A story-teller's love story.

"You know I won't mind...come on, tell me, I want to know once more, how did she look?", she rests her chin on her palms and her elbows on the table and playfully urges me.

She looks adorable, child-like and yet with undeniable womanly grace. Sometimes, I wonder what I have done to deserve her...

"OK, Lalitha was beautiful, I thought I loved Lalitha", I deliver the story in a monotone, not very different from a five year old reading prose aloud in English class.

"Hello? This is not what I shunned my kitty party invitation for! Let's try that one more time - she was not beautiful in the conventional sense...", she tried to make her voice sound husky and enthusiastic at the same time.

"You know the opening lines too, what is the need for me to tell you this story?", I ask, knowing and wanting to hear her answer one more time.

"You say it so much better, Prabhu...now don't waste any more time."

She was probably right, I love to tell stories, especially to children and to anyone else who would listen, destiny had decided when I was very young that I would become a writer, a story-teller. As a kid, I was the master story-teller of our house and all the children in our combined family and some amused adults would assemble around me every evening to listen to my fanciful stories, or so my father tells me. I love to watch their expectant faces mirror the variations in my story...now delighted, now disappointed, now anxious...I love to hold their hands and guide them on our journey together, and I love stories with a happy ending, which is one reason why I hesitate to give Kripa the full version of this story - the story of my life.

***
"She was not beautiful in a conventional sense, she was the archetype of a young and homely Indian woman, or so you would think if you saw her at the temple, at Nair's grocery store, at Pattapa's kitchen...I saw her at all these places and did not care to smile at her. I had bigger issues to worry about - money for the next cigarette pack, where to get chits for the next exam, how to get Class A Roshini to take notice of me"

Kripa laughed delightedly and ruffled my hair in mock sympathy, "Poor You, did Roshini not take a liking to you?"

"and...love being nowhere in question."

She assumed her previous chin-in-hands pose again - her favorite story-time pose.

"Sometimes, I did attend class," I permitted myself a small smile here, "and it was in one such class that I happened to talk to her. She had lingered behind that class looking for something in her jute bag and I needed to copy the assignment answers for our next day's Calculus class. Somehow, I was left alone in Calculus 2 while my class mates managed to pass the previous year!"

"And you are still weak at Math, Prabhu...I ask you to get 5 tomatoes and you come home with 2 kgs of something else instead - hmm, that probably also has to do with your weak eye-sight...", she props my spectacles higher up on my nose and I smile indulgingly at her. I do her a grave injustice sometimes but then, I was a man who had been in love, a man who is in love?

I now get out of my chair and start play-acting our conversation from ages ago, surprising, how fresh some memories are - like it happened yesterday...

"Hey, hello there...", trying to sound casual and cool.

"Hello Prabhu" Calm, not a bit flustered as I had expected her to become at my sudden accosting.

And, she knew my name.

"I was wondering if I could ahem...borrow your Calculus assignments for tomorrow's class, I would like to read through your methods and then I can do it myself..." I attempted to make it sound not so false.

"Why don't you come home today evening? I can help you myself with the problems and then you can solve it yourself?"

"Yes...I can do that, Now, why didn't I think of that?" I asked her with a kind of vacant look, well knowing why I did not think of that. We agreed to meet at 6.00 PM at her house, No 20, Ramaswamy street, next to the thatched corporation school.

Now why would I remember her house address? I shook my head and glanced quickly at Kripa - did she know?

***
I dressed in decent clothes, which for me translated to not-torn jeans and a washed tshirt. I knocked on her door.

"Come in Prabhu, Lalitha said you would be here to study Calculus." A pleasing, calm voice and a tranquil face with a small vibuthi mark to match the voice. Lalitha's mother made an impression on me that Lalitha had failed to make in our first meeting. It's not that I had not seen mothers like her, my own mother died when I was 6 but there was something...about her mother that gave a sense of peace to my restless soul.

I heard the rustling of quick steps and the sound of anklets...

"Prabhu! come, come, all ready for the Mathematics grind?", she asked smiling.

I did not answer immediately. I was taken aback, a little. Lalitha looked different at home, she wore a pale half-saree, but there was a certain glow in her face, a happiness about being...herself, comfortable, in her element. Something about the little apartment, the little lamp in front of her dad's picture - he had gentle eyes, Lalitha had his eyes - the fragrance of jasmine and agarbathi and the gentleness all around appealed to me...

I left after a couple of hours, my head swimming in numbers, and a feeling of warmth, I looked forward to our next Calculus class.

***
"And now, my darling little annoyance, I have work to do", I move towards my desk smiling, when Kripa placed a hand on my shoulder.

