Immortal!

She sat there, by the window,at her desk, watching the snow fall. Her head was full of thoughts. She was confused. She did not know what to write next. Every sunday, she would read the chapter of her story published that day in the paper.Then, she would know what would come next. She would know what had to happen next, to her characters, and that's how she wrote it, every week, making sure she had her story ready for the press when they wanted.

Things had changed this time. She had just written the penultimate chapter of her story. It had been published that Sunday. And according to her usual routine, she read her story, reading it the way it appeared in the paper. And then, she waited for thoughts to flow. This would be her last chapter, the climax to her story. The ending had to be good. She knew. A good story, with a bad ending or an unsatisfactory ending could never be a good story in the first place.

She felt pressured. As the thoughts came to her mind, she dismissed every one of them. The climax had to please all her readers, or at least most of them. People would remember her story and people would remember her for her story. Tuesday came and went, and she still had no story ready. The press was in no hurry. The paper would come out on Sunday anyway. She had time till Saturday. Day by day, the pressure mounted. She could come up with no proper ending chapter to her story and it took away her sleep. When she went grocery shopping, people would pester her about it, asking her how the story would end. She locked herself in, not able to handle it all. Days went by just like that, and it was Saturday, and then, Sunday came.

All over the country, people opened their Sunday morning papers, looking to read the conclusion to that thrilling story. But there was no story there, where it should have been. Her readers frantically rushed through the paper, searching for the story, but it was nowhere to be seen. But tucked away at the corner of the second page was an obituary. They would never read the ending to that story.

She had died while writing that last chapter of her story, the story that would immortalize her. A heart attack had instantly killed her. People were sad. And also disappointed that they wouldn't get to read the final chapter. That great story would go unfinished, after all. But it was not over yet. The newspaper, sometime during midweek, asked for an opinion poll of it's readers. They informed the general public that, she had died while writing the story, she hadn't completed her last chapter. Would the people want that semi-finished chapter published anyway? Most of the people voted yes. And the story would thus appear in the Sunday paper. The last chapter, the incomplete one.

Sunday paper arrived but the excitement was low. As they flicked through the pages, they saw her story, that last chapter. And they read it. And read it again. It was indeed incomplete. There were unanswered questions. But the incomplete story, had, in a weird way, given the perfect ending to her story. It had pleased all her readers, leaving them pondering over it, thoughtful. By being incomplete, her story had indeed reached the level of expectations she'd had from it. It had become immortal, a story that would be remembered. In death, she had achieved, what she couldn't have done in life. In death, she had immortalized herself.

Two of the many faces!

Leela was an expert in her field. Her fame in the field of Sugam Sangeeth, as music and as a composer was unparalleled. Her words about Sugam Sangeeth meant, 'authority'. No one questioned her, usually. Fame and praise had become a part of her daily life now. Humility, she practiced. Never once, showing to the world, the pride that she felt at her work. She remembered that day, what a famous poet had quoted in one of his speeches. He had said, 'We poets write poems to express ourselves. Not always do these poems reach the common man. But because of musicians like Leela, our poems become famous and people remember us, along with her, when they hear her music.' She had felt so much pride at this. But it wasn't always as flowery and nice, as she would soon see.

Just as she was remembering this, her name was announced on the microphone. She remembered, that she was, on a stage, in a big program in Bangalore. She was supposed to give a speech, on Sugam Sangeeth. She felt like a proud mom, talking about her own child, as she stood up and walked towards the microphone. She started addressing the audience, telling them about that particular field of music, how it had grown in the past few years, etc. She quoted the words of that famous poet, making sure she eliminated her own name. She was quoting a fact indeed. Sugam sangeeth does do the work of popularizing these less known poems, and sometimes, poets too. They were great in their own way. Without their poems, her music would be futile too. But the common man would pay more attention to the poems when sung to him as songs, rather than when he is asked to read those poems. That's what she quoted that day. She found most of the people nodding their heads in agreement to her words.

