Pace

They sat on the veranda overlooking the busy city. She poured two cups of lemon ginger tea and they sat in silence absorbing the sights and sounds of the city. The city had a pace and the pace was a disguise to make the people feel vital, their work indispensable. The pace diverted the people from the only things that matter, from the few empty moments of life, full of meaning. The pace held the city on a tight leash and made it swing with self importance and pride.

He looked at his wife. She still looked pretty after fifteen years of marriage. He wondered what had caused her to have the affair. He had been a dutiful husband as far as he knew. He was a bread winner and a provider. He had tolerated all her quirks and eccentricities. Yet she had had an affair; she had found another man more attractive and had shared herself with him. The hurt and resentment churned within him and he felt nauseated. He looked at his wife. She had attractive eyes with long lashes. When she smiled, her smile lit up her whole face and her eyes danced in the glow of that light. Why had that smile embraced another man? Why had those eyes caressed someone else?

He looked back over the journey of fifteen years and wondered exactly what had gone wrong where. He had done fairly well in his career to provide for a life of comfort and luxury for themselves. He had never let her wishes and desires go unfulfilled. He looked at the city hustling by below; he absorbed the beats of the frenzied pace. Pace. It must have been the pace that cajoled him and slyly led him away from her. He thought about the impossible deadlines at work which he had consistently met. His success had created new standards and raised the benchmark for future successes and he had played along, a puppet to this pace. His mind wandered over the various late night meetings, the weekends spent in attending seminars, the constant travel on business. He wondered whether it was the design of this pace or the mere refusal by him to share his work tension with his wife that had first created the wall and hurled him towards Tania. Tania was his colleague and partner at work. She attended the same meetings and seminars with him, she worked with him to meet his deadlines; she understood his work pressure, his commitments, and shared his success. She was his confidante, the one with whom he could unwind and freely discuss his anxieties and celebrate his triumphs. She was his colleague, and also his good friend.

His mind played back on the day when his wife had discovered some text messages on his phone from Tania and suspected something. She tried to make light of it but he knew she was being eaten up with jealousy. He should have assured her perhaps that there was nothing more to it apart from a couple of office colleagues sharing a lewd office joke. But he had led his ego command him. He had been irritated and annoyed at his wife for making a big ado over nothing.

Perhaps she had needed comfort then but he continued ignoring her fear. This had caused a further rift in their marriage. His days were eaten up by the pace of work, his evenings were empty. Now looking back he knew that he could have set it right then. Perhaps he could have planned a vacation with her or put aside one weekend to spend alone with her and really talked to her only if she had given him the opportunity to make an effort. But she had continued to ignore him, busying herself with her household and motherhood duties. She had now joined a music class and she devoted all her spare time in it. And so he had not made that extra effort to bridge the gap. He had not known that one day that gap will expand to engulf his life and swallow up their marriage.

He turned instead to Tania to share his thoughts, feelings, emotions; Tania who always understood and who posed no threat to his ego or his marriage; Tania who continued to be his good friend.

She looked at her husband sipping his tea in contemplative silence. A familiar feeling of warmth tugged her heart. She yearned once again for him to see, to understand.

It had been a while since she had stumbled upon and gradually unearthed the level of intimacy he shared with another woman. Yet, try as she did, she could not detect a single instance of indiscretion on his part. She came to understand that he shared his heart and soul and not his body with another woman. And this began to kill her. Strangely, a physical affair would have been easier for her to cope with but the thought that her husband belonged to another woman in emotions and feelings enveloped her with deep grief and resentment. She felt unloved and unwanted. She tried to ignore him hoping that he would care enough to coax her back into the bond they had shared, but he did not even notice her silence. Her desperate loneliness gnawed at her heart and drowned her in a sea of self pity. She took the advice of a friend and decided to enrol for music classes in an attempt to nurture her long neglected passion. But even music could not assuage her hurt.

He was away, always away. The children missed him, didn’t he realise? Even when he was there, he was not actually with her but in a world of his own, a world where she had no clue how to enter. Her loneliness gave way to frustration and she felt a void opening up before her. She panicked.

