Clasping wasn’t passion anymore, but a routine. Carnal needs and desires hitchhiked to a state of arousal, and sunk in an unfamiliar state of eerie silence. The breaths deceived. When pacing, they puffed of someone else’s lovemaking skills. When gasping, they panted of a fulfilled orgasm but unsatiated needs. When hushed, the breathings murmured secret cravings and determined conspiracies.

She was lying next to him, but close to someone else.

It was his plan of letting her go. For he knew, it won’t be easy to hold her back. She was attracted to someone physically, and it showed. The long hours of dressing up. The extra long hours at work. The prominent ‘headaches’. The occasional flowers and ‘self-indulgences’. The smell of different fragrances everyday on her peaks and hollows. They all were shouting of trouble. He could decipher all, but not her feelings.

Being a cuckold was the last thing he wanted himself to be. Damn, the truth. It was coming onto him furiously like a pest, eating him in a pace undesirable, peeling off his skin with occasional pinches, sucking off his fuming nerves, and trying to leave him in a mashed heap of sorry bones – no body organs, no heart and no feelings.

Reviving the relationship would scar his ego, he thought. After all, he can’t act trying too hard, asking for long drives, quiet dinners, romantic getaways, painting together, etc. He had never strived. She was an easy-going girl, then an easy lay, then a buddy. And then, a soulmate, or it seemed so. A well-synchronized relationship, cascading like the sequenced waterfalls thronging those coffeetable books.

Becoming a sarcastic jerk wasn’t hard for him, for he jibed at the drop of a hat, mocking, screeching, shrieking, and adding facts to his off-colored jokes, if not being impertinent. But even that won’t help him. Perhaps it would help her, as it would get easy for her to detach herself from his gropes. He felt hapless, for he neither could afford to let go of her, nor have her. He loved her as much as he hated her now.

Maybe it’s his fault, he thought. He couldn’t catch up with her fast-paced life. She was impulsive, freaky and snappy. He was refined, romantic, and a recluse. Where she would party even on weekdays, he would slog hours at his study or garden on weekends. Though initially they had clicked together, and she loved his way of life, perhaps more than that, she loved him. But then, how long can love sustain apathy, withstand boredom? She had to get back to her skin. And she did.

He had a harrowing time imagining a lifetime without her. A lifetime without coquetting under the mellow sun, without sharing the quilt under the blessing stars, without apologizing for the occasional belches and without blushing for the occasional flowers gifted. Distant thoughts of being stranded without love at sixty with a hunched back and broken teeth troubled him.

On the other hand, in her heart, love had died ever so long ago. The familiar had become foreign for her. Pleasant had become sore. From being docile, she had become hostile. For her, the clock had stopped ticking once love jaded. She hated the unhurried lifestyle now, in the suburbs. She hated the silence here. No more she was receptive to the humming of the breeze. The croaking of the frogs. The flapping of the lotus leaves. The chirping of the crickets. She hated the smell here. The sweet smell of the mangroves. The heady smell of the mogra. The earthy smell of the wet grass and mud.

Even the eye had lost its sense of proportion, the focus had wavered to things in motion, than still.

Every action of his irritated her - be it romantic, sweet, mature, puerile, considerate or amusing. She fought with him over anything. The more he tried to pacify, the more she retorted, and finally alienated herself from him. Adversity had opened its arm, creeping like a nightmare.


Part 2


“So where have you been?” he asked her lighting his cigar.

“Why the hell are you not shaving?” she tried to divert from the question pounced on her.

“What for?”

Something kept her mum. After few moments, she avenged, “Just because I don’t feel like doing it, doesn’t mean you stop behaving like a human being. For Christ’s sake, get a grip on yourself.”

After looking deep into her eyes, he quipped, “Okay, I know what am I doing. I’m waiting for my wife to return every night, with anticipation, that today she might be receptive.” “And then, I also pray every night that she doesn’t arrive dead drunk.”

“I need space.”

“What has space to do with drinking crazy?”

“You have no inkling what I’ve been going through.”

“As if I never wanted to lend an ear?”

“Forget it. I need sleep. A good sleep.”

“Yes, you indeed need a good sleep.”


Part 3


The faith in self had dwindled, so he strived to get back to himself. Going away could be a solution. The 250cc engine thumped across the streets and revved into oblivion. He was not only carrying the burden of the beautiful past with him, but the brutality of the present as well. The light of this sturdy beauty focused on the road, while his mind focused on his new novel, and the way he was cuckolded.

“The scorn didn’t haunt anymore, for she was free from the gropes of her turbulent past.” As he praised himself for the progress in his story, he praised himself for letting her go. She never was his. “Weak women hardly created any ruckus.” Thoughts of his wife bruising his ego disturbed him. “The Bitch.” Two words which he couldn’t bring into use then, now made way for the title of his novel.

“That she was a shame to the society, that she was a blot on the history of her family, that she was adorned with lust for another man, it never bothered her. She must live the life she wanted to live. She was destined to be a rebel. A rebel with a cause. It takes a lifetime for a woman to repel. She just took few months to settle the scores and end the marriage.”

Discontent wind was piercing him through his thick jacket. Slowing the velocity, he recollected how she had made things easier, making new rules for him. He can go out and party. He can fornicate with other women. He can drink crazy. Never had any woman in his life given him so many liberties.

With thoughts being indexed in his mind, he got excited. This was the story he could alter, unlike his own. The world should know what he went through, albeit through a fiction. A fiction so well experienced.

As he left the sleepy town on the foothills, an exuberant breeze greeted him, throwing him back into the memories of his honeymoon. The trees, breeze, birds, peaks, flowers, greens, all looked chirpy on the drive uphill. Now, everything about the nature was gloomy.

“Some women delve deep into a relationship to ensure there is joy. Some women just tag along for the sake of it as they don’t see any hope. And some women, well, they change the course. Isn’t it interesting to know that women who change the course are the most vulnerable of the lot? For, they change the course as often.”

The story was progressing at a pace he didn’t fathom. He was the tailor, cutting the cloth from all sides, giving it the contours he desired, running the needle faster than his imagination. When the wheel of the machine would rev up, his past would make it screech, and limp for a moment. She used to behave like a teenager, too adamant. Sometimes she’d behave like a revolutionary, too focused. And sometimes, she’d wear the garb of a schizophrenic, laughing when he’s serious and fuming when he’s concerned.

A narrow lane leaded to another town, lesser known, lesser thriving. Taking that road, canopies further hid the skies that glittered with stars innumerous and an arced, pouting moon that looked pensive for its waning glory. Spot lighting the trees and scanning the craters on the road was the light of his bike. The only light on that road.

“She had lied to him. She had cheated. She had sinned. She ought to be taught a lesson. Letting her free would be the best lesson for her. She ought to be freed, from his clutches, from the clutches of every element he knew. She ought to be freed, from his past, present and future. She ought to be erased, from his memory, his love, his cravings, his lust, his passions. She ought to be freed.”

Two mature people cannot go on pretending there’s nothing wrong. They cannot wait for things to happen. She had confessed that she was bored of this relationship. She had professed her desire to be freed. She had accepted the fact that she was too liberated to lead a simplistic life.

Solitude. Silence. Gloom. Silhouettes. Apprehensions. Inhibitions. Yore. There were so many acquaintances waiting for him on every blind curve.

“But his love for her was sacred. He worshipped her. He breathed her. He cared for her. He couldn’t harm her, ever. She left him without any guilt. He let her free without any prejudice. She left him for someone else. He freed her for her happiness.”