From among the audience, suddenly a man stood up. He said 'We poets, we write poems, only to express ourself. We don't want you musicians composing them into songs or anything. We don't write for the sake of that' He said. The auditorium became silent. She had seen this man before. Yes. His name was Ram, a new age poet. She remembered. Not wanting to cause a conflict, she said, with a little smile, 'Sir, I will make sure, that at least I, will never tune your poems.' He didn't know what to say and he just sat down. A few smirked and a few laughed. But the silence was broken and she continued with her talk as if nothing had happened.

Days after this, one day, she sat at home, listening to the radio. It was time for the song of the month. She heard the name of a noted composer, and lo! and Behold! the poet was none other than the Mr. Ram. She listened to the song. It had been done well. The lyrics and the tune complemented each other. She remembered the incident during the speech. Had he been just bitter? Or was he a downright hypocrite? She wanted to find out.

Incidentally, she met him soon, after a few days, at another program like one of those. She wasn't the type to keep quiet. So, directly, she went to him when she saw him. He greeted her, as he saw her approaching. 'Namasthe, madam. How are you?' She replied 'Namaste, Raam ji, I am fine. Thank you. I hope you're doing well too.'. He smiled. And she continued, 'I heard the song of the month on radio. Good work, sir.' She said. He gulped. He knew what she was referring to. For him, the time for defence had come. He said, 'Yes madam. The song has come well.' And he added, defending himself, 'A poem, madam, is like a child. Till it's in the womb, it belongs to the mother only. Once it's out in the open, it has been given to the world. People who visit the child, they want to play with the new born, they keep it on their lap and cuddle it. But it still belongs to the mother. Only, the mother can't really stop the others from playing with it.' He said. He felt proud of his analogies.

She smiled. He had been a bitter hypocrite. She just nodded at his words, silently and made a move, as if to leave. He stopped her and said, 'Madam, can you tune a couple of my poems, I would be honored'. To that, she replied,' I made a public statement, Mr.Ram. I am going to stand by it. I am sorry. But I wish you all the best.' And she left, leaving behind, a dissapointed man. She had seen, the typical two-faced human, she thought. But then, what did she know, these may have ben two of the many faces. Many, may be, indeed, but all harmless to others, except to his own reputation.

Eternal search!

Yet another fight, a fall out, with yet another person. She was being forced to question herself. Was something wrong with her? Was she the cause of the fights? She fought with her inner self for the answers. As her questions were met with silence, she sighed in despair. At that moment loneliness seemed to bite at every bone in her body. She got up and walked towards the gate. She stood at the gate, one hand on her chin, and the other firmly gripping the gate. She watched the road, the people. Whenever there were spaces of silence like this in her life, questions arose from inside her. Was she such a bad person at judging people? Did she trust people too easily? May be, yes. She thought. But then she fought, arguing with herself. As a teacher, wasn't she supposed to trust her students?

As she recalled the repetative events of the past few years, a tear escaped her. Where was she going wrong? Even today, she could recall that day clearly. Her doctor has diagnosed her throat problem, she wouldn't ever have the same voice. She would never be able to sing and perform in public. It had hurt. It had taken almost a year, for the pain to pass. And then, with his support and encouragement, she had decided to take up teaching music. It had opened new doors, new possibilities. When students started pouring in, her spirits had been lifted. She no longer cried for what games fate had played with her. She had found a new purpose in life. She had become a teacher.

From that day, she nurtured a wish. A wish, a hope,a search. She hoped to find one student, one day, who would carry on her legacy of music. That one person, who would be a dedicated student, a wonderful, creative singer. Through that one person, she wanted to live her dreams. She would pour out all her knowledge in music, to that person. She would make them practice. She would bring out the creativity in the person. And thus, she searched. She hoped, she wished and lived for the dream to come true one day.

Then again, her palace of dreams seem to fall so often. When some new promising student came in, her hopes would soar. 'May be she is the one I have been waiting for'. She would teach her with dedication, with love and care. She would make sure that she left no stone unturned while imparting knowledge to her. She would give them ample opportunities to grow on their own. She would steady them when they stumbled, catch them when they fell. She would see them perform on stage and feel proud. She saw herself in them. And then, the day would come when the growth of the student would stop. That day would be the day when the growth of the ego usually started. The bloated ego would find problems with her, the ego would have grown beyond her teaching. And then they would leave, having grown more than their teacher, or so they thought. They left her, because 'they wanted to make their own mark'. There would be fights and falling out when they left. They all grew too fast, so did their egos. She thought of the many similar incidents in the past and decided then and there. It had been years. It was time to give up that dream and just teach. If someone was humble enough to grow, they would, she thought.