"Prabhu, please, can I hear the rest of the story?", I look into her pleading eyes and wonder if I should tell her. For the past year, this was always the logical stopping point for this story, I vaguely end the story each time after this part, with ambiguous references to Lalitha and her mother leaving town and me becoming a changed man. Even during our courtship, I had told Kripa about Lalitha, but just as this girl that I had a crush on during college, nothing more. She had an inkling that I had been more serious about her than any other girl...should I lay me heart out to her and risk hurting her as I have hurt myself? But today was different, I wanted to tell her how the story ended as much as she wanted to know...I made up my mind.

"Sit down and I will tell you more about Lalitha...and me."

Every story-teller has a favourite story to tell, the one story that will never fail to regale his audience, the one story that they will always demand that he repeat and the one story that means a lot to him; to him, it's not just a story, he lives in it, for those moments, his life is that story and he is the protagonist fighting for the hand of the fair maiden, only, in this case, the fair maiden was gone and there was nothing he could do but weep at his loss...

"Lalitha and I were the unlikeliest friends on campus. We were the subject of many speculations and my friends thought I had secretly married her. It was all fun and laughter initially, but as things became more serious between us, the jokes were not funny any longer..."

We met at the beach, overcast skies and strong winds - an omen? I ran to Lalitha and blurted out a quick apology for being late, "Hey, you know how my friends are...I just had to make some excuse and come here!"

"For how long, Prabhu?"

"Huh? Come on Lalitha, look around you, see the spirit of life everywhere? Nature bows down to our friendship...and I acknowledge", I held my hand lightly across my stomach and pretended to bow down...

"Prabhu, Do you love me?"
And there it was, the one question that I had dreaded to ask her or myself?

"Hey Lalitha, take it easy, we are young and we don't have to jump to conclusions now...you are one of my best friends, you know that...hell, you can read my mind anytime you want, I don't have to tell you this...", I tried to laugh. She tried not to cry.

"Prabhu, I understand. I just though you were different, I liked you even before you talked to me for the first time...I love you but I cannot sacrifice my mother's life waiting for you...I,"

I did not hear anything else that she said to me - the waves roared, distant trees swayed in the wind and the birds twittered frantically, the setting sun cast shadows that played with the contours of her face, one half of her face was a bright golden and the tears on her cheeks glistened like dew drops on leaves - her brightness, the other half of her face was in the dark - my dark thoughts; I watched her for a long time and did not speak. I was too immature, too proud to listen to love's melody that day - and today, I hear the same music everyday and I know maybe, that I cannot feel love as I had felt that day...

I broke out of my reverie...did I say too much already? I hoped my spectacles would hide the few tear drops that still threatened to fall today.

"And that Kripa, is The End." I smiled hoping it would hide my pain.

"Did you try to find her after that day?", she wiped her cheeks dry on her little lace-handkerchief.

"Yes, I went to her house, it was locked and I made enquiries...", I just shrugged my shoulders, hoping it will not reveal dark nights spent in tears, screams of a mad man, smitten by love.

"I am glad you told me the story, Prabhu, thank you or should you thank me?", she winked and hugged me.

I hugged her back, a bit puzzled. But who cares? I felt light as a feather, the burden of my past no longer a barrier in my life, Lalitha no longer a shadown between us, haunting me in my memories...I felt happy and grateful because she understood, and felt that the seeds of yet another love story had perhaps planted itself in me.

It was not until many years later that Kripa told me that she and Lalitha were best friends in college.

*The End*
***Excerpt***

The wait.

"Ayya, this way, the old woman must be in her hut, ranting to herself, haven't seen her the past few days; poor thing probably just biding her time for her final journey..."

The euphemism seemed out-of-place. I seemed out-of-place. I walked in the direction that the turbaned man pointed me to.

"Thanks...thanks a lot."

I pressed a ten rupee note in his hands and he walked away after gracing me with a toboaco-stained toothy smile. The nondescript hut stood amidst a bunch of similar looking huts. Several curious eyes followed my footsteps. A middle aged man with a prominent mustache sat on his haunch in front of the hut holding on to a stick and chewing what I imagined was betel leaves.

"I am looking for Malliga amma..."

He spat loudly, a few flecks landing on my shiny black shoes. Silence. I repeated my question and waited.

"She is dead."

I felt dizzy for a few moments. A light drizzle started to fall. I closed my eyes for a second and silently started walking back.

"Who was that? Did he say my name? Wretched fellow...won't let me live in peace...I say, kill me and take what little jewels I wear on me..."

The words were music to my ears. I smiled to myself and walked back towards the hut.

***"Amma, amma, come here, he walks, Raja walks!"

Malliga got up in a rush to fetch Mrs.Leela Kapoor, when the toddler decided he had had enough excitement for the day and sat down with a plop. Mrs.Kapoor walked in a second later, a flicker of disappointment, annoyance? crossing her pretty face.