This was for the first time in the entire journey that he had smiled. He liked the story so far. This could be the part 1. The second part would deal with her relationship with the new man, and how short-lived it would be. It would end in a jiffy. And she would lead a depressed life. And she would lose it soon thereafter. And she would be admitted to an asylum. And then, he would re-connect with her, help her come out of her disturbed thoughts. His love would overpower her problems. He surely would be the hero of this romantic. The ultimate romance. Love, that transcends logic, self, inhibitions and norms. The ultimate love. A love story that would not become an epic only after the protagonists sacrifice their life. The protagonists would survive, through all the odds.

A known tinge of indigo enveloped the sky. Chirping of his favorite birds was hushed by the blare of his machine. The air carried the sweet smell of the vines. The trees, breeze, birds, peaks, flowers, greens, all looked chirpy, all over again. He had forgotten the last night. The gory night. Of bloodshed, wrath and slaughter.

Gunguna sa khwab hai yeh
Meetha sa khwab hai yeh

Gunguna sa khwab hai yeh
Meetha sa khwab hai yeh
Justajoo hai, tamanna hai isme
Tanha sa khwab hai yeh

Neele shab ka intezaar hai
Karwato ka silsila hai
Adhura chaand hai, sitaron ki tauba hai isme
Bechain sa khwab hai yeh

Anjaan sa ek kaafila hai
Phir bhi khamoshi ka aalam hai
Hosh hai, madhoshi hai isme
Behka sa khwab hai yeh

Mehekti khusboo hai
Ummed ki dhun hai
Aarzoo hai, tishnagi hai isme
Fasana sa khwab hai yeh

Ankahi si chahat hai
Andekha sa daaman hai
Aah hai, aas hai isme
Faki (starved) sa khwab hai yeh

Mehroom hai khataon se
Mehroom hai ruswaiyon se
Zikr hai, ibadat hai tera isme
Jannat sa khwab hai yeh

Kahin muskurahat ki aahat hai
Kahin kangan ka khilkhilana
Ulfat hai, intezaar hai isme
Haqeeqat sa khwab hai yeh

Qurbat (togetherness) hai, Furqat (seperation) hai isme
Saaton rang hai, banjar zameen hai isme
Khudi (pride) hai isme, bekhudi (detachment) hai isme
Tanhaiya hai, izhaar hai isme
Gunguna sa khwab hai yeh
Meetha sa khwab hai yeh

No one knows what lies ahead, and because curiosity is greater than fear, and truth is stranger than fiction, we all are searching, like our predecessors. Actually trying hard to face the future. Just like buying an umbrella on the onset of black clouds hovering upon the mauve sky like the ghosts of the 18th century.

18th century. What a period in the history of mankind. It was then when inventions were greased to the hilt. When unsure presumptions and sure assumptions were realized onto beautiful, surprising discoveries. The world was coming to a state where everything was named. And if already named, then converted into the local language. And synonyms hence were scurrying into infinity. Recreational activities were being enjoyed with the equals of sexual explorations. What lies ahead was fast being answered.

And here is a story of one woman named Kalingini, who couldnt know what surprise lied ahead.

Kalingini was a whippersnapper. She wasn’t a bright and bubbly kid, but had always a look that said, I’m special. Her emerald eyes, that special tinge of green, had something to be explored. The eyes that seemed to hide as many secrets as they revealed. Everyone was enamored of her astute, defiant eyes. Even the beams of the heartless sun couldn’t match up to the destructive vibes of her eyes. Where her eyes bedazzled, they even baffled. Because eyes of that special hue of green weren’t a normal sight. They were accused to be of a royal background. She ought to be a descendent of some Persian or Turkish queen, retorted everyone of the Sindh province. And her dimple only added to their adamant remarks.

Kalingini wasn’t from an untouchable stratum. But still she was devoid of any contact with other kids. That was because of her eyes. Those cat-like eyes were fabled to be magical. The word magical would be an understatement for the highly orthodox Indians of that era. So the synonym ‘super natural’ was imposed on her eyes. No wonder when she grew up, she wasn’t even greeted with delight. She was a girl who was mysterious enough to play her mojo, or that’s what people believed.

Her miserable parents were quite tensed about the fact. Her father, who worked as a lumberjack, was always amused on hearing that she’s a magic woman; she is from a royal background etc. But what broke his heart was that there was no family who thought otherwise. She had turned 13, carrying on her round shoulders the tag of ‘unmarried’. Girls by then bore kids, or were enjoying the nitty-gritties of a family life.

In her 14th spring, there were turns of events. There came a proposal from a faraway land, the land of forts and deserts and dunes and oasis, camels and concubines and bright clothes, gold and diamonds and emeralds and sapphires. The land that was dipped in history, the land that was surreal under the starry nights. The land that many vowed by, the land many were amused by, fascinated by. Surely, the proposal was more than a kill.

The groom’s family was a modest family, simple and down-to-earth. Kalingini couldn’t have asked for more. And the best part came just a fortnight before the marriage. It was agreed that the dowry would be minimal, as the groom’s family was pretty well off. All they wanted was that Kalingini carry what she wanted, her ornaments and clothes, and that’s it. ‘Marriages are made in heaven’. Surely it was an ethereal marriage, at least for Kalingini’s family.

The full moon after Deepawali was chosen the auspicious day by the groom’s family priest. 35 out of 36 gurn (traits) matched according to their Janampatri (kundli), another high! Celebrations were started in full swing, and every night at either place was a gala party. At groom’s there wasn’t much than social gatherings, and at bride’s it was more of custom and rituals. Traditional dance and songs that have been doing the rounds for several decades were again invited to Kalingini’s family. Aged women came up with a song for every possible moment. When a girl bathes, to when she’s smeared turmeric, sandalwood and then washed away with rose water and saffron milk. When she’s applied Henna on her hands to when she’s given new attire, to when she wears new attire. And then there are songs that start from when groom rides the horse to when his brother dances in the baraat. N number of songs they had, these women.

The marriage ceremony was pretty simple, and wasn’t too lavish as it could have been, considering that the groom, Pushkin, was a royal worker. He worked at the Durbar (court) of His Majesty. Another feather in his cap.

Marriage ceremonies those days didn’t last till the wee hours of morning. Everything was scrapped before midnight. Then the groom and bride would be mocked at by the women, and locked in a room where a bed full of roses and other feel-good stuff invited them, making the ambience very amiable. A clean sheet of white enwrapped the wooden bed, as a custom so as to check the virginity of the bride the next morning. This was the first time that this couple was with each other, alone. This was the first time they would see each other, face to face. Though they tried to glance at each other while during the ceremony, but all they could see was a figure drenched in clothes and other stuff. Now was the time.

The women outside sang songs assuming the groom must have lifted her pallu (veil) by now, and drank water so to energize themselves to sing aloud when they hear the wail of the bride as she’s deflowered. But inside the room was a different story altogether. Though the groom did lift her pallu, see her face, touch her earlobes and caress her, but nothing happened further according to the customary songs. As she looked at him, she was awed. Her face was blushed with happiness. He was indeed handsome, 18 years of age, and a royal Durbaan (courtier). His regal status was accentuated with the white Turban he wore. She certainly was enamored, but threw her glance to the earth as he stared back.

