STOP KILLING STREET PHOTOGRAPHY

Show me an enthusiast and I’ll show you an opinionated person. That’s the nature of an enthusiast. It doesn’t matter what their chosen field of endeavour might be. It doesn’t matter if they are guitar players, bicyclists, coffee lovers, cupcake makers, card-carrying party member or whatever. Enthusiasts will have strong opinions. Photographers, too, are no exception to the rule. However, before you start vigorously swinging your tripods and chasing me on the streets with the intent of doing me grievous bodily harm, let me first say that being opinionated is not necessarily a bad thing. It might be annoying, but it isn’t necessarily bad.

Here, I’ll be talking about a wildly popular genre of photography: street photography. I will try to explain what the experts think it is, why it’s so popular and how street photography might end-up killing itself. This is relevant simply because it will hopefully help us became better (street) photographers.

First let’s look at demographics. Easily sixty per cent of Malaysians live in urban and suburban areas. So, statistically speaking, if you happen to be a photography enthusiast there is a three in five chance you’d be an urban-dweller. As such, what would be the natural environment for your photographic pursuits? Yup, it would be the city streets simply because it will more convenient to you. Thus, it is likely that sixty per cent of photographers will turn out to be street photographers. There is nothing wrong with this. It’s just demographics.

Now let’s look at what the experts think street photography might be. To paraphrase the experts, street photography is any photograph taken in a public place that captures people in candid situations. So far, so good. But that’s only a starting point – a working definition.

Over the years, many have added to this. For example, street photography means never shooting the subject from the back. Street photography isn’t about shooting homeless people. Street photography is about using only natural light. Real street photographers never post-process their images. Real street photographers shoot only in black-and-white. The list goes on blah, blah, blah…

Now here comes the spanner in the works. For every single rule in street photography, there will be one that advocates its diametric opposite. It is OK to shoot the subject’s back if it conveys the desired effect. It’s OK to shoot homeless people if done tastefully. It is OK to shoot in colour because Vivian Maier also occasionally shoots in colours. It is OK not to have people in the photo of it strongly depicts the spirit of the streets. The list goes on. For every rule there is always a counter-rule. The only one remaining common ground seems to be that the photo must be taken in a public place. Then again, we don’t know how long this rule will survive.

The problem here becomes, if we take into consideration all of street photography’s rules and counter-rules, the genre becomes so nebulous that the genre ends up becoming meaningless. In theory, at least, a nude portrait (obviously posed, not candid) shot in a secluded part of the Lake gardens using a barrage of remotely triggered strobes and then extensively photoshopped to include a few Star Wars storm-troopers might just qualify as street photography. Obviously, this is a ridiculous outcome. However, it is still street photography because it has taken into account all the rules and counter-rules.

The ‘No rule is the rule’ maxim might work for Bruce Lee’s Jeet Kune Do, but for street photography, a free-for-all, no-holds-barred melee will take it back full circle to plain old photography. The ‘I-will-shoot-whatever-I-want-in any-manner-I-want-as-long-as-it-is-in-a-public-place’ school of thought might be seductive, but it should not legitimately be called street photography. Not too long ago it was simply called photography. This is why the ‘street-photography-is-whatever-I-choose-it-to be’ philosophy will be the genre’s own undoing. This anything-goes mindset will eventually obliterate the genre’s credibility. It will be shame because street photography is such a vibrant and exciting genre.

Where to now? Personally, I think it all boils down to discipline. Yes, the anything-goes approach is seductive. But so are designer drugs, mindless spending and free sex. The way to go is perhaps to choose three or four established rules of street photography and stick to that until we’ve built a substantive body of work that feature those rules. After that, move on to other rules, maybe incorporate a counter rule or two and then build another body of work based on that. By doing this we will establish credibility for the genre, and at the same time turn it into a credible discipline – the art form that street photography deserves to be. Who knows? This might even turn street photography into a paying proposition.

