Why so?

Why can’t people just stay? Why do they have to leave? One by one, losing people from my life. If I put my finger on someone and wish for them to stay with me forever, destiny deliberately removes them from my life. Situations in life, marriage, career and worst of all death. An excuse is sought and they are made to leave. Standing on a firm ground with them and when they walk away the ground around turns into quicksand. A quicksand of depression. Can’t move ahead and remain stuck. Till a person comes, holds the hand and leads out of that place. But then, eventually that person too leaves. And you are left again in the same situation. I now no longer wish to hold anyone’s hand anymore as I know the one who holds mine today, will leave it tomorrow. 

Why does it happen that people go away from our lives? Why do they even come into our lives if they have to leave? Why is their company temporary? Why does every effort to make them stay drive them even further away? 

Why is my life just a temporary shelter and not someone’s home to stay forever?

Trees!

I loved trees.

That age ... when you see only roses and not the underlying thorns, when you see the sunshine and not the shadows that fall because of it, when everything seems beautiful and you believe that with effort and will you can achieve what you set your mind on. Yes, it was at that age that I saw the lush green tree. It was a tall strong tree with wide branches and under its shade sat a girl. She was busy writing something. The tree belonged to her. The fruits, the shade, the cool breeze that blew under it, the protection ... all belonged to her. She watered it with love and swept the place around the tree clean. She had even kept a bowl of water hanging on the branch of the tree so that birds could come and quench their thirst. She loved the tree and the tree loved her.

Wouldn’t it be really nice if I had a tree of my own too? Yes, I wished for a tree for myself. I saw one from far away. It looked good. Looked good. I walked towards it and claimed it to be mine. Initially the shade of the tree seemed very comforting. Seemed. I was prepared to adjust to any shortcomings that the tree might have had. But the tree sensed that. There was no cool breeze under it. It didn’t bear any fruits. What was worse was that the trunk was infested with ants. I couldn’t even rest under it or lean my back and sit. I started getting weary. And then that night of the heavy storm ... It thundered, it rained and I stood under the tree, shivering and wet. The tree couldn’t protect me. That night put a hundred questions in my head and slowly I started walking away from the tree. There was nothing that now attached or bound me to the tree. I yearned for shade, for protection, for care. The tree couldn’t give any. I walked  away ...

I now stood amidst a jungle. Full of trees. Full of variety of trees. I looked again for a tree that I could claim. I saw a big strong tree. Once bitten, twice shy. I checked the trunk for ants. There were none. I smiled and leant on it. The shade it offered from the harsh sunlight was tempting. I slept under it peacefully. And a snake slithered down from the branches. I woke up to see the snake staring at me. I don’t think it wanted to hurt me immediately but it frightened me all the same. I was wondering as to how to get rid of it when one by one many other snakes started coming down from the branches. I realised the tree belonged to them and not to me. I walked away ...

Deep into the jungle ... I kept walking till I came across a beautiful tree. I took a broken branch of a tree and hit the branches of the tree. Any snake that clung on might make itself visible and I would know whether to sit under the tree or not. None. I heaved a sigh of relief and sat under the tree, enjoying the canopy-like shade of it. Finally. Or not so. At night, I woke up with a stinging sensation all over my body. There were red ants all over my body. I looked for the place where they came from ... a hole under the tree. I quickly dusted off the ants from my body, sore with pain and itching all over. I walked away ...

And now I keep walking. I don’t like trees anymore. The trees stifle me, tease me, mock me and much worse, hurt me. It isn’t that all the trees are bad, maybe a good tree simply isn’t in my destiny. I am much too sore, too tired, too disheartened, too weary, too disillusioned, too exhausted. It takes an enormous lot out of me to trust the goodness of a tree and each time I do so I am left hurting. I don’t have it in me anymore to seek a good tree. I want to run away from this jungle ... out to the open land. To the desert. Or the sea. They don’t pretend to offer comfort. They are barren and desolate. But at least they don’t pretend. I don’t have any expectations from them and I know I will have to look out for myself. No false promises from the desert or the sea.

I hate trees. 

Care no more!

Few more minutes and I shall reach home, safe and dry. Rains in Mumbai were lovingly treacherous. Abounding downpours that turned roads and railway tracks into rivers. I checked my mobile again for Prashant’s reply. None. It had been two days now since he had last replied it the group. Our group of friends which had come together on a social media site and while the initial common uniting factor was literature, being humans, everyone had started sharing their personal life events with the group too. From strangers we had turned into a group of close friends. We looked out for each other, like friends do. We cared for each other, like friends do. We knew each other only virtually, but did what friends do.