"Amma, he walked for a few seconds...he walked!"

"He did? I am sure he will walk again...it's time for his nap now..."

She picked up the baby and walked out of the room, cooing endearments to him all the way. Malliga watched the mother and baby for a few moments. She swallowed hard, her momentary joy masked suddenly by pain.

***
It took me a few seconds before my eyes adjusted to the musty darkness inside the hut. She sat huddled in a corner holding a small rusted iron chest in her hands. The brownish yellow saree hung limply on her once nimble body. Two red glass bangles clinked on her thin wrists - she loved bangles. She wore thick glasses and from behind them peered the same, gentle eyes. Even time knew not to interfere with untainted innocence.

"Sit down. How can I help you?"

Her gentility surprised me. I cleared my throat and said, "I am a close friend of the Kapoor family, following Leela...Leela aunty's death, I have been asked to draw the family tree by close friends of the family, something we can preserve as a family heirloom...I was told you would have some details about them, incidents that I can mention in my compilation..."

My voice trailed, convincingly, I hoped.

She remained silent for a few moments and I wondered if this was all a huge mistake. Maybe she did not remember anything of her past, but how could she forget?
She broke into my thoughts in a soft voice that I strained to hear, "Leela amma...is no more?" She looked at a distance, lost in the ghosts of her past and the words came pouring out.

I listened mesmerized, every once in a while pretending to take down notes and then her soft voice would wash over me again. She spoke of Leela amma and ayya as though she saw them in front of her eyes, she painted a poignant picture from her memories and I listened like a little boy. Sometimes, her words would just dance all around me enveloping me in their embrace and I would revel in their sweet sounds, not even making an attempt to understand them...

As she spoke, her nose ring sometimes glinted in the single streak of light coming from the window. I watched her and listened to her stories - Are these the stories that I have missed for so long?

"Ayya, you must be hungry, will you have some koozh (porridge)?"

She did not wait for me to object, I was not going to object.

"Raja..." I looked up. "My Raja babu, he was an angel..."

Her voice seemed to break and I watched silently as she boiled some rice. She spoke about her Raja for an hour, she spoke of tiny baby steps, the first word - Amma, little games they played and the stories she would tell him to put him to sleep...images of a past life awoke to mingle with tears of the present...

***"What does my baby want?"

"Ma...amma"

Mrs.Kapoor played with her child, he had begun to speak words and even understand whole sentences. She laughed delightedly and asked,

"Where is amma?"

The child squirmed out of her hands and leaned towards Malliga. Malliga took the child and hugged him with all the love that only a mother can feel. She was a young mother too and she did not realize her blunder before it was too late.

"You promised! you promised you will not interfere...he is my child now!"

"Amma, forgive me, please forgive me this once. I cannot live without seeing my Raja..."
The love and pain in the tears that streamed down her cheeks were not a match for the possessiveness and insecurity that the other felt.

"I may be cursed by Him to not bear one of my own but he is my own now and I am his mother, not you...I beg of you, do not steal him from me..."

After all, Malliga had promised. She could not bear the thought of her precious gift growing up fatherless and two years back she had done what her dead husband would have been proud of. She had no right to claim him her own now.

The next morning her heart was heavy with a pain so ruthless, it helped her forget her sorrow. She kissed her Raja one last time on his tiny head and walked out of the house forever.
***
An angry thunder rumbled outside the hut, but I felt so light, I thought I could face anything. I thanked her for the food and left without saying what had to be said. I feared I would spoil the bonding...sometimes ignorance carries with it a bliss that knowledge knows not how to create. And I was not prepared for the questions.

I walked outside into the rain and said, "Amma, I shall be back again next week, this is a long project and...we have a lot to talk..."

A hint of a smile adorned her face and she said, "Raja...ayya, today was worth the wait...I will wait for you next week."

***
***Excerpt***

O what a tangled web we weave!

"You know how it is with some relationships? Passionate, unrelenting, crazy at first and before you know it, you are drifting along comfortable in a languorous way and soon enough, you hardly remember how it used to be. Once in a while, you are reminded of sparks that once existed, chemistry that was once evident...and you catch yourself wondering when the change sneaked upon you and when you stopped...feeling. I, I...feel frustrated and guilty."

A torrent of words. All too familiar emotions. She touched the corner of her eyes with a tissue. Her delicate face and outwardly shy demeanor seemed a contrast to the feelings that she revealed now. I glanced at the clock and almost impulsively deviated from the original counsel that I had planned for her.