While he tilted her chin with his tender finger to have a close look, she started breathing heavily. The track of respiratory tract was now shifted from her nose to her mouth. She knew what was coming. Her mother had apprised her of the suhaag raat (first night) when she had shed some blood and attained menarche, four years back. Still in her teens, yet she was mature enough to handle this, was what her married friends told her some days back. She was nervous, yet excited. A sinful dark world that has been much talked about was finally about to be unraveled. No more fiddling around with herself!

But her desires had to wait. He sat beside her, and slowly while caressing her earlobes, started kissing it. She was plunged into a state of ecstasy that cannot be defined in words, seen, but felt, perhaps heartfelt. Her facial ex-pressions were oblivious of what she had in mind, to not show how you feel right away, but wait for the right moment. A trick her mother taught to induce men, for eternity. So as she gave up on that trick, he hushed in her ear, “I think we should spend the rest of the night at the palace.” She smirked and retorted, “Why, isn’t this place less than a palace?” He had a plain look on his face when he said, “No, it’s better out there. It’s grand. Let’s make our first night truly memorable. I’ll take you to a section of the palace that’s reserved for special guests.” Though it seemed uncanny, yet she agreed to his proposal.

A camel was waiting for them on the backside of the house. While she was lifted by him, she felt his fingers supporting her, rather melting her. She was now longing for him, yet couldn’t do anything, had to wait till they reached the palace. He then sat behind her, and they started for the Royal Fort. The camel was walking slowly, giving jerks now and then. And those jerks made her heave with anticipation. She was enjoying him on her back, stroking his chest on her back every now and then. She was feeling him. She was dreaming him. She was enjoying him. And then her desires burst into million splashes and she had an orgasm! To call it an orgasm would be an understatement. It was a victory of thoughts over physicality. It was a celebration of voyeuristic pleasures. It was a testimony to the fact that sensory experience can be greater than carnal pleasure.

As the flickering light borne out of mashaals (torch) hovered haywire from the grand fort that rose to kiss the azure sky, it made a surrealistic sight. The camel reached the massive façade and after stooping from it, they started walking on a different lane, with Kalingini’s anklet chiming a soothing music and her embroidered ghagara (skirt) murmuring on the floor, as if humming to the tune. This marble-paved avenue was met at both sides with an exquisite garden populated by bougainvillea vines, bordered by small rivulets flaunting lotuses and lilacs spattered all around. The heavenly smell wafting to her nostrils nearly fainted her with ecstasy. The torches at every 5th metre brought warmth on this breezy cold night. She held Pushkin’s hand but he held it back with a chameleonic mood. She looked at him with a puzzled ex-pression, but there wasn’t even a twitch on his face.

Soon they reached a big hall that looked romantically beautiful. Small diyas lighted the striking interiors that were full of choicest artifacts. There lay a bed in peace, full of flowers, waiting to be ruptured. The elegantly printed blue silk curtains, hovering violently, gave a quick glance of the city beneath their feet. The artistically done earthen pots were the best she’d seen. A wheel cart hung on the wall brought a regal touch to the rustic setting. The rosemary smell of itr (perfume) impregnated the air with mysticism. It must be the abode of angels, she gasped.

And then the King, His Majesty, appeared. Chewing a betel leaf, he smiled at Kalingini, and hugged Pushkin in a very friendly way, patting his back. They held back, looked at each other, and again hugged with a broad smile on their face. His Majesty then served him and himself a glass of liqueur. They cheered each other and gulped it down in one go, and took a big, noisy sigh. Then Pushkin looked at Kalingini and said to His Majesty, “Huzoor, abhi nathini nahi utri iski, isleye aapke paas le aaya seedhe (His Majesty, she’s still a virgin, reason why I brought her to you).”


P.S. - Though this story is a bigger concept in my mind, named Maya, i'm not sure when i would finish the other parts, as i've written just 2 parts of it. So posting just this part in isolation. If you still want to read the next part, you can log on to mayanagri.rediffblogs.com

Mere sapno ko thodi mahulut de do
Inko bhi ek khwab de do
Sundar to har sapna hota hai
Mere sapno ko apna naam de do

Jab mohabbat ki inteha ho jaaye
Ek ummed udhar de do
Jab ankhon pe tumhara chehra chhaa jaaye
Ek sheesha saugaat de do
Paagal to har sapna hota hai
Mere sapno ko tadap naam de do

Khwahish ka samundar hai mera sapna
Isme doob ke to dekho
Jaanna chahte ho apni ehmiyat
To ek raat guzar kar to dekho
Masoom to har sapna hota hai
Mere sapno ko kashish naam de do

There was always a subject on my mind which I wanted to elaborate while doing nothing. A subject very close to my heart. Okay ladies and not-so-gentle men, hold your breath, the subject is ‘nothing’. It’s quite an elaborative subject on which reams could be written, provided someone is doing nothing. But then, everyone is doing something or the other, but when poked, the ubiquitous reply that comes instantly is – ‘nothing’. And to further buttress their claim, they’d even yawn. Years of histrionics can deceive anyone, you included.

I usually read a lot (show-off), and collect words. So the words which I don’t know (I don’t know many words though, to be very honest) I jot them down in a diary and use them in my stories or writings so that once I use them, I’d remember them. So in case you find somewhere a word misfit to the sentence, please excuse me.

So talking about nothing, few days back I read there’s turmoil in an unusual ‘wintry’ Mumbai. No wonder the temperature surged. But why do they fight? If a certain Thakeray decides something, there are scores of followers to back him, ready to alight buses, shatter panes and fight with cops armed with tear gas (time to get something different now, don’t you think?). Buffoons.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. That’s what I did on the day world celebrates that crazy little thing called love. I went to a mall to shop (for myself, of course) and was amused to listen to a girl crooning in a hoarse voice for her lover who was laughing with the crowd until a whack on his head by an usher made him realized she’s professing her love for him in the sweetest possible way in front of the world (small world, isn’t it?) and would acknowledge if he joins her in a duet. He did the same. I mean sing in a far worse voice. Why? Love yaar. Love ke liye saala kuch bhi karega. Crowd ko bhi pakayega saala, mall bandh karwayega saala, TV pe aayega saala, mummy daddy se pitega saala, phir kabhi V-day nahi banayega saala, bevakooof banegaaaaaaaaaa, love ke liye saala kuch bhi karega.

Sorry sorry sorry. I was talking about Mumbai, and jumped to another paragraph. Now too lazy to cut-paste the paragraphs, let me start again from here only. So, friends from Mumbai were cribbing about the drop in the temperature, and comparing with Saddi Dilli’s winters. I mean, how can one even think of comparing Mumbai’s winters with Delhi’s, even if their temperature goes a tad lower than ours. Dilli is Dilli boss. Ask that Mumbaiya lyricist who penned down the song – “Tadpaye tarsaye re, Dilli ki sardi.”

So I was talking about Valentine’s Day, right? A schmaltz (misfit word, note) like me would any day prefer a photography exhibition, theatre or a concert than crooning my love for her in front of people whom I don’t even now. Not that it matters. But c’mon, why scream your feelings. And why, why, why, I mean, why should I boast about her in my group, saying she’s a humdinger (misfit word, start noticing now), and she is intelligent, she knows me in & out, understands me, is a good company, is more like a buddy etc. I hate pseudos. They all should suffer from Gonorrhea (misfit word again, are you observing?).  

