Dreams, Words and Secrets.

#1. Burdens on my Dream.

"I feel her, I feel her!" I cry excitedly to Sudeep. For a moment, in the bewildered and happy smile that we exchange, we are almost our old selves again. It's as if love sneaked in for a moment under his palm that touched my belly and my baby, snuggled there for a fraction before letting itself out, as suddenly as it had appeared. We regain our old selves back - my baby refuses to kick again, perhaps even she realizes that she is not strong enough to hold together the fraying bonds between us - his hands move away without hesitation and we freeze in our earlier positions, sitting close yet not close on the sofa, appearing to be yet not watching the meaningless images flit across the television screen, as if an invisible wall surrounds each of us and we cannot break out of it. Perhaps we don't want to.

"I need to get some work done, do you want something to drink? A glass of milk?"

Just the right amount of concern in his voice, the right expression on his face, yet the right amounts of everything seem to come not naturally, but with a strained effort. I shake my head and forget to thank him anyway.

He runs up the stairs two steps at a time, as if his new gained freedom - from me? - has given his legs an additional vigor. I sit for a long time staring at the television, wondering about us, how did we grow apart so soon? How can I smoothen the wrinkle that creases his brows? Will baby Sapna do what I have failed to so far? Sapna - that is what I have decided to call my baby, she will be the dream that brings us together. Oh Sapna, so young and so many burdens placed on your delicate shoulders already. Will you promise to try? I hug my baby and we fall asleep on the couch once again.

***
#2. Dosas for Breakfast.

The next morning I wake up with a purpose. I move with a lightness in my heart, for Sapna and I have a plan, our little secret. I make sure Sudeep is still asleep and walk down the stairs as soundlessly as possible. I search for the tea kettle in the cupboards, I know Sudeep likes strong ginger tea in the morning, my preference is a hot cup of coffee but today, I will do anything to make him smile, to make our marriage work. Sapna and I thought of this idea in our sleep last night. I bend down with some effort (after all Sapna is all of seven months old now) and find the tea kettle. I set the tea to boil and decide to make dosas for him. I look at the clock, fifteen minutes past eight. He will be down in another fifteen minutes. I make crisp, golden-brown dosas for us and freshen up. I carefully selected a night dress yesterday, a pale pink that he had mentioned (how long ago was that?) was flattering on me. I brush my hair with a few quick strokes and place a bindi on my forehead. I study my reflection in the mirror - not bad, I tell myself, I look almost cute and very pregnant, I decide.

I sit down at the dining table. I am already tired - this is enough exercise for me, no matter what Dr.Sheila tells me. He walks down - the same hurried steps, is it my imagination or is he in a hurry only to leave this house, to leave me? - I am surprised that he is already dressed and ready with his laptop to leave. Sometimes I can't tell if he is getting dressed for a picnic or for work. A programmer needs to be comfortable or all he is going to code are software bugs, he had told me long back. Today though, he is dressed with care, no sleepy stubble on his chin, a white full hand shirt and faded blue jeans. A shirt? He must have a presentation today, I tell myself. His hair is as unruly as ever, what was it that I found so attractive about it? I can't quite recall. He stops when he sees me and the table set, ready for him. For a second, he can't seem to decide what to do, he comes close to me and lightly pats my head. I feel like a dwarf sitting in front of him - at six feet, he towers over me by almost a foot but today I feel short, pudgy, ugly? I try to guess the look in his eyes, eyes that I knew so well not so long ago, now I seem to be guessing what they convey, all the time...

"I am sorry, I have to go for a meeting. Nancy called for a sudden meeting at nine..."

I nod, still trying to guess what he is thinking, the feeling that flits across his eyes so often nowadays. Minutes after he has gone, it hits me - pity! I am suddenly angry at myself, I should have been more careful, just a year in America, I don't even have a drivers license, the time when we should have gotten to know each other better, the time that I should have spent getting to know this country, all lost now...and then I think of Sapna and am overcome by a guilt-laced love, nevertheless, a love so strong, it makes me scared. What if she is not as beautiful as I imagine she would be? What if I die without seeing her? And the question that I always push away before it can haunt me further, what if she cannot bring in Sudeep the change that I myself struggle to bring forth? I nibble on the now cold bits of dosa and wonder if Nancy is pretty.

***
#3. Susheela Aunty Drops In for Tea.

My routine, bland to begin with has become more predictable nowadays. Earlier I used to call Sudeep during the day just to whisper sweet nothings to him. He would always respond in kind, he would always say "love you princess" before he hung up. I hear the words in my head and try to savor the feeling that it generates. I feel a bitter taste in my mouth and before I know it I am sick again - didn't Dr.Sheila say the nausea lasts only the first trimester? Maybe something else leaves this bitter taste in my mouth. Nowadays, I introspect too much, maybe I am reading too much into everything, maybe it's just my hormones driving me crazy, I tell myself unconvincingly.

After Sudeep leaves, I tidy the kitchen a bit if I can stand the food smells. I watch old reruns on TV - Full House is my favorite. Earlier Sudeep used to join me for lunch sometimes and we would laugh together watching the show. After lunch, I try out some calisthenics for about fifteen minutes. Then comes my favorite time - I snuggle into bed for some light afternoon reading and a nap. The reading is often not light though - today I have a penchant for pathos, nothing less than Wuthering Heights! I fall asleep with the book in my hands and dream that I am Catherine pining for Heathcliff, that there is a little girl by my side who cries along with me for her father, even as he gallops farther away on his horse, do I see a woman with him on the horse? I can't tell for I wake up wanting to use the restroom again.

Around 3 pm, Susheela aunty sometimes drops by for some afternoon tea and some "useful" advice for pregnant women - "After all, I haven't been a mother to four children for nothing!" She is a kindly old woman of about sixty who is desperate for any company, anyone who will listen to her talk, that is. Her only son – “my sonu beta” - and his wife, Amy both work full time and the old woman often gets lonely in the afternoons. She gives me strange recipes for dishes I can hardly name; to my credit, I did try out her recipe for soya upma, it reached the trash can even before I had swallowed my first spoonful. Today she is in a pleasant mood, she tells me, "You should drink a glass of juice every morning, in your America you get so many varieties of orange juice, why don't you buy one of those bottles?"

When she speaks, it's always "my America". I take an irrational pride in claiming kinship with a country that is still alien to me. I nod kindly and resist an impulse to tell her I can't stand orange juice in this country with its strong tangy taste, so unlike the sweet, frothy orange juice made in Indian fruit stalls.

"Savitha, you must avoid pickles and drink lots of milk with kesar in it. Your daughter will be so fair, a Rajakumar will fall for her pretty soon!", she laughs at her impractical little story and I join her, although it is too soon for me to think of the Rajakumar who will take my dream away. I need her with me for a long time to come. I shiver suddenly and Susheela aunty says, "Here, put this shawl around you, I will make you some chamomile tea today. The American bahu taught me to make it today."

When Susheela aunty talks about Amy, it's always "the daughter-in-law". Like the country, her daughter-in-law would also never become hers. Are we similar in this strange way? Bonded together by a strange country and stranger people (I see them all the time on People's court - who are these people)?

The afternoon passes by pleasantly enough and soon it is five in the evening, six...I stand by the window of our apartment and marvel once again at the colors I see - green, gold, rust, red, the colors of fall spread out in pristine glory while I sit cooped up inside my now suffocating apartment. I promise myself I will go out for a walk tomorrow but I am scared, scared that the rich and beautiful people of this strange country will laugh at me, brown skinned, in a strange costume (I just have a few pair of jeans and they don't fit me now), that I would lose my way and my identity on the way...

I don't hear the key in the lock and Sudeep startles me by kissing me on the cheek from behind. I blush (silly woman, old enough to be a mother and blushing still...), I turn around to hug him with relief and stop when I see his face - strangely flushed, an excited look in his eyes - I am suddenly worried, what causes my husband to be transformed thus?

Sudeep tells me, "I am going to Florida on a big assignment. If this thing works out, I am all set for my promotion!"

I smile because he expects me to, a hundred questions surround me like the sudden flock of birds that appear out of nowhere in these American skies, What will I do alone? What if I need to go to the hospital? Who is going with you to Florida?

He doesn't hear my thoughts, he continues, "Nancy is excited about this! She says..."

I feel as if I am sinking, down, down, until I can sink no further. Nancy is going too, his sexy and successful boss, Nancy, a witch with bewitching eyes. I am being silly, a little envy and it paints such wild images in my head...

He stops talking at my lack of enthusiasm and says, "Savitha, I really want this project to take off. If this works out, we can even think of buying a house, imagine...the baby will have a huge room to herself, we can paint it ourselves..."

So many dreams, one built on another, so fragile...I am scared they will dissolve if I dare to even sigh.

That night we both pretend to sleep as we immerse ourselves with thoughts that seem to be drifting farther apart from each other. Sapna seems to be the only one holding them together.

***
#4. Wuthering Heights meets Catcher in the Rye.

Another day, another resolve that daughter and mother have taken together. Today, I am not anxious when Sudeep leaves me alone at home, today we plan to step outside, to smell the refreshing air outside, to experiment, to set out on our own adventure. I dress in one of my nicer cotton sarees, select a smaller bindi than the one I usually wear, bright kohl lined eyes, a sharp nose, smooth cheeks and well-defined lips stare back at me. I feel confident as Sapna and I step out of the house.

We have decided to walk to the park today. If nothing, Kentucky boasts of several state parks, verdant and lush all around before nature decides to turn more colorful and don shocking shades – purple, gold, maroon, as she has today. I walk at a leisurely pace, Sudeep promised to get dinner from India palace, so I have the whole day to myself. I smile at passersby - mothers like me with their little ones, trotting beside them, in colorful strollers, waving air kisses from their shoulders...I can't wait to take Sapna out on these walks. One old American lady stops to tell me how beautiful my Indian "sahree" looks. Perhaps, I misjudged America...

Although the park is just a ten-minute walk away from the apartment, little beads of sweat line my forehead and I sit down on the park bench conveniently situated under a huge tree with golden arms. Little yellow leaves encircle the base of the tree like garlands on a young bride, I enjoy the rustling sounds they make as I walk on them...I sit down, lean back and close my eyes. My hands rest on the smooth black surface of the bench - even inanimate objects here appear so perfect, flawless...

I must have fallen asleep because I am surprised when I open my eyes to see a man sitting at the other end of the bench immersed in a novel. Curiosity gets the better of me and I lean forward discreetly to read the title on the cover.

"Wuthering Heights", he says with a smile and puts the novel away. I am pleasantly surprised and he says, "Quite a coincidence, isn't it?" he points to the book peeping out of my handbag and I smile some more.

"I was hoping you would wake up, actually..." he continues, "All the Catherines of this world were beginning to get to me!" I laugh imagining his world full of Catherines.

"You know we can continue to talk like this and share deep dark secrets with each other and say goodbye, the way one does with strangers during a trip...or we could call each other by our real names or at least the names that we will tell each other just about now..."

How long has it been since I indulged in a friendly banter with a stranger. In India, the land of no strangers, this conversation would mean little but here, I am thankful to be talking to someone from my country.

"Hi, I am Savitha, new to this place which you can probably tell. I am from Calcutta, newly married, my husband works at Airtel...where are you from?" I groan inwardly as I hear myself - I sound like a first-year student in college.

"I would like to say Kentucky but somehow think you are looking for something more familiar, so let me say, I am from Pune, my parents are, that is, and I was born there. I have lived most of my life in Kentucky though."

I want to ask if I am that obvious but decide not to sound too vulnerable. I smile and think I should be getting back, it's almost Susheela aunty's tea time when he says, "I come here whenever I get the chance, I love spending time in the open. Buildings, rooms, walls, they suffocate me. My parents think I am crazy."

Something about his frank, almost boyish confession makes me want to know more. I take a closer look at him, he is probably my age, a few years younger perhaps? Kind, almost bored eyes, a lean face with a boyish stubble - almost like a teenager, only his nicely combed hair gave him a semblance of maturity, I think he looks cute.

"I should probably be leaving now. Just thought I would get to know the community a bit..."

"And do you like it so far?" he grins as he talks and displays a broken tooth. I feel much older than him now but I nod anyway. I feel better than I have felt in days. I talked to someone other than Susheela aunty and Sudeep.

I get up slowly to leave and he says, "Do you know if it's a boy or a girl?"

I think his question is not one that should be asked in a first meeting but he has such an innocent inquisitiveness on his face, I say, "It's a girl. Sapna." Something about his expression made me share a little secret with him that even my husband does not know. I now share my dream with a stranger.