As she was about to go back inside, she saw someone approaching her gate. A mother, and a daughter. May be the girl was about five years old. She waited at the gates as the mother approached her. The mother asked 'Namasthe Madam! My name is shyamala. I adore your music madam. I was wondering if you could teach music to my little girl.' The teacher nodded, looking at the little girl. The girl was looking at her, wide eyed. The teacher geve the little girl a pat on the head, opened the gate and let them in. As they came in to the drawing room, she asked them to sit down. And she spoke to the little girl, 'What is your name, sweetie?'. In a soft voice, the girl said, 'Veena'. The teacher looked at the mother and asked, 'Does she sing? Does she seem to like music?'. The mother nodded and said 'Very much. She sings every song that she ever hears. I don't know much about music madam, but I think my girl may have some potential.' The teacher looked at Veena and said, 'Child, can you sing a song for me?'. And then, she sang. The sweet voice of that little kid, did wonders to that heart that bled in pain. The young girl had potential indeed. After listening to that song, the teacher said. 'You have brought her here at the right age. She has potential. I will teach her all I can. Bring her here on the coming monday and I will start classes.' The mother, very happy with the answer thanked her profusely and left.

She went till the gate and bade them goodbye, giving the child a little kiss on the forehead. As she stood at the gate, looking at the retreating duo of the mother and daughter, she thought. May be this girl was the one. She would nurture her from her childhood. She would teach her all she could. She would make her a good musician. She hoped for a new beginning. Yet again.

Poisoned!

Savithramma sat on her chair, gazing at the sky through the open window. She could see dark clouds moving nearer. With a sigh, she tore her eyes away from the sight, and looked back towards the door, bending a little. No one. She sighed again. Such a quiet time in this house was rare. The kids were at school. Jaya was in the kitchen, cooking. She willed herself to get up and move towards the bed, a bed that used to be comfortable years ago. Now, it was lumpy. Sleeping on it was such an ordeal. But, she had barely any choice. She grumbled about Jaya, cursing her under her breath.

She remembered the good old days, when she and Jaya would sit and talk, watch tele serials and laugh together. Things had been good then. And then, the twins had come along. Initially she had been thrilled. Her grandchildren!! The little ones, a marvel. What beauties they had been! And then, the nights were filled with wailing and crying. Shivu's income had suddenly started to seem so limited. The house had suddenly felt small. Jaya spent sleepless nights, taking care of the kids. She grew impatient, and tired. Jaya got too busy for her. No more laughters shared with Jaya, no gossips and long conversations. Jaya had no time for her. All she did was cooking and taking care of the kids. The distance seemed to grow between them day by day. Little did she realize that the distance that she felt was only in her heart. The distance had increased, day by day, and then, there were fights. She tried to boss over Jaya , thus pushing her further away, which left her feeling unwanted. In quiet times like these, when she was left alone, her past came back to her, to taunt her, to haunt her.

Her father, actually step father, had died, leaving this house to her. When she got married, this house had been given to her husband. Dowry had been so common then. It was just another custom. Not like these days. The step father had been alive. Her husband, the one whom she had ignored in order to take care of her aging father, to take care of her growing children, had now passed away, leaving her alone. She knew she was to be blamed. She had not taken care of her diabetic husband. Even though she knew he always needed food on time, she had ignored his pleas. Along with her father, she had teased and taunted her husband, when he had gone out alone to eat in restaurants. She had made him a laughing stock of the relatives, and friends. Little did they know of a diabetic man's hunger. Slowly, he had died out emotionally, and then one day, he was gone. Diabetes had taken him. The guilt had begun that day. Sometime later, Her father had withered away and died too. She had taken care of him well till the end. He had taken care of his security by making his son-in-law a laughing stock in the eyes of his daughter. But had he thought of what would happen to her, later on?

