Sayani Bhattacharya

Drama Romance

4  

Sayani Bhattacharya

Drama Romance

The Unexpected Rendezvous

The Unexpected Rendezvous

41 mins
254


Chapter One


Who am I?

 

The longer I gazed at the picture, the often I asked myself. The harder I tried to deny it was there, its existence intensified. Life-long self-denial towards the feelings of a twenty-four-year-old me, broke loose. The face, long-buried behind the façade, suddenly emerged out of the camouflage and sibilated in my mind, ‘Who are you?’

I am Aditya Tripathy. If you have not heard my name, let me assume, you are not an ardent reader. The books I wrote have won hearts. The mailbox at my home in Westminster still gets flooded with letters from my readers every day. My work has always kept me on my toes, except for the rare nights, when I hit the bed with my heart overpowering my mind. I always keep the lights on, lest the darkness should engulf my eminence. The books with my name perch on the shelves and the awards and photographs fill up the walls to remind me every now and then, I am Aditya Tripathy. I am not the twenty-four-year-old boy, who left his country with a broken heart, an emptiness as that of a loss, and a resolve to find a new identity for himself. Since then, over the years I have accepted my loneliness as a sacrifice for my hard-earned fame. I have mastered the art of denying the obvious truth. In countless meetings, I have managed to explain why an established author like me never considered finding a partner in his life. Every time the reporters have sounded over-intrigued (and maybe jealous) by my unattached lifestyle, I have told them, I am married to my passion, and my books are my children.

The picture on my phone as though erupted like a volcano all of a sudden, letting out the pain that a part of my mind had been subtly bracing all these years…the memories of a name I had always been trying to expunge…Arundhati.

I was beholding the divine sunset bathing the cloudy domain in a golden glow. Sipping in the cold coffee, I scrolled through the newsfeed on my phone, as the flight Vistara-UK 711 bent on its left distorting the view of the skyscape, and took a sharp right turn towards Kolkata. Returning to your root, I have heard, feels fascinating. For me, it was no less than torture. Had it not been for Devjani, a young author who convinced me to give her a chance to translate my recent work in Bengali, I would have never let myself get afflicted to this level. It was for the promotional event of the book release that I had to come for. I was recalling the speech I prepared when my phone beeped with a message. Some ‘Secret-Admirer’ had sent a picture. I reread the name a few times even before opening the chat. Had it not been for the name, I would have ignored a message from a complete stranger. And now how I regretted my choice. The picture that the secret-who-so-ever had sent, sent a chill run down my spine. I gaped at it for a while, not only because it came from a stranger with a strange name, but the boy in the picture, sitting on his knees and holding out a rose, was the twenty-four-year-old Aditya Tripathy. The picture was folded from the middle. The mysterious sender had not cared to send me the other half. But I clearly remembered the moment…when Arundhati gaped at me. Her hands covered her mouth and her eyes shone with spherical drops of tears appearing in the corners. I had proposed to her on Valentine’s Day. A short-lived smile appeared before anxiety captured my thoughts. Within a fraction of a second, millions of questions flew in my mind like the shooting stars. Who is the sender? Where did he or she find the picture that I had once lost? And why has it been folded into halves? Why hasn’t this person sent me the other half? Even for a second, I thought the secret admirer could be Arundhati, right before her thought froze my mind, as always.

She knew some magic, I believe, that each time she would come walking to me, everything around me started moving in slow motion. That day, after college, when I saw her smiling at me from the corridor upstairs, I made up my mind. By that time, the chicken-hearted fellow in me had mustered enough courage to show his feelings for his teacher…publicly, right in the middle of the college ground. A teacher only 4 years elder to me, I would often remind myself to allow no space for guilt to creep in. She took small steps to walk across the lawn to the middle of the basketball court where I stood. The way the curly tips of the loose strands of her hair would touch her shoulders and bounce up with each step could take my breath away. She was short, shorter than most of the females I personally knew. And that made her look even more adorable. The smile on her face that would always touch her dark brown almond eyes was infectious. The navy blue color of the 5 yards she draped around her lean frame perfectly contrasted her peach skin tone. She had clutched her hair in a top bun. As she came closer, my heart pumped faster. I tucked my hands behind my back hiding the rose. How many times I had practiced in front of the mirror to perfect the move. But destiny…it will always ditch you in the nick of time. She was merely at an arm’s length when I folded my right knee and sat on the left with both my hands holding out the rose. She had not expected any of it, for the next moment, she dropped her file that she was holding in both her hands and covered her mouth. Her eyes dilated as tears swelled up in the corners and she held my hands in hers. None of us did say anything that day. The silence was speaking all the words and our eyes listened.