Okay, why is it that the kind of music I listen to is tagged sad? Romance naam ki cheez nahi hoti kya? Does a song should have beats to be happy and romantic? Can’t it be slow pitched? Or if I play songs in a faster tempo, colleagues would again complain that I’m listening to stupid classics. Hell. I spend most of my time in office, and it’s very natural to listen to songs I love. Beatles, Buddy Guy, Muddy Waters, BB King, Elvis, Bob Marley, Air Supply, Eagles, Kenny G, Bee Gees, ColdPlay, Eric Clapton, Sting, Scorpions, Pink Floyd, are all these losers? Then how come I become one?

So I was talking about Valentine’s Day, right? Wrong. I was talking about music. Where is your mind? If you are too occupied with something, you may leave, I don’t want anyone to read this crap unless he/she is doing ‘nothing’. Any way, let’s continue on the subject of love! So I was saying, love is like somnambulating (misfit word?). It’s an illusion. Love actually is a perishable item. What stays in your heart is romance. So better be romantically inclined than be in love (something Baba Ramdev don’t ever tell you, nor would Osho). Why break your heart and cry tubs? Just romance and feel good. If it ain’t working, chuck it. So the new tagline is – Spread Romance, Not War. Love to me is a by-product of condom and vice-versa (this whole sentence is misfit).

By the way, it’s been more than 3 weeks since I’ve drank!! And been longer since I drank apna Budhha Baba (Old Monk, how many times I’ll have to tell you, you don’t read my blogs regularly). Saari baat ka lollypop yeh hai that I’m not writing all this in a drunken stupor. Had nothing to do, so I wrote ‘nothing’. If you have something to do, go do it, and if nothing, then read this post thrice.

(Hakuna Matata – No Worries)


“Why were you posted here?” asked the kaffir boy, wearing shabby knickers and a torn vest, his ribs showing through the airy gaps.

“Research. I’m here for research. Been touring the whole world, have come to this part of the world for the first time. And I think there’s more to this place than poverty, hunger, and of course, wild life!” said Rav, taking out his leather gaiters and white gloves, which by now have become wet and dusty.

“Of course, there’s more to this place. We have the beautiful beaches, calypso drums, beautiful women, and a lively atmosphere”, answered the kaffir boy.

“And a lot many mosquitoes”, said Rav, itching his foot, yet smiling. “What’s your name young man?”

“Muriuki”

“Sorry, come again?”

“It’s Moh-ree-oh-key”, the kaffir boy was loud this time. He kept silent for a minute, and then added, “You know, a name is one’s identity and a window on his culture and self. The name links us with our past, our ancestors and is a part of our spirituality. It tells about your African descent or culture and is a way to make these cultural linkages.”

“The hopes of the parents, current events of importance and celestial events that may have attended the birth are all given consideration in naming the child. It is believed that the name chosen will exert an influence for better or for worse on the life of the child and on the family as well.” “My name is of a Kikuyu ethnic origin, and means – one who is reborn. The descent is East African, mainly Kenya. My parents say that I was born pre-mature and would have died, but I somehow survived. So came this name.”

“Whoa! That was a long description for your name, boy. Now if you please, can I sleep some winks. Been a long journey, and tiring too. The countryside doesn’t boast of good transportation and roads. Reminded me of my country, India”, Rav then waived his hands to bid that teenaged boy adieu and went for his afternoon siesta.

Rav, short for Ravinder, hails from India, but has lived most of his life in UK. So naturally he has acquired their accent and etiquettes and adapted to their culture.

It was early evening when Muriuki knocked Rav’s door. Rav opened the door to see Muriuki standing with a tray laden with cookies and tea. This was a sinful combination, as Rav was very much addicted to tea, and his head would throb for the lack of it.

“Sir, these cookies are very special, as they were presented to me by that bakery girl. She is very beautiful”, Muriuki’s eyes gleamed while he spoke.

“Ooh, so you have a girl? Great dude, started it quite early eh?” Rav patted on Muriuki’s shoulders.

“Ooh, no, no, no. You’ve got it all wrong. She’s like an elder sister to me.”

“Okay. That’s good. So Muriuki, is there something around to explore? I want to walk a little after I drink my tea.”

“Well, get through it, I’ll come after half-an-hour.”

“Great”, Rav then shook hand with that boy.


Part 2

She was lazing around in her shop, shoo-ing flies coming to lay their eggs on the warm cookies. It was another of those breezy evenings when she wanted to go out, dance in the farm and sing out loud. This was the month when the farms looked at their glorious best. Harvesting had reaped its fruits. And the air was pregnant with the smell of those exotic fruits everywhere. She waited for her dad to come back after his afternoon siesta and take control of the bakery, so that she can go out and refresh her life.

“My sweetest Nyawela, oh, oh, Nyawela, I’m back my sweetheart” sang her dad, looking happy as always. She welcomed him with a peck on his cheek.

“Tonight’s a special night. We have people coming from other towns as well in our bar. Not to mention the nearby farm owners. See, so popular our Thursday Night Blues has become”

“That’s great. But please, I don’t want to dance on Muddy Waters and Buddy Guy. God, from where do you get these music. Why can’t Bob Marley make his way in our bar?”

“Sweetheart, this is an all American Café at night. In noon, you play whatever you want, as long it is a bakery. But at night, it ought to be American. That’s what draws the crowd. The ol’ American Charm. The charm of Blues.”


Part 3

The knee-high grass tickled her bare legs. Nyawela walked precariously through the fields, watching out for lizards. The sky was transforming into a dreamt dream. The mature colors of the sky gave way to the naïve colors brought along by the emerging clouds. She stood there, staring at the surreal horizon with her eyes narrowed down. The green of the field was complementing the crimson, azure and mauve of the skies. Few drops kissed her cheeks, bringing a curl on the edge of her lips, a seductive smile that was.

He was shooting the windmill, the rustic flavor of this village, the generous dollop of romance in the sky. Every corner he wanted to freeze in his camera. The drizzle only complemented the ambience.

There was a distant voice that he could hear. Someone crooning. As he started walking towards the voice, Muriuki bid him adieu, as he didn’t want to get drenched, because he predicted an overcast sky, and a heavy saunter of rain. A severe lashing. Rav didn’t care. He followed his heart, he followed the voice.

As he paced, the voice became sweeter. He could vaguely make out what that song was. As he neared, he heard it clearly, one of his Bob Marley favorites, “I wanna love you and treat you right; I wanna love you every day and every night; We’ll be together with a roof right over our heads; We’ll share the shelter of my single bed; We’ll share the same room, yeah! - for jah provide the bread. Is this love - is this love - is this love - Is this love that Im feelin? Is this love - is this love - is this love - Is this love that Im feelin? I wanna know - wanna know - wanna know now! I got to know - got to know - got to know now!”

He looked at the source of the beautiful voice. A tall girl with a wheatish complex, hair the color of wine from Burgundy, snobbish nose with thick lips, smoky eyes, pristine iris, long face and a beauty to behold. She curled her lips as she sang, lines drawing on her forehead as she closed her eyes and tried to sing with much more fervor. He gaped at her, smiling. How innocent can a person become, singing a song, getting drenched.

A thunder wasn’t the music Nyawela was looking for. Scared, she opened her eyes, only to find a stranger ogling at her, amused. She looked at him, then suddenly covered her bosom with her hands, as she was wearing a white top. Rav was also wearing a white shirt, so on seeing her do so, even he covered his chest, aping her. A smiled escaped through her lips, followed by a hesitant laugh. She smirked and ran towards the nearby barn, escaping from the rain that had suddenly showered the fields making oodles of puddles. Rav followed her, because there wasn’t any other place to hide, and no reason to leave her.