"Shaheen, I understand. You should not feel guilty about this. It's a natural feeling, marriage is not a cake walk and the more expectations we hold, sometimes, the harder we fall...we have all gone through this cycle..."

That night, my past loomed in front of me and for once, I did not push it away. I wanted to relive my past. Catharsis can be disturbing but is often therapeutic. I smiled wryly - who would know better than a shrink?

***
Karthik was not particularly attractive - average height, average physique, average looks - and three years back, I wouldn't have cared less. His best feature was probably his eyes - intelligent, expressive, large brown eyes. There were moments in our courtship when I felt, with all the intensity that girlish romanticism sometimes musters, that I could read volumes in his eyes, stories that would fascinate me, draw me closer in a way I had not imagined was possible. So, when did I start noticing that half the hall was filled with men who were better dressed and better looking than my husband? When did his occasional nervous ticks - the way he touched his right ear before speaking to a stranger, the way he stammered in the middle of a conversation - little things that were earlier categorized as delightfully quirky ease themselves into the category of mildly irritating and then annoying?

"Do you have to wear that same stupid shirt again to the party? Shankari and her husband will be there...and you know how critical they can be? If not for them, atleast for your sake, can't you dress sensibly for a change?"

His slow movements and lack of response, the same placid attitude, the lack of anything out of the way, infuriated me and I did not understand it. I had once loved this man and I desperately wanted to love him even now. Sometimes, I imagined that he flirted with other women at his work or did something, anything at all that would justify my increasingly angry outbursts and acerbic words...

***
"I slept better last night. Somehow, I did not feel so suffocated. But, I did lose my temper again yesterday...you know what infuriates me Doctor? He just does not react. For once, I want him to be angry, to cry, to lose his head, to wipe that stupid, half-smile off his face...he comes home at 6.15 every evening, reads the newspaper for 23 minutes - I clocked him yesterday - even his coffee brand has not change for the past 5 years..."

She was screaming now. I had a headache, or was it a heartache? I looked at the small woman in front of me, struggling with her life, and I saw shades of myself in her. Shades of a past life, a life as different from my life now as can be, yet why does every story sound like mine? I just need a vacation. I need to go to some place where he won't be there to remind me of my restlessness and immaturity, where guilt won't shroud me, where I don't need to understand why I ran away from love...

***
"The bir...birthday boy is home!"

He seemed happy. I cursed - this was going to make it all harder on me. I took a deep breath and said what was to be said.

"I am leaving you, Karthik. Unlike you, I have a life to live."

Flawlessly delivered, just as I had practised it, no tears, no sentimental overdose. This time, I had made up my mind, I would leave and not feel compelled to drag myself along with him in this meaningless existence. If he did love me, why did he not notice that I suffered? Everyday, he talked about his work, his day...did he once ask me how my day was?

He looked crestfallen and for the last time that I saw him, he still had no words to say. I walked out. I laughed as I walked out, a laughter of relief, of freedom, a laughter full of life and irony. July 25th, his 30th birthday, and now a date that will also mark the day I walked out of his life. I am not sure why I cried.

***
I looked at the clock with a sense of apprehension. Her final session. I prayed that she would walk in with a smile. She did, and a box of sweets.

"I can't thank you enough, Doctor. Yesterday, we talked through the night and he surprised me! He booked a two week vacation for us...he calls it a make-up honeymoon!"

She smiled shyly. Her eyes shone. I smiled.

"He said he wanted to thank you. I told him what all you told me, he said you reminded him of someone. He was wondering if we can meet for lunch today?"

I was temped to say yes but hey, three out of five patients invite me to lunch and it just wouldn't be right for me to say yes.

She looked a bit disappointed but brightened up immediately and said, "You will have to come to attend a birthday party though, a surprise birthday party that I have planned for him...it falls on July 25th! OK?"

I looked up and asked in a tone, as neutral as I could make it sound, "Your husband...what did you say his name was? I might have forgotten, so many names, you know?" I was rambling now.

"Karthik. He is the sweetest guy, you must meet him, Doctor...and poor thing has had his share of bad luck...I have told you...no?", she leaned, conspiratorially towards me and whispered,

"His first wife ran away...maybe she needed to take advice from you Doctor, anyway, her loss, my gain." She giggled and walked out.

***
***Excerpt***

A house, an NRI and all that jazz.

"Satish has recently bought a town house, his mother tells me...did he tell you?"

In spite of the intermittent static and bad connection, the implication of the seemingly innocent question was clear. I sighed, the weary, futile sigh of a middle-aged NRI forced to do things quite outside his capacity, like buying a boat, for instance, oh alright, it's a house...apples, oranges, whatever.

"Ma, I am not planning to buy a house anytime soon! Not until Kalpana goes back to work and she cannot until Kapil becomes more manageable..."