‘Excuse me, sir.’

A soft voice chimed in my ears like a melody, bringing me back from the chain of thoughts. An air hostess cast her magical smile.

‘This young gentleman on our flight wants to tell you something.’

The young gentleman she referred to was no more than five; his little fingers curled around her right thumb. His eyes narrowed as he grinned.

I smiled back, ruffling his hair. But he moved his head back, looked like he would not allow anyone random to come and touch his hair. I tried to look sorry and stretched my hand instead for a handshake, but he handed me a diary and a pen.

‘Mummy loves your books. She wants your autograph,’ he spoke in the sweetest voice.

‘Most certainly, sir!’ I laughed as I opened a page in the diary and put my signature, ‘where is your mummy, sir?’ I said. This wasn’t something new, especially when I traveled. ‘Yet it’s like an irresistible urge to see who was praising my work. That’s how an author and his readers are probably connected. One creating happiness amongst many and finding motivation in their happiness to create some more,’ I thought as I looked around in a hope to find his mummy.

‘She has an injury in her leg. She won’t be able to move without any assistance,’ the air hostess spoke this time.

‘That’s sad. Hope you mummy gets well soon, my gentleman.’ I said with a smile and returned him his possessions. The child smiled and waved his hand at me as he walked back along the aisle still holding her thumb.

I smiled and looked away through the window. Some little things in life can too lift our spirit in an unexpected way. An innocent smile and an autograph later, I was back to my usual self.

‘But that picture…’ the doubt lingered on my mind like a hitch, ‘who found it? And from where?’

I still remembered the night before I left my home and set out for a new beginning. A new beginning…that’s what I told myself and even my parents. When the packing was done late that night, my search began for the photograph…the only photograph of Arundhati and me, together. ‘I can look at it and spend my entire life,’ I had told myself. I was leaving my country to stay away from the girl I loved and vowed to find a new beginning with possession from the life I was fleeing away. How contradictory! But as I said, destiny can throw your plans up in the air in a moment, I could nowhere find the photograph. Usually, I would keep it in my wallet, but I checked all my bags, cupboards, drawers, under the mattress, and inside the books. It had as though disappeared like a rabbit in a magician’s hat.

Even life is like a magician’s hat, and destiny, the magician. With every new spell, what appears and what disappears in the mysterious hat, only the magician knew. I remained throughout a spectator…just a spectator with hardly any control on who comes and who leaves my life. The photograph that had gone missing for years, decided to disclose itself after an eternity in the most unexpected way as though revealing itself from the mysteries of the magician’s hat, where it had once gone in for hibernation. What else than magic would you call it? 

Chapter Two

3 5 years back…


                    

A gust of cold air mixed with the strong aroma of coffee beans wafted towards us as soon as we stepped into the café. Unlike me, Arundhati was a coffee addict, and after the first time we met here, she never considered going to any other place. At ‘K’s Café’ we even had a permanent table, right at the end in a corner, next to the huge windows, allowing a muted view of the cityscape. She dropped her bag on the table and told me it was going to be her treat. As she stood at the kiosk and spoke animatedly to the boy over the counter, it felt as though I was the most fiendish man in the world. She had put on a peach suit exactly matching her skin tone. The pom-poms hanging down from the end of the heavily embroidered dupatta draped around her neck brushed the floor. Unlike a usual bun, she had left her hair cascading till her slender waist while the curly tresses tumbled about her face. Was it a special day, even for her? For some reason, she looked unusually ecstatic. Guilt started capturing my entire mind when I watched her coming back with the brightest smile on her face. She kept the platter on the table and settled down while adjusting her dupatta.

           ‘A few things never change,’ I was thinking, ‘like her love for the filter coffee, the depth in her magical eyes outlined neatly with the charcoal black kajal like a piece of art, and my falling for her captivating presence every time she walks in my thoughts.’ Every time I would look at her, a new stream of affection would drench me thoroughly. How was I going to hurt her? The gleaming smile on her face…how was I going to snatch it away? This fear was the sole reason why I was procrastinating the whole process of revealing the truth to her. The truth that I knew long back and yet I was indulging in a togetherness that was meant to be ephemeral. If I had a choice, I might have dallied it further. But I had to take the flight the next morning. And that meant, I had to call her up and ask her for a lunch out. I was heading for a new life, but I had forgotten, she was still there teaching in the same college, the same old things to a new set of faces though. So we agreed to meet where we would usually hang out, only after her classes get over. And there she was, holding the mug in one hand and gently rubbing the tip of her index finger with her thumb, as she would always do whenever euphoric. I checked the time on my phone. Every second seemed precious now. I cleared my throat in an attempt to break the silence between us, but then, where should I begin? ‘Praise her,’ a part of my mind said. It was the best way to start a conversation. I could tell that from my experience. I nervously looked at her and she was already gliding her concerned eyes on me.