Jai came into her life as a support that helped her get back to her feet and avoid falling into the pit. He came as a distraction to bring back the romance and colours in her life, to make her smile for a while and look forward to life. She remembered that phase as a mist of golden days and clandestine meetings with her lover. Her heart had felt light, her steps lighter. She had fancied being in love all over again. Yet, as all good things come to an end, that golden phase had run its course. All that was left of it now was a feeling of shame coated with guilt. She pulled her thoughts away from it and concentrated on her lemon ginger tea.

He watched his wife tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ears and adjust her spectacles. He knew that if she smiled, he would smile too. The busy city hastened along down below oblivious to the beauty of a raw unguarded moment in time. She raised her long lashes and looked at her husband. She wondered if she should confide in him and disclose her affair but she feared that it would hurt his male pride. How could she explain that her affair was because she had loved him so much?

He knew he loved his wife, or else why did he not take advantage of her affair and use it as a reason to break ties? The answer was that he wanted this woman, had always wanted her. He knew that he should keep the knowledge of her affair secret or it would break her, he could not bear to humiliate his wife.

The city blurred away with its cacophony of sounds and its frantic pace. All that was left was a moment of rare insight and understanding shared by two souls who have always loved each other. She poured them another cup of tea each. He watched her gentle hands firmly tipping the teapot. He caught her hand then and she looked into his eyes. The warm aroma lifted his spirits as the pace of the city died away. Her eyes embraced him with warmth. He smiled.

Gateways To The Heart

Sometimes a smile is enough to enter somebody’s life.

It was just such an innocuous and spontaneous smile that first drew his attention to the girl. She was browsing the bookstands in Colaba with the assured ease and familiarity of a housewife bargaining over the price of tomatoes everyday with the same vendor in the familiar market. In spite of her bright orange sundress and tall stilettos, she looked as if she belonged there, amidst the dust and noise and the rows of second hand books on the pavement stalls. She could have been smiling to herself over a phrase or a sentence in a book but when she looked up and her eyes collided with his, her smile was still there, radiant, generous and warm enough to envelop the whole world in it.

Five minutes later, they found themselves in the corner cafe, frequented mostly by foreign tourists, the jukebox playing a popular 70’s number. They laughed openly and chatted animatedly over everything and nothing in particular as only two strangers can. Their impromptu date seemed to be the most natural course of event in the world.

Over the next three months, they met again several times, mostly in and around the same area. They lunched, dined, watched movies, browsed bookshops and music stores, bought each other simple, silly gifts. Then one day the letter came. And it opened a doorway to her dreams.

It had been Isha’s most intimate aspiration to pursue her Ph D in Microbiology at the University of Purdue. She had applied last winter wholeheartedly following every detail in the process, yet not daring to hope lest her heart be disappointed. That one letter brought in a surge of relief which was then replaced by pure and wild euphoria. It opened the gateway to her ambitions, her future. It took some time for her to take it in, to believe that her dream was unfolding before her eyes. Instinctively she picked up the phone to share her joyous delirium with Ritesh when she was suddenly struck by the realisation that the very letter which opened up her world of future possibilities would take her very far away from him.

They met at the corner cafe for lunch. They laughed and celebrated the good tidings of a great future. Then they lapsed into a contemplative silence and finally she broke down into a fit of sobs. He found himself consoling her in spite of his own heavy heart. Their love was real and what is for real must also be forever. They vowed to keep in touch regularly. After all, this is the age of the internet and long distance calling is not as exorbitant as it once was.

A few weeks later she was on a flight, embarking alone on a great journey towards a promising future. He had been with her at the airport till the last moment and they renewed their vows through a mist of tears to stay in touch every day. Now, comfortably seated in the airbus, she found herself alternating between joy and sorrow till she gave up her attempt to read a magazine and succumbed to a few hours of sleep.

The USA greeted her arrival with a casual blend of diversity and action. From the moment she landed her feet on US soil, her each moment was engaged in exploring, making various arrangements, seeking out people, understanding rules, and finding herself hostel accommodation. She termed that phase to herself as the tornado of ‘settling down’. Her academic pursuits started almost immediately in full vigour. And along with it, she found herself making a few new friends over the next few weeks.