As if on cue, our two year old starts to bawl loudly. Kalpana makes half-hearted attempts to pacify him. She asks loudly - I am not sure if that is for my benefit for the benefit of the curious ears listening on the phone - "I think it's about time we settle down too, Sheku..."

Disgusting abbreviation, Sheku, really, does she do that just to get me to agree to her demands? Shekar, such a respectable name, has a ring to it. As I revel in my onymous glory,

"What is that? Is that Kalpana? What is she saying?"

I am definitely in no mood for this game. I use the faithful NRI long-distance-call tactic - "Ma, I can't hear you clearly, I will talk to you later!"

***
The stage: Friend's place with the requisite number of people, a pre-planned and deviously schemed get-together, I am sure!

The protagonist: Our friendly pot-bellied, obnoxious "friend", Dr.Sahi.

The Director: My very own better half (hah!), my very own Brutus, Kalpana-the-plot-planner.

Dr.Sahi moves his considerable bulk towards my direction with a champagne glass in his hand, an unpleasant grin extending all the way from one cavity-filled set of molars to another. "What, Shekar?"

Really, what kind of a self-respecting, decent man begins a converation with "What, Shekar?" How is one supposed to respond to this anyway?

I avert my eyes from his rather large yellowish teeth, and try to look non-chalant, "How do you do, Dr.Sahi?" I decide to play it real safe. "Tough weather out there, isn't it?" and fall headlong into the trap.

"Yes, yes, indeed..." - like a tiger with bad teeth pouncing on an innocent over-worked lamb - "Those apartments you live in, they seem so fragile, one tornado and the construction will just crumble" He makes little annoying gestures with his fingers to show me how they will crumble. I have a bad feeling where this conversation is leading me to and I try desperately to steer clear...

"Oh, Shhhekhar Bhai", an equally imposing figure makes its way towards me. I squint to get a better glance at kalpana, talking animatedly to another guest at the end of the hall, trying to discern an evil-Kalpana lurking behind her innocent, almost angelic visage. She catches my eye for a moment and I see an almost malicious grin mask her face. I have got to stop watching Sci-Fi movies.

I turn towards the second opponent that my wife has strategically sent to impose her far-fetched, crazy ideas on me. I will stand as a rock, steady in my decision.

"Hello Mrs.Sahi, nice to run into you here..."

"Indeed, Shhhekar Bhai, Kalpana tells me you are planning to buy a small house nearby? Sahi he, aapne bataya hi nahi? Shmart decision hah..."

I look for a nice little spot where I can start digging a hole and then disappear in it away from the Sahis of the world.

"Mrs.Sahi, we were just casually discussing it and of course, we are not planning to buy a house anytime soon..."

***
Striped, three-piece suit, yellow tie with small black dots on it, gold-framed spectacles, with an unusually long wire hanging from the supports on either ear, branded I am sure, the kind that will tint a questionable shade of brownish-black as soon as the sun hits the eyes. A black leather carry bag and a sheaf of papers. Seriously, did they make real estate agents like these any more?

We, or rather Kalpana, laid out a clear set of requirements for Keith Barone, our buyers agent.

"A ranch style house, yes...our parents may come to stay, you know? High ceiling? Well, I am more particular about the school district the house is in..., 2 bedroom and 2 baths, yes, I think that will help with the resale value also."

I stood looking at the creature that had taken over my demure, unsophisticated, naive Kalpana. I also noticed that I had been subtly excluded from the conversation between my wife and our agent. I decided to put my foot down.

"Ahem...the budget?" They both laughed. I had a good mind to relieve Mr.Barone off his three-piece suit and invite him for a one-on-one.

"Really, Mr.Khanna, you are one funny man...", the three-piece-suit (TPS) said, laughing.

***
A tiny but perfectly manicured front lawn with a pleasant landscape. A loud FSBO sign stood in the center of the lawn. TPS confidently led the way into the house. The house was perfectly maintained - the carpet, the walls, the kitchen floor flawless. A waft of vanilla mixed chocolate added to my troubles. Kalpana was already grinning like a woman possessed. I casually picked up the info sheet from the kitchen counter.

Perfect home, silent neighbourhood, good school...bla..bla...
- followed by the numbers that will haunt me till today - $195000!!!

I made up my mind and decided to use my imagination to extricate me from this sticky situation, after all, I am a writer! I walked slowly towards the decently sized, what-was-once-an-office-room.

Kalpana's eagle eyes caught my movement and she pounced immediately, "Sheku, isn't this room lovely, this can be your quite office area and you can write nice little novels in here and earn a lot of money..."