           ‘You look so elegant… and delighted.’ The words finally escaped my mouth.

           She took a sip from her mug and curled up her lips, ‘Thank you so much, Adi.’ And then she thought for a while and spoke again, ‘I have some news. I am sure, when you hear it, even you will be elated.’ But you tell me first.’

           ‘Tell you what?’ I know I sounded like a distrait nincompoop, for the next moment, she rolled her eyes and crossed her hands on her chest.

           ‘What what, Adi? You woke me up so early because you had something urgent to discuss…?’

           ‘Oh, yes!’ I nodded, but then hung down my head immediately. I had never fretted out so much in my entire life. Not even when we did ‘it’ for the first time on her bed, and then a few more times; neither when I opened up to my parents about my relationship with Arundhati. I wanted to take some more time, but then no time was enough to avoid the inevitable. I insisted a few times that she should disclose first her secret reason for the glow on her face and the shine in her eyes. But I already knew what her answer to that would be.

‘Good news…always to be shared in the last.’ She had told me once, ‘All is well that ends well, remember?’ Arundhati believed in many such silly notions that would only add to her innocence. I wondered once more how I was still in deep love with everything about her. Her elbows supported on the table and her face rested on her palms as she looked at me intently for an answer. I had as though already declared warfare and now there was no getaway. I gulped down the rest of my cold coffee like a glass of wine in a futile attempt to find courage. And I don’t know if it worked, but I spoke up.

‘Aru…you know that society controls you, me, even my parents, and everyone else in here and we can’t just live a life of a rebel, right? My parents can’t. And I love them, it’s hard for me to break their hearts. See…that makes it impossible for me to be a rule-breaker…in fact, even you shouldn’t be one. I hope you understand…’ I tried to make sense out the Sturm und Drang going on in my head. But reading her face gave a feeling that I had failed badly. She narrowed her eyes and furrowed her brows and shook her head.

‘No, Adi. I absolutely don’t understand. What are you even talking about? Society, parents, breaking rules…what’s all this fuss about?’

I felt disheartened. I was already going to break her heart. To say it more explicitly would mean breaking her heart, and not sympathizing at all. I inhaled deeply, ‘Okay, just tell her the truth. Let’s face it.’ I told myself. I straightened up my back and met her eyes. But the very next moment, I again looked at the empty coffee mug, kept before me on the table. My heart wasn’t made of steel. Looking directly into her eyes I could not let my words stab her. After several more minutes of my heart and brain running into an unending melee, I blurted out those three words. ‘I’m breaking up.’ I said and dared not to look up as my heart thudded away with all its might.

For a second, or maybe some more, none of us said anything. I still stared at the plates and cups when finally I heard her speak as though taking some time for the tolling doubt to turn into a deafening belief in her head. She was still in utter shock, ‘What! Why…?’

 

‘Why?’ Even I had asked as I looked helplessly at my mother. If there was one person who could change my father’s verdict, it was her. But she looked down, which meant even she was not there to my rescue. I shifted my eyes to my father now, who paced up and down the room. His face was red, eyes were narrowed in disgust, and hands were locked at the back. He turned his face back to me and jumped down my throat, ‘Why…? You’re asking me why? Did you ever think about us, your family, or your status before promising that girl? Didn’t you think about your father, who is a well-known businessman, and the kind of people he deals with? Do you really think that girl would get along with our way?’

I was meekly trying to protest, but he never gave me a chance.

‘Never.’ He shouted, ‘Let alone adapting to this lifestyle, her family can’t even bear the expense of a marriage with the pomp that’s quite normal in our weddings.’

I was expecting my mother to at least take my side once. Instead, she pointed out that Arundhati was elder than me. At times it felt as though both of them were into the same alliance and she was unnecessarily finding him new weapons against me.

‘Such a face loss! Shame on you, Adi!’ my father used the weapon well while I was still trying to make sense of their logic. I loved a girl and she loved me. Not that she did not know any etiquettes. They might not be as wealthy as us, but she was independently earning for herself and her family. Whereas I, compared to her, was nothing. I was still a student, well-fed with all the money my father made. She never pointed that out. ‘How does money get to decide a relationship?’ I wondered while both my parents shook their heads, probably still thinking about the amount of shame I had brought to them. 