Back in Mumbai, Ritesh found his days to be empty and his evenings melancholy. He immersed himself in work and stayed back late evenings in his office to put in that extra bit. His creativity, vigour, passion and energy all found expression through his work. His life became a ritual of erratic meals and insufficient sleep that all revolved around his main focus, i.e. his work. Within a span of six months he was promoted from a marketing executive to an assistant manager of the international courier company where he worked.

As promised, they kept in touch every day through emails, chats and phone calls. They shared each other’s triumphs and failures, joys and woes. However, pursuits of dreams have a way of demanding unwavering dedication and time and very gradually, almost imperceptively, these aspirations and the punishing schedules they demanded began to loosen the connection of emails, chats and phone calls. They always explained to each other their respective schedules, were forever understanding and accommodating of each other’s struggles and deadlines. After a while, their mail exchanges dropped to once a day, then twice a week and then the perfunctionary one mail in a week. Their chats almost disappeared and phone calls became less frequent.

Isha excelled in her academic pursuits and soon gained quite a few admirers and friends. One of her new found acquaintance was an Italian named Piedro. He was amusing, entertaining, always full of jokes and high on life. In short, he was a good fun to be with. They started hanging out together along with a few other friends, all foreign students. Perhaps it was the loneliness hidden amidst her daily activities or the absence of someone to unburden her irritation or trepidation on, or it could have been the sheer chemistry of two different people in a foreign place, but the fast companionship between Isha and her Italian friend soon graduated to a level of intimacy where they started sharing each other’s hopes, fears and getting a glimpse of each others’ aspirations and lives.

Ritesh busied himself by taking on challenging projects and impossible deadlines and making them possible. He came across various women in the sphere of his work, even dated some, but he was not serious about any of them. His longing for Isha was hidden and locked in a safe deposit zone of his mind and he became fanatically passionate about his work.

Away from sight, away from mind....spelled true in essence for Isha. In the absence of Ritesh with whom she could once share each moment of each day, she found herself gradually gravitating towards Piedro as the nearest contender for all her attention. Within six months she moved in with him and they embarked on a delightful and adventurous affair. Focussed in her research and busy with her affair, she hardly had the time or the energy for anything else. Communication with Ritesh became scarce and infrequent and one fine day she decided to write to him and tell him about Piedro.

His eyes were blurred. He had drowned a bit too much of Scotch and his head was feeling light and dizzy. When he had first read the mail, he had quickly closed it and shut the contents from his mind, meaning to reread later, at ease. But somehow her words found a way to haunt him throughout his busy day and even busier weekend which he spent attending a management seminar. He found himself unable to concentrate on the seminar and the picture of Isha with an imaginary Italian guy invaded all other thoughts in his mind.

In the evening, he left early which amazed everyone, including himself. He went home, showered, listened to some music, tried to compose himself and then opened the mail again. Her words pierced him like a dagger and he realised for the first time how much he had taken their relationship for granted. He could live a solitary life knowing that she was pursuing her career dreams but he could not imagine living a life where she was not the unconscious centre of all his emotions. He locked away her words, along with the emotions it triggered in him, in the same safe deposit zone of his mind and tossed away the key. He resumed his life.

Two years later.....

Isha had proved herself brilliant in her chosen subject of research and was working part time as an associate lecturer as she neared the completion of her thesis. Her affair with Piedro had run its course. They had traversed the whole path from not wanting to spend a single moment apart to not being able to tolerate anything about each other anymore. Piedro was too casual, irresponsible, immature and too happy go lucky to be an achiever. Isha was too serious, focussed and career oriented to enjoy and live life every moment ...the way Piedro would live. They separated like oil and water. Isha devoted all her time to her academic pursuits.

Ritesh was now the area manager of a multinational travel agency. He was engaged to marry to a good looking, homely girl arranged by his parents and approved by him.

Sometimes it is a stroke of tragedy and intense sorrow that can bring some forgotten person back to one’s life.