He gets up to leave too and I am amused to notice that he wears a long brown kurta and pyjama. "It gets people all the time..." he says and grins some more, a flash of the broken tooth again, "I just like kurtas".

I wave goodbye and start walking away and he says, "Oh I am Ashok and I was reading Catcher in the Rye for the third time but figured I would break the ice faster if I picked Wuthering Heights".

I could have sworn he winked at me as he left. A harmless wink. I smile to myself.

***
#5. Of Stories and Conversations.

A small addition to the routine, ever since Sudeep left - my walk to Jacobson park. Susheela aunty approves, she says the walk will help me have a smoother pregnancy. She even offers to accompany me once - "A brisk walk will probably do an old woman like me also some good..." - and I manage to say no to her without hurting her. It’s the only time when I feet comfortable, free, almost happy being alone, it’s the only time solitude is a blessing and not a curse, how can I explain this to Susheela aunty? So, I make up a more plausible excuse and she seems to buy that.

I take the same route everyday, my newly gained familiarity walks with me like an old friend, comfortable in silence. I take one of my fat novels with me usually and park myself at the now familiar bench and for an hour, Sapna and I are lost in a surprisingly life-like but definitely imaginary world of weeping heroines, handsome princes, majestic villains, glorious castles and lives very different from our own. Sometimes, I read out aloud to Sapna and I eagerly look forward to the time when my daughter will sit beside me on this very bench and discuss these stories with me, with a fire-like passion in her dark eyes, the delicate curls around her forehead dancing all around as she gestures animatedly...

And I am almost lost in one of those lazy day dreams when he pops up out of nowhere. "Caught you!" a flash of his crooked teeth brings a spontaneous smile to my face.

"What mischievous dreams are you hiding, madame? I can see all!"

"And you think I would confide them to a stranger so easily?"

He places his palm on his heart, in mock hurt. "Ah, how your words hurt me, fair woman!"

I am not sure when I started looking forward to these pleasant, meaningless conversations with Ashok. There is something nice about talking to a stranger, there is no pressure to say the right things, no expectations from him, just a smooth flow of words meeting their partners, no hidden meanings, no dark corners to worry about, just a well-lit, easy path where they can flow towards any destination they choose...

The next day I stay back in the park longer than I normally do, losing track of time as I tell Ashok about how I met Sudeep, how my parents were not happy with my decision, how my relationship with them had become more strained since I came here. I almost tell him about my worries about Nancy but then decide against it. Ashok insists on walking back with me that evening - "What?! Leave a beautiful mother-to-be alone in the dark? What kind of a man do you take me to be?!"

I step into my apartment and notice that I have a new voice message.

Sudeep's tinny voice floats into the apartment, "Savitha, I have been trying to get in touch with you for the past hour! - he sounds anxious, I smile at the empty room - "Call me back as soon as you reach home. I need to talk to you", a pause and, "Princess, I am worried, don't do this to me again..."

I almost hum to myself as I call his cell. He answers immediately, "Where have you been?! I have been trying to reach you forever!" I feel a small pang of guilt.

"Sorry...I just went for a walk to Jacobson park..."

"Anyway, I wanted to tell you that the project is going really well. Our customers loved what Nancy and I presented to them. If things go as planned, I should be back soon! We are going to celebrate today, dinner and drinks, the usual..."

I try to muster a bit of genuine happiness for my husband and fail. "That's great Sudeep. Come back soon, we are waiting for you."

"We? Oh...yes of course, my kisses for her. See you soon, gotta run!"

We? Did he forget Sapna so soon? My good humor deserts me and I stand alone once again. I look up the number of the nearest Chinese takeout place and order noodles and stir-fry vegetables. So what if she is paper-thin and sinewy, I will eat all I want. I throw away the fortune cookie without looking at it.

***
#6. A friend gained and another lost?

The next day, I wake up feeling not so good. I check the calendar again, almost a month left for my due date, I suddenly panic, what if my water breaks before Sudeep gets home? Whom should I call? I searched frantically for the small post-it that Susheela aunty had given me with her son's number scrawled on it. I find it lying below the telephone, I copy it down on the calendar, label it “Susheela aunty’s son”, circle it and feel better.

I lie in bed for almost an hour, even my novels do not entice me that day. I switch through all the twenty three channels on our television and stare blankly at the screen. I have a sudden urge to speak to my mother, I buy a calling card online and punch my home phone numbers. I don’t get a good connection, I hear my mother's feeble voice on the line, "Amma, can you hear me?" I am screaming into the phone now and she keeps saying "hello". Does she hear me and not want to talk to me? Finally, I hang up tired with the effort.

The day outside matches my mood - dark and gloomy, it rains whole day, the kind of rain that depresses you, not a full hearty downpour, not a gentle drizzle, rain that came in unruly patches, taking you by surprise, leaving you drenched and helpless. I watch from inside my apartment even more upset that I cannot take my daily walk, Sapna would miss that...

Days roll into each other, marked by nothing noticeable except their sameness. At least it didn't rain today and I can step outside the apartment. I pick my novel - Catcher in the Rye, I found it among Sudeep's collection of novels – lock the apartment and walk towards my bench. Perhaps I take the novel because I hope to run into Ashok, I hope that he would express his surprise (mixed with delight of course) that I had chosen to read it too...I don't see anything wrong in wanting to run into him, after all, he had become a good friend over the past few days and what is wrong in wanting to talk to a friend? Didn't Sudeep talk to Nancy all the time? Maybe they were friends too like Ashok and me...

"And how are we feeling today?"

He appears as if he had just jumped out of my thoughts in front of me and much to my embarrassment, I blush.

"And to what shall I ascribe her bright smile to? Perhaps dear husband is expected back soon with roses and gifts for his beloved?"

"Enough Ashok. Sudeep is not going to bring me roses or gifts. He is too busy with Nancy!"

I feel bad as soon as I say that and even before I can admonish myself for their unfairness, something else distracts me. Ashok. He looks preoccupied, despite his light-hearted questions, and almost restless...

"Are you ok? Did you have a rough day?"

And I suddenly realize, I know nothing of this young man sitting in front of me in his crumpled yet charming kurta, his hand distractedly smoothening out his hair, stray strands unusually out of place, gentle brown eyes studying me as if trying to reach a decision, almost melancholy without the constant twinkle that accompanies them...Is he? What if he...likes me…?

Even before I can complete my thoughts he says, "Things are not going so well between us."

"Us?", I blurt out spontaneously...

"My wife and me, that is..."

I let out an almost audible sigh and he looks at me curiously, "Yes, my wife Amy and me. Did you think? Oh come now, Savitha, you didn't think I was hitting on you!"

I blush again and look down not wanting to lie to him and to my surprise he laughs. "My dear dear Savitha, no, I would never have taken advantage of our relationship...I have grown too fond of you to spoil it by doing something silly like that..." He puts an arm around me and leans his head towards mine. I lean back on his shoulder gratefully because now I know that it cannot be misconstrued, acceptance won through innocence.

Relationships are like that, especially a young one, still finding its foothold, wavering this way and that, sometimes strained, sometimes delightful but growing all the same, taking tiny steps towards adulthood and along the way, like a child falls down and learns, we misjudge and fall too and grow up wiser, the bonds that hold us together, stronger by the very things that had threatened to break them apart. I begin to trust Ashok that day.

He tells me about the small fights that he had had with his wife, especially since his mother came to stay with them. His mother, an old-fashioned woman very different from his American wife. He talks for a long time and I share my own experiences with him, a woman's view of the world. He says he is going to try to have a heart-to-heart talk with his wife and his mother and see if he can help them sort out their differences. I begin to say that perhaps that is a good idea but stop myself. Maybe he is right, maybe being frank is the key to a strong marriage. I wish him good luck and he leans towards me and kisses me on my cheek, "Savitha, you are like the Indian sis I never had, I owe you one babe!" and he is gone taking with him the impression that he leaves behind on my cheek. "I owe you too, Ashok", I whisper and get up from the bench. A sudden thought strikes me, what did Susheela aunty say her daughter-in-law's name was?

But I don't have much time to ponder on this trail of thought.

There comes a time in a woman's life when she is made to feel guilty for no apparent reason. She is wrapped all around by a look so grave, so poignant in its loss, so jealous with indignation that she feels suffocated, as if she can breathe no more, as if she caused the pain...but why should she feel that when she has done no wrong?

I cannot answer that question. I just feel as if Sudeep's look will scorch me to cinders, to ash that the wind will scatter away heartlessly. He storms back to our apartment and I rush as fast as I can calling out his name over and over again.

***
#7. Words - his and mine.

"Sudeep, will you just stop and listen to me?" I am running, screaming, not at all relaxed, all a big no-no according to Dr.Sheila but I didn't care, I pray for Sapna to be asleep. I talk in a rush, I tell him that I was afraid, jealous of Nancy - I had seen her once, young, arrogant, confident, a head turner and here I was ugly, fat, so dependent, that I met Ashok during my walks, that we became friends and that's all we were...

I speak so fast I almost don't hear my own words. They jumble and fall twisted all around me, powerless and meaningless, words made more weak by huge tear drops that betray me, as if I am guilty, I cry for all my lonely days, for my insecurity, for my parents who no longer think of their daughter, for Sudeep who no longer loves his wife, for Ashok whose wife no longer understands him, I cry for all my problems and all problems that are not my own but have become mine that moment...

Sudeep remains silent through out and then speaks calmly, in measured tones. Words are funny, they are so short-lived and yet you hear them as if they are permanently etched in your self, and the funny thing with words is also that you learn how to use them - to hurt, to delight, to pacify, to cut, to heal - the more familiar a person, the more you are privy to their inner thoughts, the more they become vulnerable, you twist and turn words in your mouth, choose the right ones to use - words, daggers and doves, today they prick my heart leaving behind scars...

And suddenly I feel Sapna move in my stomach and a strong pain ripples through me, again and again...contractions! And then I feel myself drift away, away...

When I wake up, a man leans towards me, his brows lined with sweat, his breath hot on my face, breath smelling of fear, guilt, love? I shut my eyes tight and open them again, squinting in the bright light that fell all around his kind face, Sudeep's face. Did I die? Is that why I cannot hear what he says? I try once again.

"Savitha, I am sorry...I understand. You were right all along. I want to tell you so many things. I am sorry I hurt you. I love you my princess..."

I must surely be dead, when I was young and beautiful and alive, my husband used to speak sweet sounding words like these to me...Sudeep continues to talk, "I should probably wait longer but I have to tell you everything right now. No more secrets between us. Nancy...she said she was interested in me, she said Indian men fascinated her and I confess I found her attractive but I told her no. Savitha, do you hear me? I said no, I said I loved my wife..."

A pleasant feeling suffuses through me and I think perhaps that I am alive.

"And then when you held your stomach and fell down at home, I thought I had died, I thought I would never see you smile again, would never fight with you again...I died Savitha, those few moments, you took away my life..."

I taste salty tears on my lips. I am completely, happily alive. I try to speak but words, so many words that I have read and heard, they all swim around me just out of my reach and so I hold my husband's head in my hands and kiss him on his forehead. I touch my cheeks against his, both wet with tears, mine and his, each having appeared for a specific reason - love playing a part in each.

"Dr.Sheila said you were probably experiencing bracks and hicks, our little daughter is not ready to come out yet..." he pats my stomach and smiles at Sapna. My dream seems to be within my reach now. Is this also a dream?

I whisper, "I have to share a secret with you". For a second he looks startled and then smiles back, "The last secret that you have kept from me. No more secrets princess, no more secrets…"

***
#8. The Final Secret.

The next day I wake up in good spirits, I remember wisps of the dream that I had dreamt - a happy dream with sunlight and blue skies and smiling babies. Sudeep walks in with a cup of coffee for me, "Good morning princess, I have a surprise for you today! Get dressed soon and come down" and he kisses my questions away and walks out of the bedroom. I am fully awake now and wonder what my husband has in store for me. I dress up as much as Sapna would let me, she moves so often nowadays as if she can't wait to meet me.

I walk down feeling pretty and the table is set for me. For some reason the post-it note that I had stuck a few days back catches my eye...I try to recall what it was that I had overlooked? A stray thought left incomplete but the smell of ghee and spice ends my speculation. Sudeep has cooked hot rotis for me and panneer masala curry, the panneer slightly burnt but you only see that if you look closely, "Smells lovely, a nice little surprise Sudeep!" and he says, "This is not all" and as if on cue, the bell rings. I watch open-mouthed as Ashok walks in hand in hand with his wife, Amy - she is in a saree and not at all as I imagined she would be, behind them Susheela aunty walks looking resplendent in a silk saree, her nose ring glinting in the sunlight. Ah, that was it, it came back to me now - a circle of bonds, Susheela aunty, Amy, Ashok, Sudeep and I all connected in that circle, bound to each other by strange twists of the past. I am happy to be in the circle. It looks like my womanly words of wisdom and his own worked well with Ashok and his family.