And I reflected back to the journey I had made so far. The past year had been tragically eventful for me. Loss of two closed ones in a short time within had left me lost in grief. I couldn’t simply find my way out. I had lost my grand-aunt who was an old neighbour in my native village. She loved and cared for children and there were hardly any people my age who hadn’t been told stories by her or played in her house courtyard. But unfortunately, as much maternal love she had to give, she didn’t have any children of her own. Her old age was lonely and spent in solitude. The ones that she brought up as her own left her, left the village for brighter career opportunities ahead. It hurt me to see her like this and once in a month I would go down to the village to meet her. Her joy can’t be put down in words here. Last year, she passed away, leaving behind a grieving me. And then, destiny realised I hadn’t had it enough. Shortly, my mother too passed away. Mother? She was my teacher, my guide, my friend, my mentor. The only person in the world who could read my heart and my mind. My mother was my world. With her death, I felt as if I was stripped of my shelter in this world. Love you always mom, always.

It was during this time of grieving that I had met these friends. Having been through a phase in life where no cared how I was, a time when I was away from my mother and family ... I could always sense if things weren’t right with any of the friends. To ask someone “is everything ok?” often means a lot to the person, especially the people who can’t easily open themselves out to others. You have to gently knock their hearts with that question and they will open the door to their worries or problems. And this is why I was messaging Prashant. He had been absent from the group for two days now.

I reached home and made a nice hot cup of tea for myself when Prashant called.

“Hey. Where are you? Everything ok?”

“Sheetal, how many times have you messaged me?”

I recollected and said “I think around 10 times. But then you didn’t answer so I was worried.”

“Did it ever cross your mind that I didn’t reply because I didn’t want to reply?”

“Prashant!” My mouth went dry. “Prashant, if you had only once replied you are busy I wouldn’t have kept messaging you. I messaged you because I was concerned.”

“Yes, and it is exactly this concern that is stifling me. Suffocating me. I want space but no, I can’t have it because Sheetal madam simply won’t leave me alone!”

“Prashant, I had no idea ...” I didn’t know what else to say.

“Look, if you are concerned for me then leave me alone. Don’t ever call me or message me. I am not a small child.” Saying so, he disconnected the call.

I sat down. Numb. ‘Did it ever cross your mind that I didn’t reply because I didn’t want to reply?’, ‘and it is exactly this concern that is stifling me’, ‘if you are concerned for me then leave me alone’ ... Does care stifle? Does it suffocate? Asking someone their whereabouts or enquiring about their health ... Is it that bad? The past played itself in my mind ... Coming home, alone and hungry, no one to ask if I had eaten or how had my day been. Being ill and no one that asked if I was ok, never mind tending. Being caught in emotional crossroads and no one to ask for advice from. Yes it had made me stronger but I now valued care and concern a lot. The time I spent away from my family and mother had taught me a lot indeed. And now, mother was no more. Family had moved away to different cities. I had felt helpless. Till I came across these people and slowly learnt to stand up on my own emotionally. Or maybe not?

It had been three hours since Prashant’s call. I had lost my appetite. The tea had gone cold. Like me. The mobile beeped a message tone. Prashant had messaged. “I am sorry. I know you were only looking out for me. I was really stuck and I simply vented out my anger on you. I’ll be back by tomorrow. Good night.”

Sorry. Yes of course, an apology. I was a softball, forgave easily. A sitting target for people to release their displeasure on. I opened the app on my phone, blocked all the friends in the group ... Aashi, Rajkumari, Abhi, Vishal, Alka, Priya, Sanjay, Prashant ...

After all it made perfect sense, didn’t it? ‘If you are concerned for me then leave me alone’ ... So I left them all alone.

Me and My Muse

Me :  Where were you? I have been waiting for you for so long!

Muse : How many times have I told you not to wait?

Me : I don’t wait for anyone, except you.

Muse : Why?

Me :  Why?! Maybe because I am stupid. Maybe because I am foolish and I have lost my mind.  There! Happy?

Muse : Well, then don’t be so.

Me : At times we really cannot choose what we want to be. We are as we are.

Muse : Yes but try not to be.

Me : Teach me.

Muse : You have to create your own distractions.

Me : Distractions? Oh they abound! And then do you know what happens? Amidst those distractions the thoughts keep creeping up ... The thoughts of the very person because of whom I created those distractions.

Muse : Exactly! It is just a thought then. Not something you should wait for.

