I recall

I recall us trekking the asphalt roads under the two o’ clock sun.
I prattled on the chances of the Lost Voice Guy winning the finals
as you nodded and smiled your Mona Lisa smile.
I never mentioned to you how vexing I found your silent responses.   

The lower ends of our burgundy synthetic kameez
were too light to stand their ground against those scalding July gusts.
But we were agile enough to press our tanned hands against our thighs with every blow,
blocking the chances of the sweaty rickshaw pullers
having a well-timed peek of our bare waistlines.
You mused as I rebuked the school for picking out the most weightless of all the fabrics.

I recall forcing my laced purple umbrella over your head
as you repeatedly dodged out of it.
I knew you abhorred the idea of women striving to lighten their complexion,
deliberately sun burning your face as a silent protest to your maternal enforcements.
You never desired to be the pretty pink princess.
But it was hard to comprehend this part of your personality,
given the frequency with which you changed your modish clothes to tutoring classes.
It was only I who knew that it was another infliction of your parental authority.

I recall that chilly day in November
when I first put on my Apex ballet flats in an imperious aura to class-
the product of emerging victorious in the Snatch Up game on Sale Day.
The feeling evaporated when the hard protruding surface plunged its way to my ankle.
I had to halt after thirty minutes of walking,
biting my lips to stifle my groans.
You kneeled down on the curb to examine the red blotches forming around my bony ankles.
Your eyebrows were just as furrowed as mine.
Running off without giving me a chance to utter a word,
you left me perplexed for the next ten minutes.
And when you returned with a rickshaw
and the streak of a rivulet of sweat in your temple as an emblem of your endeavor,
I was mystified to think that your reticent self could venture to haggle with a rickshaw puller.

I recall the morning I caught you buying Listerine Cool Mint.
Your thrifty self struggled to explain its necessity in keeping out your bad breath
originating from long hours of keeping your mouth shut,
like those Norton overhead door holders.
I felt obliged to coerce you to fill the registration form for the next MUN,
teach you the 3 points and the methods of drafting out a resolution.
I lent you my ebony black suit.
And in our following trek to school,
when you finally verbalized your opinions on Simon Cowell,
I was glad that I went through the trouble.

And now when high school’s over and we embarked on different paths,
I miss our game of dodging the purple umbrella
and slapping down our burgundy synthetic kameez with every blow.
Your nodding and smiling seemed even more infuriating
in the phone calls I attempted to try to keep in touch.
And I threw in the towel in our ring of one way conversation
thinking it doesn’t matter because I’m already making new friends.
But today I comprehend how your nodding and Mona Lisa smile
conveyed more message than mere words could.