Isha’s mother died suddenly and unexpectedly from a road accident. Isha flew all the way back to Mumbai to attend to the last rites of her mother and whilst fighting the tide of loss and depression, she had a desperate urge to check base with her old friend. So she took a deep breath, and dialled the familiar number etched in her memory with the ease and comfort of someone who has been dialling the same number every day.

He practiced in his mind how he would offer his condolences, how he would  greet her after all the time that had lapsed and the events that have changed their equation. Yet, when he met her at the familiar cafe in the corner, all his practice was tossed to the winds. He went up to her and they hugged and let the tears wash away the years. They ordered their same coffees and talked small talk. Then gently, sincerely, he tried to assuage her pain with unrehearsed sincerity that arose naturally and spontaneously from some long forgotten ‘safe zone’ of his psyche. She cried unabashedly and smiled naturally. They laughed without reason. They laughed for all the reasons. She did not care a damn about her smudged eyeliner. He was least bothered about all the weight he had gained. They sat in that cafe, listening to the familiar jukebox, living the moment as intensely and naturally as only soul mates can; savouring their time together; each moment containing more depth and meaning than a whole decade of living life for irrelevant reasons.

One year later....

She has an offer from a leading pharmaceutical company in India. He had broken his engagement and has several career options in the USA.

The tides of fate can turn this way or that but what is more important is the assurance which lies beyond the twists and turns of the paths of life, of the love that resides somewhere just beyond the reach of reason.

And miles away from each other, they chase and pursue their life missions with the assured ease of having known all the things that lie between a smile and a tear; of finding love and then losing love only to rediscover that love can never be lost.

 Sometimes a sincere smile and a genuine heartbreak are the only true gateways to the heart.

A Wild Impulse

Impulse can be a very strong force though its origin is unknown. Perhaps it is an intrinsic desire, or a passing whim, or just a moment of void that causes the sudden force of impulse to take over the reins of life and leave you such that you can never be the same again. It was on one such wild impulse that I allowed him to enter my dreams, or better said, I allowed myself to fall in love.

There was already a sharp chill in the air though it was early October and we were all huddled around the campfire. I had wrapped the baby in a blanket and held her close to my breast. Taoji (uncle-father’s elder brother) and Buaji (aunt – father’s sister) were sipping hot chai (tea) from a flask and Badi Ma (Aunt – father’s elder brother’s wife) was half reclined on the chaddar (sheet), about to doze off any moment. The wind was blowing through the mountain forest to our left, shaking the sleeping trees and making them whisper conspiratorially, and making me tremble with its sheer audacity.

His name was Khalil. He was our guide for the tour. And today, having gathered us all after dinner, around the fire, he began his tale.

A long, long time ago, in these forests, there lived the spirits of the woods. These spirits guarded and protected the forces of nature that nourished the forests. And one such spirit, known for his wild adventures, was called Kara which means ‘wild’ in the language of the tribes. They said that Kara fell in love with the beautiful daughter of a woodcutter named Tasha. Now, when the ruler of the forest spirits found out about his love, Kara was warned to harness his passions as the spirits forbade any of their own to fall in love with a human. But Kara, being true to his name, did not heed the warnings. He would take the form of a mountain goat or a wild horse and try to catch the attention of Tasha. But Tasha was always lost in her own world to notice.

One day, when Tasha was out to fetch water from the spring, Kara emerged from the woods as a handsome young man and the first glance from Tasha was enough to seal their destinies in the bond of love. After that, very often Tasha would come alone by the mountain stream and wait for her lover. Kara would surprise her by suddenly springing from apparently nowhere. But he was a spirit and could do as he wished. In his reckless passion, he forgot one golden rule of the spirits of the forest, that no matter what, they could not take the form of a human, unless it was absolutely necessary to guard the forest.

At this point, Buaji coughed. Badi Ma blamed the chill in the weather. Taoji looked sternly at the women and with one glance he stopped them from continuing their banter. Someone from behind asked impatiently, “What happened then?”

I looked at him. The fire seemed to dance in his eyes. He was a simple mountain fellow with a proud moustache that determined his arrogant demeanour and for the cultural session tonight, he had donned a local costume of the Pahadis (mountain folk). His features were rough and weather beaten and there was a deep resonance in his voice when he spoke. His voice… it was that which had entrapped me and which held us in a trance now, as he wove a story around the fire.