"Surprise!", Sudeep whispers in my ears before welcoming our guests, our family...for once, I feel at home, away from home, I look around the table and each face smiles back at me with a familiarity that puts me at ease, even Amy who is just getting to know me, holds my hands as if she were a childhood girl friend. So many problems that had appeared so big seem to have just dissolved...tomorrow perhaps they will reappear, tomorrow they will seem larger-than-life, complex, confusing but today they don't exist and I hug Sapna and tell her in my thoughts, "Sapna, today is a dream come true just like you are...I can't wait to see you". She hears me, I know that.

I lean towards Sudeep, "My secret is not as big as yours but it's something that daughter and mother have been hiding from you for a few months now. We have decided on a name. Sapna."

***
***Excerpt***

Shades of gray.

My new task, my new challenge, to put my thoughts into words that would carry its weight after I am gone. Maybe not my hand that would pen the thoughts but my thoughts all the same. It was Srikanth's idea. I didn't think much of it but I have a lot of free time to kill and lately, I have become rather experimental, daring if you will, with my life and so I decide to humor Srikanth, myself more than him, perhaps. And so when Kannamma left that day, Srikanth and I got started on what would become our nightly rendezvous.

"Kannamma...that's not really her name, you know?", I ask

Srikanth holds the pen ready and waits, smiling in anticipation.

"Write", I command and the pen becomes busy filling blank sheets with words.

August 8th, 2006. Kannamma came again today. Violet saree with a cream border...

I want to get this right, I tell him. When she will not come anymore, I want to remember her as she is now.

Vermillion sindoor blazing from her forehead, taunting me, challenging me, every moment. Jasmine flowers dotting her graying bun, vaira mukuthi catching my eye, almost her every accessory a strong reminder to me, a jolt to wake me up from the languorous stupor I get into sometimes. I am her husband. I still am. She feels that now more strongly than ever and I should honor her tenacity. Its been five years now and her anklets herald her arrival at the same time every day. Sometimes, she insists on staying back at night. I don't let her, she has a life to live, to live differently from me, active and alive, a living life.

"You have always called her Kannamma...I never really thought about her real name.", Srikanth rarely interrupts my thoughts, when he does, I welcome it, it gives me a chance to respond to stimuli from the outside world. I need to know that I can still do that.

"Pankajam. My beautiful lotus, shedding tears everyday for me...", I smile and look at Srikanth. He has his head bent, hand furiously scribbling my thoughts, as if tomorrow they may not exist...

***

For someone like me, it takes an intense, almost maniacal kind of concentration to not be bogged down by daily routine and activities. Everyday is a test of my will-power, a challenge to see if I can squeeze an ounce of creativity out of myself. What can I achieve today, acting within the boundaries that shackle me? What do I need to think about today to not concentrate on the boundary itself but to look beyond?

I don't believe in self-delusion. I am not one of those stiffly smiling people who have only themselves and noone else convinced that they are lucky to be who they are and how they are. I am not going to smile and be grateful. It works much better for me to face reality rather than shroud it in a cloud of feel-good dreams. Face reality and stab it in the face. Don't indulge it by giving it a personality it does not possess.

These thoughts, I keep to myself. Why risk invoking sympathy? So, when Srikanth comes that night, I tell him, I want to talk about the weather.

"The weather, Partha?", he looks amused.

"Yes, I want to talk about rainbows and rain, sunshine and sorrow..."

"Do you notice how people attribute their own moods to the weather? Its a sultry summer morning to some, a smiling sunshine to some, pleasant summer showers to you and an outpour of my own tears, to me..."

Srikanth looks up, concerned.

"The heavens cry too sometimes, Srikanth...", I am happy to see him concerned. A need for revalidation, to assuage my restless soul questioning every moment the role I play in people's lives...I who did not care for emotions, drowning in my own self-pity!

I shake my head to clear it, slowly. "It was one such bright summer sunshine that brought Kannamma to me...she shaded her eyes with her right hand and stood carrying a basket of drumsticks, tomatoes and mangoes in her left hand...so simply dressed in a pale half-saree, waiting patiently for the woman beside her to stop haggling...I had an urge to move the hand that shaded her eyes and read what they say...don't ask me why. And then she spoke and it was like raindrops falling gently on parched earth, gentle and melodious. I wanted to hear her talk..."

And I describe the first few words that Kannamma spoke to me, hesitant and shy. My lotus flower, wilting away now...how you blushed when I held your hand the first time, where has the color gone from your cheeks now? Oh, how I wish I could bring them back to you...

***

A lot happens in my life. A lot happens around me, people come and go. Machines hum. Seasons change beyond the window that frames my world. Kannamma, Srikanth...images that come and go. Sometimes before going to sleep, I try to close my eyes tightly and bring their faces infront of me, to hold them with me wherever the night takes me. If I should come back and see them one more time, well, the night has just been kind. If not, I tried. I tried to take with me the memories that made me. For memories are all that we can carry to our sleep, aren't they?

Today, I want to spend in frivolity and so I watch a movie on TV. Images and sounds move meaningless on screen. I try to follow the story, I try to forget, I try to live atleast for these few hours as the little people who move on screen. But, I cannot. Reality keeps dragging me back. Soon static fills the air and the screen is dotted in black and white. My life, neither black nor white, hovering like a ghost in shades of gray.

"Srika, I tried to watch a movie today."

Srikanth sits in his usual place, facing me and picks up the diary.

"No, not today. Let's just talk."

I describe to him what little I gathered from the movie.

"These movies are funny, Srika. They neither portray reality, nor do they deal in anything fantastic, its as if they try to portray life as it is and it turns out to be a mockery of life. Do you know what I mean?"

I can see in his eyes that he doesn't. He can empathize but not well enough to transition to my world, to see movies, through my eyes - a mockery, of people, of time, of life. He is still in his world, a world where one is blessed enough to laugh and cry with the scenes on the screen.

"Am I growing senile, Srika?"

"Senile anna?", Srika laughs, "You are too sane to be senile."

"But I feel old. Life has this way of imposing the maturity of years on you suddenly. One moment you are a child and the other, a world's burden is thrown on you to handle and you suddenly become aged. Do you understand, Srika?"

"Yes Anna, I brought a calendar for you...", he says and I know I want to see what he has brought for me but darkness closes over my protesting eyes and I drift to a dreamless sleep.

***

The next morning, I wake up to see my beloved. I smile and wonder if I am dreaming.

She laughs - the sound that heaven is made of, the sound of bangles tinkling, the sound of temple bells, the sound of music - and I know I am awake.

"No, you are not dreaming. Look what Srika brought for you yesterday!", she points at the calendar on the wall. Krishna holding on to Yasodha or is it the other way around? standing near a pond, a solitary flower blooming at dawn, drawing their eyes to it - a lotus, my Pankajam.

"So now, I have to see your face every morning too?", I ask her and she looks down. My pankajam, blushing like a young bride, still...

"I have something for you too...", she says hesitantly, holding tightly to her jute bag.

"Show me, kannamma. Today, I will take anything you give me."

She shows me a picture full of smiles. Three faces one in each angle, smiling at the camera. I recognize the face of my son and daughter-in-law, and look closer at the face of the young child smiling innocently at me.

"They are here. They want to see you..."

I close my eyes tiredly. We have had this conversation before. Where were they all these years when Pankajam needed them? Why the sudden re-strengthening of bonds that did not exist?

"Adith...he is three years now...", Pankajam brings the picture closer to me and I obstinately close my eyes. I don't want to see the sickening smiling faces one more time.

Pankajam leaves crying that day too. I open my eyes and see that she has left something else for me. Our first year anniversary photo, taken in Shimla, she is so cold, her nose is red...I remember she held me close in public, for the first time - "It's so cold here, I don't care", she had declared...there was snow all around...one of my favourite photos, where did she find it?

And on the photo frame, the words, "Happy Birthday, Partha ma", inscribed. Partha ma - she called me that during rare moments, the only term of endearment she allowed herself to use for me...Partha ma...

The one day that I did not want to make her cry. My birthday. And she did cry.

***
A few days pass and Adith's face keeps drawing itself in my eyes, weaving its way into my heart. That day, I tell Pankajam, "Bring them to me. I want to see my grandson. If he has his old man's looks..."

Pankajam does not cry this time. She just places her hands on mine. I try to recall her touch, the tingling sensation that coursed through my skin when she touched me...this time, I cry.

Srikanth comes within an hour, he hovers near the door, "Anna..." and clears his throat. I motion him in with my eyes, and with that give him my permission to let my son see me as I am today. Something that I have been preparing myself for, for the past few hours. I will be strong. I tell myself one more time. My ego raising its voice after so many years.

And in runs a child. Straight towards me. He looks straight into my eyes, no awkward, curious looks around me, just my eyes and he holds my gaze for a few moments and then he breaks into a smile, "thatha...", he says almost breathlessly and for the first time in this life, I have an urge to break free and take him into my arms, my strong will to not give way to such thoughts broken by innocence...I admit defeat. My eyes fill up again...

Witnessing the powerful interplay of emotions, the ugly voices of our egos fade to nothingness. We talk, haltingly at first, breathlessly later on, to race time to fill each other's lives.

All the faces that make me whole, faces that make me feel alive even now, faces buried safely in my heart...I look around the room and smile contentedly at fate, "See if you can beat this!"

***
And that night, Srikanth writes as I speak,

Today, an epiphany in the form of a child made me realize that my world is the same as yours. That I can feel love and pain, as strongly as you can, Srika...do you understand?

Today, I lived life as it should be lived, in complete surrender. My life, no longer hovering in shades of gray, my life, now crystals of black and white. I almost forgot my "condition", as these doctors like to call it all the time. Do you know Srika, it took me three times to get it right?

"q u a d r i p l e g i c"
***
***Excerpt***

An incomplete story.

They say, all your life flashes before you, in a moment of clarity, just before you die. Mine did not. Maybe because I knew I was not ready to die. I knew that the images that flash would not complete the story they recount, because the story is still not complete. The story of my life and now death. Incomplete.

I was happy. That was the irony of it all. I was completely immersed in my life, in myself, complacent and satisfied with who I was and what I did in life. Although I had nothing that I could identify, nothing to call my identity, nothing to argue passionately about. I was still happy. And then he came and threw my world into chaos.

***
"Thayyum thath thath, thayyum thaha", she intones and we dance. Sometimes, I dance with my eyes closed. I feel the rhythm better, hear the melody within my head when I do that. I am Meenakshi teacher's favorite student. At kalakshetra, I am a different person - confident and capable. I excel and I am aware that I do. Perhaps it is this vanity that draws me to him in the first place. Not my vanity itself but the fact that I feel none of it, in his presence. He does not allow it and I submit to his wishes, unwillingly and completely.

I dance, with fury, with energy. I am alive when I dance. Transformed. This is probably what Meenakshi teacher notices in me too. My hands and legs move in perfect synchrony, as if they move of their own will, effortless, in smooth movements - it's as if each mudra comes from within, emerging from my soul to give my body a purpose, a shape. We are not separate elements - the thalam, the ragam and my dance steps - they compete and complete each other to form a whole. He tells me this, leaning casually against a wall, just outside Kalakshetra. His words flow all around me and linger behind, long after he has gone, the import of each syllable impressing itself upon me, with each passing second; their intensity dawning upon me, as I stand there listening to them in my head. His words, over time, replaced by my voice, explaining to me what I knew not about myself, my identity that he helped construct, one bit at a time - my vanity withers and yet I am more aware.

The first time after practice, I don't notice him. The second time, I do. It's not anything about him as a whole that makes me notice him. It's only if you take the time to notice, his eyes that hold your glance for so long, you have to look away; his mouth that taunts you with a hint of a smile; his hands, constantly active, restless? the way he stands, unconcerned, almost indifferent? And I would notice them, not all at once, but would take my time to be drawn to him - slowly but intensely, madly, passionately. How I wish I had known then, that time was the one thing that I had not?

But, I notice him for none of these reasons. I notice him because he criticizes me.

"You missed a step."

"Am sorry?"

"Alaripu - as soon as you began."

