love by heart

Dearest Katherine
Time has burnt the hours of the night away. Its my last day here in the desert, and I did not want to waste it in the dullness of sleep. Instead, I sat on a sand dune and tried to map your face in the landscape of stars that I was blanketed by. Though I have never seen you, I try and picture the woman you are by the letters you write. The way you describe what eating a pear feels like...the way you talk about a love divine, that ages like fine wine. I may not know your face but I know your heart .
Yours Always.

He heard her on 'Lunch by Poetry' over the radio one afternoon, in the blistering heat of Marekesh. In a deep, sultry voice, she was reciting verses from one of his favourites, Tagore. The poem was 'Where the Mind is Without Fear' and the words came to life as they took flight from her lips.
After lunch, the journalist, with his heart in his hand made his way through the dusty streets,destination radio station, where he hoped to find 'the voice'.
Upon arrival, he asked around for her, sadly as all love stories would have it, she had just left for the airport,taking a trip to the-manager-couldn't-remember-where.
"She'll be back in 2 months, come back then if you want to", he said with the flippancy of an emotionally challenged lard ass.
As you can imagine, the writer heard the dissappointment he felt. In 2 months, he would be in New York,on another assignment. 'Life's a bitch' he thought.
Before leaving, he enquired as to her name and the address of the station.
He left Morrocco the following day, travelling through Tripoli,Tunis, the Algiers,trying to lose himself to the mysticism of these places.

Time flew and soon he was in the Big Apple, doing a story on Professor Robert Coles, a brilliant child psychiatrist. They say time heals all.... well they obviously didn't know what they were talking about. Since he had left Morrocco, he had written Katherine countless letters, with the infinite and aching hope that she might reply when she returns home.

It was Thursday, 18th of March....exactly 2 months. 'Katherine returns'......he thought to himself. His heart smiled inside that she would find his letters. His heart shivered at the thought that she might not read them. All he could do was wait..... just as he had done all this time.

Everynight after dinner, she sat on her porch and read his letters against the backdrop of the setting sun, a menage a trois so perfect and pure.

Life ceased to be a bitch the day he saw the Morroccan stamp peeping out from the stack of other insignificant mail. The elation he felt was indescribable as he dove for the envelope, ripped it open and abandoned himself to her words. The paper was laden with scents that brought him back to Morrocco that night.

So, this correspondence carried on for months. To a certain extent, they were both procastinating to meet, afraid that it might mar the perfection they had.
She often wondered how he could be in love with someone whose face he never saw.
He wondered whether he was crazy to think that this was a something real and tangible.
Over the months, they had come to know each other by heart. It was a love based on faith in each other and the essence of their souls. It was a love of spiritual dimensions.
Should we be so lucky as to experience the divinity of such a feeling.

Eventually 2 1/2 years passed, and they agreed to meet at Gran Cafe de Paris in Tangier.
She would have a white daisy in her hair and a book on her lap.
He flew to back to Morrocco, a journey that felt like he was returning home.
Never would he have imagined his life to have unravelled the way it has.
He walked towards the cafe that afternoon, and as he approached,
there she was .....his one true north.......the woman whose voice had hypnotized him. She could not have been more radiant in his eyes. Thick hair, as black as midnight, twisted into a careless bun. Ocean green eyes that held infinity and a smile that seemed so familiar.
The daisy was snug behind her ear and the book 'The Home and The World' by Rabindrath Tagore was on her lap.He smiled.

As she was wheelchair bound, she could not rise to greet him, so the journalist, with all the love in his heart got down on his knees and hugged her, whispering 'It's about time'.






Disclaimer: All events and persons portrayed are fictional and any similarities are of complete coincidence.

References: The Home and The World by Rabindrath Tagore
Where the Mind is Without Fear by Rabindrath Tagore