Thunderstorm kept her heart throbbing. But more than that, it was this stranger. A tall, fair stranger, with Venetian red hair, locks wet with anticipation, a drop running down his right temple, aquiline nose, shrill turquoise eyes, athletic build, innocent looks and a cute smile.

She caressed the brawny horse and tried to keep herself busy. He sat there on the mash of straw, looking outside, making her comfortable.

“It’s gonna rain for long it seems”, he tried to invoke a conversation.

“Sorry?” she confirmed if he was speaking to her or mumbling.

“I said we’re stuck here.”

“Well, not really”, she said while looking at the entrance, where her dad was nearing, with 2 umbrellas in his hand.

“Oooh my Nyawela, my baby, my sweeeeeetheart, daddy dearest missed his sweetheart”, her dad hugged her and kissed her forehead repeatedly.

He then looked at the guy, and chuckled while saying, “This gentleman looks like your long lost brother.” Rav was amused to hear that when her Dad cleared, “Ooh, sorry, actually you both are wearing white, resemble each other, so I just cracked a joke.” Rav smirked. He then shook hands and said, “I’m Rav” looking at Nyawela. “’I’m Waldo”, said her dad. She came forward and Waldo introduced her, “She is Pumbaa”. She frowned, and Mambo laughed, and added, “Sorry, she’s Nyawela.” Rav looked at her and asked, “So what does Pumbaa and Nyawela mean?”

She smiled and said, “Pumbaa means carefree, and Nyawela means on a journey.”

“So what are you doing at our Kraal…I mean village”, asked Waldo.

“Some research work.”

“Good. Well, come to my tavern at 8. There’s Thursday Night Blues. It’s a gala night.”


Part 4

He dashed his favorite fragrance and headed for Waldo’s tavern. It was a starry affair. The tavern emitted lights like a UFO, and music blared to the loudest. A wooden board hung outside said, “Welcome to The Tuscan Tuxedo.”

As he entered the tavern, he was bedazzled. It was a perfect Jazz n Blues night. The décor was subtle, and very American. Musical instruments were hung everywhere, jostling with posters of famous singers of yore. Andropausal Men and menopausal women looked all decked up with formal attire and panache in their etiquettes. Rav made himself comfortable on a footstool, waiting to see Nyawela.

It was a jolly good evening, with everyone having a ball. One portly gentleman held a stout woman and sang with Muddy Waters, “I’m your hoochie-coochie man.” Everyone was cheering, and amidst this cacophony, an angel emerged. With a black top and a red flowery full-length skirt, hair tucked by several pins, velvet olive slippers with black flowers, woody bracelet, shimmering ear rings, lustrous lip gloss, and an aura of a diva, she looked the best woman out here. His gaze was stuck.

As she was coming up to him, Waldo grabbed her hands and started dancing with her. She laughed and said, “Pole pole (take it easy)”. She then swayed and frisked like a fish. But kept looking at him. He looked at the other side and smiled. She looked at his side-face, the tuck of his dimples, and smiled.

Finally, as the crescendo increased of Muddy Water’s crooning, Nyawela came up to him and gave him her hand. He kissed her palm, stood up, and came closer. She kept her hands on his shoulders, as he kept his on her waist. And they started swaying softly. As they were looking into each other’s eyes, she said, “Let me make this magical.” She then guided him outside, into the fields. There was a wagon resting idle, with no ox to drag it. She jumped on the cart, and helped him climb. Now they were standing under the moonlight, overlooking the silvery fields. Stars threw a billion wishes with each twinkling. From the distance they could hear the music. It was cold out here. She brought him closer, with their breaths warming each other. As they started swaying, even moon blushed.

He was feeling her warm body, and she was feeling his warm embrace. Nothing could be apt than the Frank Sinatra song that played at The Tuscan Tuxedo –

Strangers in the night exchanging glances
Wondering in the night
What were the chances, we’d be sharing love
Before the night was through.

Something in your eyes was so inviting,
Something in you smile was so exciting,
Something in my heart,
Told me I must have you.

Strangers in the night, two lonely people
We were strangers in the night
Up to the moment
When we said our first hello.
Little did we know
Love was just a glance away,
A warm embracing dance away and -

Ever since that night we’ve been together.
Lovers at first sight, in love forever.
It turned out so right,
For strangers in the night.”

He then whispered in her ears, “What if your dad catches us?” She looked at him and chuckled, “Hakuna Matata.”

He then whispered, “I may not be able to resist you now.” She grinned and said, “Hakuna Matata.”

He embraced her tight and said, “Alas, this dance, this moment, wouldn’t last forever.” She smirked and said, “Hakuna Matata.”

Then with a lump in his throat, he said, “I’m leaving tomorrow.” She stopped swaying, looked at his face, then tucked her face on his chest, started swaying again and said, “Hakuna Matata.”

Kalatop Wildlife Santuary: An Overlap of Real and Surreal



That we took the wrong route, no issues, that we had a hard time with the submerged bridges and treacherous marshy routes as alternates, no problems, because once we reached Kalatop, it was all worth it.

Nestled in the virgin parts of Himalayas, Kalatop is an 8km vertical drive from the small but quaint Dalhousie (Dist. Chamba). The steep uphill drive gave us the view of Dalhousie, often shrouded by the changing mysticism of the mist. Leaving behind the cacophony of bazaars and towns behind, as we reached the gates of The Kalatop Wildlife Sanctuary, we gasped. The air had become crisp, cold and refreshing.

After entering the gate of the forest, we bid goodbye to the Lakkar-bazaar that charmed our vision outside the entrance. And a muddy track welcomed us, which snaked through the thick forest that boasted of abundant Pine and Deodar trees. The 3km stretch of canopies ended at the gates of heaven – Kalatop Forest Guesthouse.



The grandeur of this place lies in its desolation, and is accentuated by the serenity that transcends even its alpine heights. Caught in a time-warp, Kalatop Forest Guesthouse is testimony to the fact that vintage is as charming as it could get. The chalets here have a bloodline descending from the British. Built in 1925, these chalets must have been the architect’s realized dream.



The Chalet has 2 rooms (separate) and a lawn in front of it. Flowers bloom in full splendor, and in different varieties as well. This was the sole purpose of Himachal Forest Dept. to rent out these chalets - to promote eco-tourism. Sunflowers beautify this place and make it more heavenly.



When the real and surreal overlap, there’s bound to be an extravagance of heaven. An overdose of ecstasy. This is what we experienced when mist enwrapped this place like poetry dissolving into spurts. Like existent giving away to surrealism. We could see the mist forming from far away, under the hills, shrouding those tiny wooden houses that rest in serenity. Then the gait of the mist changes, expands everywhere, and starts coming onto you. You can either hide in your room sipping Adrak Chai or your homely brew of cappuccino. But then, what’s the fun of not welcoming something which is rushing forward to meet you with all the zest, all the happiness and excitement. Believe me as I say, there’s no feeling that equals to mist coming onto you, baptizing you, purifying your senses. As clichéd as it may sound, it cleanses your mind, body and soul.



My sole purpose of coming to this place was fulfilled, that of taking a break. I’d not shy away from saying that I don’t have loads of work or loads of parties to keep me occupied. So taking a break meant purifying my senses, from the cacophony of traffic which has crossed the allotted decibel level, from the dust haze that has not only become an eyesore but made me irritatingly restless as well. And Kalatop was the respite, perhaps heaven of sorts.