Everyday now, she would sit and think of all the 'if's and 'but's. She had lost her husband, way too soon. If she had paid him a little more attention, today he probably would have been with her. She was the one getting ignored today. She knew, how her husband must have felt back then. But then , she corrected herself. His wife, his own wife had ignored him. She would never know how he may have felt. Here she was ,sitting, at ten in the morning, waiting for breakfast. Hunger was gnawing away at her stomach. But then, Jaya had been busy getting the children ready for school, and packing their lunch. Shivu had been at work since early morning. With almost no help, Jaya had to handle all the household chores. She understood Jaya's constraints too. But then, she felt ignored. She felt the pain, being at the receiving end . She knew, heart of hearts, that Jaya was not ignoring her on purpose. But ocassionally, the feeling surfaced,haunted her, that she was being ignored, not taken care of. And she cursed and fought, thus increasing the distance. Making herself lonely, further. She knew she was digging her own grave. But then, it was a mind that had been poisoned. A poisoned mind would never think straight. Would it?

Where she belongs!

It had gone rotten in the end. She stood there, where bright lights had been before. She surveyed the rows of empty seats, remembering the days when the auditorium used to be fully occupied. I remember seeing her there, on stage, for the first time, that day. I was in the 'Second row, third seat'. When she had come on stage, I had stood up to clap. Somebody beside me had silenced me, asking me to sit down. She had given me a faint smile, before walking towards the microphone. The smile that had made a beginning. I remembered. I smiled to myself, then.

She walked to the centre, where the microphones used to stand. Stood there, remembering the days. She extended her hand as if to touch an imaginary microphone. Her hands trembled. A tear escaped her eye. She made no effort to wipe it. She noticed me sitting at the back, silently watching her. She gave me a faint, assuring smile, as if telling me, 'everything is going to be alright'. I smiled back at her. I wasn't sure whether she could see me. I just smiled back anyway. I knew she would be able to feel the smile. I knew that nothing was ever going to be the same again. She probably did not know that yet. Or may be, she knew.

I heard some noise and turned back to see some guy, walking with quick steps towards the stage. He didn't see me. He walked towards the stage, shouting, as he neared, 'Who's there? This is an auditorium, ma'am. You can't just barge in here.' He stopped as if to look at her, or probably he was waiting for an answer. But quickly added 'What business do you have, here?'. His voice was gruff, probably due to too much shouting, I thought. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but quickly closed it again. She looked so vulnerable there, standing there, alone. So vulnerable in a place which had been her temple, her battle field. She had worshipped there, won there, lived her life there. Everything had changed now.

I got up from my chair, the sudden noise made that guy turn towards me. I was right in thinking that he hadn't seen me before. He said 'Saab jee! Who are you? And now what are you doing here?'. I had reached near her, by then. Her eyes, pleaded me for help. I replied to the man, 'We just came to look, bhaiyya jee! We will be leaving'. To which, he replied, 'Saab, this is no monument for you to come and visit like this. I am the caretaker of this place for the past twenty years. I will be responsible if anything goes wrong here.' He had moved closer to where we stood now. He had been addressing me all this while. Now, he looked at her. He looked and he moved closer. He stared.

'Madam jee! Aap! It's you. I can't believe it.' He took her hand, and shook it vigourously and said 'Big fan, madamjee. Big fan. I have heard so many singers on this stage. Not one as good as you madam.' I slowly wiped the tears off her face and put a firm hand on her shoulder. She whispered a weak thank you to that man. He continued 'Madam jee! This is your home. You can stay here, for a few more hours and look around. I won't tell anybody.' On hearing these words, she freed herself from my grasp, walking away towards the seats in the auditorium, slowly, nostalgic, recollecting everything.

The man, was still standing beside me. We were both looking at her. I had tears in my eyes, seeing her this way. The man, turned as if to say something. But then he stopped, noticing the tears in my eyes. He said, 'Saab jee! What is wrong? What happened ? And why do you have tears in your eyes?'. He knew he was prying. But he was a 'fan, big fan'. I said ' She lost her voice after an accident. Things aren't the same as before. She can't even talk properly, let alone sing'. I couldn't bear to look back at his face at that moment. Saying it out loud like this, had triggered some emotion in me, something I had tried to suppress. I looked back at the man's face. He looked devastated, crestfallen. He looked at her, and then at me, in despair. He shook his head as if, in utter disbelief. As he turned back to look at her, I followed his line of sight.