I know, rules suck. However, I think we’ve established that having no rules suck even worse.

If you still want to take a swing at me with your tripod, I can usually be found shooting outside my home in Umbai, Melaka with my trusty Fuji X100.

People Will Change; Things will End

People fall in love all the time. That’s not going to change anytime soon. Another thing that doesn’t change is when people do fall in love, they tend to think (or hope) that it will last forever. Let’s think about this for a moment. Forever? Really? I mean, what are the odds of that translating itself into reality?

Are we the same person we were a year ago? Heck, are we even the same person we were thirty days ago? If we were brutally honest with ourselves, we’d know that we’ve changed in some way. These changes might be superficial, or they might even be ones that are more fundamental in nature. Regardless, change has taken place. What’s more, change will continue to happen.

It gets even scarier. If we are changing all the time, it stands to reason that our partners are also constantly changing, too. Think about that for a minute. With the passing of every minute both sides of the equation are changing. It follows that in this corner of the space-time continuum we are occupying at the moment, neither we nor our partners are the same people anymore. He is no longer the person she fell in love with - and neither is she. Seen from this perspective it is much easier to understand why couples so often moan and ask the question, “Where has the love gone?” The sad fact is they have both become different people – most of the time, through no fault of their own.

Sometimes the changes the partners undergo are small and don’t really impact the relationship. These are the lucky few. Luckier even are those that experience changes that actually bring them closer. The question now becomes, are we one of the lucky few who fall into either one of these categories? Do we seriously entertain the idea that we are one of these lucky sods? I mean, seriously, what are the odds? What make us so special?

The ‘this-love-will-last-forever’ proposition doesn’t look very realistic anymore does it?

The stink is - for most people - the changes they go through, more likely than not, will drive them apart. As people change - often in ways that are more than just superficial - their relationship will, at some point, come to an end. Whether we want it to or not is pretty much immaterial. It is just a question of when and how. Fact is, everything ends. Let’s face it, if it lives, it will someday die; if it exists, it will someday crumble. This is just the way the universe works – it’s nothing personal.

So, if everybody changes and everything ends, why should we even bother at all? There’s not much point in loving someone, is there? On the flip-side, spending our entire lives trying to find that one true love we deserve is also pretty much a dumbass thing to do, right?

Not exactly.

Despite the doom and gloom that the statistics point to, and despite that we will crash and burn at some point, falling in love is the most beautiful thing that can happen to us on this side of paradise. Frankly, nothing comes close.

Yes, the thrill of being the CEO a global company, one that has the power to affect the lives of millions, is pretty heady stuff. Yes, making a breakthrough in quantum physics will win us the Nobel Prize and ensure our place in history. Yes, writing the best novel ever written will carve a place for us in the hearts of millions for generations to come. But how does all this fit into the scheme of things?

As a human beings, chances are all this means precious little as compared to the chance of finding ourselves in love with and being loved back by that special someone. This is the way we are. This is the way we will always be.

Yes, everybody changes. Yes, everything will end. However, this doesn’t mean we should never ever fall in love or that love is an exercise in futility. It just means that we have to understand (and accept) that love can never be a happily-ever-after proposition - regardless of what Hollywood or Bollywood has to say. Understanding and accepting that our time together is shorter than we think will give us the courage and the freedom to love more intensely and more completely than we’ve ever done before. If you think it is a hopeless situation, then I say you don’t deserve to be in love in the first place. After all, love is a zero sum game – it is all or nothing… all or nothing.

The tragedy is not that we have loved so deeply and so truly, but in the end still crashed and burned anyway. The real tragedy is that we never found the courage to love in the first place.

People will change; things will end. So be it.

The Blue Bench (Part 4)

Embun pulled the curtain aside ever so slightly. She discreetly studied the man who sat at the garden bench of the holiday cottage’s immaculate lawn. He looked to be in his late fifties – maybe two or three years older than her mother.