‘Listen,’ my father spoke in a calm and yet stern voice this time, ‘I am glad that you have completed your studies here. I want you to join our firm. But before that, you will go abroad and get an MBA. I will arrange everything for admission. Get prepared.’

That had landed like a nuclear bomb on me even before my mind could process it. I had tried to protest with a few points as weak as ‘I-haven’t-ever-lived-without-you’ or ‘you’re-growing-old-let-me-stay-here-and-help-you’ which were dismissed at the very moment. And my destiny was sealed.

 

I did not expect her to understand while I narrated everything to Arundhati. I expected her to stop me in the middle, lash me with her words, and even point out that I was being the most selfish man in the world, which I was, as a matter of fact. But she sat there, as inert as a stone. I could not stop blaming myself for pushing her into such a catatonic state. I said sorry a few times, unsure if she was still listening to me. But then, a few minutes later, which seemed like an eternity though, she said something incoherently. Seeing me raise my brows in an attempt to make it out, she repeated what she had said earlier. ‘You’re not joking, right?’ There she was…making it even harder for me. Was I supposed to tell her, ‘No, I am not joking at all?’ I chose silence, as silence means consent. She nodded. The smile on her face was long gone, though not a single drop of tear trickled down her face. And that was what exactly caused my discomfort. Something was surely not normal. I had broken her trust, and maybe her dreams as well. I was leaving her devastated with a truth that even I found difficult to accept. She should be chastising me. She was feeling miserable and I could see that in her eyes. She should be venting that out as well. But all she did was going taciturn. I had left her so dejected that for a moment I hated myself. I still remembered how she was beaming before, and now her face bore a vacant look in stark comparison to her blushing glee. And that’s when I recalled, even she had some good news. I reminded her of it as I thought it would cheer her up a bit. But she shook her head as though she had never mentioned it before. I kept on pestering her for a while after which she said it was her mother’s birthday. ‘Mother’s birthday, really!’ I said to myself recalling the way she was beaming and how excitedly she said she had some good news. Was it all because of her mother’s birthday! Maybe. But the glint in her eyes was saying something else. I was trying to read them when she picked up her satchel and stood up. I followed suit.

‘Leaving already?’

She nodded fixing her eyes somewhere on the street outside. ‘Doesn’t she even want to look at me?’ I thought, ‘Only if you could see through me Aru! This is excruciating for me too.’ I wanted to hug her tight that moment and ask her to come along with me. Which I hope was an option. A part of me still believed all that I told her might have still not sunk in. At a point all I wanted was to make her scream at me, letting everything that was running in her mind come out. Her silence was far more heart-wrenching for me. I wished I could tell her how much I was going to miss her. Instead, I slid out my wallet from my pocket and showed the picture that captured a moment of our togetherness forever.

‘Aru, I am leaving tomorrow. To live on my own, all alone. And this is what I am taking with me. To be my constant…’ I said.

Arundhati glanced at the photo from the corner of her eyes. But not a single line on her face moved. She looked away.

‘Be happy with everything you choose to do,’ she said feebly after a while, ‘my good wishes will always be with you.’

 She didn’t give me a chance to stop her as she paced out of the café. I dropped my wallet and ran after her. But no amount of running could fill up the void of the surmounting distance between us. I stood at the entrance as I watched her striding away, her cascading hair bouncing back and forth as she ran. She never looked back, and I stopped believing in miracles. 

Chapter Three

I had surely heard about this young author, Devjani, and how her debut novel had earned her a nationwide acclamation. But I was not expecting this…starting from the media coverage to the number of audiences, the pomp that every arrangement had been done with, had simply made it grand. I stepped back at a side allowing her the stage as she held the book in her hands and shutters clicked incessantly. Then she wanted both of us to be framed together, so I gave her company. And now that everyone wanted to hear a few words on her book, Devjani waved at all of them and greeted them before we took our assigned seats right in the middle of the stage.


           ‘Thanks to each one of you, who have come to mark the launch of my second book,’ she began and then looked at me, ‘and without this person, the globally acclaimed author who needs no word of introduction, Mr. Aditya Tripathy, this book was impossible. I owe the success of this book to him, my inspiration.’ I lightly shook my head with a smile on my face, trying to look like an altruistic figure, with no intention of taking away the credit of the budding authors. Devjani smiled as she continued, ‘The the extraordinary emotional roller-coaster of a father and his son in the story has come right from his heart it seems, every time I read his award-winning novel, ‘A father’s tale.’ My second book being inspired by the journey of this father-son duo, I would request Mr. Tripathy to say a few words about his outstanding work in his book.’