So it was, that the news of Kara donning the form of a youth for attracting a human girl reached the ruler of the spirits and in his anger and fury, he expelled Kara from the forests. Kara now became a free spirit who belonged to nowhere. He would pace the rocky mountains and play around the waterfalls. Each morning he would wait for his love to emerge by the spring with a clay pot to fill water. Then one day she did not arrive.

At this point, he paused, as if waiting for a furious gush of wind to play havoc with the fire and eventually tame down. While the flames leaped and dodged, Buaji shivered and asked me yet again, “Is the baby warm? Check her feet, feel her hands. Are they cold?” I obeyed dutifully. I was after all the mother. If I cannot keep my own baby warm, who can? What a lot of fuss these old ladies like to make!

One day she did not arrive...continued our story teller. The news had spread in the village that Tasha was seeing a young man who could become invisible at will. The village elders resented this news. They knew that he had to be a spirit from the forests. If the spirits of the forests knew, it would augur disaster for the village. No spirit can romance a human girl. The villagers were afraid to invite the wrath of the forest guardians. Last time when a female spirit had enticed a village youth, the entire village had been burnt to ashes by a forest fire. Something had to be done! Tasha was locked up in a room. The village exorcist was summoned and he came armed with a broom, a stick and some fallen feathers of the mountain birds. Tasha was tied to a tree despite the protests of her father. That night, on the eleventh day of the lunar cycle, the spirit of Kara was evoked by reciting some strange chants. Then, drums were beaten and the exorcist started to beat up Tasha with the broom stick in rhythm with the drum beats. Madness pervaded the skies. A clap of untimely thunder made the villagers shudder. The feathers were scattered all over the half dead screaming girl. A piercing voice asked the exorcist to stop. It could have been the spirit of her mother but the exorcist took no heed. He called out for the spirit of Kara to come and embrace Tasha and with one final blow he hit Tasha across her ribs with the stick. Just as the moon disappeared behind the clouds, she screamed out one word...Kara!”

But now she was beyond pain as the spirit of Kara had shrouded her and warded off all the pain and humiliation. She was free; free like the winds and the dust. And together with Kara, she flew off to claim the freedom of the world that only true love can claim; the freedom that comes from having everything by not owning anything, of belonging everywhere by belonging to nowhere.

They say that every 11^th day of the lunar cycle, the spirits of Kara and Tasha still come to visit this village and they pause by the mountain spring for a while and if you listen carefully that night, the voice of Tasha beckoning Kara still resonates around the mountains.

Thus the story teller concluded his story. He had cast a spell, which along with the night and the fire held us enchanted and captivated and for a while no-one said anything. The flames danced mysteriously and gazing at them intently I was momentarily transported to another dimension where time stood still and untouched. It was only the intensity that mattered. And I could hear the voice of Khalil as if coming from somewhere far away, in a distant dream telling us what our next day’s travel itinerary would be.

Then the baby started wailing and the spell was broken.

Next morning we visited a temple on the hills and some exotic sites with amazing views of the valley below. All throughout Khalil kept us entertained with local tales and customs, yet we knew that he was not from this place originally but from the city of Lucknow, miles away. Having allowed myself to fall in love I let myself be totally mesmerised by his persona, his undercurrent of passion when he spoke, his magic of words and his dark, brooding eyes. But most of all it was his voice that caressed my fancy and made my heart beat faster. Oh, the joy of being in love!

In the evening, I left the baby with Buaji for some time and decided to go for a walk all alone. This was the last evening of our tour. Tomorrow, we would all be in a flight, heading back home. I decided to take the time to fully assimilate the sights and sounds and scents of the place that I had absorbed in the last few days. I was at peace with my solitude and hummed a note that had been playing in my head since morning.

Suddenly, I rounded a corner in the hills and came face to face with a wooden house with an inviting porch. Again driven by the same impulse I found myself climb the few steps to stand on the porch. The view from there was mind boggling. So lost was I in the moment that I did not hear footsteps till a familiar voice boomed “Hello”. I turned around and found myself facing Khalil. “Welcome to my humble abode,” He said.