And I spend the next three hours fuming over this non-conversation. I cannot take criticism easily. Especially about my dance, the one savior in my otherwise insignificant existence. Yet another revelation! I know I like to dance. I just do not attribute anything more important to it. Talking to him makes me think of priorities in my life. I don't know that yet for this is just the beginning.

***
The next class,

"I did not miss that step."

"But if I say you did, will you react to it better now than before?"

"Are you saying you criticize for the sake of it and not for a reason?"

"Is there not a reason?"

"Yes, there is! You want to put me down because..."

"Because if I do before someone else does. Maybe next time, it will leave you with just a tear and not a scar."

"And why do you care?"

"I do and you know. Does anything else matter?"

Always questions. Questions that make me think, evolve. I don't blame him for making me lose myself. I love him for making me find my real self. Does it matter that I don't live long to spend time with us? Maybe not. Aren't all epiphanies short-lived? They make their mark and are lost forever, carried away by the winds of time to guide some other lost traveller's journey. My gentle philosopher, my epiphany, I wonder if you will be lost too if I don't exist? Did you die the day I died?

***
What is this invisible bond that ties us together? Music, perhaps? In my dance, in his words, in my naivete, in his beats...two people entwined so completely, it is not for either of us to decide when to break free - it is beyond us, dictated by a consciousness that we , as separate individuals do not possess....but together, we create magic. I wonder if he thinks that? My artist, what goes behind that powerful gaze? Do let me glimpse...

He plays the mirudangam. Better than I can dance, I sometimes feel. I will admit that to noone, not even him. I don't need to for, my eyes betray me when I watch him play.

He plays with his head slightly tilted towards his right. His eyes closed. Brows furrowed in concentration, as if constricting, to prevent the music that plays within his head from escaping. His fingers dance across the either ends of the mirudangam - fleeting, light touches or so it seems and yet they evoke such powerful feelings through their rhythm - subliminal yet mesmerizing.

I wonder if he is playing the mirudangam or if indeed the mirudangam is making his fingers dance to its tune. His senses perceive nothing of the reality all around him, he is in a world away from where I stand - a world where music fills the air and the soul, a world of melodies and beats...

and I long to be transformed as he is and for even a moment to step into this world and lose myself, where the only consciousness is music and I am one with it.

***

Love, you ask me? Is this love? I don't know and I turn to him for an answer.

He laughs.

"Don't we all wish it were love?"

And as my eyes brim over, he replies,

"When,
to see you, I look into my eyes,
to hear you, I listen to my heart beat,
to find you, I look into my soul
to feel all that is you, I need only to feel what is within...

And when I feel thus, how can I say anything but that I am in love?"

And that is the moment, I wish with all my heart, that I would live, live forever to be with him, my dear poet. That is the moment that I begin to love. And that is the moment that I hope will surround me just before I take my last breath.

But it does not.

My accident is like all other accidents - a car wreck, flashing lights, shivering people huddled around and silence. No music now. Just silence. My melody has died. So perfect even in death, did I imagine that you called my name when I died? Did you cry when I wouldn't open my eyes? Did you shiver, not from the biting wind but just a gnawing feel deep within you, as if your soul died but you lived on - incomplete and helpless?

And even if you did, how would I know? A million questions yet to be answered. How did I have the heart to leave them all unanswered? My philosopher, my artist, my poet, answer me now - why did I die?

***
And that is the story that I would have told you if I had died. I did not die though. He did. He just took my life with him. That's all.
***Excerpt***

Soundarya.

A mark. A stain. A disgrace!

She was all of that, my Soundarya. My daughter, Soundarya. Ten tiny fingers, ten tiny toes and we thought the world was perfect, Vijay and I. We were a family, our beautiful daughter completed our family. And so, we named her Soundarya. And today she is beautiful only to my eyes, sometimes even my eyes deceive me. She stumbles and falls down and sometimes, I don't rush to pick her up. She falters and forgets words and sometimes, I don't correct her. I have done it for three years now. I don't have the strength in me to correct her, to make her what she was meant to be - Soundarya, anymore.

I have a son, Aditya, all of five years old, handsome, too mature for his age and perfect. God made one perfect child for me. I fight to not stay angry at the injustice of it all. I shall not ask why I was chosen, to be the mother who had failed. And yet, I can't forget the downcast eyes, the heavy sighs that surrounded us when we told them that Soundarya will be like this - moody at times, incoherent at times, clumsy at times...and at times like these, I forget I have Aditya. Something tells me, he understands. I wish he did not. A five-year-old had no business trying to fight the shadows that strangle the word, "special".

"Oh, she is a special child? Yes, we admit special children in our day care center."

And on our way out, Aditya asks, "Ma, is Soundarya special?"

And I am faced with one of those heart-wrenching decisions again. To burden a child with the realities of life or to leave him in the dark bliss of ignorance for some more time?

Soundarya stumbles on nothing, falls down and bruises her knee. Aditya rushes to help her and I make my decision.

"Yes Adi, she is special. Because God decided to make her special. God was so fond of her that he wanted to make sure everyone here in our world realize that she is a special child, special to God, special to us. She is God's gift to us, Adi. We always have to take care of her and love her."

"Did you hear that, Soundarya?"

Soundarya - his voice has so much conviction, so much love, so much beauty when he says her name that I wonder if I feel for my daughter what Aditya feels for his sister...

"God loves you Soundarya. We all love you."

The younger of the two consoles the older and they whisper to themselves in a language only children can understand. I watch from a distance as if afraid to intrude and I cry.

***

"She does not eat her food. Mrs.Watson said she tried and all she does is cry for Aditya."

"Okay. We will work something out."

Vijay's indifferent tone annoys me.

"We have to work something out, now! She can't go on like this. I can't go on like this."

I notice Aditya shrinking away to a corner of the room, noticing the familiar strains of anxiety in my shrill voice. This is not the first time.

"What do you want to do?"

"Me? Why can't you decide for a change? She is your daughter too!"

"I didn't mean that Poornima. I was just..."

"Or let me do this. Let me run away from all of this so that noone can blame me..."

I start to cry again. Vijay waits for a few moments, walks towards Aditya and takes him to his room. He no longer hugs me when I cry. He used to do that the first year. Now, I just cry myself to sleep. It's easy to sleep, to not live and face life, but Soundarya is in my dreams too. Only, in my dreams, she is beautiful, flawless and she hates me. I am grateful that she is capable of such emotions atleast in my dreams - be it love or hate and as I drift in and out of consciousness, I try to quell the voice in my head that seem to haunt me every night, "You hate your own child!".

***

I wake up late, with a headache. Vijay has left a note for me, stuck to the fridge door, "Dropped Adi at school. I will pick him up from Joy's place when I come back from work. Get some rest. Soundarya is still asleep. I love you."

I feel guilty for the previous night and I suddenly want to see Vijay and tell him that I am sorry. I start calling him, when I hear Soundarya calling out for Aditya, "Adi, Adi...". I walk towards her room and she looks at me with questioning eyes, "Adi...". She doesn't say much else. I wonder, irrationally, if she cannot call me, "amma" because she knows what goes through my mind sometimes. I walk towards her and hold my hands out to her, "Come here. Talk to me. Say a-m-m-a...".

She leans against the wall and watches me as if I were a stranger in her life. Her eyes move slowly, taking in each part of me. She holds my gaze for so long I think I cannot look into her eyes any longer. She has large, brown eyes. She looks at my expectant hands for a few moments and slowly turns her head away, towards the window. My arms drop down, lifelessly.

I look at the small figure framing the window - tousled hair all around her little face, small gold earrings that catch the sunlight at times. I go near her and without touching her, observe my daughter, as if seeing her for the first time. She has such a pensive look on her face - it suits her. She is not pretty, as children her age are. Her left leg is shorter than her right leg and she often leans to one side as she walks, like an old woman. Her left eye is smaller than her right eye, but just as expressive. No, she is not beautiful as girls her age are. No one oohs and aahs when she talks. No one rushes to pick her up when she seems to fall. They just twitch their lips and whisper among themselves.

I hold her by the shoulders and gently, make her face me.

"Soundarya, Soundarya, Soundarya..."

I say her name, clearly, lovingly until she suddenly raises a hand and touches my cheek. I wait for her to do something that would make me love her so much, that it will hurt. I wait for her to wipe my tears away with her tiny hand. I wait for her to hug me. I wait for her to treat me as her child.

Instead, she takes her hand back and puts her wet fingers in her mouth. Her face assumes a comical expression as she tastes my salty tears.

I laugh, hysterically.

***

It is Aditya's big day today. He plays the role of the genie in Aladdin and the magic lamp. His school has been preparing for the play for the past six months. Aditya is excited to be the genie.

"Did you iron my costume?", he demands.

I smile at him and say yes for the third time.

"Now Aditya, don't be nervous. Genies are not nervous. Be confident and smile at the people."

"Ma, I can't smile. I am a genie. I grant wishes, I can't keep grinning at people!"

I shut up and help him get ready. Vijay is trying to give Soundarya her dinner. She is sulking and does not want Aditya to leave her.

"Adi..."

"It's ok Adi. Appa will take care of her. We are getting late for the play. They will join us soon as Soundarya has her dinner."

Instead Aditya leaves his costume bag down and goes to Soundarya.

"Soundarya, if you have your dinner soon, you can come see my play. I am going to be a genie..." and he waves his hands, in his best possible imitation of a friendly genie. Vijay smiles and I do too. Soundarya begins to cry.

She repeats his name and holds on to his sleeve. Vijay and I watch helplessly.

"Soundarya, I am not leaving you. I will be with you always", Aditya holds her close and its as if the words were spoken by someone a lot older than five years.

She cries loudly now and begins to hit him. I try to pry Aditya away from her. I receive a few of her slaps - tiny slaps on my cheeks, her nails scratching my face and leaving little red marks. I am used to them by now - the only way she knows to touch me. And as Aditya and I walk away, she frees herself from Vijay and before I can stop her, bites Aditya on his right arm.

He screams in pain and I do the one thing that comes to my mind then, I drag her aside and slap her - a resounding slap for the years of pain she has given me. Soundarya stops crying instantly and moves away from me, as if I were evil, a witch come to hurt her, a bad dream.

Aditya cries silently. And so does Soundarya. She walks towards him and touches his hand. He shrugs her hand away and says something that makes me forget my own pain, "I hate you, Soundarya, I really hate you."

And her face - the expression in her eyes, keeps coming back to me as I drive Aditya to the play. It's as if she understood every word of what he said, as if its import had killed something within her. She watched him with those surprised, tear-filled eyes until we walked out of the house. And then I realize what it was that I read in her evocative eyes but did not comprehend until later - hurt.

And it is as if I found my daughter again. It is as if I had become a mother again.

***

"Your son was amazing! We loved the genie!", his bubbly English teacher tells me, shaking my hands vigorously.

I smile and say thank you. Aditya grins shyly and hides behind me. Mrs.Kapoor ambles towards me, smiling widely.

My cell phone rings.

"Vijay, Adi was great today. You missed it. Is Soundarya giving you a hard time?"

"Poornima, Soundarya was not feeling good. I am with her at St.Johns hospital. Can you come here? Do you know the way? It's on Woodhill drive..."

My heart skips a beat.

"Your son is a natural on stage, Poornima", Mrs.Kapoor is saying, patting Aditya's head.

I try to smile, excuse myself and Aditya and first walk, then run towards my car. I drop my keys down, curse and take the car ahead instead of backing out of the parking spot and go over the pavement.

"Mom!"

I stop the car and try to take a deep breath. Aditya deserves an explanation.

"Adi, Soundarya has fever and we are going to see the doctor now."

He nods, with a frightened look on his face and asks no questions.

At the hospital, I know something is wrong when I take one look at Vijay's face.

"I just talked to the doctor. She is doing better now. She wouldn't stop crying when you left with Aditya and then she started turning blue, stopped breathing...but she is out of danger now. Its ok."

I look through the glass door, at the little figure huddled under blue hospital sheets and wires running around her. But, what concerns me further is the way Aditya presses his nose against the door and stares at his sister, stiff and unmoving, I can't even tell if he is breathing. Vijay moves towards Aditya and I motion for him to stop. I need to handle this. Vijay is too exhasusted to argue. He walks inside and sits with Soundarya, holding her hand.

I stand next to Aditya and look at my husband and daughter through the glass door.

I hear a sniff and Aditya says, "It's my fault. I made her cry and now she won't wake up, ma"

"No Adi. It's not your fault. Soundarya will wake up but...she is sick because I did not understand her, because I have not been a good mother to her."