The huge complex houses just 3 chalets, which sums up 6 rooms in all. But then, that’s why this place is so beautiful and serene. After the sun drowned past the horizon after a hectic day playing peek-a-boo, the crimson sky started dissolving into the hues of blue and purple.



Coming here also meant recollecting long-lost memories, catching up with lost gossips, rumors, hang-ups and screw-ups, and everything in between. After all, we don’t get to meet friends everyday. Perhaps months! Such an irony, I thought, sometime when we were young and restless, friends were just a house or colony away. Then came a phase when they were just a call away. And now, these days, they are just a click away. Always there by you, through every thick and thin. Waiting to be disturbed, in a small link that shows up on the left of your mailbox, or smiling from a small icon down right on your monitor. If you think I got pensive or philosophical, blame it on the place and weather.



The purple sky now turned ink blue. The stars which were distant now were just a few light years away, dazzling in a new avatar. The child in me wanted to jump and catch that shooting star, pick few stars and stick them on my ceiling, getting rid of those faux pas stars.

The chill had settled in every nook of this forest. The conversations weren’t going to end. So we called for food, and coffees. The food was different, being pahadi khaana, and simple as well. Though in this kind of weather, and in hills, I miss Kahwa (Hot, Saffron & Spice laden Tea from Kashmir). Nevertheless, we brought out the quilts (it still was summer though) and snuggled close to each other. Conversations flowed like a Bordeaux wine.

The moon threw light on those peaks and painted them hazy blue. The silhouettes of the mountains and trees called for another peg of Rum (and Brandy for those seriously shivering). It looked like an artist’s canvas, very dark, yet suggestive. A story woven through petty things like an owl spying in its frivolous flight, a snake hissing camouflaged in a tree’s trunk, some rats prying, dogs snapping at the rustles of the leaves, air brushing past the trees. The canvas was complete, lock, stock and barrel.

Before we could freeze, we went in the room and slept. The chalet were wooden, interior subtle yet vintage. Nothing like a good night’s sleep, tucked in quilt, moon teasing you from the window, comfortable pillows whispering lullabies, dreams inviting you to another world, a world very close to where you are right now. Bliss!

Next day, we woke up with an animated spirit. With this kind of spirit, one would indulge in adventure sports. But there weren’t any scope for that. So we did nothing.

Nothing?

Well, nothingness has many facets, aspects, branches and sub-branches. Doing nothing meant long walks through the wilderness. Discovering en-route cherries, foot steps, paw marks. And off-route, wild berries, greenery and a hope, of arriving at a magical land, a hamlet maybe, maybe a waterfall, a barn, a pond, or who knows, we might find a tribe celebrating a new birth, praying to the sun god, dancing to the drums, eating exotic fruits.



Doing nothing also included listening to croaks and hums and other voices of flies, birds and animals. An experience different altogether. This cacophony was music to the ears. Buzzing, it still was tranquil. Feeling closest to the nature, we kept quite for a long time. Some friends basked in the sun. Some played badminton. Some sang songs of yore. Some told tales of ghosts and spirits, and the long history of mountains and their proximity to the unheard world.



Well, this was nothingness. And another night, another bottle, and endless conversations. This time we ordered Maggi noodles, and were content with life. This is life. We had life revived. We caught-up with nature at its surreal best. We got back the zest that was missing. But the proverbial truth came knocking on our doors, ‘all good things have to come to an end’. So with heavy hearts and fresh faces, we left heaven.

Route: It"s 80kms from Pathankot (few kilometres before Jammu, via Jalandhar). For reservations, you will have to book it in advance, through the D.O. of Forest Deptt., Chamba, which can be done over phone at 01899-222639. The uphill drive is just around 50kms, which starts after taking a right turn from Pathankot Bypass.

  The day before. What a day. It’s been an eventful day in my life. Too much happened in those frenzy moments. I’ve never felt so special in my life. So special, so wanted. If I was to start my life yet again, I’d juxtapose every day in a manner that resembled yesterday.

The day before. What a day. It’s been an eventful day in my life. Too much happened in those frenzy moments. I’ve never felt so special in my life. So special, so wanted. Though I would like to juxtapose each day of my life in a manner that it resembled yesterday, I know, there’s nothing I could do.

Though I remember Daadiji reciting me tales of magical cities and kings and queens, today she was trying to teach me about life. She was telling me too many things that I didn’t remember anything. After all, how much an 8 year old could grasp?

Yesterday, my daadi, my sweet old daadi, she danced! She looked happy. There was a grace on her face, a glow that I’ve never seen before. She was usually busy with her chores and prayers. A strict disciplinarian. But yesterday, she let her hair loose. She forgot all her disciplines. She danced. Her moves were none less than any actress’s. Her eyes were conveying too much of happiness.

Too much of rituals made me drowsy. Going to temples, praying to many deities, offering a mélange of prasads. Daadi was staring at me, as if I’d never return. She put a black spot on my face, under the ear lobe, to ward off evil spirits and eyes. She loved me a lot, I knew. Then she kissed me on my forehead and said, “Meri Titli, jab tu vapas aa jayegi to hum khoob saari baatein karenge. Tujhe lori sunaungi, kheer banaungi, kahaniya sunaungi.” I asked her then why are you sending me, to which she kept mum, and kissed my forehead.

Too many rituals. I was bogged down. It had taken a toll on me. Meeting so many relatives, coming from far away lands, bringing stories that set everyone nostalgic. A sense of belonging though was visible in daadi’s eyes, she never let me sit idle. She’d come to me and sit beside me, take special care of me, if I’d want water, she’d order at least 3 people, if there was a strand of hair on my face, she’d tuck it under the ears. She behaved as if I’d never return. Was I?

The last night. It was one of the dreadful nights. I knew I was going somewhere. Somewhere in the hills. Where daffodils and greenery would encompass my eyes every morning. Ma told me it’s for the best. Dad was blank. He kept himself busy with his paperwork. It was a long journey. From plains to the Doon valley. The train was taking its own sweet time. The air that came from the small windows carried the smell of the paddy fields. Mustard as well. I was trying to divert my mind. This is the first time I’d be leaving my family. My parents. My elder sis, my cousins. The fun and frolic under the mango grove. The summer nights’ ice-cream parties. The candies and mango shakes. I’d miss them all. Alas.

The last night. It was too tiring. People, hordes of them, had come to meet ‘us’. Most of them I didn’t even know. And to make it worse, I had to pose with them for a ‘special’ photograph. After the family dinner, started the never-ending rituals. I knew each one of it. Had been to several marriages, but never thought one day it would be my turn too. I wasn’t ever prepared for it.

This moment. This very moment. Standing at the entrance. I feared entering the gate. Ma, dad and didi, they were convincing me to enter the gate. But I was crying. I don’t want to be here. I’m happy with you there at home. Then the principal of the boarding school came and smiled at me. She gave me a strawberry candy and asked me to see the playground once. I knew that was a trick. But when ma showed confidence in me and said, “She’s a strong girl, don’t worry, show her the room first”, I couldn’t decline. It somehow pacified me. After a while, they all started to leave. I couldn’t bear the separation. I ran towards ma and hugged her. She bore some tears, but didn’t wail. She ought to be strong, to make me stronger. Dad ruffled my hair and said, “This is going to be your home now. Take care of yourself and be a good girl.” Didi just cried. She wanted me as much I needed her.