There she was, sitting in the second row, second seat, with a smile on her face. She patted the seat next to her, asking me to come, with a nod of her head. Puzzled, I walked over to her, and sat down. Second row, third seat. Then, I realized, she was trying to tell me something. In a weak whisper she said, 'Thank you for having been here, that day. Thank you for being here now.'

The walks in SJCE!

Things had seemed to be falling apart around me, and then I met his friendship. I had met him long back, but not yet. I had yet to see a lot more. That day, in loneliness and despair, I had poured out my feelings to him. He had listened for hours, mostly silently, offering insight at times. His presence had been extremely comforting. We took a long walk in our college campus, while I went Blah! Blah! The tragedy that had struck, had brought us together that day. I had been looking for comfort. Had found a lot more.

All of you may know this feeling, of having that one best friend. You may have found that one person. No matter how many friends you have, there is always that one person, for whom you have the most respect. That day, I had found my one best friend. The search had ended. I knew, that however stupid I behaved, however dumb I acted, he would always bear me with patience and he did.

He knew my mood swings, and dealt with them. He listened to me for hours together when I had stories to tell. He laughed with me, at me, sometimes. He held my hand when I needed, giving it a gentle squeeze, telling me, everything was going to be alright. I remember the times when I used to take him shopping, and drag him along to the cosmetic section in a supermarket. He had so much patience then, when I shopped for a long long time, searching for that one little item, which I wouldn't know whether I wanted or not.

The three years spent with him in SJCE, have been amazing. The long walks taken in the campus, discussing books, movies, poetry, people, girlfriends, boyfriends. Sometimes laughing, sometimes serious, thoughtful, pondering over the philosophy of life. The times spent at Yampa, downs, cubs. The waits near temple. The best of the times in SJCE. The numerous pet names that you gave me, though I have always called you Pavan. I will miss all that, Pavan. Miss you. On friendship day, I wish to tell you that you are that one best friend of my life, a beautiful, patient soul, who tolerated my endless tantrums. I miss you so much. Always. Every day.

One day, in the future, I wish we both could go back to SJCE, our college and take a walk. And discuss wife, kids, in-laws, the future. :P This may or may not happen. We could make it happen though. If we did, I know things will still be the same, the walks in SJCE will not change for us.

The wait in chains!

I had returned to the call of the bells. I had come back to where my shackles bound me to. The beautiful garden was somewhere at the back of my memory now. It had all been dreamlike, the garden,the pigeons, him, holding hands, watching the sunset. It had been too good to be true. But, all very soon, it had come to an end. Now, sitting on the cot, surrounded by the four grey walls, it felt as if I had only dreamt all that up. I sat debating with myself how real it had all been. The sunset, the garden, the bench, him sitting by me, how beautiful it had been. It felt like something that I had dreamt up.

But then, the hand that I had felt, holding mine, grasping mine tightly, had been true. The fingers that had wiped the tears had been true. I still felt the tears clinging to my lashes. I let them escape yet again. No one to wipe them now. I was all alone all over again. The wait had begun. Patience was not one of my virtues. So, it hurt even more. With tears clouding my vision, I looked up from where I was sitting.

I looked at the four grey walls that surrounded. They weren't just plain, grey walls. There was writing all over. Wiping the tears clouding my eyesight, I looked at the walls. At places, I could see poems of love, full of love, so many that I had written for him. He would never see them. Never, ever. At places, I had waged my verbal war with God. I had complained to him, about the shackles that bound me. I knew, the time for freedom would come. But, it was still far away. Patience wasn't my virtue. No.

