Never forever

It was an old photograph. Black and white and slowly yellowing on the edges.

Two children. Barely 2 years old... I am not too sure, I never am good with children's ages.

Both of them on the floor. The girl clutched on one hand the figurine of a lady carrying a pot full of water. And the other she used to lean into the boy's ears and whisper something. He... he looked happy as always, especially with the girl. Until she killed him . But even then he died smiling. He hadn't seen the blow coming.

One was of course me. And the other him. Oldest of old friends. So old that even gender discrimination didn't exist in our life. Before you could say 'hey boy'.

Our parents had caught us in an unknown to even us, intimate moment.

What was I telling you, I'd asked him once.

Oh, that?, he said, squinting his eyes to avoid the sun. And he told me that I'd told him about fishes and stars and kites and horses.

We looked at that photograph.

What was I telling you, I asked him as always.

Oh that?, he said. And he told me that I'd told him about Pondicherry and foreigners and blue school uniforms.

And one summer when we went through the albums again, I discovered yet again that photograph.

I'd forgotten its existence, I told him.

If he appeared disappointed, I never knew.

Wonder what I was telling you, I mused out loud to him.

Oh that, he said. And he told me that I'd told him about this boy whom I was going to fall in love with.

I'd blushed.

And then we grew up.

The lady with the pot of water broke one of her legs. And yet she stood on one leg unfailingly holding the pot, not spilling a drop of the clear liquid. And she forgot how not to smile.

And he stopped hearing what I didn't tell him years ago.