Dressed only in an olive green tee-shirt and a faded pair of jeans, the man looked conspicuously under-dressed considering the late afternoon chill of Cameron Highlands. He wasn’t especially large, but he years had put on a few obvious inches around his waist. By the way he sat, Embun could tell the man was no slouch. In his younger days he must have been quite athletic – perhaps some sort of boxer or martial artist. Even then, Embun didn’t feel he was a dangerous man. If at all, she felt an inexplicable fondness for the middle-aged man with the ponytail who sat there in the lawn looking like a fresh graduate nervously waiting for his first job interview.

“That’s him, Abang… ” Embun whispered to her husband.

“Who?”

“That’s him. Encik Azhar, you know, Ibu’s boyfriend from her London days.”

Embun’s husband took a closer look at the stranger from behind the slightly parted curtains and remarked, “Hmmm… geriatric men shouldn’t wear ponytails. It makes them look silly. Besides, Ibu never said he was her boyfriend.”

“Don’t be daft, Abang. Have you never seen the look in Ibu’s eyes when she mentions his name?”

“Whatever, dear. But I still think that ponytail makes him look silly. He must be pushing sixty already”

“I think I’ll send over some tea and scones to him while he waits for Ibu.”

“Go ahead, dear. But I think he looks more the teh tarik and roti canai type to me.”

---

When he noticed Embun, Azhar stood to acknowledge her presence. He looked at her and gave her a smile. His was the gentlest eyes she had ever seen. But they were also the saddest. She could not help but feel that his eyes had once seen the utter beauty of heaven. But she was also certain that they had plumbed the depth of hell for what must have been the longest time. In spite of all that, above all, his eyes had a stillness that somehow made her feel safe – absolutely and unequivocally safe.

“I thought you’d appreciate some tea and scones while you waited for Ibu, Encik Azhar.”

“That would be nice, young lady. Thank you.”

His English accent was unmistakable. Even given his hairstyle of choice and the less than fashionable attire, she felt that there was more to Azhar – much more than he was letting on.

“And, young lady, it would be nice if you didn’t call me Encik. It sounds a tad too formal. It makes me sound like I’m your boss, which I assure you, I most certainly am not.”

She looked him in those gentle eyes and replied, “OK. Should I call you Uncle Azhar instead?”

“That would be very nice” 

                   

As she turned to walk away, she heard him speak to her. He could not hide the hesitation in his voice as much as he would have liked to.

“Would… would you care to join me for a spot of tea, young lady?”

She was hoping he’d ask.

“Yes, I think I might just do that… but only if you would stop calling me young lady. Do we have a deal? The name is Embun. Sarah’s one and only daughter“

After a slight pause, Azhar replied, “We have a deal, Embun. And do ask your husband if he’d care to join us, too.”

“My husband?”

“Yes. That young man who was checking me out from behind the curtains just now”

Embun felt a blush coming on, but calmly replied, “Nah. He doesn’t like tea and scones. He’s more a teh tarik and roti canai man… “

“Very well, then”

---

Talking to the man was easy. It was as if they had known each other all their lives, as if he had been there all those years while she was growing up. At first, Embun found it scary that this was so. But she so enjoyed talking to him that her fears melted away with every sentence, with every question they exchanged.

She knew immediately that she liked the man. Strangely, it was almost as if she had liked him even long before they had met. Talking with him was like being in a sweet, soothing dream that shrunk her fears and insecurities into manageable bite-sized pieces of cotton candy. Embun couldn’t remember ever feeling as safe and as accepted as in those minutes that she spent with him.

The dream was shattered when she noticed Azhar stiffen slightly. The cup and saucer trembled in his shaking hands. Without saying a word, Azhar looked over her shoulder towards the main door of the holiday cottage and rose to his feet.

Almost on cue, the door opened. It was Sarah.