The time for yet another wait, a long wait had begun now. The wait, for when he would come next, to grant me temporary freedom. It would be worth the wait, I knew. That was only thing that kept me going. It was uncertain when he would come next, to see me. But, he would. He always did. He would hold my hand and whisper sweet things in my ears, making me laugh, an unfamiliar sound within these four walls. I tried to bring a laugh out, trying to remember how it sounded. But, it got stuck somewhere in my throat. The laughter seemed to have been reserved for our times together. Instead, a sob escaped. I had to stop myself. I had again, to go through the ordeal of the wait. I wasn't ready. I never was. I am waiting for my escape. I am.

For now, I waited for that next time, when I would feel happy all over again. Next time, when I would see him, and hold his hands and feel his presence. Life would be beautiful again, temporarily. I would smile, and then cry. The relief would be temporary. The day would come, when he would break the shackles that bound me and would take me away. He would take me away to a world of freedom, love and beauty of love. I wait. I will wait.

Mathematics of life!

The woman, she had breathed her last at 2:40 AM, the previous night. The mourners were many. Her husband, son, her siblings, and her mother too. Some were sobbing silently, some crying loudly, some cursing the ways of the world, some cursing God. She had suffered from cancer, and fought for a while, but had finally surrendered. Surrendered in a battle, she realized she was losing. The fighting had caused agony, to her, and the people around her. This way had seemed better. And now, it was all finally over. Amidst all the silence and the sobs, there were a few who questioned God and his ways.

The woman's sister said, 'Oh! Why did you have to take her away from us now! Her son is getting married this month. She had chosen the bride for him too. This is not fair. You could have taken me instead, and given the rest of my life to her. What do I have to live for! My husband is no more and my kids are all settled and have moved away from me. Instead of her, you should have taken me, God.'

The woman's mother said, 'This is so unfair, dear God. She was so young. Look at me. I am ninety. What do I have to live for. You could have given the rest of my life span to her. I have seen whatever I have wanted to see in life. All children settled. I have even seen grandchildren. Oh! My poor child! So unlucky! This wasn't fair, God. I always prayed to you. You didn't do justice to my prayers.'

The woman's husband said, 'Why her, God? Why not me? When I was always busy at work, she was the one who took care of the boy. From sending him to school, to searching a bride for her son, she has done everything. She would have loved to see this wedding. She had dreamt of it so often. Instead, you could have reduced my life span, given her some more time. She had so much devotion in you. She was a believer. You didn't play a fair game this time.'

God was sitting in his heaven, with a friend, listening to all this. God said 'Do they think this is some kind of mathematics?Subtracting from one and adding it to another? Everyone has a time to go. Her time had come. Why blame me?'. He looked at his friend. The Friend said 'But still, it was in your hands. You could have given her a month, 2 months, may be. As they said, she would have liked to see her son getting married. She did not deserve to die so soon.' God did not know what to say. He thought for a while, and said, 'So be it. Those people who were ready to give a part of their life span to see her live, I will go speak to them. If they agree, I will give her that much amount of time to live, how much ever they are ready to spare. If they think it is just mathematics, for once, so be it.'

So, he came down, to meet the deceased woman's sister first. He appeared in front of her. He said, 'I am the Lord Almighty. You offered to give yourself to God, instead of your sister. If you say yes, I want to make your wish come true.' So, the sister, flustered, not knowing what to say, muttered in a low voice 'Oh! Lord almighty, I said them indeed. But that was said because I was very upset. I am expecting a grandchild soon. I want to see the child, play with it, and feel it's hand curl around my finger. God, don't take me. I need this chance. I am a widow. I have just had this one thing to look forward to. Don't take it away now. Please.' Hearing this, the God disappeared.

And then, the God went to the mother. He asked her the same question. Would she be willing to give the rest of her life span, for the sake of her daughter? So, the mother said, 'God, I have prayed to you for this long. So many times. And today, you appear, only to ask me to give the few months, I have left, on this earth. Why are you depriving an old woman of what li'l time she has?' So, the God disappeared.

As a last resort, he went to the husband. God posed the same question in front of him. The husband said, 'You took her away. It's all over. Now it's my responsibilty to take care of my son's future, his wedding. My wife will see everything through my eyes. She will be happy, from where she is. I want to see my grandchildren and I want to play with them. I want them to call me, 'grandpa! grandpa!'. My wife will be happy for this, from where she is, in heaven.' God just smiled and disappeared.