           I smiled and thanked her for honoring me with such good words. The audience had now shifted their eyes on me as they waited intently. I thanked them too, because what are we, the writers, without the readers? They broke into soft laughter at my analogy between reader-and-writer and the police-and-thief.

           ‘Now coming to ‘A Father’s Tale’, I said, ‘it’s my latest work that has bagged a few prestigious literary awards. But that’s not why it holds a special place in my heart. Every creation is bound to be special to its creator. But when it comes to ‘A Father’s Tale’, it’s a story that has taught me to forgive and be a better person. Through its chapters, I have discovered the evolving emotional journey of my father in the process of his bringing me up. Something as a child or even as a young adult I had no clue about. It was as though he had always kept this emotional side of his well-hidden from me.’ I paused and thought for a while. Had I ever found anyone a reason to be happy in my entire life, except for my readers? I loved Arundhati, but I hurt her so badly. I loved my father, but I hurt him as well, so much so that, he forbade everyone in the family to tell me about his ailment and all the sufferings that he had gone through. In fact, when a distant cousin called me to give me the news of his death, I did not even think about going back, if not for him, at least for my mother. I never completed the MBA I was supposed to. Instead, I chose writing. I was supposed to go home and help my father in our family business. But I never went back. I did not want to touch the money that had once stood like a mountain between me and my love. Life had as though somehow transformed me into a selfish being, as hard as a stone. Finally a few years back, when I heard that my mother was on her deathbed, I decided to pay a visit. Had it not been for that visit, I would have never come to know this softer side of his existed. During my short stay at home at that time, I found a very old diary of my father. I brought that along with me and only when I read the words in it, did I come to know how single-handedly he had established the family business, earned for us and how he had sacrificed his own happiness to make us happy. I was overwhelmed. I cried and cried. I was angry with myself. I was upset with him. And I let go of all the grudge I was holding back. It did as if transform me again into a new person and I decided to write the book. My chugging train of thoughts decided to come to a halt as the microphone squealed due to some technical glitch. A boy came running to fix it, giving me a while to compose myself and gulp down the glass of water kept on a table beside me, before I began again, ‘The secrets kept by that man, almost always misunderstood, melted the barrier between us. It made it a lot easier for me to relinquish all the hard feelings I had been holding on to for such a long time. I know I was late. But better late than never. And as the story unfolded itself, I not only forgave my father whom I have always blamed in all those years, but I forgave myself as well.’ The audience broke into thunderous applause. Devjani was staring keenly at me, and now she smiled. Her eyes were still buried in me when she began speaking, ‘I lost my father when I was three months old. Three months in my mother’s tummy,’ she added quickly, ‘and why not? My heart started beating when I was exactly six weeks old. Since then my mummy was my mummy, plus my daddy.’ Once more she cast her infectious smile. It felt familiar…the way she looked when she smiled. Devjani glided her eyes on the audience captivated by her enigmatic tone. ‘In my early childhood, I felt content with just my mummy. She would play with me, feed me with her hands, buy me candies and toys, and I never felt I needed anyone else. My schooling started quite early as mummy had to go to work and she would drop me at my playschool. Mummy was my superman. I had hardly caught her relaxing, I kept her always on her toes. And why not? She’s not my mummy, she has always been my mummy, plus my daddy. Only when I started going to high school and found myself friends, who knew a lot more about life than me, I started feeling the void in my life…the void caused by the absence of a father-like figure that they all had, and I did not. Possibly I was emerging as a more demanding child as I grew up and moved from high school to senior secondary. Mummy got busier with her work to earn more and the void in my heart kept on growing and growing. There was no dearth of miseries in mummy’s life already. Yet I had as though vowed to bring in some more tribulations. Mummy had always tried to fill in for my daddy, and I wanted her to regret her decision. So desperately I wanted to prove her wrong. With my ever-growing demands, I pushed her to a point when even my childhood superman started believing that she was too tired to be my daddy any longer. I was so happy at my inane triumph.’ Devjani paused to laugh at the hushed tittle-tattle amongst the audience, ‘I totally understand…’ she chuckled, ‘I was being so insensitive towards her. I was terrible. But the fact that she never opened her mouth about my daddy except for telling me that he died even before I was born, was simply not enough. I wanted to know more about him. How did he look, how was he as a person and how did he die, and a lot more. I was going through a severe breakdown, but then, I heard about the book, ‘A Father’s Tale’. One of my friends suggested. And the day, I started reading the book, ushered a new beginning in my life. The words as though painted a fine portrait of my daddy on my mind’s canvas with great details of his sacrifices, hardships, and love.’ She paused and thought for a second, ‘A father, a man in a relation to his child…Google told me. It felt as if I had been looking for that man throughout my life. Only after I read the book, I realized, father was the person who sacrifices his own happiness, he stays hungry at times so that you get the extra bit you demanded, he stays with you through thick and thin, he is overprotective at times, yet isn’t afraid of letting you explore your own life. A father is not the man I was always looking for. A father is someone who does all that for you. For me, I knew who that person was…my childhood superman, my mummy. The perception of fatherhood, for me, reformed itself overnight. And do you know, what’s the first thing I did the next morning?’ She quizzed, ‘I hugged her tight, something that I hadn’t done in years, and told her I was going to write a book for her. I will never forget the way her eyes shone…just like a proud father. This book…that you all want to hold in your hands now, thus came into being.’ She said animatedly. The audience broke into a deafening round of applause. ‘A proud moment for me as well,’ I reminded myself. The very fact that my words could touch my readers so much so that it changed the way they perceived the world around them enlivened me.

