Right Time, Right One!

”All experiences of love don’t necessarily need to be written in big books. The story of love doesn’t have to take the shape of a novel. Some love stories are written not on paper but only in the heart.” Fiona had said this, not me, that day.

I met Fiona at the Coburg Library. She had come to the library not to read but to donate books. Since the counter was a bit busy, she came and sat at my table. There were three chairs at the table. I was on one, she was on another, and the chair in the middle was empty.

As soon as she sat down, I smiled softly. She smiled softly back. Our smiles introduced us. Only the introduction of our voices was left, which I completed eventually.

She had a scarf around her neck and a delicate watch on her wrist. A butterfly tattoo was clearly visible on her arm. My mind wanted to start a conversation by saying how nice the tattoo was, but my mouth said, “The weather is lovely outside.” She agreed with me, saying, “Yes, it’s very beautiful weather.”

There was still a wait at the counter. Our conversation ended there.

In the library, strangely, I was flipping through messages on my mobile, not a book. Fiona asked me suddenly, “Are you waiting for someone?” I was startled. Her words a gentle reminder of the shared solitude we found ourselves in.

She smiled and said, “I asked because I was also waiting for someone at this same table at one time.”

“Wait for someone to a certain extent, but never wait beyond that limit, dear,” Fiona added, her wisdom like a guiding star in the night sky.

I was even more speechless. I felt a bit awkward. I couldn’t find any words to respond with, but a moment of silence ensued.

I hadn’t received a reply to my message yet, so I ventured to break the silence with a question of my own and asked Fiona, “Did the person you were waiting for come on time?”

Fiona looked into my eyes briefly and said, “No, he didn’t come on time, but love did come into my life at the right time.”

Her words tangled my thoughts, flowing in curves that teased my understanding. At that moment, I felt like looking at the counter. The crowd was still there. Then I turned my chair slightly towards her and curiously asked, “What happened when he didn’t come on time?

“When he didn’t come on time, many things changed, but it was a sweet change,” Fiona began to say.

“I’d like to hear about that sweet change if you don’t mind sharing,” I said, gathering my courage to ask Fiona.

This time, both Fiona and I looked at the counter; there was still a crowd of people getting books.

Fiona went back into her past and started talking.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Fourteen years ago, I met someone on a dating app, Fiona began, her voice carrying the weight of nostalgia.

Interrupting her, I questioned, “Meeting on a dating app, can you trust someone you’ve never seen?”

With a hint of wisdom, Fiona replied, “You can’t always trust those you meet at home and see every day either.”

Intrigued, I pressed further, “Then what happened?”

“Then we started talking only through messages without seeing or meeting each other. There was only one photo of him on the app, feeding grass to a horse, taken from a distance. The horse was clearer than him,” Fiona recounted, her tone tinged with amusement.

I couldn’t contain my laughter. “Good thing you didn’t fall in love with the horse,” I joked.

“Actually, you’re right. The horse shone more than him. I liked the horse first and matched with him after because of it,” Fiona quipped.

“And then?” I prompted eagerly.

As we continued our conversation, the bond between us grew stronger. Despite living in Melbourne while he resided in the countryside, we persisted in communicating solely through messages for months- actually seven month on end.

In the midst of our dialogue, I found myself instinctively reaching for my phone once more.

Fiona cheekily glanced at me, her smile widening knowingly as she remarked, “Yes, I was also sitting at this same table, repeatedly checking my messages like this.”

My “and then?” was ongoing, eager to unravel the rest of Fiona’s tale.

After seven months of talking, we decided to meet. We were both eager to see each other. He took an eight-hour train ride to see me on a Friday evening,” Fiona recounted, her voice carrying a hint of anticipation.

“He stayed at a hotel on Elizabeth Street in the city.”

That evening, the excitement in my heart was palpable. I couldn’t wait to finally meet him face to face. I messaged him, suggesting we grab dinner together in the city. But to my surprise, he mentioned meeting up with his old friends instead.

It caught me off guard; he had never spoken of friends in Melbourne before. Nevertheless, I didn’t dwell on it, convinced that he had come all this way just to see me. Yet, his decision to spend the evening with them left me feeling somewhat sidelined.

I tried to reassure myself, but a nagging sense of unease lingered. The anticipation of seven months felt suddenly incomplete, like a melody missing its final note.