And once again, I forget I am talking to my son. It's as if I am conversing with someone my age, exchanging views, arguing, consoling each other...

"Does Soundarya hate me?"

"No, Adi. She loves you...she loves you more than she loves me or appa...you are her big brother who will take care of her forever, remember?"

Adi nods, his eyes still on his sister and he says, "Ma, God gave me the best little sister."

"And the best daughter I can ask for", I whisper, hoping Soundarya will hear it, someday.

I put my arm around my son and we stand together, hoping, praying for Soundarya. Vijay looks up at us and motions for us to come in.

We take tentative steps towards Soundarya, tentative steps towards the destiny that Soundarya will carve for us. We sit around her, taking turns to hold her hand, talking to her, waiting for her to wake up, to complete us.

And she does. She opens her eyes and smiles at Adi and then at us. And in the bluish glow that night, I realize I have the most beautiful daughter in the world - she creates beauty all around her - beauty in a brother's love, beauty in a father's tears, beauty in a mother's realization, beauty that defines life, us - my beautiful daughter, Soundarya.
***Excerpt***

The harmony in my life.

I sit down on the sand, facing the ocean, far away from whispering couples and boisterous teenagers. In some dim corner of my mind, I notice the beauty of the marked moon, I notice how it catches each of the rising waves, giving it its moment of glory before it dies - like my own life until now? At some sub-conscious level, I feel grateful for the stinging chillness of the wind hitting my face. But today, I will not let the calming elements of nature console me. Today, I want to think, alone.

But instead I cry. I cry for reasons I don't fully understand. I cry until the wind dries my wet cheeks. I cry like a man who has lost, a man who is lost.

And I have neither lost nor am lost. Without her. Because she is still with me.

***
"I am getting married."

Priya says it in one of her matter-of-fact tones. She has several tones, their repertoire, almost a second nature to me, in just two years? I feel I know her like I know myself - natural, instinctive.

So, I do what comes naturally to me. I laugh.

"What's so funny? He happens to be a sensitive, good-looking gentleman..." and she adds, "unlike you!", when I continue to laugh.

"Poor guy. Did he not take a good look at you?"

"He did! And he happens to like me. A lot. He said he liked me from the time he met me first at the coffee shop!"

"Oh...that guy. The oh-am-so-goody-goody-I-will-turn-up-fifteen-minutes-early chap!"

"Yes and that chap has a name - Arvind. OK, Prem, please be serious, for once?"

"As you wish, madame. When do I get to meet him? Obviously you are joking about the marriage bit, right? You didn't already say yes, did you?", I ask in mock anger.

My feeble attempt to make her feel guilty. And I lose, as always. The girl never gives me a chance!

"Of course not. That was just to get your attention. Am not saying yes, until you give the go-ahead, buddy!"

And she tilts her head a bit to the side - something she always does when she is happy - and smiles.

For a moment, I feel a pang of something I can't quite place my fingers on. I touch her lightly on the head and tousle her hair - "I am going to miss you, Priya."

She doesn't say anything, just closes her eyes and leans against my hand for a few seconds.
***
"Excellent", I make a little circle with my thumb and forefinger and Priya's mom laughs.

"Have few more idlis, Prem. You seem to be growing thinner by the day!"

I am about to reply when Priya rushes in, "Amma, do you think I should wear a saree instead?"

She looks adorable.

"You look fat."

"Amma! See what Prem is saying...", she turns to her mom, with a querulous tone in her voice. Her childish pout delights me, I grin and Priya's mom rolls her eyes as if she were settling a fight between two children.

She is still a child, atleast to me. Just as she is about to walk off in a huff, I catch her hand and say, "Arvind is going to be swept off his feet today".

She has such an expectant twinkle in her eye, I suddenly feel protective about her - he better keep my Priya happy. My Priya? I smile to myself - not anymore. I let go of her hand and wonder for the first time, if I really want Arvind to be swept off his feet...

***
That night, she calls me late in the night to tell me all about Arvind.

"I was waiting for mom and dad to sleep. So many questions...do you like him? Does he seem like a decent boy? Did he ask to meet again?"

I interrupt and let her catch her breath, "Well?"

"Well? Well what?"

"Well, do you like him? Did he ask to meet again?"

"Uh huh"

I wait and she says, "Prem?"

"Still here."

"You know how all your life, you wait for this one perfect person? The one person who understands you even when you don't say a thing? The one person who knows you better than yourself? So much so that he completes your thoughts even before you have finished having them?"

I wait for her answer.

"...well, you know, that's kind of impractical. There is no such person. Well, I have you but..." and then she pauses as if her own words confuse her.

I realize I am holding the receiver tightly and I also realize I am holding my breath. Why? She is my friend and I should be happy for her. But, all I feel is a slight sense of relief that her perfect guy is just a figment of her imagination and Arvind is none of those. I assume.

"...but you know, Arvind is sweet, patient and he adores me. He has that look in his eyes, you know what I mean? I can go on waiting for the right person and maybe I will never find him...but I just know that Arvind will keep me happy..."

I still say nothing.

"So?"

"So..."

"Will you meet Arvind?"

"No."

Why did I say that? I should want to meet Arvind now, to make sure he is right for Priya - I am after all her best friend, I should do this for her...

And I hear myself say again, "No, Priya, not tomorrow. This week is not good for me..."

"Prem, you promised! You have to meet him. He is waiting for me to say yes..."

"Oh?"

"...or no. Please, will you meet him sometime this week? I have told him so many things about you..."

The idea of this stranger knowing me intimately, as Priya knows me, infuriates me. I know I am being irrational but several other feelings overpower the practical me.

"Why? You don't have to go behind my back, talking about me, to your sweetheart!"

"Prem, stop being silly. Remember the time when we went forty five minutes late to the carnatic music concert and we tried to bribe the gate-wallah to let us in...I was telling Arvind about that and we had such a laugh...you must..."

"I suppose he had a good laugh and preached about why I must be on time?"

"No...Arvind..."

"Priya, all this talk about Arvind is getting really tiresome. Can we do this someother time? I have an early morning conference call to attend..."

"Prem...ok", she says in a small voice and I know she will cry after she hangs up.

And still, I say bye and hang up. That night, sleep eludes me for a long time. Early morning, I have a dream about Arvind and Priya laughing and pointing...at me! I wake up, feeling just not right.

What is the matter with me? Am I just not ready to let go? Or am I confusing friendship with something else? Why is it that a part of me wants Arvind to hurt her so that she comes running to my arms? That can't be love - I shouldn't want to hurt if I am in love...

I make up my mind. It's just best for her and for me, if I move away from her, for sometime. Time will clear my thoughts and direct our lives. Time...that's all I need.
***
The next few weeks, I feel miserable. I don't return her calls. Her emails to me still announce that they are unread. I avoid her, perhaps hurting myself more than am hurting her. I hardly stay in my apartment, making my working days as long as possible and working even during the weekends.

One dreary Saturday afternoon - it had rained the whole day; I remember because she walked in slightly shivering, rain water dripping from her clothes - she decided I had given time enough time to steer our lives. She decided it was time she took our lives into her hands.

She sits down next to me. The silence around us interrupted only by the constant pitter-patter of the rain outside.

"I am sorry."

"Yes, you are."

"I just thought I needed some time to sort out...my life. Without you."

"You can't."

"Sorry?"

"Your life is a mess", she smiles and it's as if everything is the same between us, "What makes you think you can sort it out without me?"

I smile at her and fight back an impulse to hug her tightly.

"You think I will run away that easily and let you live your life the way you want to, you idiot?"

She continues, "I can't let go that easily, Prem. I know that you can't either."

And I suddenly wonder who the child in our relationship is.

"Priya, I know that. I don't ever want to..."

But, she doesn't let me complete what I wanted to say. Instead, she talks about Arvind. She likes him. She wants to say yes and she is still waiting for me to say yes.

And I say yes. Just like that.

"But, you haven't even met him!"

"Yes, but I have heard a hundred things about him, from you. I am sure he will be a nice and boring husband - no surprises! And if he is not, I will kill him for you."

We laugh together and I wish, I could make that moment last forever.

***
I know she is probably getting ready for her engagement tomorrow. I know I should probably be with her now. I just can't bring myself to face us together, one more time. So, I walk to the beach and sit down at her favourite spot. It reminds me of time spent in her company, of laughter, of friendship - of all the things close to my heart. And then I cry.

I am not sure how long I have been sitting there. I think about friendship and love. I think about Priya and Arvind and I know we have taken the right decisions in our lives - Priya and Prem...

I know it is Priya. Even before her hand touches my shoulders. Even before she sits down next to me and takes my hand in hers. I just know. And these are the little things that confuse me - this feeling of nothingness, lightness when she is around, it's as if there is not another person sitting next to me - I can be myself - boring, witty, caustic, funny, whatever I want to be because I know she will understand...

"I thought about it for a long time too", she looks at the waves as she talks and for once, I see their turbulence reflected in her eyes.

The wind carries her hair all around her tear-stained face, hiding it from me. She tries to smoothen out stray strands of hair with her right hand and the moonlight reveals a bride's delicate hand - the mehendi has not even dried.

"Arvind knows am here...with you. Everyone's so excited - my parents, Arvind...they are all talking about the engagement and I just needed to be alone, to listen to the voices in my head. But, then I realized, I just wanted to hear you talk. I knew you'd be here."

We sit there, seemingly no different from the other couples who sit at the beach that day - holding hands. But we don't whisper like them - the silence between us talks for us. I know we are different because we are friends. We were meant to be friends. To be anything else would be unnatural, incomplete. And that night, holding Priya's hand, I know as she does that we will always be friends.

"I love you Priya. I should have said this a long back, without hurting you...I love you as I can love no one, perhaps not even my wife."

"And I love you too...",

It's as if the wind is whispering those words to me.

"...in a way, I can never love Arvind. I am sure I will be insanely possessive about him, I would not want his eyes to even dare to settle on another pretty woman, I would want to own him, make him mine and I am looking forward to that. But you...are different. I don't want to spoil what we have by trying to thrust newer meanings to it. Its perfect as it is."

It was as if she had just read out my thoughs to me. And she - my thoughts - convinced me that our decision was taken if not rightly, atleast for the right reasons. Sometimes, we gain by letting go but I had everything I wanted, I was letting go to gain nothing, to lose nothing. I was letting go so that I could still hear the harmony I hear now - in the waves, in her words, in my thoughts - years later when I want to hear it again.

And then, I hug her, without guilt, without thinking - my moment of glory. And I know she will always be with me.

***
***Excerpt***

The argument.

"One plate samosa, one coffee. Is the leg better now?", I smile at Murugan. A pleasant smile suffuses across his young face and he says, "Much better ayya. It now hurts only here." and he bends down and points to the region around his ankle.

"Another great story ayya? I shall not disturb you", and he is gone as quickly as he appeared. That is one smart lad, I think to myself, watching him talk with the same comfort with several other regulars in the restaurant, if you could call it that.

"Anandam Coffee shop" - the billboard declared in a slightly garish red. The m tilts down at an angle, as if to bless the customers. The walls inside are painted an unrecognizable shade of brown, that has peeled off in corners. A few rusty fans make sure that the smoke from the kitchen swirls inside in a haze. I cannot say why but sitting in this little smoke-filled place, my mind settles down to a lazy calm, that I cannot seem to achieve anywhere else. I come here every evening with my little notebook and pen, looking inside my mind, looking around me for inspirations and ideas.

I write, for a living. I manage to make ends meet with what I write - articles to the tamil magazines, short stories and if I am lucky, interviews with people who are a lot more famous than I am. Murugan always serves me. I don't tip him much. I don't eat much but over the years, we have established a comfortable rapport. I listen to his stories about his life, his boyish ambitions, his dreamy-eyed goals and see a part of my self that I left behind a long time ago...

But this story is not about me. It is about two women, as different from each other as can be. It is about clashing ideals, friendship, fate and a mother's love. That is probably how I will introduce my article if it ever gets published. For now, let me call it what it is - an interesting conversation between two women, powerful in curiously different ways.

Initially I struggle to make out much from the girlish chatter than goes on. "Gosh, you have lost so much weight!", "Do you remember Manjunath from our Eco class?" and so on. I pretend to jot down notes as I doodle, waiting to shape their conversation into something interesting. I did not have to wait for long.

"How old is she?", Divya asks, lightly touching the child's cheeks.

"All of two years and seven months...". An unmistakeable touch of pride that only a mother's voice can convey.

"She is adorable. So a year before she goes to school?" Casual, almost disinterested.