God, then returned back to his heavenly abode. His friend was sitting there, waiting for him. God narrated the whole incident to his friend. And then said 'That's why, my friend, Life is not just mathematics.'

Forgotten!

She walked down the stairs, slowly, one at a time. Her rheumatism seemed to be bothering her yet again. Nevertheless, she managed to climb down, trying not to think how difficult it would be to get back up the stairs. But yes, it was always there at the back of her mind. It would be an ordeal, she knew. As always, she counted the stairs, noticed all the stains on the stairs here and there. The stains were the same, always there, since she had moved into that small hole of an apartment. She saw some new stains here and there, wondering about their origins. It was the rheumatic old woman's pastime while slowly climbing down the stairs. Us, we wouldn't understand it.

It had been quite a while since she had gone through this exercise of venturing out of her house. She never preferred calling that place a home. She knew she had deserved better. Well, life wasn't always fair. She knew it. Oh! How well she knew it. A sigh of despair escaped her lips. The past flashed in front of her eyes. Her eyes welled up. She looked around. She had reached the verandah of the building, a dreary, dull place with very little lighting. She moved towards the door, hoping to catch a few warm rays of the sun.

The door was slightly ajar and she pushed it wide open with her shivering hands. There was a blast of dust due to a passing vehicle, and the Sun's rays seemed to hit her harshly, hurting her eyes, skin all of a sudden. She reacted, withdrawing back one step. But then, she did move on. This was important. The work had to be done. The shop was right across the street. Some little kid helped her cross it, and she thanked him and walked into the shop.

The shopkeeper looked at her, and took out an envelope. On the envelope, he had written '35/-'. She counted the money slowly and handed it over to him and then gave the young man a smile. She turned to leave, but the shopkeeper placed a hand on her shoulders to stop her.
He said, 'Grandma, can I ask you something personal? it's about those photos'. She smiled at his curiosity and said 'Do ask, young man. I was expecting the questions'. In reply, he asked 'These photos, they are wonderful. They are her very personal photos. Aren't they? Each one more beautiful than the previous. Her fans would give anything to have them in their personal collection'. Her face seemed to register some surprise, and she said 'Is that true? Would people buy these photos?'. The shopkeeper said, 'Yes, of course. They would get you a lot of money. Would you like to sell them? I could help you do it'.

She thought for a few moments and put the envelope back on his table. 'Sell them' she said. 'I need the money'. The shopkeeper happily put the photos back in his desk drawer and said 'I myself would like to buy one. My father was a big fan. It would be a great gift. I will get it framed....' and he got lost in thought, probably thinking of his father's reaction to that gift. He immediately pulled out 200/- and handed it over to her, saying 'I just bought two of those photos'. She smiled and took the money, fumbling with her purse's zip, trying to put the money inside.

And then, he finally asked, 'Grandma, I am curious. How did you get hold of these beautiful pictures? Were you a friend of hers?'. In reply, she said 'Yes. Her best friend. Probably the only one she ever had' and smiled at him. He just wouldn't stop his barrage of questions and went on. 'Do you know where she is, these days?'. The old woman just smiled and said, 'These days, people just don't see well enough, they do not really observe. You wouldn't know if she were standing right here in front of you'. It wasn't a taunt, it wasn't said in anger, just a statement, made with a smile. As she turned to walk away, she said, 'Please send me the money to that first floor apartment you see over there. Walking till here, is such an ordeal for me...'. Her voice trailed off as she walked away, muttering something. The young man stared at her, as realization dawned. His eyes welled up. But he had no time for tears then. His next customer had arrived. He had work to do.

Chained!

It was the perfect setting. Like in some movie. We were sitting, holding hands, talking, laughing, teasing each other. He told me I looked beautiful. He teased me when I blushed. It was bliss. It was how we wanted it to be. It was a dream, dream-like, or not. There were birds around us, mostly pigeons. Somebody seemed to have scattered bread crumbs around making the place attractive to pigeons, to make the place beautifully perfect for us. The garden was beautiful. Flowers, trees, bushes. All green with different colours scattered here and there. The perfect setting. Yes, it was.