In the midst of my restlessness, his message arrived, offering words of anticipation for our meeting the next day. My heart eased slightly at his reassurance.

After all, the heart has a way of forgiving when the one you love speaks sweetly. With elation, I responded, expressing my own eagerness to meet. “I’m even more eager to see you,” I confessed, my heart swelling with affection.

Then, he made a promise that filled me with joy. “You don’t have to come; I’ll come to you instead. I’d rather trouble my feet than trouble yours. I’d rather wait for you than make you wait.”

Aww! his words were like a gentle caress to my soul, and I felt like the luckiest person alive. In a surge of emotion, I invited him to meet me at Coburg Library the next morning.

As midnight approached, I couldn’t help but send another message, longing for the night to pass quickly. “Where are you?” I asked, yearning for his presence.

His response was immediate, as if he had been waiting for my message all along. “Yes, I’m with my friends at the club,” he confessed.

“Take care not to stay out too late,” I urged, asserting my affectionate concern.

“Never fear. I’m eager to see you tomorrow morning. I won’t be out late,” he assured me, his words filling me with hope.

And so, with the anticipation of our meeting at eleven in the morning, I drifted into the night, the promise of dawn and our reunion the most precious thing in my life. That night felt like an eternity, yet every moment was imbued with the anticipation of love fulfilled.

For me, morning came without sleep. Usually, staying up all night would make my eyes swollen, but that night, my eyes bloomed. They were rosy eyes blossomed by the anticipation of love.

From the moment I woke up, my mind was preoccupied with what clothes to wear, what jewelry to wear, what makeup to do, what shoes to wear, what bag to carry, which perfume to spray, and what gift to give him for our first meeting.

Even after trying on all the clothes in my closet, none seemed to suit me. So, I went to my neighbor friend, Sahara. I borrowed her maroon scarf for a day. I also borrowed a white shirt and new black boots from my close friend, Kerry, who lived half an hour away from my house. I walked to her place to get the white shirt and black boots.

On my way back, I bought a fresh red rose and a vial of homemade perfume, each chosen with care and love. As I walked, my mind raced with anticipation, my heart fluttering with excitement. Though I was approaching forty and he, just turning thirty, our age difference was a mere footnote in the grand symphony of our love.

But that day, I wanted to feel youthful and vibrant, to exude the essence of love in every gesture and every glance. So, I meticulously selected my attire, adorned myself with delicate jewelry, and applied makeup with a gentle touch, each action infused with the hope of our imminent reunion.

We had agreed to meet at eleven, but I arrived at the library at 10:30 am, eager to ensure that he would not have to wait. With every passing moment, my anticipation grew, and I found myself stealing glances at the entrance, my heart leaping with each opening of the door, hoping to catch a glimpse of him among the throng of strangers.

Despite the book open before me, my attention was elsewhere, lost in a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. Eleven o’clock came and went, the seconds ticking by like a drumbeat of anticipation. I took a deep breath, trying to calm the nervous flutter in my chest, my gaze flitting between the rose and perfume resting on the table beside me.

I resisted the urge to message him, not wanting to disturb him on his journey to me. Instead, I busied myself with trivial tasks, my fingers nervously tracing the edges of my phone, each passing minute heightening the ache of uncertainty.

By 11:30 am, my heart was pounding in my chest, the silence deafening in its intensity. With trembling fingers, I sent a message, my words a feeble attempt to break the silence that enveloped me: “Good morning, nice weather outside.”

But there was no reply.

Fifteen agonizing minutes later, I tried again, my fingers trembling as I typed: “I am already here.”

Still, there was no response, and with each passing moment, the weight of disappointment grew heavier upon my shoulders. Noon arrived, casting a shadow over my hopes and dreams, and still, there was no sign of him.

Restlessness gnawed at my insides, and the once vibrant red rose now seemed to wither before my eyes. Desperation clawed at my chest, and in a desperate attempt to hold onto the fleeting remnants of our love, I sprayed the delicate petals with the perfume, the scent mingling with the bitter taste of disappointment.

One o’clock passed, then two, and still, no reply came. With each unanswered message, my heart fractured a little more, the silence echoing like a mournful dirge in the depths of my soul.

At 1:30 pm, on the brink of despair, I sent one final message, my voice trembling with emotion: “Are you coming or not?”