"Yes, a little more than a year. I wonder how I can bear to be away from her for so long, once she starts going to school...". A touch of wistfulness?

"What do you mean? Have you taken a break from work, Madhu?!" Surprise evident in her slightly elevated tone.

"Uh, yes of course. I planned to take a break of a year and then I thought, maybe I should wait until she goes to school..." She seems to be revisting the decisions of the past. She finds in her a need to validate her decision. The hint of a defensive edge in her voice confirms my inference.

I continue to jot down my thoughts, derivations, interpretations as the conversation takes on a slightly serious tone.

"And you...have you found your Mr.Right?"

"Still searching. Am confident I will find him!"

As if on cue, Divya's cell phone rings and she speaks in hushed tones, audible to Madhu.

"No Gautam, I can't make it today. Sure, some other day. Yes, I'll give you a call"

A final comment from Gautam makes her laugh and she hangs up, shaking her head, "Guys, can't live with them, can't live without them!"

"So, how did you find him?" Divya winks at Madhu

"I didn't. My parents did...I don't think I could have done a better job!", Madhu winks back but the import is lost on Divya.

I write in my notebook,
Divya has a look of incredulity on her face.

I try to string words to match her thoughts -
"The poor woman?" or "I hope he doesn't give her a rough time, she may be naive but she is my friend?"...I also notice that Madhu is not at all discomfited by the look on her friend's face. Does being a young mother make one accustomed to such looks? Or do they just convey an ignorance that she does not bother to correct - maybe she waits for time to answer the question?

"So, how do you like being a mother? A full-time job, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is. Doesn't leave you much time for anything else. Sometimes, you don't want time to do anything else...", Madhu smiles and Divya nods, unconvincingly.

"But Madhu, what happened to the journalism course that you were going to take? Remember, you wanted to travel the world...this is, this is...quite a surprise."

Madhu pats her daughter's head absently, "Sometimes, life takes us on a journey that we least expect, maybe its not what we had in mind, but its interesting, challenging and it makes sense...you know what I mean?"

Divya does not know. Or she wouldn't be looking at her wrist watch with that now familiar impatient gesture. Madhu looks over her head and catches my eye. I smile at her but she doesn't see me.

"So, it's been fun catching up Madhu but now, I have to go. I still have some work to do for the demo on Monday."

"It's been fun Divya. Do call up sometime, it gets boring when she takes her naps, you know?"

Divya smiles back at Madhu ruefully, or so I thought.

As they get up to leave, a gentleman enters the shop and looks around for a bit before his eyes settle on Madhu and the child. He smiles and walks towards them.

"Madhu! You never keep track of time, do you? We have to go now or your mom will kills us!" He taps lightly on Madhu's head, fondly, as one would to a child.

Madhu smiles and introduces her husband to her friend, "Dinesh, this is Divya..."

Divya stares at the soft-spoken, handsome young man and pauses before extending her hand. He gives her hand a cursory shake before lifting his daughter up. His attention is already completely on his daughter who has suddenly started talking non-stop.

I try once again to read what each fleeting flicker on Divya's face conveys - "And finally I lose to a young girl of not even three?" or "There are men, much unlike the Gautams of this world?" or maybe they are just feelings that sometimes one does not like to acknowledge or express - surprise? jealousy? disbelief?

Divya watches the three of them walk out. Dinesh has his hands draped around Madhu, and his daughter leans her head on his left shoulder. He leans down to whisper something to Madhu that makes her blush and cast her eyes down.

I write down the last line in my notebook,

"And Divya knows she has lost the argument."

***Excerpt***

The choice - 2

I am running out of titles, I guess...my earlier story also titled "The Choice" here :)

I pass the card through the shredder and watch it strip one path of my uncertain fate into little bits. I switch off the light and sit on my chair next to the bed, in semidarkness. The curtains flutter as if whispering to me and I watch the moonlight filtering through it and falling on my wife's face, as if the heavens had made their choice. And I had made mine.

Shreya...Shreya. As if I had to shush even to say her name. Even her name must not escape my lips, aloud. A day away from reality and my life had changed. How did I let my mind waver thus? Seven rounds around the fire, three priests chanting vedic verses, even the sacred yellow thread that she still wore around her neck...none of them could shackle my fickle mind. No, I am not fickle. I did not as much as think for a second that I would stray for another woman. But, Shreya was different. Shreya never left me to reappear in my life now. She was always there. I just closed my eyes and thought she was not near.

She fidgets in her sleep, charming even with her mouth slightly open. Suddenly she knits her brows and pouts in her sleep, adorable, a child struggling with a bad dream. And I mirror her expression. Why did she have to be so perfect even in her imperfections? Maybe I need Shreya because I want to fight with a woman's irrationalities and her vagaries, to delight in her moods and quirks...I tire with a woman who offers me no excuse to sense that she is human as I am, and that she makes mistakes as I do. The more she struggled to please me, the more perfect she became, the farther away I reached, with someone who was as flawed as I am, with someone who did not make me feel guilty with her every gesture.

"How do you manage it, Arun?"

"Manage what?"

"Being married! Aren't you bored? Don't you look at other women?"

"Other women..."

"Take me for instance...aren't you wishing you can take me out on a date?"
and then she laughs, carelessly. Everything about her seems frivolous, irresponsible...exciting? As she talks, little curls of her hair fall over her forehead, her smile seems not to touch her eyes and yet I find her irresistible. I don't know why. Maybe because she is just the antithesis of Sumathi - playful and unpredictable. Maybe that's how the human mind is made, to want what it cannot have, to tire of what it should cherish, to beg for a change even when life seems perfect.

"Oh, come on, everyone knew you had a crush on me years ago! I don't blame you for that...but isn't it more than a coincidence that we ran into each other at a conference? Aren't the signs trying to tell us something?"
She moves her fingers as if she were a fortune-teller, reading the signs and she laughs again. It always threw me off. Is she suggesting something or just giving me a hard time?

And then my cell phone rings and the jangle annoys me further.
"Sumathi, yes, am busy...yes, I will be home before nine. No, don't wait for me! I cannot understand why you have to wait every night, stop being silly..."

and I hear the hesitant pause from the other end and say, in a softer tone, "I am not very hungry. I had a late lunch, take your dinner."

And I know she wouldn't. Stupid, old-fashioned woman! I look up at Shreya who seems amused at my embarassing conversation.

"How cute! The wife waits to have dinner with you!"

And suddenly, a trait that should have been endearing, grates me further.

"...while the husband flirts with his lady love!"

I flush and stand up and she puts a hand on my arm.

"Now dear, am just messing with you...sit down, we have so much to catch up on. Do you still play the guitar? Tell me all about your life..."

I must have been an idiot. I had been an idiot in love. Maybe I still am or maybe my definition of love itself is skewed up and I just liked to believe that what I felt was love. I sit down and we talk for a long time. And every fifteen minutes an image creeps into my head and I catch a glimpse of Sumathi hovering near the dining table, peeping out the window, waiting for me...and I resist and push it away. Is this the feeling that assumes the fanciful identity we call love? Or is this just my guilt appearing to frown at me? Something stings my eyes and her words float, meaninglessly around me,

"So, call me up anytime or email, whatever. Lets catch up...'s been fun talking to you!" and she leans over and kisses me lightly on the cheek. I take the card that she extends towards me and try not to think about my wife.

Shreya links her arm with mine and we walk out of the restaurant together.
"We should meet up sometime soon. I fly back tonight. If you ever do come to Washington, holler and I'll be there...have always been there for you, haven't I, Arun?", she winks at me and my heart skips a beat.

She leaves in a cab and I take a long walk before catching a cab home.

The house smells of incense, of Sumathi. The dining table is clean, as if she never waited the whole time for me. She sleeps curled on one side of the bed. So delicate, so vulnerable...her cheeks glisten as if a stray tear forgot to dry. I run my hand over her head and lean close to her just to take in her smell - a smell of anxiety, faithfulness and love. Something that I myself can only sense not experience.

She stirs again and this time, smiles in her sleep. I smile too. Maybe she can teach me to love as she does, completely and unselfishly...

I walk towards my window and stand staring at the darkness outside. The moon seems to wink at me, at a choice well made.

***Excerpt***

Aunt Maria's love story.

"There comes a time in every person's life when she believes she must have been in love."

An excited wave of murmers ripples through the small audience punctuated by a few giggles arising from the younger ones. I feel as I always do at the beginning of Aunt Maria's story telling sessions - eager, curious and impatient to hear the rest of the story already.

"Aunt Maria has quite an imagination, can't wait for what she cooks up this time!", Nancy whispers excitedly and winks at me.

"Nancy, Latha, stop that giggling or you are doing the dishes tonight!", Aunt Maria warns, waggling her finger at us, in mock anger. I smile back at her. She has always been Aunt Maria to all of us. Aunt Maria who baked delicious, warm cookies for us, the quintessential apron tied around her, her chubby hands working deftly to feed several eager mouths. Her silvery bun was always tied high above her head and her eyes did not betray her age - young and twinkling, those of a child about to eat a candy.

Her stories were always reserved for Saturday nights or when there was a powercut, which was every other week. We light candles in the patio and cuddle around Aunt Maria. She sits in the hammock and surveys her audience shrewdly. A gentle breeze disturbs the candle flame and we huddle closer.

"I was a pretty little thing of about eighteen when I met him at the University library. I worked weekends at the library from nine to five. He came every Saturday and lingered behind until it was closing time. He never checked out a book once."

"How did he look Aunt Maria? Tall, dark and handsome? Maybe a stubble?"

"You imp, shush!"

Aunt Maria adjusts her glasses and continues, "He was lanky and tall, tall enough to reach the last but one shelf of the book shelf in the library. I remember because that is the reason why I talked to him the very first time. He was trying to reach a book in the uppermost shelf and I said,

"Sir, would you like me to help you with that?"

He looked amused. Perhaps he thought it was funny that someone as short as I wanted to help him.

"Yes and No, Maria."

The fact that he knew my name irritated me a bit.

"It's almost closing time, Sir. If you need further help, I will be at the front desk."

He said nothing and I walked back to the front desk, annoyed at his impertinence. He left without saying goodbye.

The next morning, he came to the library at noon. I ignored him. He browsed through the different aisles as he always does - fiction, autobiographies, romance, horror - he did not seem to have any preference. Afternoons usually see just a couple of regulars at out library. An old man sat there leafing through a small book, punctuating the silence in the library with his tiny coughs.

Unconsciously, I followed the young man who seemed to be in no hurry to pick a book. He walked casually from book to book, sometimes he would pick a book and smell it, sometimes, he would run his fingers around it, sometimes he would just walk around.

He puzzled me. After what seemed like hours, he picked a thin book and settled down with it, his back facing me.

Inspite of myself, I really wanted to know which book he had picked. So, I held my head high, walked nonchalantly towards him and pretended to arrange the books on the table.

He smiled at me but said nothing. He was reading 'Love Story'. I was happy with his choice. Satisfied, I was about to move back when he said,

"Do you also like Erich Seagal, Maria?"

I did not want to answer him, but it seemed an innocent question and I longed for any conversation that day to get me through the day.

"Yes, I see you took your time to pick the book."

"Oh, I have read it before, many times."

He offered no further explanation. Sitting across him, he looked a lot older than I had thought he was - maybe in his late twenties. He seldom blinked and I found it disconcerting to look into his eyes and talk.

"So, are you a student at the University?", I decided to ask him a few mundane questions so as to not appear rude and then get back to my desk.

"Professor. I teach English."

Again, an awkward silence that he seemed to be entirely comfortable with.

"OK, I better get back to work...", I got up to leave when he said,

"You look remarkably like her."

I don't know why but I sat down again.

"You have her eyes - small but expressive, taking in more than it reveals. Green."

"Look, I don't have time for this kind of..."

"She loved books...this was her favourite book..."

and then suddenly,

"I am David, nice meeting you Maria", he held his hand out to me.

"And that was our first meeting. Now, let me get some goodies out for you kids before it gets too late...", Aunt Maria ambles towards the kitchen and an excited chatter breaks out among us.

"Do you think he will propose to Aunt Maria?"

"Whom does she resemble? his wife? sister?"

"Am sure Aunt Maria can make something up to finish the story. That's probably why she went to the kitchen!"

And we laugh, but a small part of me believes and wants to believe that the story is true...maybe that's why aunt Maria never married, maybe he was the one...

Aunt Maria returns with a large round plate full of chocolate sprinkled brownies. We bite into the warm soft brownies as she continues,

"Our first meeting was anything but normal but his words echoed in my head the following week and I wondered what he had meant and why he had been so cryptic."