The pain that had tormented Azhar since forever seemed to lift and disappear into the clouds above. Embun struggled with a gush of joy she could not explain – a joy that somehow made her feel like a traitor. After all, Azhar could well have been the reason her father left all those years ago.

For the longest time, Sarah and Azhar just stood there looking at each other. It was as if all the years they had been apart was slowly being erased so that they could start all over again. She was still the most beautiful woman in the entire world; he was still her samurai who would gladly lay down his life to make all her dreams come true.

Despite her misgivings, Embun nudged Azhar gently in the ribs with a teaspoon and whispered, “Don’t just stand there, you silly man. Go there and get her.”

---

Azhar stood so close to Sarah that their lips almost touched. He trembled as he fought the urge to take her into his arms and melt into her body forever. Lost deep within her light brown eyes, Azhar relived every dream, every fantasy he had had of her while they were apart – years of missing her condensed into a few precious seconds. He didn’t care if he never made it back. He was where he belonged. He was finally home.

Sarah touched his cheek with her fingertips. It felt sweeter than a soft evening breeze after the rain. “How long has it been, sweetheart?” she half whispered to him, her voice so soft that he almost didn’t hear her speak.

Still helplessly lost within her eyes, he replied, “Twenty seven years, three months and…”

“… sixteen days.” continued Sarah.

Sarah took him gently by the elbow and gestured towards the small country lane that ran in front of the cottage. “Let’s go for a walk shall we?” she said.

They walked without saying a word. It wasn’t easy for either of them. After so long apart, it was difficult to find the right things to say; after so long apart, neither wanted to risk destroying the moment by speaking a badly chosen word. They walked on in silence, each step slowly washing away the dreadful past that had kept them apart.

It was not long before they found themselves in a garden close to that rustic steakhouse that had long since become synonymous with Cameron Highlands. It wasn’t exactly England, but it was close enough. Unable to find a bench of any kind, they sat on the grass, shoulder to shoulder, quietly watching the sun slowly disappear behind the distant treeline. The fading sun left the sky awash with glorious splashes of yellows, blues and reds. I was as if the sky was putting on a show just for them. Secretly, both willed for time to stop. After years of suffering the anguish of their separation, life owed them at least that.

After a fashion, talking became much easier. It was almost as easy as it had been before they lost each other. But their conversation was still peppered with stops and starts, with awkward pauses and mumbled words. Just as it was about to get awkward again, Sarah pulled out a package from her satchel. She unwrapped the cheese sandwich and handed it to him.

“Sayang, you remembered”

“Did you think I’d forget?”

Azhar shook his head.

“And I brought coffee, too. It’s just as well. You never could make a decent coffee – even back then” she teased.

With her head gently resting on his shoulder, Sarah asked, “Tell me, sweetheart. Tell me now, tell me while we’re here like this. Was there ever anyone else?”

Azhar felt as if the rest of his life would depend on what we was about to say next. Should he lie? Could he even think of telling her a story he knew she wouldn’t believe?

He took a deep breath. “Actually, there was this Uzbek girl I once knew while I was on assignment in Tashkent…”

Instead of the anger or tears he expected to find, all he saw was Sarah looking into his eyes and smiling.

“Tell me more, sweetheart. Was she beautiful?” she asked.

“She was absolutely gorgeous…”

“And was she good in bed?”

“She’d put a porn star to shame, I tell you.”

Sarah laughed and smacked him playfully across the chest. “Oh, stop it, sweetheart! You’ve never been any good at lying. There’s never been anyone else, has there?”

Azhar shook his head. “How could there ever be?”

Sarah brushed a stray strand for hair from his forehead. At the very last second, she held back the kiss she so desperately wanted to give him. They were in Malaysia now; they were no longer on that blue bench in Regent’s Park.

“Sayang, while we’re on this road… what ever happened to Embun’s father?”

“You mean my ex-husband?”

Azhar stroked her hair and waited for her story.

“Well, there’s not much to it. He upped and left not too long after Embun was conceived. Haven’t heard from him since”

“Not even to visit Embun?”