But there was no reply, only the hollow emptiness of silence stretching out before me.

Then, a voice behind me broke through the suffocating stillness. I turned to see a stranger’s concerned gaze upon me, asking, “Are you alright, miss?

I quickly turned, hoping it was him. But it wasn’t; it was someone else.

I felt disappointed. I forced a smile and said, “I am alright.”

“The pain of waiting is hard to bear. Don’t waste your time waiting for someone who doesn’t come on time,” the stranger said with concern, looking deeply into my eyes. It felt like he had been watching me for a while.

My eyes welled up. With tear-filled eyes, I checked my phone again. There was still no reply. My heart grew weak. Darkness seemed to surround me.

“Are you still going to wait?” the stranger asked, seemingly annoyed by my waiting.

I looked at the clock; it was already 2:30 pm. I had been waiting for six hours.

I didn’t say anything, but the stranger spoke again: “Wait, but don’t wait in a way that hurts your self-respect.”

The stranger kept talking, but at that moment, his presence felt annoying. Some of his words reached my mind, some to my heart, some to my ears, some to my eyes, and some to no sense at all.

When I didn’t respond, the stranger walked away, leaning on his umbrella.

I continued waiting at the table for him. When there was no message from him, I suddenly wondered if something had happened to him. I felt afraid. I knew he was staying at some hotel on Elizabeth Street in the city, but he hadn’t mentioned the name of the hotel, so I didn’t know where to look for him or how to get information.

I wondered if he couldn’t find the library. So, carrying the rose and perfume, I went to wait at the library’s main entrance. It was raining heavily outside. The stranger was also there, smoking a cigarette, looking at the raindrops. I searched for him in the faces of everyone passing by. My eyes met the stranger’s again.

He extinguished his cigarette and approached me. “I have also been waiting for someone until today. I come to this library often, hoping she will come one day. I’m writing a book in her name. I’ve been here since nine this morning for that. I’ve seen you here since ten-thirty. I can feel the restlessness in your heart,” finally he said it.

Only then did I look deeply into his eyes. His eyes spoke the same pain of waiting that mine did.

“Have you also been waiting for someone?” I asked, my voice tinged with curiosity.

“Do you want to hear my story?” he responded, his eyes carrying a depth of experience.

Before he could elaborate, I glanced at my phone once more. By 3:30 pm, still no reply had come. Seven hours of waiting felt like an eternity, each moment stretching into lifetimes.

When I realized I had been waiting for seven hours now, I felt extremely hungry.

Realizing my hunger, I suggested, “If you’ll join me for a coffee, I’m ready to hear your story”, trying to lighten the mood.

“If we’re having coffee, let’s go to that café. You’ll still be able to see everyone coming into the library from there,” the stranger suggested, giving me another way to wait.

I went and sat at a table in the café where I could see people entering and exiting the library.

I ordered a cappuccino and a brownie. He only ordered a long black.

Taking my first sip of cappuccino, I asked, “Who are you waiting for until today?”

Then he finally started to speak.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

I met her when I went to Indonesia. We didn’t understand each other’s language, but we understood love. I was in the army, traveling to various countries on missions. When I returned from missions, I spent time not with my family but by visiting her in Indonesia. It felt like she was always waiting just for me. Thus, two to three years passed, turning into five.

The story of that stranger’s love gradually drew me in. My eyes and attention began to focus not on the library door but on his story.

“And then?” I asked, continuing.

“I was preparing to marry her and bring her here, but I hadn’t had the chance to tell her yet. This time, I was planning to bring her back with me when suddenly one day, a letter arrived – ‘My family and I are coming to Australia by ship. We’ll meet in Melbourne. I’ll come soon, please wait for me.’

I received that letter fifteen days after they had left. They were coming to Australia illegally. Hours passed, days passed, weeks passed, months passed, years passed, but neither she nor the ship arrived. It’s been exactly twenty years today, and I’m still waiting for her. I still hope she will come. My self-respect grows every day in her waiting. I’m writing this book in her name.”

The stranger took out a thick manuscript from his bag. It was five o’clock already, and I hadn’t realized the time. The library had closed at four, and I had forgotten to check my mobile. I flipped my phone over. There were ten missed calls and a flood of messages.

He had arrived an hour ago.