The next Saturday, I searched for a copy of "Love Story" and settled down with it, my feet propped on a chair nearby. I was so engrossed in the book, I did not hear the tinkle of the bells tied to our library front door that announced a visitor.

"You have read it before too, haven't you?"

I jumped in my chair and the book fell down.

"David! You startled me!", I said, holding a hand to my chest.

He smiled - the same mysterious smile, always a touch of sadness in it.

"Yes, I have read it before. I can read it again any number of times and I am sure I will cry each time I read it!"

"You are blessed - a book can make you cry. I try and yet I cannot."

Here I was talking to this stranger about things that I little understood. Yet, as he stood there looking into my eyes, this time I did not draw my eyes away. I felt something powerful in the silence that surrounded us. It showed me shades of his past and I felt sad for him.

"When did you meet her?", I asked, about the woman who I knew nothing about except that she looked like me.

"We took the same classes here. I knew I would marry her the day I met her."

"She took a long time to say yes, didn't she?", I ask, smiling at him.

"Yes, she said she knew it had to be me but decided to sleep over it", he chuckles softly and I am happy to see him happy.

We talk about his wife, her life and now his life without her. I don't feel weird anymore, I want to stand there and talk to him for as long as I can, I want to know about this woman that I could not be, whose eyes I had...I don't feel bad reminding him of her, I want to remind him of her.

And a few months later, he just stopped coming to the library, just like that. I always wondered if there could have been something more between us but life is like that, isn't it? Always leaves you asking for more..."

With that aunt Maria gets up and softly blows out the candles one by one. Everyone talks in low voices about her story, a more subdued gathering than before.

I wait for everyone to leave and stand next to aunt Maria as she cleans the dishes.

"Aunt Maria?"

She appears not to hear.

"He did not just stop coming, did he?"

She looks up at me and shakes her head ever so slightly.

"He asked you to marry him, didn't he?"

Again the almost imperceptible shake of the head.

I gently take the dish-cloth she holds in her hands and hold her hands in mine,
"Tell me, Aunt Maria..."

"Oh, I did fall in love with him."

"I knew it! And then, what happened?!", I ask excitedly.


"I asked him to marry me..."

Her voice grows soft, so soft that the wind almost does not carry it towards me,

"He refused. He said he couldn't bear losing her again."

***Excerpt***

Another Mega Serial :)

Chapter 1: The Retirement.
Chapter 2: The phone call.
Chapter 3: The Visa Interview.
Chapter 4: Off to America.

***Excerpt***

Chapter 1. The Retirement.

Mr.Raghavan hears every single tick of the grandfather clock. He hears the rustling of the leaves and the chattering of the evening birds, the sounds of dusk. Each heightens his feeling of loneliness. A feeling that he is too proud to acknowledge. Sixty years of life lived as a proud man and that is how he will live the rest of his life, with his head held high. He picks up the Hindu once again and tries to concentrate on what he is reading. The sudden ring of the calling bell surprises him. He walks with small quick steps to open the door, expectation lighting up his face.

"Raghavan, how are you? I thought I would drop by for a quick evening chat!"

The house owner, Gangadharan could not have chosen a more inappropriate time to pay a visit to Raghavan. Within a few minutes, he realizes that the latter is not interested in any kind of small talk with him. Slightly hurt, he leaves the small house, already pondering on his next victim.

Raghavan settles back into the chair and takes a deep breath.

What did that Gangatharan think? That, he had time to discuss the town gossip because he was "retired" now? He would not and would never be a part of the useless old men talk group. No job in their hands and nothing useful to talk about all evening but rumours and gossip! Ask them anything about politics and general knowledge and they would gather their veshtis and disappear from sight! Worthless fools!

The shrill ring of the telephone distracts him and he hollers into the receiver,
"Raghavan speaking."

***
"Did you have your dinner?"

Parvathi's typical questions. Questions that drove him up the wall but of late, he had begun even to miss those simple conversations with his wife.

He grunts a yes into the receiver because he knows that no other answer would satisfy her.

"Did you turn off the gas? Have you taken your tablets?"

Ignoring her questions, he asks,
"How is the baby? Have the rashes gone?"

"Yes, she is better now. Do you want to talk to Sanjay? He is in the kitchen with Neelima..."

He senses the disapproval in his wife's voice and smiles. Softening down considerably at the thought of his simple, old-fashioned wife stuck in America, he asks,

"How is your leg now? Can you walk easily?"
She had fallen down while trying to get on to an elevator at a store.

"Yes", her voice trembles a little and she says, "By God's grace, as soon as the baby is five or six months old, I will find my way back. What does an old woman like me have here in America anyway?"

Raghavan remains silent for sometime. Somehow, even the thought of making his wife go to America alone did not prompt him to accompany her. He did not have a fascination for cars, clean roads and big buildings - "Oh, these roads are so dirty, mama", Neelima had purred a few years back, "The same dirty roads that you grew up on!" is what he would have liked to tell her - he did not care for an immigrant treatment in America. He was proud to be an Indian and his soil would see him breathe his last. No amount of pleading from his son or wife and half-hearted requests from his daughter-in-law could convince him otherwise.

"Take care of your health. Am sure Sanjay and Neelima can manage once you leave. Bye."

Raghavan feels better after talking to his wife. As he closes his eyes, he thinks of the time Sanjay was born and the thought lulls him to sleep.

***
The milkman rings the bell and Raghvan searches for his spectacles in the semi-darkness. By force of habit, he looks at the clock and thinks to himself that he is late for work today. As his head clears, a dull realization hits him that he is no longer employed. Old and retired. He moves slowly doing about his morning chores trying as best as he can to spread his activities till mid-day. The temple bell rings heralding a long day ahead for him. His thoughts drift back to the day that Parvathi had dragged him to the temple...was it only six months back?

"It is such an honor! How many people do you know who have been awarded, "an employee of the year" shield?"

"It is not a shield and I know of many of my friends who have been recognized as "Employee of the Year" Why must I spend my time chanting at the temple when I can spend it at office doing justice to my award?"

"Today is an auspicious day. You will have to come to the temple with me..."

And the argument had lasted till the temple steps. Parvathi had insisted on an archanai and she did not let go of him until she had adorned his forehead with prominent Vibhuthi marks - "For Drishti!", she had warned him, when he tried to take it off.

***
And six months later, here he was, with a so-called voluntary retirement forced upon him by his unctuous boss - "It's like this Mr.Raghavan, we think you would benefit by this proposal...". And suddenly, his sense of importance and pride was gone, without a warning. He was not Raghavan, Vice President of a prestigious company but just Raghavan, retired and biding his time for the end. He had decided then that he would not be a part of any of the religious groups in his neighbourhood, chanting what they little understood, preaching what they little practised. He would still lead a meaningful life...but somehow, his life seemed without any direction now. He was not the bread-winner of the house, but an old man living on his pension. With nothing to concentrate on the major part of the day, he started having unwholesome thoughts about his own old age and death. A sudden noise interrupted his listless thoughts...

He looked up and Gangadharan cleared his throat again. Raghavan decided to put an end to these visits. He opened his mouth to say something acerbic and was interrupted by Gangadharan,

"Raghavan, do you have a few minutes to spare?"
Was he mocking him? Of course he had a few minutes, he had his whole life ahead of him to spare but he would probably not waste it on Gangadharan!

"I need to talk to you about a personal problem..."

Raghavan took a closer look at the other man and noticed tell-tale signs of weariness on his face. He motioned him to sit down.

"We probably don't know each other well enough for me to confide in you..."

Can't this man talk except in circles?

"but I know you are a capable man and I really have nowhere to turn to for some sensible advice..."

And in his own circuitous way of speaking, Gangadharan confided his problems to Raghavan.

"You see, it's not like my son does not love me or respect me anymore. It's just that he has so many responsibilities now, what with the baby and all and I am probably just a burden...but I have nowhere else to go. I have spent my pension money on my son and I cannot imagine living in an old age home. Rangachari and Sheshadri are in a similar situation themselves..."

Raghavan listened silently.

So, the loud old men's club had its own share of problems...

He still did not understand clearly the purpose of Gangadharan's visit but now he had a new problem to solve. His mind clicked to work immediately, a well-oiled engine going about its tasks. He asked a few questions and tried to sort out Gangadharan's problems. Not that he had a solution at hand but two heads were better than one and it was obvious Gangadharan needed someone like Raghavan to listen to him more than anything else.

It would be far-fetched to say that a strong friendship forged between the two old men but a bond did develop. Raghavan began to look forward to Gangadharan's daily visits. He even spoke to Gangadharan's son, who appeared to be scared of him. Gangadharan even went to the extent of suggesting that Raghavan should visit America to see his grandchild. A severe look from Raghavan silenced him, but that night Raghavan did atleast consider the possibility of a trip to America.

Parvathi returned from America with suitcases full of gifts for her husband, her relatives, her innumerable temple friends and ofcourse a load of stories to share with her husband about America, her daughter-in-law and her grandchild. She seemed surprised at her husband's sudden change in temperament since the retirement but did not guess that it had anything to do with Gangadharan. For her, he was just another cup of filter coffee that she had to make every evening and she was glad to do so.

And Raghavan finally made peace with his retirement.

I gave up on the dhtml when I noticed the absolute positioning messes up the display on smaller screen sizes. Also, I had the story written with Raghavan going to America and his funny experiences there but it's way too long for a Saturday morning, so the end folks!
***Excerpt***

Chapter 2. The phone call.

The next day, a call early morning made Raghavan take the one big step that he had hesitated to take for many years - he decided to go to America.

"Appa, amma's leg has become worse because of the cold. Yesterday, she took a walk outside and slipped on some of the ice on the pavement..."

Raghavan's face clouded with anger and concern...

"Appa, it will probably be good for amma if you also come over. I don't think she can travel back so soon...and you haven't seen the baby yet."

And Raghavan finally made up his mind.

That evening Gangadharan almost danced with joy. "You are indeed lucky Raghavan, you have a son who wants you with him in America!"

"Save your joy! He is only calling me so I can be a nurse to Parvathi while he goes to work! His new wife would have probably complained!"

And they had discussed life in America and what all arrangements Raghavan had to make - visa, warm clothes, Indian music CDs because they would not be available in America...

"Just because I am living in my son's house doesn't mean I will depend on him for anything..."

Gangadharan nodded his head in agreement.

"I will still buy grocery, take my evening walks, go to the library once in a while..."

Gangadharan nodded some more, a little hesitantly this time, "Won't you need a car to...?"

"Car, shmar, I will walk, when I was little, I..."

And several hours later, Gangadharn left with dreams of America.

***Excerpt***

Chapter 3. The Visa Interview.

The Visa office was too crowded for Raghavan's liking. A round man, around Raghavan's age came panting into the hall, sweating profusely, he seemed to be running for the past fifteen minutes. He looked around for a few seconds and settled down near Raghavan to catch his breath.

"I thought I would be late for my appointment", he offered by way of explanation to Raghavan. He was a retired judge and Raghavan approved of judges. So, he decided to talk to the judge to kill time while he waited for his turn.

"Nowadays, all of India wants to go to America", Raghavan began loudly.

"Yes, yes, my son and daughter are both there for the past 10 years...", the judge nodded vehemently, spreading a few drops of sweat around him, "and they have not spoken a word of coming back..."

"Yes, these kids have forgotten where they hail from, money is the culprit!"

The conversation was gaining momentum and Raghavan was about to launch into one of his favorite discussions when his name was called for the Visa interview.

"And what is the purpose of your visit to America, Sir?", the young American sitting behind the counter asked politely.

Raghavan took an instant dislike to him. Who did this young man think he was? God?

"I have applied for a visitor's visa which means I will be a visitor in America. I am visiting my son."

"And when do you intend to return Sir?"

As soon as possible! Raghavan bit his tongue and said, "You see my wife is in America with my son and she has fallen down and hurt her leg. As soon as she gets better, we both will return..."

"Only son?"

How did this young upstart care if he had 18 sons?

"Only son and I know not why he wants to live in that Godforsaken place, leaving a country like India behind. I think the younger generation need some advice from us - their priorities are mixed up! Everyone can earn money - when I was Vice President of..."

Half-an-hour later, Raghavan waved goodbye to the judge and left the consulate with a visitor's visa in hand.

***Excerpt***

Chapter 4. Off to America.

Raghavan was a man of very particular tastes and habits. He detested any change in his routine and more importantly his food.