Later that day, Devjani asked me out for coffee. I was not a coffee person. Yet Devjani’s vivacious nature was something irresistible. I told her, I might be an old man. But I would not mind dating a girl as elegant and effervescent as her. 

‘Won’t disappoint you.’ She had said ebulliently. 


Chapter Four



 

A plethora of emotions floated across my mind. ‘K’s Café…out of all the places?’ I wanted to ask her as she guided me through the swarming crowd in the narrow walkway and narrated in her lively tenor when and why she had fallen in love with this place that according to her, offered the best range of coffee. Thirty-five years is a long time indeed. The streets, the shops, and even the people had gone through drastic changes. I followed her into the café and occupied a table in a corner. Nothing seemed familiar except for the huge windows and the name outside. Modish furniture had replaced the wooden ones, the interior looked much vibrant with splashes of warmer hues everywhere. The milieu with live upbeat music and the staff all dressed in red, looked no less than some designer chic. My eyes darted across the entire place, so familiar, yet new. A lady in her early twenties occupied the seat that I could claim to be ‘ours’ years back. Her eyes were buried in a book she held in both her hands.

Devjani looked around, ‘I will go and place the order. I will have a Greek frappé. What would you like to have?’

With not much expertise when it came to coffee, I let her decide it for me.

‘You should try their morning mocha,’ she insisted. It’s like asking a toddler whether he wants to become a doctor or an engineer when he grows up. I was okay with anything she suggests. I watched her walk to the counter and place the order. She was coming back when she got busy with a group of boys who recognized her and wanted to take groupies. Fame is hard to find, harder is to uphold it.

‘I must thank you, once more,’ Devjani said as she scraped the last bit of the whipped cream from the top with the help of a spoon, ‘for opening my eyes.’ She added, ‘It changed my outlook…your book. It kind of pulled me out of the despair I was sinking in a little more every passing day.’

I smiled as I stirred the mocha and took my first sip of the drink, highly recommended by the lady-gorgeous who could not stop thanking me for a book, a life-altering piece for her.

‘It’s mysterious…the way we love someone, and then at times, the same love makes us fight as well. It’s kind of selfish,’ she pondered.

She reminded me of my father and my love, Arundhati. They both loved me unless they both started crossing swords and demanded that I take any one side. But it should have been never about making a choice. Love should have been the concord between hearts instead. But the moment we connect our egos to it, it maligns love, makes it selfish. That’s possessiveness, often mistaken as love.

I looked around, the girl who was reading a book, was now joined by a young man. The girl hung down her face as she silently wept, and the man, in a helpless way, held out a tissue. The episode gave me a sense of déjà vu. What other than a grand stage should I call this life where time keeps repeating itself? Are we not merely the players with preordained entries and exits? The setting may change and the actors may come and leave, but the stage remains. That moment and for the next few moments my mind time-traveled and took me to the day when I had seen her for the very first time…weeping on that same table. She was all alone until I joined her and offered her…well, my very own hankie, with my initials sewn in one corner. 