This time, I was not unprepared. "Well, I assumed this would be the game room, you know, the guys can come over and we can hang out every Friday night! Have never been able to do that in our apartment...now even weekends, I can picture it right now..."

I must say I did act that out pretty well. I held up both arms, palm facing outwards, a director's pose, and said, in a slightly high-pitched voice,

"I see it now, Shankar, Prakash, Sujan and the rest of the gang, around the poker table, beer and cigarettes and gambling all night long! I can't wait!"

***
According to me, the first house-searching stint was a success! I had hardly finished revelling in my first mentionable triumph, when TPS called the next morning; as was the norm, Kalpana and TPS decided when and where to meet and details about the next house we were going to see. My writer-brain almost complacent after its first victory, woke up again.

Yet another picture-perfect house. I walked in with some trepidation, my wallet already seemed lighter.

"Mr.Barone, we were expecting you and you must be Kalpana...", something about the lilting voice made me look up. Our seller, a young American lady, Nancy, had a personality that did complete justice to her voice - charming! I was almost tempted to ask her more about the house, just as an excuse to talk to her...

"$201000, that's correct, the house is just 2 years old and we added a sun room right here..."

Now completely awake and far away from my sudden misplaced inclination, I proceeded to show some interest in the house and it's seller. Fifteen minutes, cups of tea later, I was still deep in conversation with Nancy, when Kalpana cleared her throat for the second time. I had successfully ignored her initial curious glances, then more pointed attempts to join our conversation. She finally resorted to pouting in a corner.

"I am sorry to hear that you are separated, it must be difficult for you to manage your work and the house and all...", I tutted sympathetically and this time, Kalpana tapped me on the shoulder, not so lightly.

"Shouldn't we be leaving now Shekar? Anyway the price range is probably a bit too high for us, isn't it? Thanks for your time and it was nice meeting you, Nancy."

Kalpana linked her hands in mine and gently nudged me towards the door. Me? I was just glad I was not the recipient of the frosty glare that she presented to Nancy. I whistled an old song as we headed back home.

***
Let me save you the trouble of reading through more such accounts. Just suffice to say, I left it all to Kalpana to decide, helping the process a bit, here and there. A few weeks passed, TPS sulked and left our house for good, Kalpana told me that a house could always wait - "We have each other and Kapil, don't we, let's take it slowly" and I was back to being a happy writer.

That night when the India call came, I heard Kalpana talking to my mom, "Ma, we looked at four or five houses, yes, not good at all, they say this is not the season to buy houses, maybe next year..."

Well...atleast I have until next year!

***
***Excerpt***

The Last Laugh.

The ceremony was small, unpretentious, heart-wrenching. No loud bawls, just tears silently shed. No stories exchanged that sung his praise, just a collective silence that recalled special moments that were shared with him, special because he made them special. The crowd soon dispersed, close friends stayed back to clean his apartment. A forty year old bachelor cannot expect to have a family to cry for him. His life and now death were no different.

A small apartment, neatly maintained – a living room, kitchen and a bedroom with two closets. Silently, methodically, they started collecting his possessions, each small object – an old football with their names scrawled on it, a faded photograph from their college days, his favourite T-shirt - only your wife will change you, they had claimed – summoning a fresh surge of tears, until they could cry no more. The frail woman clad in a black saree looked the most devastated, she often took deep trembling breaths and hung on to anything she could place her hands on, for support, her lips quivered but made no sound. The two men in the apartment were lost in their own memories, trapped in their own mental turbulence to help her. Friends for life, they had proclaimed proudly and happily. He had broken his promise, unexpectedly, unfairly – or so it seemed to them.

The woman walked, unseeingly, towards the bedroom and slowly started collecting his belongings; each movement seemed to take forever, her brain refused to respond, her heart, still in denial. She picked up the neatly stacked novels gently and placed them in a cardboard box. She stared at the picture on the cover of a novel for several moments – a happy picture, a man and a woman laughing, holding hands and walking down the street – she blinked a few times to look at the picture through her tears and traced her index finger along the man's face, life seemed to have come to a halt. The simple picture drew several powerful images from her past and painted them in front of her eyes; she closed her eyes and sank down - an absolute surrender to her emotions.

She was introduced to him by a mutual friend, she had nursed a crush for him, for quite some time. The first few years, she even thought that their relationship might lead to something romantic eventually; she did not realize when the definition changed. Suddenly, they were friends, and suddenly the bond had grown stronger than it ever was. He was always there for her, until today…

She dusted invisible cobwebs from the cupboard and started placing the old greeting cards, audio cassettes and trinkets into the box. Several cards were from her, proudly displaying years of careful maintenance…a small notebook fell down and she picked it from the floor – a heart was drawn on the cover, broken and over it his familiar scrawl, "Broken…still beating, for you". She had never seen him as a romantic, and she knew there was nothing about him that she did not know…yet the writing was definitely his. In spite of herself, curiosity prompted her to open the diary.