This moment. This very moment. Standing at the gate of this banquet hall. I fear stepping out of it. I wish this moment could freeze. All the while I was okay, but just now, I came to realize that I no longer belong to my parents, this home. I’m going away. To a new home, to new parents, to a new life. Glimpses of the past flashed in my mind, Daadi’s loris echoing in my ears, ma’s teachings and love, dad’s calmness and making me what I am today, didi’s concern and backing. Everything. I don’t want to leave. As the orchestra started playing the saxophone, the cacophony became unbearable. My mother-in-law was patting on my shoulder, saying that it’s okay, don’t worry. As I neared the car, my heart heaved. I couldn’t hold it anymore and I cried like a small girl. I cried to my heart’s content, hugging ma tightly. But when ma showed confidence in me and said, “She’s a strong girl, don’t worry, she’d be fine”, I somehow was pacified. Dad kept his hand on my head and said, “That is going to be your home now. Take care of yourself and be a good girl.” Didi cried too, she’s been through this before.

 Unwanted foetus. Yet survives the drudgery of birth. The womb’s horrific dream comes true, it’s a girl child. Abandoned, the baby’s fresh red blood mixes devilishly with the grey mire of the sewer. Fate unconfirmed, hunger gives company. The whole world is hers. And she belongs to the whole world.

A scant girl now. Not much in her share of joy or food. A pavement to dwell, too many brothers to fiddle with her under-developed organs, a 15 hour job at different traffic lights pleading to the motorists for a glimpse into the dungeons of her smoky eyes, too many salivating observers, some offering her a big orange note in exchange for an hour of bloodshed. Flaky skin ripping apart. Pretending crying eyes dampening her baked tresses, irritating the lice. The whole world is hers. And she belongs to the whole world.

A lissome adolescent. Juicy lips. The smile better than her wails. Different owners. A home, finally, to take shelter. Full meal thrice a day. A bathroom where she can see herself without anyone seeing her. A mirror that reminds her of her verve, her age, her thick lips, her pale skin. Lampooning neighbors. A grand burlesque. A new client every night - nauseating drunkards, coy oldies, excited virgins, confused andropausals, tensed proprietors, nasty drivers, meek handicaps, zealous pimps. Men entering all possible chasms of her body. A whimper that goes unheard, or to some clients, excites. The whole world is hers. And she belongs to the whole world.

A menopausal woman. Callous vagina. Many children, many alleged sperm owners. Same cacophony of traffic lights and vociferous honks. Dissenting hurried motorists. A pavement to dwell, with added responsibility to feed her blithe children. Some dying of hunger, some of malicious diseases. Some being taken away to a lucrative traffic light. Some awaited for blooming. The whole world is hers. And she belongs to the whole world.

Now an unwanted old woman. Life which is a kaleidoscope of possessed malice, oppressive tragedies, poised to well tears, suppressive owners, impregnable pains, eulogizing and humiliating clients. No one to look up to, as ever. Fertile pain cropping up from every pore. The last of the lasts. She sighs, lying on the same sewer she was abandoned at. She coughs and the antiquated pale red blood spuming from her mouth mixes devishly with the grey mire of the sewer. What a life, she sighs again. Then the sky turns into a pale grey. Cloudy it gets. And it rains, but instead of water, it’s acid. Finally she unbelongs. The whole world isn’t hers now. And she doesn’t belong to the whole world anymore.

Somewhere down the line when you look at the past, you realize that it played a big part in shaping your psyche, your outlook. There are things which taught you, things which made you misanthrope; things which made you hate certain things, love certain things, hate love, love love etc. Circumstances carry so much worth in our life, to the extent that they shape our life. But what we forget is small things that made us happy. The minute details of life that made us what we are. Life is like a bitter chocolate, perhaps, a dark chocolate. Yup, with a concentration of 70% cocoa that goes into it. If you start relishing even the bitter parts of life, then life is nothing but ecstasy.
Mundane is what life becomes. Whatever we do that interests us, mellows down after a while. The passion diminishes. Every relationship goes through this, sooner or later. Fanaa never realized that it’s been two long years she’s been dating Rishabh. Perhaps she wasn’t dating him, she was in love. Madly. Craziest things she had done for him, still there was scope for more. Rishabh was the perfect guy. He took care of her religiously.

Yet, after two years, when there wasn’t a sign of things going mundane, she realized it’s getting mundane.

It was third year in college when Fanaa met Kabir through Rishabh. Kabir was Rishabh’s school time friend, and had migrated this year to the same college where Fanaa and Rishabh had their names engraved on walls. Where their chemistry was the most talked about in the physics lab. Where no one had the slightest chance of charming either of them.

Because Kabir was new to college, Rishabh and Fanaa hanged around with him, spent a considerable time with him. Their chemistry evolved in no time, and things spiced up soon. While Rishabh trusted Kabir like a real brother, Fanaa liked Kabir’s wits and attitude. Though initially these three hanged out at college hours, soon they started meeting after college as well, which was though the time Rishabh and Fanaa spent together, away from everyone.

But all good things have to come to an end, isn’t it? So Rishabh started going to his dad’s office, and hence, his absence at college increased. Though he made a point to meet Fanaa in the evenings, still, his presence at college was missed by her. Maybe she was so used to him, his company, that now the college looked alien to her. And that is when Kabir entered her life.

Kabir was more than meets the eyes, full of life and ready with wits all the time. The stories he had to tell had many a women blushing. His past relationships, encounters, stupidity and crazy attitude. He was not an emotional guy at all. A focused guy with a sharp mind. Which is what drew women closer to him. He was street smart, and used to get his work done any way. Not a single thing he left to fate.

Fanaa started enjoying his company because of his attitude. He made sure she didn’t miss Rishabh.

Another hot, sultry day. Fanaa and Kabir spent a considerable time at the library, speaking about random things. They were both talkative, and had many topics up their sleeves to make the conversation going. And then she realized that she’s got late. Kabir offered her lift to her house, which she readily accepted, because she had started trusting him.

Though it wasn’t something to remember, that drive was critical in shaping up Fanaa and Kabir’s relationship. Because after then, it became a routine. And then, long drives followed. Talks never seemed to cease. It only increased. So much so that they started speaking on phone late nights! And till mornings! They never knew what they were getting into.

She even started comparing the two. Though she loved Rishabh, her inclination was bent towards Kabir. She even had thoughts of Kabir as her guy. She was struggling with her thoughts, as she didn’t want this thing to happen. She respected Rishabh, loved him like anything. But Kabir was an addiction for her now. She can’t let go of him, his frivolous nature. She was getting greedy, as she wanted to have the cake, and eat it too. She justified each of her thoughts with something or the other. And was happy the way things were progressing. She was happy with the fact that Kabir was just a friend. But she treated him more than a friend. She even started sharing her personal life with him, her opinions, her views, everything.

“Why do men think of just one thing, why can’t they think beyond?” asked fanaa one day.

“Well, you women behave as if it’s something you don’t like. Why hide the fact?” came Kabir’s reply.

“Well, we do enjoy it, but don’t just make it public, or say, so obvious.”

“I know. Women can be so uncertain, just like their moods, their menstrual cycle, their bad hair days, their weight, their their, umm…”

“As if men are so damn focused? Why don’t I see men asking for directions then?”

“Oh c’mon Fanaa, it’s not that men show themselves as despo, they just try to flirt, that’s it.”