We spoke of all the promises made, all the new promises we were making to each other. I laughed at his cute attempts to make me laugh. When all words were exhausted, I put my head on his shoulder and lay there. It felt as if I was meant to belong there. We watched the setting sun in silence, talking very little. Our fingers were entwined together. The perfect feeling. Yes, it was.

After a while, he lifted my chin up with his finger, looking at my face. Tears were clinging to my eyelashes, ready to drop. He slowly wiped them away. He knew I was silently crying. He knew why I was crying. He always did. That was him. He looked at my face for a long time. It was as if he was trying to drink up every detail. I felt an inexplicable pain. Then, I didn't know why. I would know soon. Not all things were perfect. No, they weren't.

Breaking the silence, my phone rang twice. Then it became silent. It was not meant for me to pick it up. It was reminding me that it was time for me to leave. I told him 'It's time. I go now'. He looked at my legs, at the iron shackles that bound them. The heavy, thick ones. The chain was tied to something else, the ends of which seemed to be just out of sight. The chains seemed to disappear among the trees. He held my hand tighter, not saying word. I said 'It won't help. You know that'. I freed my hand from his grasp, and then held his face with both my hands. Tears were streaming down his face now. I realized even I was crying. I rested my forehead against his, for a moment. It was time for yet another goodbye. It had all seemed perfect a while ago. Now, again, it wasn't.

Somewhere , suddenly bells started clanging loudly, shattering the peace. The sound was everywhere, inside my head. It was loud, harsh, cruel, evil and I hated every clang. It was my signal. I got up and ran. We hadn't exchanged proper goodbyes. It wasn't fair. It never was. He sat there, on the bench, crying. He saw me running, unable to stop me. Tears straming down the face. I ran to where the bells tolled, to where the bells called. I had to go. I had to.

Book review: 'I too had a love story'

I picked up this book recently from a book store. The cover looked plain with a picture of some flowers on it. I actually picked it up, for the sake of picking up a book. The author's name was unheard of. Nevertheless, I was curious. The book lay unopened for a day.

The next day I was alone at home, getting bored when my eyes fell on this book. I decided to give it a try. I soon realized that the book couldn't be classified as a literary masterpiece in any way. The story was unravelling itself in a very ordinary way. At one point, it seemed so full of cliches that I almost decided to put it down. For lack of a better thing to do, I continued with it.

The book is about a guy 'Ravin' who meets a girl called 'Khushi' through shaadi.com and falls in love through phone calls and SMSs (Something which most of us can relate to :) ). ' The book was supposed to be tragedy, which I had known from the summary on the back cover. Slowly, I started getting involved in the book. There was no side-by-side story line, no extra characters. The concentration was totally on those two, Ravin and Khushi, which kept me reading.

As I continued with my reading, slowly I realized that I was getting the feel of the book. The simplicity of the narration, the honesty of it all, was beautiful. The author doesn't go into too many details anywhere. He just tells the reader what he has to know, in order to enjoy the book, just the required amount of details. I rejoiced when the couple kissed for the first time. When the heavy rains played havoc and she had difficulty reaching home in time, I glowed at the way Ravin played the role of a hero. Before I knew ,all the happiness had turned to sorrow, when the tragedy struck. She was fighting for life and I could feel the pain that he was going through. I cried with him, later on, cried my heart out after finishing the book.

It was just one of those love stories, nothing new, nothing special in the story. But the honesty of it all, won my heart. It was obvious that the author wrote the book for the feelings and emotions in the book. He didn't write it to win awards. It was so touching, one can't help but melt. People who value emotions, relationships would love this book. Forget that you read are a fan of Hardy, Dickens, Austen ( which I am) . Forget the endless descriptions of a situation going on for pages and pages. Forget that you read those classics too. Have no preconceived notions. Don't have any expectations. Then, read this book. If you too have a love story, you will appreciate the simplicity of the whole thing.

One line of the author, which I loved-'She died. I survived. Because I survived, I die everyday.' Hard to believe this is just fiction. The way it has been narrated, he makes you believe it all actually happened. I honestly hope it didn't. You wouldn't want anyone to go through such pain and agony.