Me : You know what? You are like the moon to me. I am in awe of your brilliance, I cherish your beauty and your soothing presence inspires the poetess within me. I know there are many others like me who bask in your moonlight but that is hardly of any cognizance to me. It is when you wane away ... when I don’t see you that I feel lost. Suddenly I am left with paper and pen but my words all vanish. Till I see you again. And then the thoughts start blooming again. They give fragrance to my words.  All that I ask of you is your presence. Because without you my poetry, my words, my thoughts all dry up. The moon can never love back all those who love it. So I ask of you not for your love but for your presence, for your moonlight. And so, for your presence, I wait. 

“It’s ok if you don’t understand me. I wouldn’t even try if I were you. Please just be with me”.

Care, always.

“Can you please come to my home quickly! Dadi isn’t feeling well and I am worried”. That is how it all had started. Amar’s message. Over a year back. We both had met two years ago at a gym. Through casual chatting, we knew that we were neighbours. He lived in the block next to mine. Amar was a student of business management. He had been living in the city for three years now. His father had his textile firm in his hometown. Instead of letting him live in a hostel, Amar’s parents decided that it would be best if he lived in a rented flat. After a few weeks Amar’s grandma too came to live with him so as to cook and care for him.

Amar’s grandma – the sweetest, wisest woman I had ever met. Having lost my grandparents in very early childhood, I was deprived of that pampering and care that comes from our senile elders. She would often cook my favourite dishes and would either invite me or over or have them sent over. She was of good health generally except for old age problems. She was a diabetic patient and since my father was one too, I used to keep inquiring about her diet. I often persuaded her to go for a walk in the evening and at times even accompanied her on those walks. Amar’s message that day scared me. I had lost my parents. The thought of losing a close elder one ... I rushed to his flat. Amar had already called an ambulance. I quickly made a sugar and lemon concoction and administered it to her. She had probably fainted due to drastic low sugar levels. The ambulance came, took her away and I also went to the hospital. For three days and four nights Amar and I took turns in sitting beside her at the hospital. His parents came from town and stayed for a week. After she was discharged, Amar’s parents went back. She refused to go with them as she was worried about Amar. I then convinced them that I will look after her. And I did. It was a very small price to pay for the love and affection that I received from her. She would just have to look at me to know something was not right with me.

Post her stay in hospital, she had become weaker. Her medical test results were also worrying. I suggested she go back to her hometown. To which she said “I can’t choose the manner or time of my death. Let me dare and choose the place.” And then one hot May evening, she passed away. In her sleep. Perhaps the most peaceful way to go. But the mental agony of never being able to her voice, to see her, to feel her hand upon my head ... That had put my peace in turmoil. I had cared for her like I did for my mother and she loved me as if I was her daughter. Constantly calling and checking up on her and dropping in to see her ... And now she had gone. Her cremation and death rituals were performed by Amar and his father. And then twenty days later, her lawyer called me and asked me to be present at the reading of her will. Not thinking much of it except something that she would have wanted me to do. It was, to put it mildly, shocking. Amar’s grandma had bequeathed me eight lakh rupees. She had mentioned her ancestral riches to me. Three houses, lot of gold, some land. But I had never given much thought to it. And today, this “gift” was unexpected. After the meeting was over I decided to take leave. A few days later I received a letter from Amar’s father’s lawyer. He had challenged the will and claimed I was bequeathed the amount when grandma wasn’t in sound health and also that I may have taken advantage of the proximity and attachment to her and persuaded her to do so. I was aghast! I went to Amar’s flat and showed it to him. The claim letter wasn’t as shocking as his response.

“It was very mean of you to do this”.

“Amar, are you out of your mind? Do you even realise what are you saying? I cared because I loved, not because I sought to gain anything. Had I known that she was to leave me this money I would have myself asked her not to.”

“Shut up and stop the drama. You took advantage of her ill-health, of our reliance upon you. Let the court deal with this now.”

I had gone numb. A motive was being sought in my care and concern. “I am sorry if that is what you think. I will give back the money to you as i receive it. I will go to the court and sign an affidavit, promising to keep my word.”

And I left. That was few weeks back. Time had refused to numb the sting of Amar’s words. I was scarred. I received the amount and keeping my word, wrote a cheque for the same in favour of Amar’s father. I had it dispatched by courier. And came home. Seeking a moment of closure. The mobile beeped and I checked the messages which preceded a couple of missed calls. Tanvi had messaged me. I read. And I froze.

“Di, can you please come home quickly? Mom isn’t feeling well. I don’t know what to do.”

Yes, that is how it all had started a year back ... I just fell on the sofa. Did I have it within me to go through all this again? What if my care was thrown back on my face again? What if an ulterior motive was sought in my actions again?