“You know there’s a very thin line between flirtation and vulgarity? A glance is okay, but what about a gawk? An aged guy once was scratching his crotch area in a café, sitting next to me, staring at me, smirking. Was that flirting? Guys do such horrendous things. And they also think that they are Genghis Khan on bed.”

“Aren’t they?”

“It’s a woman who makes them feel like a certain Genghis Khan, and not them.”

“But that would only happen naa when a woman enjoys ‘it’?”

“No. Women most of the time fake it. If we can have multiple orgasms, doesn’t mean we enjoy ‘it’ more than you guys, or have it always. You guys just leave after you’re done. How about spending a while just loitering around with her after you are through with ‘it’? Is it a thing too much to ask for, just to make a woman feel happy and not feel like a slut?”

“You are right Fanaa. I’d stay with you for a while after we’re done.”

“What? What did you say? With me?”

“Well, if you so insist…”

“Here, that’s where the problem lies. Talk to him about certain things, and he’ll take it as opportunity.”

“Tell me frankly, have you enjoyed ‘it’ with Rishabh?”

“Well, aren’t you getting personal Kabir?”

“Oops, I’m sorry Fanaa. I just thought we were friends.”

“Yaa, but…okay, Rishabh and I have not done ‘it’ till now. Ours is a beautiful relationship.”

“Ooohk. Well, then how come you gave me so much gyaan?”

“I hear it from my friends.”

“Chuck it Fanaa. All bullshit. You have to experience ‘it’ to talk about it.”

“Okay. I won’t argue then. Chal good night now.”

After that call, an argument as it seemed, Fanaa couldn’t sleep that night. She kept thinking of Rishabh. Why have she not let him go beyond the limits? Maybe he respected her a lot, had a certain image of hers that she is really a nice girl. It wasn’t that she wasn’t. But…

Kabir called on her mobile early in the morning, at 5am. As she picked up the phone and he said, “You know what Fanaa, I just had a dream.” Fanaa was still in a deep slumber, so she just said, “Hmmm.”

“I dreamt of we making love!”

“What?” now Fanaa’s slumber vanished.

“Yeah. I just dreamt. And as we reached an orgy, with you reaching multiples. Then I came back to my senses, so called you to tell you.”

“Crazy you are.”

“Arre, it was just a dream, and I can’t dream it deliberately naa.”

“What’s on your mind though reflects in your dreams as well.”

“Really? Umm, I didn’t have a detailed imagery in my mind though.”

“So what was on your mind, Kabir?”

“You really want to know?”

“Ya, I do.”

“When I slept last night, I had an urge to kiss you, taste the juices of your lips. I wanted to hold you by your waist, and kiss around your ear lobes, your neck, the collar bone. I somehow wanted to run my tongue around your navel. Wanted to cup your boobs, hug you tight, caress your lovely back, run my fingers down south, and…”

The phone was disconnected.

-----------------------------------------------------

  Part Two


It was August, and on the 7th, dawn revealed a dark, cumulus overcast. Fanaa called Kabir and asked him if he could pick her up for college. It’s been a week since she had spoken to him. He obliged, and came in his car.

They were silent. The song by Beatles whirled in the interiors of the car, and when his favorite number came, Kabir pitched up the volume.

And when I touch you I feel happy inside
It"s such a feeling that my love
I can"t hide, I can"t hide, I can"t hide

Yeh, you"ve got that something
I think you"ll understand
When I"ll feel that something
I wanna hold your hand
I wanna hold your hand


She wasn’t looking at him. But outside. The air was pregnant with moisture. People were hurriedly walking down the road, trying to escape from the violent wind. Women’s saris streaming in the wind. Hawkers holding on to their turbans. Other vendors putting a sheet of cover over their shop. Ants looking busier, in the quest to reach their destination.

And then there was another set of multitude that enjoyed the billowing fresh breeze. Cyclists riding in the middle of the road, crisscrossing. Bikers slowing down and enjoying the thrusting wind. Pedestrians opening their arms wide open, as if trying to stop the approaching breeze. For them, this was nature’s reward for going through the torturous summer.

The blacks of the sky made the perfect contrast to the whites of the horizon. The ash grey clouds were making their presence felt with the thunderous noises. As if they would burst out in a drunken rage. Everyone was waiting for that very moment. To be rewarded, to be drenched.

And then, the clouds busted. Water foaming like champagne spilled all over as if the Rain God had himself uncorked the bottle. The rain marked its arrival in a gala way, hissing on the streets, falling in a sequence with a buzzing noise, making a perfect sonata. The strong gust of rain accompanied with the violent wind clashed with everything on their way - roof-tops, canopies, etc. Streets were gurgling with murky water with newly-formed streams tip-toeing their way onto the shallowest place. Every avenue was carpeted by bright yellow and red flowers. Some of them side-lined in a heap around the pavements. The sight was surreal, ambience ethereal.

As he parked the car and they both came out, the blowing spume welcomed them by cleansing their faces. The uncertain rain had lashed down the college as well. They hurriedly walked past the admin. block and reached the old block, where classes were no longer held. Isolated, this place acted as prime importance to the students who wanted to chill out. Lovers who wanted some space. Big groups who wanted an ‘adda’, or c-cart as they fondly called it.

Fanaa followed Kabir who took up the stairs and went to one of the classes on the first floor. He entered a class and gasped, “What a view, wow, see the green cover man, this is monsoon at its best.”

Fanaa looked out of the window, and a smile curled at the edge of her lips. She took her hands out of the windows and enjoyed the drops. And then, she cupped her hands, and sprinkled the reserved water on his face. He followed suit. They were enjoying a lot. Her giggles filled this stained, dingy room with a refreshing air. Water coming out from the creaks on the walls looked like small streams, smiling at the squeaks of their laughter.

After some time, they both sat on a bench, close. Fanaa was still looking outside, at the cascading water, and Kabir was looking at her. Her cascading wet hair. “Your hair look beautiful when wet”, he said, while running his fingers through the wisps of her hair and flicking a wet, stray strand off her face that had been tickling her. While his finger brushed through her cheek as he adjusted her hair, it titillated her more. She smiled and said, “Thanks.”

They kept quite for a moment. Kabir was about to put his hand behind her back, as she questioned, “So what was your dream, Kabir?”

Her fists were clenched, sinews of her jaw tightened. He held her hand, looked into her eyes, and asked, “Would you really want to hear it?” She answered with a pout and a shrug, followed by a smile.

He came closer and whispered in her ears, “I dreamt of making love. We were closer than this. Your body tightly held with mine. And it all started with a peck.”

“With a peck?” she looked puzzled.

He kissed her on her cheeks. And then on her neck. And then again came back near to her left ear and said, “A peck isn’t a peck if there’s no fire.” His warm breath titillated her. She wanted to tilt her head to her left where his face was, and experience that breath on her face.

“And…?” she looked interested. Her heart heaving.

Troubles last as long as one tear wept, and joy, is eternal, like soul. And here, the trouble was joy! He lifted her face by her chin, tilted it to his side and looked deep into her ricocheting eyes. “These doe-like eyes. Just as I dreamt, these roving, black eyes. You know, you looked as beautiful when you came so close. I couldn’t get out of that image, of your face so close to mine, your eyes speaking the truth, craving.”

A heap of complex thoughts populated her yet impassive face. This intimacy wasn’t what she was used to. He circled his hands around her neck and brought her close. She drew herself close