“Nope”

“Sorry…”

“Don’t be. Better this way, I guess”

After a fashion, Azhar could no longer hold back what he wanted to say to her.

“Sayang, I must say I’m a tad disappointed.”

“Disappointed that I now have wrinkles all over my face and that my breasts have gone all droopy?”

“Don’t be silly, sayang. I’m a bit disappointed that you named your daughter Embun. Don’t you remember our promise?”

“Oh, that promise…”

“Yes, sayang. Didn’t we make a promise that if we ever had a daughter together that we’d name her Embun?”

Sarah cupped his face in her hands and wondered if he was ready. She decided the the time had come. She had waited twenty six years for this moment.

“And I have kept that promise, my darling…”

It took a while before he finally understood what she was trying to tell him. Even then, he had to be sure.

“You mean…”

“Yes, darling. She is. God! Didn’t you have a good look at her?”

Azhar drew her close and held her as if he’d never let her go. Neither noticed the tears as they rocked slowly in each other’s arms for what seemed like forever.

Sarah and Azhar sat close to each other and watched the light disappear from the sky. When the stars first stars appeared, Sarah spoke, “But she must never know, darling…"

“But…"

Sarah placed her fingers softly against his lips. “Promise me you’ll never let her know…” she pleaded.

Azhar took her hand in his, kissed her fingertips and replied, “I promise.”

It was dark when they finally made it back to the cottage. In the jealous light of the moon, he kissed her on her forehead. “Keep well, sayang. It’s time for me to go” he said in a voice that was on the verge of breaking.

Sarah didn’t say a word. She nodded once and let go of his hand.

Azhar straddled his ageing Triumph Bonneville and inserted the key into the ignition. He wondered how many more times would he have to leave his sweet, precious Sarah before he would be able to stay forever. Would he ever live to see the day when he would never have to leave her again? As he was about to gun the engine, he felt a light touch on his shoulder.

“Please stay…” said Sarah in a voice that melted Azhar’s heart.

He climbed off his machine, took her hand in his and walked with her to the cottage. After twenty seven years their dreams finally came true.

The Blue Bench (Part 3)

The table lamp created a warm pool of light on the surface of her writing table. Her Moleskine was open on a blank page – the same blank page from two hours ago. Not a single sentence, not even a word. The prose that usually flowed like a nightingale’s song from her pencil kept eluding her. She was beginning to feel the start of a massive headache caress her temples. It was no good. Though she had kept thoughts of Azhar locked away in the remotest recesses of her heart, Sarah had never really succeeded in keeping him there. On the occasions that he broke free – like tonight – he would make it clear that he was never ever going to go away.

She had met Azhar two years ago when she went to Tottenham Court Road’s celebrated Randy’s Guitar Workshop to buy her first guitar. She was surprised to find a Malay sales assistant attending to her instead of some Caucasian who tried his best at looking like his favourite rock-star guitar-hero. However, it immediately became clear to her that the Malay sales assistant was very polite and extremely knowledgeable about guitars. But more importantly, he was genuinely interested in getting her the guitar that suited her requirements best. In fact, he had spent a good part of twenty minutes just talking to her about her requirements, expectations, and of course, budget. When he was satisfied he had all the necessary facts, he picked out a rather odd-looking guitar (one with a curved back) from the shelves. He expertly tuned it by ear, and handed it to her. As if by magic, it fitted her like a glove and played like a dream. She was sold.

Looking back, she shouldn’t have asked him for a demo. It was perhaps the biggest single mistake she had ever made. But when she persisted, he led her to a quiet corner of the shop. He cleared his throat, asked to be excused if his performance was not up to par, and began his version of James Taylor’s classic, ‘Fire and Rain’.

That was when he stole her heart.