To answer Tanvi or not ... Well, what do you think I must have or should have done?

Friend?

Frothy waves of the sea ... teasing the shore and scampering back. Reminded me of my childhood when I used to ring my neighbour’s doorbell and run away before anyone could open the door. All its mightiness and yet the sea did behave like an impish child at times.

We were building sandcastles by the sea. Aryan and I. I was making a horrible house while he was making a fine fort. Awful attempt of mine, earnest effort of his.

“Aryan! I can’t seem to get the walls right. It isn’t fair that your fort is coming out so well. Help me with my home.”

Without looking up, he said “No.”

“You heartless cold creature!”

“Thanks!”

“Why do you take pride in being called an iceberg?”

“Saves me from unnecessary drama. The less you care, the less you are hurt. An attitude that you really need to adopt.”

I just sat helplessly and stuck my tongue out at him.

Sensing it somehow, he said “Yes, see! That child inside you isn’t letting you build your sand house properly.”

In what I hoped was a sad voice, I said “You won’t help me? Is that what friends are for?”

He looked up at me. “Friends? Is that ... Is that just what we are? Wow!” And he continued with his fort.

“Ummm ... But then what are we?”

I don’t know why and how but the moment just paused in the air. I couldn’t pin it. His hands were busy and yet I could sense his mind being busy elsewhere. I didn’t say anything further. After nearly half an hour, we both had finished our architectural attempts with the sea sand. And we were now perhaps thinking of appropriate words to break the uneasy silence. What could be said that wouldn’t be ... and a dog came and scrambled our thoughts. I mean the ‘sandcastles’! We both broke up in laughter! An hour of handwork all ruined in a few seconds.

I smiled and said “Ok Aryan, I had better get going. “

“Sure. Take care. See you.”

And we parted ways.

Aryan and I had got acquainted with each other on a social networking site. From sharing opinions to jokes, discussing current affairs and occasionally some gossip as well, our chats never restricted themselves to any particular topic. What I liked most about his was his practical nature, nonchalant attitude and the most remarkable, his wit. Over time, the jokes shared between us got raunchier and ever so slowly the curtain that keeps the formal separate from the candid slipped off. I now discussed almost everything with him. All my worries, beau troubles. He listened patiently and somehow that made all the difference. Telling him my troubles made them vanish from my mind. He too shared his work schedules, his girlfriend and family matters with me. And then one day, we met. At a cafe.

He was the tall, dark and handsome guy of any girl’s dreams. For all his wit and talk, he was even better in person. I thought of all the personal things I had shared with him and my face coloured, much to his amusement. We talked and laughed and enjoyed our time together. Each time that he spoke of his girlfriend his eyes twinkled up and each time that his eyes twinkled up they touched my heart. I don’t know why. As if his smile was a candle flame and my heart was a mirror. I told him of my boyfriend, his fickle childish nature and he laughed, though I don’t know if at me or at my boyfriend.

Over the span of a few months, circumstances had changed. He was still with his girl while I had broken my heart, nursed it back and was moving on with life. And we met a few more times. Like today. But today was different. I couldn’t answer him. He was more than a friend. But then what do you call someone who is more than a friend? Given all its words, the vocabulary failed me.

I reached home and kept my handbag on the table. The mobile buzzed and I picked it. Aryan had messaged me. And as usual, as ever, as always, his message brought a smile on my lips.

I don’t know whether you will agree with him or not but his message read “Accomplice? :P” 

Better?

I tucked the ticket away carefully in my wallet and placed the wallet in my handbag. My handbag was really a universe on its own ... filled with a hundred ‘important’ objects that I was quite sure I will find useful someday.

Everything was packed. I was leaving without informing friends and relatives. I never really liked farewells. All the sentimentalism, tears, pleas of “please don’t go” ... heartwarming for sure but also felt like shackles around the feet of my aspirations. “The thread of attachment ... Neither does it snap nor can be discarded.” I had told him though. And now it seemed like a mistake on my part.

Almost as if he sensed himself in my thoughts, he came.

“Still being stubborn, aren’t you?”

“Look! Please try to understand. I cannot live in this city anymore. It has started suffocating me, my thoughts, my imagination ... “

“For five years you didn’t seem to have any problem with this city.”

“True. I had no problem with this city till now. But now this place doesn’t give me what I desire as a writer. I want to improve myself, to better myself. I want to be a better writer.”