Today, yellow is her color…and mine! She is dressed in a yellow half-sari, blue pavadai…her hair is still wet, little curls bounce off her forehead, no anklets today but when there is music all around, I little need the sound of her anklets to make me dance…she is late again to zoology class, every second I panic – what if she does not come today? But there she is, my one indulgence, my one love…

Her eyes automatically looked down at the next entry dated the next day, again a few lines but just as mesmerizing and heartfelt...

Splitting headache, maybe because I dreamed that she would not be mine? If she will be by my side only in my dreams, I can desire nothing but eternal sleep…but even my dreams betray me!

She read, skimmed frantically, perplexed, not wanting to understand...

She cried on my shoulder today; I wanted the moment to last forever. I want her to lean on me throughout her life and I want to cry with her and care for her, forever…am I selfish? No, how can I be selfish? Every bit of happiness within me quells with her every tear drop…I ask not for her to cry. I plead for her to let me trail by, like her shadow, so that my heart knows what to feel, looking into her eyes…I feel because she does. I am because of her.

As if in a trance, she turned a few pages over, scared to comprehend what she feared it would convey…

Yesterday, we held hands…she did not let go of them the whole evening. I still feel her hands in mine – they are so soft, I am scared I will hurt her if I hold them tightly. We walked on wet grass, every little thing delights her – a butterfly, a rose, sunrise, my silly jokes. I want to talk to her till I can talk no more. Should I tell her what I feel? I am scared she will flit away like the butterfly…but her hands seem so right in mine, does she not feel the same?

More limericks, thoughts and doodles later, his past swirled in front of her, memories that they shared intervened and the pieces of the puzzle seemed to assemble themselves, new meanings extended their hands to her and she caught a reflection of herself in every precious line in front of her. Forgotten phrases made a quick appearance...

"Of course, I love you, you do know you are the one woman who can tolerate me, don't you?"

"Stay with me forever...I might just die laughing!"

"I can ask myself the question or you, it's all the same to me..."

She had lost count of the number of times he had made her play the guessing game with her, "Name the girl in my dreams and I am your slave for today!" She had laughed and indulged his innocent game, five, six names later, she would always give up and they would forget about it until the next time they played the same game. She had never been able to name her and had assumed there was no her.

A thousand "What ifs" surrounded her - what if they were meant to be together? Had he died of loneliness because she had been blind? Did she not recognize love that was so evident in the words that spoke to her today? He had been the perfect friend...maybe he was destined to be more and she had turned her back to her own destiny.

Inexplicable emotions gripped her and unconsciously, her eyes moved to the source of her uncertainty, despair, sadness, love...she resolutely turned to the last page of the diary.

Anjali, Anjali, Anjali...

She held her breath. She could almost hear him whisper her name...

Caught you? Didn't I? You were right after all, there was no girl. But, I did get you thinking there, for a while, didn't I ;)? If this book is in your hands, it only means one thing and I know for sure I will miss you, wherever I am. Ever yours.

The two men who came rushing into the room looked at each other in confusion. They had no idea. He had managed to make her laugh, one last time.

***Excerpt***

The Husband.

Meenakshi...the keeper of my soul, my angel come to rescue me, my Meenakshi...what worries you so? What is causing those beautiful eyes to brim up so? Pray tell me, my Meenakshi...I will slay the demons that distress you, pray tell me, every crease in your forehead, every tear that falls from your eyes mars my being, I live for you, Meenakshi...do not kill me so...

She was crying again. He had done all he could to make her stop. He did not know why she cried. What reason should a young bride have to cry? A month after their marriage, he still believed she cried because she was homesick. Eleven months later, he could no longer attribute her tears to homesickness. When he left to work in the morning, she stood in a corner, sniffling. When he came home after work, she would be standing at the verandah, listelessly looking at a distance, eyes red and tired and still wet.

"Every night, the same old story...", she sighs and yells, "Shantha, come here, give patient 26 the injection, he is going to sing his death knell throughout the night, otherwise..."

*****
Meenakshi, see what I have bought home for you...close your eyes, feel the softness? Do you like mani? That's what I have named him, look how he wags his tail, here, hold him...Meenakshi, why do you still cry, woman? (Tone raised) What should a man do? I cook in the morning before I leave to work, I take care of you...(subdued again) oh, do not cry, my life, my Meenakshi...

He returned from work that evening to find the puppy standing at the gate, it jumped delightfully when it saw him, he smiled, as if acknowledging the ironies that life doled out to him, he bent down to lift the puppy and walked into the house. She sat in a corner of the house, huddled and trembling, he rushed to hug her and she shrank back...