The airhostess rushed to Aisle 24, seat A yet again, the third time in the past two hours.

"Yes Sir, how may I help you?"

"Yes young lady, you can help me! I have asked for Indian Vegetarian meals. This seems to be neither Indian nor vegetarian!"

The airhostess resisted an impulse to hold her head and scream.

"Sir, this is an Indian vegetarian meal, Sir. This is dal, basmati rice and vegetables with it, Sir."

The repeated use of Sir annoyed Raghavan.

"This food has no salt. The vegetables are unrecognizable and I would like a complaint form please!"

"You can get that as soon as you land, Sir."

Raghavan took a deep breath, carefully wrapped the meal that he had in hand and gave it to the airhostess, "Please take this back. I will ask for a refund and also file a complaint the moment I land!"

"Very good sir", the airhostess walked away shaking her head.

Raghavan took the remaining one banana out of his yellow bag and started eating it and noticed with interest how the teenage Indian boy with the weird crew cut was eating his food with zest.

"You like this food, young man?"

"Uh Huh, much better than anything my girlfriend cooks, dude, err...Uncle!"

While Raghavan did not approve of "dude" either, he was curious about the teenage boy and his "girlfriend".

"I see, your girlfriend does not cook very good Indian food?"

"You see man, she is from Romania and does not very much approve of Indian vegetarian. Her ex-boyfriend was also Indian and somehow she just hates Indian food, man!"

This was too much information for Raghavan. He closed his eyes and was soon snoring away much to his companion's amusement.

***Excerpt***

My "arranged" love-story.

"This blue saree will do, ma!", I said firmly, hoping that my mom would not ignore the tone of finality in my voice, "and I most certainly will not wear that garish kasu malai!"

My mom looked forlorn. She assumed her most persuasive tone and tried one last time, "Vandana, you should look like a bride today! It will be very embarrassing for us if Srikanth's sister turns up better dressed than you!"

"I am not a bride yet. I have told you a million times before, if I don't like the guy, I say no and that's it!"

"Yes yes, but you will like him. He works in an MNC in Chicago. Do you think I should wear this kasu malai?", my mom asked, excited again at the prospect of imposing the monstrous family heirloom on the unsuspecting visitors.

Let me make myself clear. Do not mistake me to be one of those shyly grinning, drawing-kolams-with-delicate-toe, avid arranged-marriage proponent types. I am not and will never take a tray bearing four cups of strong filter coffee and will most definitely not look down when I serve coffee to the guy.

Well, in my defense, there were just three cups (Srikanth's dad had to fly out for a business meeting), I did not make the coffee and I took a real good look at the guy.


And Srikanth's sister, Niveditha (she pronounced it like "ivy"!) came dressed in baggie pants and a short top, chewing bubble gum to complete the look. I threw a look at my mom that could have killed but she was busy making small talk with Srikanth's mom.

"BE Mechanical from IIT Madras? I see...our Vandana is a gold medalist too" and then in a much lower voice, my mom adds, "She has a Bachelor's degree in Architecture from Anna University." She also throws an accusing look at me as if to say, "If only you had become an engineer or a Doctor..."

At this point, my mental state is vacillating between deep embarrassment mixed with humiliation and indignation. I plop myself down unceremoniously on my sofa and pick up last week's Kumudam. I stare at the same page for several minutes while I mentally put down all Mechanical Engineers from IIT, Madras.

"Umm, do you also have difficulty reading Tamil?", a gentle voice, a smile not to wide so as to suggest that he is trying to hard, not too small to not show off his dimples. But his question certainly did not please me. Mr.America can't read Tamil. How cool!

"I believe the least a person can do in his life is learn his or her mother tongue well. I can read Tamil very well."

"I agree. I've been trying to pick up bits of it reading stuff online...", having expected a hearty volley back, I must say I was taken aback a little.

"The kesari is delicious!"

"Mom made it. I can hardly hold a ladle straight."

There! Now let's see Mr.America digest that. So much for his perfect idea of a dainty, homely wife!

"Mm, I don't blame you. Being an architect must be a pretty demanding job! More interesting than anything I do atleast!", he chuckles.

I bite my tongue. I can't think of anything wrong with what he said and that annoys me. I so do not want to like Mr.America.

"Vandana, why don't you sing us a nice song? Mrs.Krishnamurthy tells me that Srikanth is a big fan of carnatic music! He has attended MS's concerts in America."

God! My mom is literally gushing now. Yes, am sure he is a big fan! Rich Mr.America appreciates music made by the little Indians.

"I am not prepared ma. I'll probably forget all the lines and mess up."

N"ivy" who till now was disinterestedly studying her nails, suddenly looks up, "Oh, do sing, Vandana. I would love to hear you sing too! I can always chip in with the right lines."

The nerve of that girl! Chip in with the right lines?! Now, you've asked for it lady. Stand back and prepare to be amazed.

"Our Niveditha has been learning to sing for the past five years..."

I launched into one of my favourite songs, drowning out Mrs.K's voice, a short, nevertheless complicated song. I finished with a flourish, thrilled with my perfect rendition.

"Wow! That's amazing, Vandana! You do have an excellent voice!"

Ah...so, Mr.America approves...now why does that make me grin like this? I turned to N"ivy" and she smiled at me and cooed, "That was lovely Vandana!" I noticed Mrs.K perceive me with additional interest. I can hear her saying already, "Our Vandana sings so beautifully, why don't you sing the song that you sang when Srikanth and I came to see you for the first time, Vandana?"...

"Now, I know what I will listen to in my free time after we get married!", Srikanth winks at me and my heart suddenly skips a beat. Darn! He reminds me of the cute guy I had a crush on in my first year...only, Srikanth looks better.

No, am not falling for his curly locks and evil dimples. I have heard one too many horror stories about unsuspecting Indian brides and their green card holding husbands...

My mom suddenly stands up and with a knowing smile, tells Mrs.K and N"ivy", "Let me show you Vandana's medals and a few photographs." And before I can object, am left alone in the room with Srikanth. He seems relaxed and comfortable.

No! Think of the horror stories! Concentrate!

"You know, Vandana, I am planning to come back to India for good."

I tried to appear nonchalant. People should appear to do that at times, be nonchalant that is. It makes them look cool, not that I wanted to look cool or anything.

"To be honest, the money is great and I can't complain but I just think I will be happier here."

And before I could respond, the gang returned and my mom surveyed us closely. She seemed satisfied with what she perceived. Unconsciously, I had been leaning forward to listen to what he had to say. I stood up immediately.

"Well, it's been nice talking to you, Vandana. I will call you sometime soon!"

A firm handshake and a gentlemanly nod and they were gone.

Now, I am not going to pretend that I did not like him. I did. But one can-almost-be-termed-a-conversation and good looks alone just did not tilt the scale enough. This state of my mind changed quite dramatically over the next few weeks. With every passing day that he did not call, I began to eagerly wait for his call more, anticipate brilliant conversations lasting several hours with him and in general, pine in a very unhealthy fashion (atleast in my opinion) for any interaction with him.

The call came. Three weeks later. i recognized his voice immediately. I was seething with anger and thrilled all at once.

"Hi Srika, Srikanth!", I gushed, just like my mom, into the receiver. Sometimes, I have an incredible tendency to get on my nerves.

"Vandana? I am sorry I couln't call earlier. Some thing came up."

What a vague excuse!

"Uh Huh, am sure. How are Niveditha and your parents doing?"

"Good. I was a bit worried that you would be annoyed at me. I really should have called earlier!"

"Yes, I guess you are right."

And so on and so forth, we had a pretty good conversation over all. Just short of an hour. I hung up smiling and had to stop myself from flitting about happily. That's just not me. Anyway, mom seemed pleased with the proceedings - "Your father would have been so happy" - and cooked up goodies almost everyday for me!

Srikanth called up pretty regularly after his first call and in general, things were quite nice and dandy. I continued to be a bit defensive with Srikanth though, just in case...but a hint here and there, a few spontaneous compliments and I was expecting a formal proposal pretty soon. Which is why I was quite unprepared for what was to follow.

He called me on a Sunday evening. He probably thought going to work the next day with a whole week in front of me would distract me enough to not feel too sorry for myself. He was wrong. I cried the whole week.

"Vandana, I called to say I will be flying back to Chicago next week."

And here I was thinking he was asking me if I would marry him within a week's time. I was about to open my mouth in protest when he said,

"I am not sure if you were already expecting this or if this comes as a surprise to you but I am getting engaged day after tomorrow. Her name is Sheetal, I've known her for five years and it was quite a struggle to get my mom to agree but it all worked out in the end..."

Obviously, this was all a bad dream. I pinched myself and realized that moment that Sheetal is one name that I would hate for the rest of my life. I could not talk coherently for sometime, somehow I was not thinking logically - too many thoughts swirling in my head, nothing seemed to make sense - Why? Why did he flirt with me then? Why?...I did what my dad always used to tell me - "Just take a deep breath, its not as bad as it seems..." - and the thought of my father brought tears to my eyes. I took a deep breath and said,

"Well, I am happy for you Srikanth. I hope Sheetal keeps you very happy. I have a few designs that I need to finalize, talk to you later."

I hung up the receiver and closed my eyes. The phone rang again and I let it ring.

Bits and pieces of conversations that we shared over the past few weeks came floating back inside my head, I remembered the way he winked at me, the look in his eyes after I finished my song...and a fresh surge of tears wet my cheeks.

My mom walked in and in a single breath, I blurted out to her, "Amma, Srikanth called...said no, he has a girlfriend..." and buried my face in her saree. She held me tightly and did not let go for a long time.

I must say I recovered pretty well after this incident. He tried calling a few times after that day but mom always gave him the right excuse before he could say much and I was grateful to her for that. I really did not fancy playing the part of the pitiable girl whom the cute guy dumped! I found myself thinking often if this was my doing after all. Maybe I had found the perfect guy and let him go because I was too conceited? Maybe I will see a hundred other guys but never find my charming Mr.America again...well, anyway easy come, easy go. Only in my case, it was not an easy go. I did not realize the depth of my feelings for him until he said goodbye.

So, you will not be surprised why I almost ran into him, deep in thought, at Spencers and still did not recognize him. He looked quite different too - quite a visible stubble, dark glasses, a crumpled white tshirt and an old pair of jeans.

"Vandana."

And that's all he said.

I froze.

Familiar feelings, a giddy rush of blood to my cheeks, a sudden nervousness. I felt my heart beat so fast, I almost feared for my health, in one dim cavern of my mind. Surprisingly, I managed to think pretty logically in those few moments. I realized if I would ever feel anything like love, it would be like this. I also noticed something strange - that he looked back at me with almost the same intensity of feeling with which I was looking at him now - was it pity? sadness?

Anyway, I had made up my mind. Since neither of us had said almost nothing, I decided for once to speak my mind and not listen to my ego.

"Srikanth, I just wanted to say that I was very disappointed the other day after you called...no, disappointed is not the word. Agony is probably closer to what I felt. I like you a lot (darn! I just cannot say the word love) and was hoping you would propose. I cried for a week, as a matter-of-fact. But, am over it now. I can..."

"Vandana, I love you."

Literally, a hundred butterflies flying in my stomach and all around me. I must be dreaming. Again! No, I smell his musk. He is really hugging me!

"I just wish you wouldn't jump to conclusions! Gosh, I can't even play a joke on you without you turning my life upside down!"

Although I would have loved to stay in his arms for a much longer time, I moved away and demanded (hoping my loud inquisition would make him not notice my tears of joy!),

"And why this sudden urge to play such a mindless prank on me? Sheetal is not even such a believable entity!"

"Then, why are you crying?"

(Cursing inwardly), "Answer me now. Why?"

"Because I had to be sure...that you were sure."

And that was that. I really needed no further justification. Ofcourse, I couldn't let him know that.

"You know, Mr.America. This just will not do. Before we get married, we need to establish some ground rules of conduct that we will adhere to and..."

"I take it, that's a yes."

You bet your bustle, Mister. It is a yes. And that, in short, is the story of how I married Mr.America. I will not have you think that I am just your mushy, little Indian girl who was swept off her feet by an NRI.

...Oh, what the hell, think what you want. I am married to the guy with the dimples!

* * *
***Excerpt***

The Wish (My 55 word short story)

He whispers in her ears; she leans forward to listen, oblivious to fleeting
stations, cries of "chai!", brisk winds and me.

I make a wish.

Years later, we discuss in tired,low tones, my mother's health, finances, home loans...

I don't notice the wistful sixteen-year-old until later.

She reminds me of a wish come true.

***Excerpt***