“Raina, I can’t understand ... “

“... What I am trying to say, right? I now find the lanes and the people of this city dull and used. They don’t inspire me for stories anymore as I think I have written a story on almost all the aspects of this city. I have squeezed it dry and extracted as much as I could from the houses, shops, gardens, streets, parks, people ... Nothing inspires me anymore here. I want to move on. To be better. The people ... “

“The people? I am also one of those ‘people’. And so are your friends and relatives.”

“Yes. And now they all have a certain slack about them. Call me cold or ruthless but I use people as drafts or moulds on which I base my stories. I have exhausted them all. I now wish to move on to new places and meet new people. I will be able to write differently and better.”

He came closer ... his eyes moist with pleas. “Don’t go Raina, don’t.”

“Please don’t stop me. I want to flow like a river. I don’t want to become stagnant like a pond. Stagnancy stinks. Just like the river that flows through different banks and remains fresh, I too want to flow through different cities to keep my thoughts fresh as a writer. The day I stop flowing I will become ...”

He snatched my next words with his lips, hugging me tightly in his loving arms. The bond of his arms barred any other sense from entering and I lost myself in him. I could neither see, hear nor speak anything, except for his love. Like fragrance in the air, I too dissolved myself in his passion. The evening was beautiful ... we made it enchanting with our lovemaking.

Next morning at 5:00, just when the alarm was about to ring I quickly shut it. He was sleeping soundly beside me. If he woke up then he would try to stop me again. Gently sliding his arm aside from my waist, I went for a shower and dressed up, being as quiet as possible. I took my bags and looked at him once again ... that curly hair, his lips that touched me with love, his firm hands that touched me beyond my body ...

I picked my handbag and bags and tiptoed out of the house. Hailing a cab, I went to the railway station. With a few more minutes for the train to arrive, I went to the tea shop to have my morning cup of tea. I removed my wallet from the handbag and in the wallet, beside the ticket and money, was a letter.

“Raina, I know you will leave while I must be in deep sleep. My efforts to persuade you to change your mind are all in vain. You kept saying you wanted to better yourself. I wish you could see yourself the way I do ... Because for me you aren’t good or better, you are already the best ever!” 

In my one hand was the ticket. Price - Rupees 560. In the other hand was his letter. Price – love.

A beautiful Sunday's penning

A meeting of minds,

A huddle of hearts,

An introduction of ideas,

A tryst of thoughts.

We met one evening ...

A beautiful Sunday’s penning.

We discoursed, we discussed

And we talked much.

Avoiding seeing each other in the eye.

And yet it was those that didn’t lie.

We met yet another evening ...

A beautiful Sunday’s penning.  

He spoke of his love, his passion.

I spoke of emotions and their transgression.

He weaved a wonderful web of lusty lies.

And that is when I looked him deeper in his eyes.

We met yet another evening ...

A beautiful Sunday’s penning.

His eyes were like two pools so deep ...

It took me all my might not to fall in them so steep.

They were like two magnets that pulled me closer.

I resisted. I repelled. I tried much harder.

We met yet another evening ...

A beautiful Sunday’s penning.

He asked me “Why do you love them so much?”

I said, “They never lie to me as such.

For all the tall tales that your tongue tells to be

Your eyes are the ones that are faithful to me”.

We met yet another evening ...

A beautiful Sunday’s penning.

Yet one dusty day  I confronted him without deviation

And told him I knew of fact from fiction.

He laughed it off and said “silly things!”

I laughed as I knew for sure it wouldn’t be funny for him

If I were ever to say those “silly things”.

We met yet another evening ...

A beautiful Sunday’s penning.

Bless his deep dark eyes

For they knew not how to tell lies.

We met yet another evening ...

A beautiful Sunday’s penning. 

Muse - 2

He spruced up the cushions again and looked around the room. A bachelor’s modest flat. Basic furnishings ... clean and airy. He went to change his clothes in his bedroom. The other bedroom was converted into an art studio by him where he used to paint. Entry to the room was prohibited even to his man-servant Bhima. He changed his clothes and went into the art room to look at his painting. Almost done ... She was going to come today. He had first met her seven months back in the library and since then they had been meeting regularly once in a week on Sundays. By the seaside usually. He was charmed by her beauty ... her twinkling eyes, the dimples on her cheek when she smiled, her alluring voice. She had been away to Nagpur for the past three weeks and had called him today to inform him that she was coming to meet him at his home. He was quite pleased at the trust she placed in him for she knew he lived alone.

The doorbell rang. He opened the door and saw her ... and every time that he did his eyes refused to look elsewhere.

“Come in Priya”, he said, moving aside for her.

“Wow! Nice flat you have here! And you seem to maintain it quite well. I mean, for a man ...” she broke off.