"How are you feeling today, Sir?", the monotonous tone evokes no response. It has not in the past month, and the doctor did not expect anything new today; he did what he considered his duty, checked his pulse and his vitals, shouted a few instructions to the nurses and moved on to the next patient. It was difficult enough trying to save lives that wanted to be saved...

*****
Where are you? I know I should not have screamed at you, my darling, my beautiful angel, do not leave me now...is that you I see in the distance? Is the rain blurring my vision or are these my tears? Oh Lord...protect my Meenakshi, she is the child that you bestowed on me, help me keep her safe...Are my eyes tricking me? Is that...no! take my life away but she should live...

That night, he came home a bit late, he had spent the evening worrying about how to handle her once he got back home. He had screamed at her in the morning and had left her crying. When he had woken up in the morning and seen her as she had been every other day, no hint of improvement, no shadow of a smile on her face, something had triggered his pent-up anxiety and worries to burst out; the words escaping his mouth sounded alien to him, but days and days of hopelessness and disappointments had numbed his patience and his cognition. That night, he did not find her home. He ran outside into the pouring rain, screaming her name like a mad man...he saw her walking unseeingly in the middle of the road, the car careened wildly as the terrified driver tried to avoid her, he had thrown himself at the car, a final attempt to save her from herself, he felt the impact and then darkness shrouded him, unable to bear his pain?

"6.30 PM, time of death", the doctor moved on, the nurses hustled behind him, they had been through this too many times to be affected by it. "Poor man, they say his wife was mad, he looked after her for a year, could not take it anymore and killed her and threw himself in front of the car...", Shantha said, "The driver saw him pushing her in front of the car, tsk...men like these, God knows what his wife had done to deserve a husband like him..."

*****
***Excerpt***

Perception.

Oil splattering, the sound of the cool, slightly wet steel ladle touching scalding oil, three quick flips of the samosas, maybe four and they are carefully removed and placed on bright green leaves, maybe a bit yellowish at the sides. I try to see a family of four buying the samosas at the shop, inconveniently situated in the middle of the platform, maybe...

A toddler on the woman's hip, sleeping peacefully - I feel a strange communion with him, we see alike now - a little girl with two oily plats, red ribbons, no, yellow...she tugs at her mother's salwar kameez, her father has his nose buried in a magazine at a nearby book store.

Magic lies not in black and white, waste not your life in the illusion of the written word, open your eyes, take in the magic that colors create...take it in when you can, look at the contrast that the delicate purdah creates on your wife's creamy complexion, see how her earrings glitter even through the smoke, notice the mischief in your child's eyes...are they not perfect? Foolish man, throw the book and breathe in life!

A shrill whistle, quickening footstpes, excited shouts, a crescendo heralding the train's arrival. "Walk faster Latha, here, let me carry your bag...", a woman's gasp, the bag lands with a thud. I lift it and hold it for her to take. She smiles gratefully - don't they all? - and takes the bag from me, our hands touch for a moment and she shrinks away, I hear the rustle of her dress as she hurries away from me.

She has soft hands, I want to touch them again...Latha...Latha, lilting...her name reminds me of an old Hindi song...

I have company. "Aapko patha he, mumbai se delhi jane waali gaadi kab aayegi?" Do they still look at their gold-dialled wrist watches when they ask this question?

I answer him and he sighs and flips open his cell phone, "Suresh, stuck here man, bloody schedules...never on time, we have to reschedule the ops meeting, yes that sounds ok, Catch you later." The young man studies me with interest, I start coughing at the cigarette fumes that he exhales on my face. "Sorry...", he murmers and looks away.

"Quite alright, I should be used to it by now..."

He looks at me, surprised? "These trains are never on time, doesn't it bother you? And look at the decrepit state of this station, I am just waiting to get out of here..."

"I like this station, infact, this is my favourite spot, right here, on this bench, I get to meet interesting people, you know?", I wink at him.

"That would surprise me...favourite spot? as in, you are here by choice?!"

I smile. "Yes, I find peace here, in the midst of all this...", I spread my arms out, "Here, in this station, I see, I see everything...watch that little girl by the corner, in that torn red dress, see the way she eats the ganna (sugarcane)? I cannot see that when I am home..."

He looks around - I hear the crinkle of his expensive suit - "What girl?"

I smile some more - people amuse me - "You wouldn't see her son, such is the magic of this place...let your senses overtake you, close your eyes for a second and breathe, feel...see!"

He does not understand, some people cannot understand. His eyes cannot see what mine can and I cannot see what his eyes can...perhaps, it is he who is blind.

***Excerpt***