It was my second month in college and I hardly knew anyone, except for the group of boys from my class whom I would usually hang out with. It was the same group that I had accompanied that day to K’s café after the classes got over as usual. Not that we were the coffee addicts or something. In those days, it was one of the rare eateries that didn’t charge any fine for smoking publicly. We joined two tables and plonked on the chairs, as though sitting in our own living rooms. Youth and friends is a dangerous combination; it can make you do things that you would have not even dreamt of doing otherwise. We were playing ‘Truth or Dare’ (yes, even boys play games of this sort) and I kind of liked it. Most of us would go for the truth. We could even prefer bringing out the skeletons in the cupboards and risking being teased by our friends for the rest of our lives. But to choose dare and calling upon embarrassment in a public place needed guts…a lot of it in fact. And I loved trumpeting my bravado. That day was no exception. Finally when it was my turn and as always I chose dare, one of my friends looked around hunting for prey.

‘See that girl…sitting all alone? You have to ask her why she is crying,’ he said.

Our eyes followed him. On a distant table in a corner, was sitting a young lady, looking away through the giant windows. She had big brown almond eyes, perfectly lined with charcoal black kajal. The bright golden glow of the dusk had fallen on her gleaming face. Her cherry-red lips contrasted her peach skin tone. Soft brown curls tumbled on the sides contouring her visage. She had put on a white chikan kurta with long sleeves that only allowed a hint of her toned arms. She looked flawlessly beautiful. Yet something was amiss. At times she used the tip of her forefinger to spoon out the tears forming tiny round spheres in the corner of her eyes. I was as though drowning somewhere between the reality and my reverie. As I stared at her musingly, I heard another friend speak.

‘Are you nuts? Do you guys even know who she is?’ He rolled his eyes, ‘She’s the teacher in English literature in our college…Arundhati ma’am.

I did not care. For me, she was the most beautiful girl on the Earth who deserved to have a reason to stick a smile to her lips forever. Her name rang in my head hundreds of times. The boy who was supposed to ask me a question seemed to have his mind changed as he looked in another direction looking for some other task for me. But I wanted to go and talk to her. I wanted to know what was bothering her so much. And before he could ask me another task, I spoke my mind.

‘Listen, guys, I don’t care if she’s a teacher in our college. I will go and ask her why she is crying when she deserves every reason to be happy.’

When I stood up, I heard one of them, ‘Someone has found his love at first sight, it seems…’ and the rest joined him chuckling. I knew this was coming my way. But what was it compared to the sight of her smiling bright like the glowing dusk outside? 

She did not seem to hear me. Her face was turned towards the window and her eyes were still fixed outside. So I had to repeat myself, ‘Would you mind if I join you?’ I looked at her expectantly, but with still no response from her side, I decided to take her silence as a ‘yes’ and sat across the table. That worked. She turned her head and glanced at me from the corner of her eyes, my impertinence taking her by surprise. She crossed her hands over her chest and looked at me with her pursed lips as though she was going to pick up her phone and call the police. After all, a stranger had invaded her shell that she believed was too strong and too opaque for anyone to guess the pool of tears she was hiding behind that stern look. Pretense comes naturally to women, isn’t it?

‘May I know your name, and what are you doing here?’ she said.

‘I am Aditya. But that’s not important.’ I shrugged my shoulders drawing a smile on my face, ‘What’s more important is that…you were crying. And I believe sharing always helps.’

‘That means you’ve been watching me,’ she narrowed her eyes, ‘and what makes you think I should share my problems with you? Aren’t you just a stranger?’

‘That’s why…that’s why you should share.’ I said enthusiastically, ‘Strangers never judge. They can be the best ears when you have a heavy heart.’ She didn’t look like she was convinced yet, but for me, there was no looking back from that point. So I went on with my explanation. I told her that people often seek help from a counselor, not because she always has the solution for all problems, but she can be that stranger who lends an impartial ear. And it was not something I cooked up. ‘Research says,’ I added emphatically.

It is unbelievable how some words can change your demeanor and make you trustworthy in someone else’s eyes, like the word ‘research’ did for me. The next moment she was batting her eyes rapidly to stop the tears from trickling down her face, ‘It’s my father…’, she said in a hushed voice, ‘he left all of us a month back. Since then I am trying to stand rock solid beside my mother. But even I feel tired at times.’ Another bout of tears flooded her eyes and this time she covered her face and whimpered like a child. My instinct told me to hug her at the moment, but my heart said it was too early and it did not want to add to her discomfort. I clearly remembered the time I had lost my grandmother. As a child, I used to be very close to her. I said ‘bye’ to her while going to school one fine morning, and when I came back, she wasn’t anymore. My heart took longer than my mind to accept that truth. Since then I had wondered, what’s this life after all? One moment you are laughing and talking to your loved ones, the next moment they’re gone. I felt at a loss for words to console her. ‘What should I tell her? That you must not cry and that life has to go on?’ I thought, ‘Won’t that be too harsh?’ Hence I let her cry and unburden her heart. And when she looked at me in her puffy red eyes after ten more minutes, I helplessly held out my hankie to her, my very own hankie with my initials sewn in a corner.