He chuckled, “Credit it to Bhima. It’s his hard work really, not mine. Anyway, what would you like to have? Something hot or cold?”

“Nothing really. I’m in a bit of hurry. I wanted to share something special with you and I wanted to do so personally rather than over the phone”.

He looked eagerly towards her as she opened her handbag and took an invitation card out of it. She handed it to him and said “Remember I had gone to Nagpur with my parents? Actually my aunt had suggested a guy for me to my parents. I was in touch with him for the past 2 months but didn’t tell anyone till it led to anything fruitful. Well, I met him in Nagpur. Rishabh is a very charming fellow. He owns a software company and is just perfect in every way. I like him very much and since his feelings for me are mutual our families have decided to get us both engaged. It is to be held this Sunday and you are invited!”

She handed him the card and he took it from her graceful hands. He tried reading it but somehow it was all hazy to him. Realising that he was quiet about it he suddenly said, “Why Priya, you lucky girl! Or should I say lucky Rishabh? So much happened and you didn’t tell me?”

“Sorry, I didn’t want to say anything till I was sure about it and anyway, I got to surprise you!”

“Yes, of course! Surprise me! You did it too well. Congratulations!”, he said without putting his hand forward. Somehow touching her now would be awkward.

“So, how are things with you? And now that I am here I am sure you will let me see the portrait that you were painting of the girl whom you love ... Your muse!”

Saying so she walked towards the rooms and since the bedroom door was ajar she went towards the adjacent room. He had told her about his art studio when they had met. He immediately followed her and tried to stop her “No Priya! Don’t! It isn’t finished yet!”

But too late. She was already in his art studio and looked at the painting mounted on the easel.

She looked at herself.

He must have etched every nuance of her face in his mind to have created such a perfect resemblance.  And then she remembered his words “... of the woman I love”. She just stood there. He too was thinking of appropriate words to say ... if there could be any in the given situation.

She finally spoke haltingly, “I’m ... I don’t know what to say. This portrait ... I didn’t know that you ... I didn’t know I was your muse.”

He looked at her and at the invitation card in his hand. He then smiled weakly, took the bottle of black paint and splashed it across the portrait. “Muse no more!”

Muse - 1

“Why don’t you write a book?”

I stopped eating my ice cream and looked at him in wonder. “What?! Why this brainwave?”

He happily kept gorging on his cookie and cream ice cream and said, “You are good with your words. Everyone likes your blogs. Might as well write a book”.

“My blogs are just short articles. I would need a lot of time to write a book.” I replied and got back to my ice cream.

“Oh sorry! I forgot. You run a multinational company. Obviously you don’t have time.”

I looked up and sighed. “Save the sarcasm. I am busy with many things. Besides, what exactly do I write a book on?”

“Don’t know. And stop licking the ice cream cup please.”

I kept the cup down and said, “Look, I need a topic. A muse. I can’t just write on nothing.”

“You are wasting your time, your words.  Your penchant for using words to touch someone is amazing. You have it in you to write a book. Promise me you will.”

I thought for some time. “I promise that whenever I find a muse I shall write a book. By the way, how is your shoot coming up?”

And with that we drifted to other topics. His work, our crazy but loving mutual friends, the current political scenario. Every weekend that we met after that, at the same place by the sea, he kept asking me about the book. I kept disappointing him.

A paper, a pen, words, thoughts and a topic or a muse. You need them all. Remove any one of them and you are left with a broken literary orchestra. My muse, unknown to the fact himself, kept chasing my thoughts unintentionally. Till the thoughts forced the pen to write words on the paper. And so, I wrote my first chapter of the book. It was only two pages long but it succinctly held my thoughts. I titled it ‘Muse’.

All this progress and yet I didn’t tell him anything. I wanted to surprise him. On the Saturday of the week that I started writing, I met him, as always by the seaside. I took the book with me. The sea was now a rather excited witness to my meetings with him.

“Do you take deliberate pleasure in making me wait?” I asked as soon as he came, which was half an hour late.

“Traffic! And I am no Superman my lady!”

“Amazing! Somehow the very traffic that is so easygoing with me, goes out of its way to obstruct you. Amazing really!”

“Well, there is something else too. Remember I told you about the girl I met at work 2 months back? I had gone to meet her and hence got late.” He said this with a twinkle in his eye and a faint colour rose on his cheeks.

“Oh I see. Ummm ... And?”

“And I confessed to her how I felt for her. She feels the same too.” He smiled. No. Rather, he beamed. Yes, that look of the first heady rush of love.

“Wow! This is wonderful! I am so happy for you! When do I get to meet her?”

“When you start writing the book that you promised.”

