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!!!