I read through each of his messages. There were a lot of apologies. He had been at the club with friends from night until late morning, he admitted that. When he finally slept, he slept so deeply that he forgot about me, forgot he came to meet me, forgot he had to wake up early, he forgot everything and didn’t dream of me either.

He wrote that he had been waiting for me outside the library for an hour.

A person’s heart can get excited quickly, but it can also break just as fast. My heart broke in a way that it wouldn’t mend. My heart, once quick to excitement, now lay shattered. His apologies fell upon deaf ears, for the hour of waiting had dulled my longing.

My mother used to say, “If you don’t get to eat when you’re hungry, and if you eat after the hunger has passed, it only causes indigestion.”

I felt a craving for coffee and brownies. I had enough of waiting for him.

I gave the rose and perfume I had in my hand to the stranger and said, “It feels like I’ve waited for someone for seven lifetimes, but I don’t have the courage to wait for an eighth. I’m glad I met you at the beginning of my eighth lifetime.” Saying this, I gave him my phone number and left.

Fiona took a long breath after explaining her story. I could see the transformation in her, how she had found solace in sharing her experience and embracing the beginning of her eighth lifetime by meeting that stranger.

“Wow!” escaped my lips. It felt like I was listening to a fairytale.

“And after that? Did you reply to him?” I asked curiously.

“I blocked him after going home. If he was truly eager to meet me, his priority would have been clear. He wouldn’t have stayed up all night partying with friends. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have slept in late the next morning. He would have set an alarm or found some other way to wake up. He would have cherished the opportunity to be with me, to make our meeting special.”

“You should have heard him out. Perhaps there was a genuine reason,” I offered my perspective.

“If I had listened, if I had given in once more, he would have continued to take me for granted. Love shouldn’t come at the cost of self-respect. I refused to wait for someone who didn’t value me enough to make me a priority.”

I nodded, acknowledging the strength in her stance. Together, we took a deep breath.

I quickly checked my phone, finding no new messages. Then, I turned to Fiona. “Did that stranger reach out to you?”

Fiona chuckled softly and remarked, “That stranger has become a steadfast companion since that day. He continues to await someone, and perhaps, in some inexplicable way, I’m waiting for him too, but I haven’t gotten tired of waiting him. It’s been fourteen years, waiting for him feels enjoyable. My self-respect increases even more. He has written five books during this time, and when I distribute those books in libraries or let someone read them, I feel genuinely happy, and whenever I share his words with the world, a profound sense of contentment washes over me.”

I was astonished by Fiona’s words. I quickly said, “What a sweet wait.”

“Waiting should be sweet, dear, not bitter. Never wait for someone who makes you wait, but wait for someone worth waiting for.” Fiona’s words resonated deeply, carrying the weight of wisdom born from her own experience. Her wait, like her words, exuded a sweetness that lingered in the air.

With the counter now vacant,  Fiona handed me a book and said, “This is the book the stranger was writing that day.”

Holding the book, I remarked, envisioning the narratives woven within Fiona’s heart, “If I meet that stranger someday, I’ll tell him to write a book about you too. Now I’m eager to read a book about your love life and waiting.” If I meet that stranger someday, I’ll tell him to write a book about you too. Now I’m eager to read a book about your love life and waiting,”

Fiona smiled and said, “All experiences of love don’t necessarily need to be written in big books. The story of love doesn’t have to take the shape of a novel. Some love stories are written not on paper but only in the heart.”  her words painting a portrait of a love beyond the confines of pages.

“Your name?” I asked, realizing I should have asked this earlier.

“Fiona.”

“And yours?”

“Nilam.”

“Nice meeting you, Nilam.”

“Same here, Fiona.”

“Remember, Nilam, wait for time, but don’t wait for someone who can’t recognize love in time.” Saying this, Fiona gave me another piece of wisdom about waiting as she left.

I checked my phone. A message had come from him.

“Sorry, I made you wait. I was so tired that I fell asleep.”

Fourteen years ago, one fell asleep, and today, another did the same. In fourteen years, while Lord Rama’s exile ended, the slumbering habit of these souls remains unchanged. May time enlighten them about its precious value, lost in the endless cycles of sleep.

Switching off my phone, I made my way to the café, the book in hand, ready to savor its contents with a newfound appreciation for the art of waiting for the right person and the sweetness it can hold.