 

A sharp noise derailed me from the chain of thoughts. Devjani was on her phone. From the one-sided conversation that I could hear, I could only guess, it was her mother. A minute later when she hung up, she asked if I would mind meeting her mother.

           ‘Of course, not. I will be glad to meet her.’ I said.

           Devjani looked happy. She told me that her mother was a professor and she worked in a nearby college and because she was this close, Devjani did not want her mother to take a cab back home.

           ‘Mummy sacrificed her entire life. And in return, I have given her more pain. Now that I have changed and I love her the most, I know I can’t reciprocate what she did for me, but at least I don’t want to lose any chance to see her smile,’ Devjani smiled, but the next moment she furrowed up her finely arched eyebrows, ‘by the way, why am I only talking so much? You haven’t told me much about your mother.’

           ‘My mother…?’ I guffawed. For me, she was still the same, the way she looked when I left my home. She was a woman of steel with a heart of gold. She made our home a home. She used to be my best friend in my childhood. I remembered how we would play together in the evening and plan surprises for my father. Mother used to call him the grumpiest man in the world and she would do funny things to make him laugh.

‘She could do wonders,’ I said, ‘the saree clad magician of my life. I loved her a lot until ego took over and I left my family.’

‘You left your family because they didn’t accept the girl you loved. Isn’t it? Then, why didn’t you try to get in touch with that girl ever?’ Devjani narrowed her eyes as she spoke in a peppery manner. I was not expecting it. Not from her. We had met only a few hours before. Was she inculpating me? For what? How much did she know about me? How much did she know why I never loved anyone else?

‘I never left her,’ I said, ‘she was such a nice girl, she deserved someone better. Not a man like me consumed all by his ego. I thought she would move on. But I did not. I have been living with her…I can see her, talk to her every day.’

Devjani was listening to me and now she laughed as she pulled out her purse from her tote. ‘I will show you whom do I talk to every day. My daddy…I missed him so terribly every day and night. But he had chosen ego over love, as he says.’

I looked at her taken all by surprise. She said she had lost her father. I know it’s tragic. But was she hinting at me? Accusing me? Why on Earth would she do that? She was only about to show me the picture when she spotted her mother at the gate.

‘See for yourself,’ she dropped the purse on the table, ‘mummy’s here. Hope you’re ready to meet her.’ She smiled curtly as she walked towards the gate.

 My mind was not working as I picked up her purse. I so knew the picture that she had kept with so much care inside a transparent pocket in her purse. All of a sudden I had answers to all my doubts. Why the only picture that I wanted to take along as a sign of my love had gone missing a night before I left…who was my secret admirer or why did Devjani decide to translate my book and why of late it felt as if she was accusing me of causing all the miseries in her life. Why was it me who was always kept in the dark? Was it because I chose ego over love? Out of the blue, it felt as though I was the missing piece of the incomplete puzzle of my life who had found itself after ages. I glanced at the picture once more. It was the same as the one I received in a message from a stranger that morning. It was the only thing I wanted to hold on to till my last breath…my love for Arundhati.

Devjani had come with her mother. They sat across the table silently, but I lacked any courage to look up. How could I? I had always been fleeing from my past that suddenly decided to come and stand right before me. I had ignored all my responsibilities in all those years. I never contacted Arundhati, neither had I left any chance for her to find me. Not even when she was fighting all alone to bring up her child. ‘Our child…’ I corrected myself…the child I never knew existed. The ego I had let myself drown into was so blinding that it had overpowered my senses of right and wrong. The guilt wrenched my heart. Tears choked me up completely and ran down my eyes. I was sobbing and yet I wanted to cry some more, allowing my tears to take away the ego, break free my love, and pull me once more out of the shell.

When I opened my eyes, a hand slowly approached mine. The same peach skin with some wrinkles all over as proof of all the years I had not seen them. And it held a hankie…my very own hankie with my initials sewn in the corner. 



Rate this content
Log in

More english story from Sayani Bhattacharya

Similar english story from Drama