Their silence

They sit in silence, staring at an emptying wedding hall. There is a sense of satisfaction in the air, the feeling of completeness. It is like the guests have all collectively, contentedly burped. Her new husband sends some relatives off, somewhere near the entrance to the hall, bidding them farewell, cracking a silly joke or two, promising to visit them soon in their distant towns. 

They look at around the hall, still in silence, and they turn to each other. She smiles, he smiles. They turn away and continue staring at the hall. 

She wonders what they are to each other. They are friends, she concludes. They have always been. They met, three years ago, as friends. They worked in offices that weren't far from each other, they knew common people. 

They met for lunch often. Sometimes, they planned it. Other times, they just landed up at the same little dosa place at the same time, often knowing the other was likely to be there. He always ate a rava masala dosa and followed it up with a mini coffee. She studied the menu and ordered carefully -- sometimes elaborate and sometimes minimal. They ate mostly in silence. Every now and then, one of them would say a sentence or two, and the other would nod.

One day, he declared he had a crush on a friend of hers. She nodded. The next day, her friend was with her at lunch. Conversation flowed that afternoon between him and her friend. They met a few times after that, but that died out. "It didn't work out with your friend," he told her, "She wasn't really interested." She only nodded. 

One evening, they went for a long, silent walk down the beach. For some reason, they held hands. They didn't say much about it that evening, and they never discussed its significance. 

They met more often after that. They went on long drives to nowhere in particular, they went for movies whose names they didn't register, and plays they didn't know anything about. They ate, they drank.

They spoke more than they did earlier, trading sentences that had little to do with one another, interspersed with lengthy nothings. They had little to talk to each other about. He read, she didn't. She watched sport, he didn't. Their musical tastes were vastly different. But their silences spoke the same language, their silences had common interests, their silences understood each other like their conversations never did. 

Love came and went in waves. One day, it lashed against them, throwing them off balance, goading them to hold each other for support. Then, it receded, silently, before gearing up to hit them again. They stood in the sea, soaking in the waves silently. 

Only twice did they make attempts to express their fondness for each other in words. The first time, she said, "I want to be kissed." He said, "Let's not complicate us." The second time, after a spontaneous bout of incredible kissing, he asked, "Will you marry me?" She dismissed him with, "You're drunk," before proceeding to bite his ear. 

They are friends, she concludes amidst the winding-up of the wedding. His silence indicates that he's come to the same conclusion. Their silences have decided - they can't always be with each other. The waves come, but they always go back. 

But they know that they will always share these special silences. Nothing, not her wedding, not his, can take that away.