Chai & Biscuit
Melancholic. Impatient. Frivolous.
That is what his room looked like.
“I see your creative streak. I also see… emptiness.”
Monochromatic photography on the walls, frantic sketches beside his bed, half-finished poems on his desk. “You don’t like commitment, do you?” She would ask him.
“Too scared.” He would break eye contact.
He would tell her that he is incapable of the devotion it takes to stay with one discipline. He is scared that outlining a sketch will make him lose interest, tying loose ends of poetry will take its mystique away, and shooting in colour will make everything incohesive—he is scared if he dips a biscuit in his tea in pursuit of intimacy, it will thoroughly soak itself and drown.
…And she would do exactly that. He would look at her horrified.
“What, scared?”
“You’re ruining both of their individualities. Crispy turns to soggy; the strength of the ginger dampens. What’s the point? It’s the worst of both worlds.” He would shrug.
“There’s no point. If you do it right, you’ll make them better than what they taste separately. Intimacy isn’t so bad when you have faith in your biscuit. It isn’t as fragile as you think.” She would laugh.
Hopeful. Calm. Immense.
And so the next day, he made himself chai and looked at the biscuit with faith and conviction. As he bit into the half-drenched biscuit, he saw colour in his photographs, painted foregrounds in his sketches, verses of closure to his poetry, and a newfound fidelity for her.
Author - Dhriti Choudhary
Image by Chhavi
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