It was unlike listening to any other song she had ever heard before. Her ears played no part in the listening process. Instead, his voice, the lyrics and the harmonies created by the guitar’s six strings congealed into a fiery spear of the sweetest smelling roses and jasmines that went straight to her heart. It stayed there, never to be dislodged – even to this day.

His playing touched her in places where no one had ever touched her before; places where no one ever will again. For the entire duration of the song, she had felt as if this guitar wielding stranger had somehow learnt of all her deepest darkest sorrows – and was intent on chasing all of them away. It was as if – in another time and place – they had known each other since time itself began. It was frightening how, in her heart, she knew that every song he had ever sung, he had sung only for her.

But did he know it as well?

She was still in a daze when he finished. A gentle, “Are you all right, ma’am?” jolted her back to reality. It took a few excruciating – and slightly embarrassing – seconds for her to recover. When she finally regained her composure, she declared in her usual business-like manner, “I’ll take it”. She paid for the guitar at the cashier and left; the entire time wondering if she would ever hear him sing for her again.

She didn’t have to wait long. On one of her infrequent trips to Malaysia Hall, she saw him again, busking at Marble Arch station. With his army surplus M65 field jacket, shoulder length pony-tail and distinctive guitar playing, he appeared to her almost larger than life on that glorious spring day. And though he was far from any popular notion of what handsome usually meant, there was something appealing, almost ethereal about him: A lost and comically stoic samurai curiously caught in the wrong historical era. But she knew, beyond all knowing, beyond all doubt, that he was her samurai.

Despite a group of adoring female Italian tourists who were obviously flirting with him, Sarah felt it all over again: That undeniable knowing that when he sang, he sang only for her. And when their eyes finally met, in that instant frozen in time, his eyes told her that he knew it, too.

When he finished, she summoned all her courage and walked up to him. And when he saw her, his face lit up like the horizon at the break of day; full of life, full of promise. The way he looked at her made her feel as if she was a vibrant, carefree teenager again. But most of all, it made her feel as if she once again mattered.

“What are you doing here? Don’t you already have a job at Randy’s?” she asked casually

“Beer money, ma’am.” he replied with equal casualness.

“Listen, if you’ve got the time, I’ll buy you all the beer you want; but only if you’ll tell me who you are.” Sarah couldn’t believe she had said that.

“Very good, ma’am. But only if you’ll tell me who you are, too.”

And that was how it all began. Now, although she had not met him in over a year – not since she had moved to Manchester – she wondered if it would ever end.

The door opened slightly and sent a sliver of light into the darkened room. She turned to see her husband’s familiar face in the narrow crack.

“You’re not sleepy yet, honey?” he asked with a hint of playful mischief in his voice.

“No…”

“Good! Could you be a darling and maybe pop into the bedroom? I’ve got something to show you. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

She knew what he wanted to show her and what exactly it was that she would have to do. After all, it usually did take only a few minutes. Sarah closed the Moleskine and switched off the table lamp. As she closed he door behind her, she prayed that the chains that held Azhar in his prison would keep him there – at least, for the next few minutes.

The Blue Bench (Part 2)

Except for Azhar, there was not a single soul at Regent’s Park that day. He had been waiting for her at the blue bench – their blue bench. Where was she? She should have been there over an hour ago. Only the ambient city sounds coming from faraway Marylebone Road and the cold biting wind of the London winter cushioned his sense of desperate desolation. It didn’t make him feel any better; only less alone. Azhar fought the cold, but more than that, he fought the feeling, ugly and foreboding, that she would not be coming. He missed her so much that he would have easily given up breathing forever rather than deal with the thought of not seeing her again.

She could be down with a cold. That’s it! A cold would not be surprising given the severity of the winter. Or, her work could have called away from London – like it sometimes did. It could be any one of a million things. But there was no way he could know for sure.

Azhar told himself, “It’s not time to worry yet”; a line from ‘To Kill a Mockingbird”, a book both of them enjoyed immensely. But deep down, a persistent uneasiness steadily gnawed at his very soul; an uneasiness that was slowly but surely turning itself into cold, stark terror. He shook his head to clear his mind of the thought. It refused to go away. He tried again, only harder. But it still refused to go away.

