful childish routine of believing in good luck.
Would I call the place ‘my happy place’? Rather not, because despite some days having me cruise in beatific spells of my imagination, most days had me listening to Regent’s Park or similar sad songs, or voraciously scanning through some Colleen Hoover gourmet, upset at my loneliness and staring with moist eyelids upwards at this big blue hat of the world, which was some days laden with cotton clouds of different shades of gray, while some days was vivid clean with a baby shade of blue.
Jumping back to that sunny day, it was not an after college exercise of any sort. My yellow top would camouflage sunflowers which I got for her, and my anxious cheeks blushing at the prospect of the day were a shade lighter than the roses which served as the sunflowers’ camaraderie in the bouquet. I got the bouquet for her while going to receive her near my college. It was not the first time we were meeting. However, the commensaling green plants of my place’s field were unaware of the first foreign intruding shoes. It were the person who thinned my private meetings with my place, as my post college hours staple routine now was staring at my cell phone screen exchanging texts back and forth with her, nimble-voiced video calls post midnight, talking about virtually everything.
The guest shoes were white canvases, which went so well with the sundress she had put on. Mercy, she in her sundress. As if Rhapso had arrested the fabric of the sky of perfect deep blue and stitched it together and arrayed it into her body. Pink stripes going on it were the colors of the butterflies I was having in my stomach. Her slender, creaseless arms that laid out from the sleeves were fair like snow-sculpt and her fidgeting hands appeared to be inviting me to hold them and lock my fingers on hers, her svelte and lean, delicate fingers.
As I collected some composure to look into her eyes that had my heart on a chokehold for quite some time, it was ominous they were shielded by sunglasses. However, her radiating face with porcelain-like skin was repetitively sending me into questioning the tangible existence of this moment but had me helplessly smiling in my daydream at its existence only in my thoughts. She was heavenly fragrant with how one could imagine a lavender field laden with honey suckle. I couldn’t even articulate a word, while Cupid, that sly bastard must have laid his bow upon her lips and hit me with a bullseye with the smile she flung at me. Her lips, like dark rose petals drenched in romance, were making me think it would be a travesty to not sincerely accompany them with mine.
I don’t know how did I collect some composure, but essentially and thankfully I did, greeted her with the bouquet, had my soul melt and drip at the wide smile she wore on getting it, but gathered my poise back and in my nicest, softest but rather trembling voice asked her to be walking with me at ‘my place’.
It was a walk of about five minutes from there. Only some of the road was paved and the rest was somewhat a bush-fenced alley. With my heart still throbbing at great pace I was unaware of taking long strides, making it difficult for her to keep up. She brought me to a halt a couple of times but every word I was hearing from her was as if moistened with elixir stupefying my senses through my eardrums. Very foolishly I was pacing ahead again when I felt something slither in my hand. Her delicate fingers slid through my palm and grasped my fingers surprisingly firmly. She held my hand for the first time and I couldn’t even know how to react to it. We just smiled at each other and then kept on walking while I was sincerely hoping the alley to route around the moon and back if it meant I would be walking with her hand in mine. But in no time, we reached my place. I wouldn’t say she was particularly impressed, as her smile dimmed out. She put down her shades, uncovering her ivory eyes crested with melted chocolate. I asked her to sit and rather routinely with my right arm resting on my knee and the other one sticking back I sat down. She tucked the bouquet in the grass gracefully and sat down close to me, wrapped her arm around my neck and with utmost warmth stroked my hair, and graced my shoulder resting her head, with her hair running along my chest, and imprisoned within it’s shelter and soothe my unsettling heart finally found tranquil. Both of us shared this blissful silence in just gazing into the sky, unamazed, with our breaths amalgamating like the clouds up above. Not a word was said, and neither of us found it necessary. My resting hand, as if automated, ran through the grass, sensed a familiar feeble clover stem and plucked it out. But this time, no pledge ran through my mind, and I didn’t even bother to look at it, but just tossed it as far as I could from my sight, because what I had at that moment was my good luck I probably wished for in those leaves all this time.