“I had promised to start writing as soon as I found a muse.”

“A wait till eternity it is then?”

I smiled. “Let’s walk.”

We strolled along the beach and he talked about the girl. A few minutes later he received a call from her. While he was talking to her I took the book out of my handbag, opened it, ripped the pages I had written and threw them away in the sad sea.

Muse no more!

Words

It was like a fair

With people everywhere

And that’s where we met.

We got in touch through

A few words that you sent to me,

A few words that I sent to you

That you read.

Few experiences that we shared,

Some poetries and poems in

A few words that you sent to me,

A few words that I sent to you

That you read.

We never knew when exactly

Love tiptoed into those words.

Enchantment filled

A few words that you sent to me,

A few words that I sent to you

That you read.

And so began those sleepless nights

Of rousing feelings and desires.

The heart was lured by

A few words that you sent to me,

A few words that I sent to you

That you read.

Then as time passed by

Don’t know what happened ...

Maybe it was just an intoxication

That slowly lost its high in

A few words that you sent to me,

A few words that I sent to you

That you read.

You said you were busy

And I too started making excuses.

Mere formalities were contained in

A few words that you sent to me,

A few words that I sent to you

That you read.

And then I came to know

That the words were still as they were.

Only they were written by you to someone else

But not to me.

What use would it be to lament now?

For all the words that we sent to each other

You had only read them.

While I ...

I had felt them. 

"I'm fine, thanks."

A few more minutes to 7 o’clock. The guests would start arriving soon. I went in the kitchen to check up on the food again. Jamuna was tidying the kitchen up after our cooking marathon. I once again explained her the order in which the food was to be served. She had been zealously helping me with the preparations since morning as she was quite delighted that her ‘didi’ had been honoured with a literary award. It wasn’t known to many but nowadays Jamuna was usually the first person to whom I would narrate my work. She would be busy doing the housework and I would call her over and ask her to sit while I would read out my story to her. At times she understood the story and yet at other times she would just say “I didn’t understand much of it but it sounded quite good to me”. Perhaps she was a simple soul and understood only simple words. The world of metaphors and idioms was unknown to her.

The doorbell rang and sure enough the guests started arriving. Guests – a few close relatives and close friends who insisted on being a part of my achievement and celebrating it. Relatives included elders who always wished success for me and gave their blessings wholeheartedly. And as for friends ... well, they deserved to be thanked for being my sounding board and research team. It meant receiving my calls at odd hours of the day or night and having to answer my questions such as ‘is there really such a place in Mumbai as I am describing in my story?’, ‘do auto-rickshaws in Jaipur charge according to the meter?’, ‘since you are from South India, could you tell me if people there drink more of coffee than tea?’. I was hardly to blame as the thought of a story would come to me at any time of the day and hence my calls didn’t adhere to etiquette of socially acceptable times. I don’t know if my friends cursed me after hanging up my call for disturbing them but they always answered them for sure. Speak of the devil and ... Ranveer came.

While most of the guests had brought gifts and bouquets, Ranveer asked me where was his gift.

“Your gift! Whatever for? Is it your birthday or have you finally cracked your kindergarten exams?”

“The way you use our conversations in your stories, your unearthly-timed calls ... I demand to be compensated and hence want a gift.”

“Sure Ranveer. I’ll gift you one of my old pens and you may keep it as a memento”. I smiled cheekily at him.

And these chitchats and conversations, ranging from formal to silly and mundane to witty, continued over dinner with other friends and relatives too. Time somehow tends to run along during happy occasions, while crawling during untoward events. Nearing 11 0’clock, the guests bade their goodbyes and left after appropriately complimenting the food and congratulating me again for my achievement. Everyone, except Ranveer. He stayed back to help me and Jamuna clear up and tidy the place. It was a help that though I hadn’t requested for, I was very much grateful for. I then opened a bottle of wine and poured out 2 glasses for us, while Jamuna decided to call it a night and went to sleep.

“I am really thankful Ranveer for helping us tidy up. I hope you won’t ask for a tip or a gift for this too.”

“We’ll come to that later. First tell me this - what’s on your mind? Why are you sad?”

“Sad? Me? No Ranveer, I am not sad.”

“Yes you are and you better not lie to me. I can see through you and sense you very well.”

My eyes became moist and I said, “Ranveer, my mother had always prayed and wished for my success and now that I have achieved it, she isn’t here to see it. These celebrations seem incomplete without her. She used to listen to my stories and lovingly point out mistakes and make suggestions that would enhance my writings. Whenever any of my work got published in a reputed newspaper or magazine, she would happily announce it to our relatives and all those who stood by to have a word with her. She used to cook my favourite sweet for me and also distribute sweets among the neighbours. Today all these celebrations, merriments, awards and gifts are nothing compared to the sweets that she would make for me". With these words my eyes now let go of the carefully contained tears.