The darker the sky grew, the deeper the cold bit into him. But his fast descending core body temperature was the least of his worries. His hopes of seeing her again began fading with the dying remnants of light in the horizon. Deep in him, he wanted to believe that Sarah would appear, if only he’d hold on for a few more minutes. But his mind told him that it wasn’t going to be.

Azhar slid the unopened flask of coffee back into his jacket pocket, stood up and walked away. After a few steps he turned to look at their blue bench, half hoping Sarah would be there with her beautiful smile – the most beautiful smile he had ever known. All he saw was a blue bench, empty and barren from the cold. Defeated, he walked away with steps so heavy he could hardly move his feet.

Could this be how it was supposed to end? Though they had often talked about the possibility that his day could come, he wasn’t ready to let go – not yet. Simply having discussed the possibility, no matter how often, hadn’t prepared him or helped make it any less painful. She still ached for her. He still yearned for her. He knew he always will.

But in his heart he also knew that even if they had to go their separate ways, they’d find each other again – someday.

—— / / / / / ——

From where Sarah parked her car, she could make out Azhar in the distance. He was there, at their blue bench, waiting for her. She wasn’t sure if she could pull off what she wanted to do. Every fibre in her body rebelled against her conscious decision to stay in the car. Her heart tore itself to shreds, her mind losing its tenuous hold on sanity. There was nothing in the world she wanted more than to be with him, to hear his voice again and maybe even gently run her fingers across his cheeks. But she knew she had to stay in her car.

It was that stupid kiss, wasn’t it? That blasted kiss: the kiss to end all kisses – the kiss that changed everything. If he kissed her like that again, touching her soul like no man had ever done, or ever would again, there could only be one outcome: she’d end up sleeping with him. Though everything in her cried out in anguish for that to happen, she knew she would not be able to pay the price. Guilt was the worst thing any human could possibly be made to endure. It was perhaps, even worse than not having him at all. She knew she had to stay in the car.

Even if they were meant for each other, it remained – in this reality, at least – that they both belonged to other people. There was no changing that. If only they had taken a different turn, a different decision, they probably would not have met the way they did – a tad too late. Even so, deep inside her, she was glad that they had met. In a world that was fast turning on its head, Azhar was a beacon of hope, a reminder that she was still capable of love and being loved for who she truly was.

Watching him from the distance, her heart cried out to him. How betrayed and disappointed he must be feeling right now. It broke her heart seeing him all alone in the cold, waiting for her - and hoping. But she had to stay away. It was her only hope of hanging on to her world as she knew it. After all, if he loved her – if he really and truly loved her – he would understand why she had to do what she was doing. If anyone could love her like that, so completely and so unconditionally, it would be Azhar.

She felt a tear fall down her cheek as she fought the need to be with him with everything that she had. Wiping it away, she saw him walk away from their bench. When he stopped to look at the bench again, she could not hold back any longer. She unbuckled her seat-belt, unlocked her door and burst out of the car. But when she looked up again, he was gone.

As she stood trembling in the bitter cold, with tears in her eyes, she began to smile. An inexplicable primordial knowing enveloped her very being. No matter what happened, no matter how bad it got, she knew he’d find her again.

Maybe not today; maybe not tomorrow. But someday, he’d find her again.

The Blue Bench (Part 1)

Every Friday afternoon, Sarah and Azhar would go to the same blue park bench not too far away from the zoo at Regent’s Park. Sarah would bring with her some sandwiches, and Azhar, a flask of hot coffee. As was their ritual, she’d hand him a sandwich and he’d pour her some coffee into a tumbler. And as was their ritual, too, that they’d sit together in silence for a while before they’d begin to speak.

