Love letter for the one afraid of green grasshopper

 

There is a green grasshopper-like bug that visits our home, not so frequently. If Samudro spots him in the room, he comes towards me very gently. He breathes very slowly and when I wonder why he is so cautious all of a sudden, is there a murderer on the other side of the door, he tells me, Jo, there is a bug in the room we need to get rid of. I argue, not so gently, why? He speaks very timidly, not to cause any stir in the air which might make the bug move—because this bug can walk on your skin and leave a rash. I look at him, what? I am not so bothered about green colored stuff that can fly. They have always meant friends to me. But my friend Samudro won’t believe me. He looks like a ten year old kid, and I can’t deny his adorable demands. So, I take the bed broom in my hand and charge the grasshopper-like-bug out of the house. Only then he starts breathing normally.

It’s been raining a lot the last few days. And bugs, flies of different colors and sizes have populated themselves with the rain, and give me visits. There it is—a green colored grasshopper-like-bug. And I imagined Jo giving me a kid-like look. And then I realized, I miss him. The boy, the man, the friend who is afraid of a green grasshopper.

Samudro is in bootcamp for two weeks, leaving me in an empty house. The first week is “I am a big girl, look at me, living alone, how cool”, the second week I am calling Samudro any random minute asking “when will you be back? Do you remember my face?” Samudro's absence made me write. I love to write and love it most when I write about something I deeply feel or care about. Like the boy who is afraid of grasshoppers.

The house has been very quiet. It seems like no one lives here. The water mug lids are aligned in the same direction. The quilt cover spread perfectly on the bed. The water bottle, photo frame in the bedside table are rightly spaced, rightly angled. The only inhabitant of the house, the dictator, me is looking for imperfection to perfect, like I usually do when Jo is home. I miss him being in the morning all confused “which is the right direction to place the quilt cover?” For the thousandth time, I tell him - leaves are at the bottom, flowers are at the top, ground bottom, sky top, simple. How hard can it be…

My “excited plans for the solo weekend” are buried. Go to a book cafe, sit in the high chair, order coffee and try to look very corporate - LOL. Whom would I show off my “corporate” look… I mean who would give me a slightly teasing compliment “woo Gulshan ladies”. And what’s the point of doing this without being teased? Friday masala tea instead of coffee. But no sneaking in Jo’s cup. He is a big hearted man, always leaves plenty at the bottom of his cup which I gulp down later.

The worst is the night. I come to bed, miss reprimanding Jo for not brushing his teeth and telling him “I brushed my teeth, I wish we could play the Close Up toothpaste commercial”. And then I stretch a little, but no one to show off the bone cracking sound, the worst!

Sometimes I ponder how routined our lives became. You work, I work. You make the bed, I do the yelling. I do the grocery, you do the “we should save money” speech. Two introverted people, different interests… What is it that glues us together? I know I asked you a thousand times “Jo, do you love me?” and heard a thousand times “yes”. But maybe love can’t be felt with words. The exotic named hormones that release in our bodies when we are happy, or when we are in love, might not be triggered with a “yes” or “no”. What is this love letter turning philosophy class anyway… hell I just want you to ring the calling bell, then I will open the door and get back to the boring routined lives of us. It’s probably your way of replying you love me too, when I open the door and we embrace.