Ranveer offered me his handkerchief and said “You silly girl, you’ll make your mom sad by crying like this. I am sure she is happy to see your achievement from whichever world that she is in now. Just think of it, you are lucky enough to make her happy and proud even after her death. And keeping in mind her habit of sharing happiness, why don’t we buy sweets tomorrow and distribute them among your neighbours and also an old-age home perhaps? That is what your mom would have done, yes?”

A faint smile crawled on my lips and I said “Yes, she would have done that and that is what we will do tomorrow.” Then it struck me. “Ranveer, how did you know I was sad? I was happily chatting to everyone with what I thought was a believable smile on my face.”

“You yourself told me so.”

“I did? I don’t think so.”

“Yes you did. Whenever I have asked you ‘How are you?’, you have never given me a straight reply. Rather you have usually replied with ‘Oh I am beautiful’ or ‘I am a literate witch’ or ‘I am much more insane than you think I am’ ... But today when I asked you ‘How are you?’, you said ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ And hence I knew you weren’t fine.”

Friend!!!

Cigarette smoking is injurious to health

Those rings of smoke ... exhaled ... little clouds. The white fluffy clouds in the sky reminded me of them.

When I was a little girl my father used to smoke in his office and I would happily take in the smell of the cigarette. Though he would put it out at once when he would be aware of my presence. That burning tobacco sniff in the air always reminded me of him. Over the years he gave up the habit but the smell was saved in my mind as “dad”.

Few years later, when I moved to London, I found the white stick to be quite omnipresent. I put it down to the wet and cold weather. Waiting at the bus stop, people would smoke to hold on to whatever little warmth the humble cig offered.  Many friendships were formed at that bus-stop. People waiting there asked politely if they could smoke and I would happily nod my head as it would take me on a trip to nostalgia ... in my dad’s office. One such woman who used to travel on the same bus as I did, formed a close friendship with me later on. She told me that every time she thought of giving the habit up the weather would turn colder, the buses would be running late, she would have a work deadline or a tiff with her partner ... hence making her reach out to the solace of the smoke. We shared our heartaches and joys all under the bus stop, with the whiff of a cigarette. I never really made a close friend as her ever.

A few more years later I moved to India. The anti-smoking campaign had certainly picked up everywhere and many public places now prohibited smoking in their premises. As if that actually made people give up the habit though. Every Sunday I used to go for a walk beside the sea and I met him there for the first time. He was trying to capture the huge orange ball in the sky into his camera. I smiled and asked him if I could see whether he had done justice to nature’s beacon. To say that it was magnificent would be an understatement. And while my eyes were taking in the visual delights, my nose sniffed a familiar nostalgic smell in the air. A cigarette in his hands. I looked and he apologetically offered to put it out. I said “You do that and you will put out a part of my rekindled memory”. He laughed and said “never before has someone said ‘no’ so poetically!” That was the first of my regular weekend meetings with him over the months to come. Often he had his camera slung around his neck ... as if it was a garland that celebrated his profession. While our conversation was varied, his cigarette was constant. I started looking forward to Sundays for more than just the break from my working weekdays.

Then, one Sunday, he met me and with a glorious twinkle in his eye said “Do you know that job that I had applied for in Delhi? Well, i have bagged it. They want me to start from next week itself and I have to move there in these five days. I am so happy that I will finally be working with international brands and media companies. You are the first person with whom I am sharing this ...” The rest of his words were lost to me. I listened to him but couldn’t soak it all in. He stopped and asked “well?”

I mistakenly told him “I am so happy for you. You truly deserve this. Let me know if I can help you. My friend lives in Delhi. I’ll give you his number”.

I met him once again in a farewell party given by his friends. He went away to Delhi. I stopped going to the seaside for my Sunday strolls. Many people there but not the one whose company I wished for. It has been 4 months now. I am in touch with him but his erratic schedules meant that our chats were never consistent.

You might think ‘out of sight, out of mind’. Well, it may have been so. Except for the fact that whenever anyone around me lit up a cigarette I was reminded of him instantly. Him, my close friend in London, my dad. They take me down on a memory lane of people whom I would have loved to be in my life forever but instead was left with the numbing ache of being away from them.

It’s true about the warning on the cigarette packs, only it had an addendum for me.  “Cigarette smoking is injurious to health ... and perhaps to memories as well”.