It was close to the end of autumn. The blazing red and gold of the leaves had long turned into several shades of sad, dull brown. The breeze that had been so sweet not too long ago had become blustery and biting with cold. The birds and the squirrels had long disappeared, leaving their playground to return home and face the harsh reality of the coming winter. But none of this mattered to either Sarah or Azhar. What mattered to them was that they were together, regardless how brief it would be.

Sarah turned to Azhar. “Doesn’t she ever ask you where you go every Friday, armed with that flask?”

“She doesn’t know about this flask, Sarah. I leave it at a friend’s place. I’d drop by there first, make us some coffee and then make my way here.”

“What a tangled web we weave…” she said, almost to herself.

“And what about you, Sarah? Doesn’t he ever ask you where you disappear to every Friday with your sandwiches?”

“Mat? He hardly notices me even when I’m at home! Anyway, he did ask once. I told him I was going to feed the ducks at the park.”

“Feed the ducks perfectly good cheese sandwiches?” Azhar chuckled.

“Yes, ridiculous isn’t it? I swear to you, I’m invisible to the man except when he wants me on my back with my legs in air –”

“Ouch!”

Realising the effect of her words, Sarah reached for Azhar and touched him gently on his cheek. “I’m so sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to –”

He took her hand in his and smiled. “That’s OK, Sarah. We both knew this wasn’t going to be easy. Remember?”

They nibbled at their sandwiches and sipped at their coffee. The tired, grey London sky, for a second, almost seemed to feel for them. It was as if even the sky understood their plight. But they weren’t any different from any of the thousands of other couples who had met, perhaps, a tad too late. They weren’t the first and they weren’t going to be the last.

“And what about you, sweetheart? Doesn’t she miss you when you’re not there with her?”

“She does, but I think for all the wrong reasons. She’s the same control-freak she’s always been. As long as she can tell me what to do, when to do it, and how it is to be done, she feels good about herself. So I let her. It’s easier that way…”, his voice trailed into the cold of the evening.

Sarah wrapped her arms around his and let her head rest on his shoulders. It felt sweetly liberating – the scent of her hair reassured him that he could be himself all over again and not fear being judged for the things he did or didn’t do. He hadn’t felt like that in a long time. Then Sarah came along and changed all that. With her, he was once again free to be who he truly was and not have to worry about having to take the blame for anything. Finding Sarah was like being pulled out of the raging, vicious whirlpool that wanted nothing more than to drown him over and over again.

They sat like that for the longest time – not having to say anything to each other at all. When it was possible for two people to speak to each other’s hearts, words were no longer necessary. Despite willing it with everything their souls could give, time simply would not stand still. They knew it would soon be time to go.

Sarah snuggled closer to Azhar, “Tell me sweetheart, if what we are feeling is not real, how come it hurts so much? Why does it–”

He brushed her hair from her eyes and put his finger softly upon her lips. “Darling, it hurtsbecause it is real…” He looked at her lovely face for the longest time, every fibre in his body twitching with the urge to kiss her, just once. But he resisted: he was certain that after knowing her kiss, he would die if he were never to kiss her again.

“What’s wrong sweetheart?” she asked, sensing his anguish.

He just smiled and turned his head.

“You chickened out again, didn’t you?” she chuckled. “I might as well take this first kiss of ours off the table – for good!” she teased.

Before she could draw her next breath, Azhar kissed her with all the passion and longing that he had so long denied. When their lips finally parted, they trembled, feeling powerless in the intensity of the feelings they felt for each other. It was some time before either of them could speak again.

“What do we do now, sayang?” asked Sarah, her voice weak with uncertainty.

Azhar held her close. “I don’t know, darling. But do you remember what that dead, mad, poet once wrote?”

She held his hand in hers and repeated the word of their favourite Middle Eastern poet: “And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.”

“That’s a good place to start as any, I guess…”

As the evening turned to twilight, they went their separate ways; coldly unsure of the future but at the same time, warmly assured that what they shared was real.