“You live here?”

“This has been my home for the last eight years.”

“And your family?”

“Back in Lucknow. Our whole parivar (family) lives there.”

“What made you choose this job so far from your home and family?”

He looked amused and smiled an arrogant smile.

“What makes dreams ride miles away from the dreamer?” he asked in response.

“So this had always been your dream?”

“Not really,” said he, “As a youth I had always wanted to study Hotel Management and start my own inn, but fate took over. My father died while I was still in college, and I had to take charge of the finances of the family, get my two younger sisters married off. I never had chance to pursue higher education.”

“Are you….are you married?”

“Yes. I have a ten year old son. And yourself?”

“You have seen my baby.”

“I know she is yours but you have not given birth to her.”

I was startled out of my senses by his perception. I wanted to ask him how he knew but then, some things can only be respected by leaving untouched.

“You are right,” I said. “She is my sister’s child but I care for her as my own. My sister is no more.”

“She is your child by choice, which means that she is incredibly lucky to be wanted by you.”

I was touched and to my dismay, my eyes flooded. I quickly found myself blinking away the tell tale tears. I looked away.

“That is an amazing insight coming from a stranger,” I said, “Given that most people think I am inexperienced and not a good enough mother, just because she is not my biological child.”

“Look there,” he pointed to a tip of a distant hill that was surprisingly untouched by the forests that invaded the entire landscape. “What do you see?”

My heart was playing tricks with me. “I see a place untouched by the evidence of life; yet more alive in its intensity and vitality.”

“Yet most people would say they saw a barren tip of a hill.”

I turned around. He was looking at me, his eyes, boring, imploring, reaching naturally beneath layers of my mind.

“Why does it matter what people think?” he asked, “She is your daughter as much as the virgin mountain tip is full of life.”

I don’t know why but I asked him then, “What is the meaning of your name?”

“Khalil means friend,” he said, “and I am a friend of the mountains, the wind, the wild trees and….”

He left the sentence unfinished. How did he know? How could he possibly know that I longed, craved, to be caressed this way?

The wind picked up and the forests all around echoed with its sound. I welcomed the chill. I spoke to the hills and the valley below, knowing that they will connect to the strange passion blowing from one heart to another. My entire body was tense with anticipation. And then I heard a low, deep laughter. Maybe it’s the spirit of the forests, I thought.

My companion had left.

Next Morning……

We were all packed and ready. The suitcases and bags were being lifted by the hotel porters and placed inside the dickey of our van. Last minute photographs were being taken.

Badi Ma called me to pose with the baby outside, near the flower bed in the lawn with the hills as backdrop though we had taken hundreds of such photographs already.

He came to see us off. Taoji asked us all to pose for one last group photo with our guide. I couldn’t. How could I? How could I insult and ruin the moments of connection with a photograph that could be seen and touched? How could I let a picture try and capture all that is unsaid? How could I stifle the free wind of the wild that connected two hearts in a wild moment and entrap it through the camera?

Some things are too precious, they are always better left untouched.

“Hand me over the camera,” I announced knowing that my world will never be the same again, “I will take the picture.”

The Thief

The thief crept in stealthily while I slept and raided my world. He took away all that had ever been mine....my house, my belongings, my wallet, my car, my jewellery. If value can be traced beyond material possessions, then the thief, by masterful craft broke into the safety vault that held my dreams, my memories, my love. He usurped them all.

And as I shifted uneasily in that restless zone between wake and sleep, he wrestled with my fortune and discovered the key that opened the door to my name, my honour, my colourful trophies from moments in life. Oh how I prized them! They were my souvenirs displayed behind the glass doors of the show case of life. The thief left the glass untouched; he simply opened the door and took away the symbols that contained so many victories!

I wondered in my disturbed dreams if there was anything left, anything that the thief might have overlooked....and as I thought so, he came to me and with the passionate devotion of a lover, he stripped me one by one of all the layers of clothes that had so carefully hidden my naked self and given it the illusion of an ‘image’. With my clothes, he unravelled layers of my persona, my deepest fears, my greatest hopes, my wildest fantasies.

I wondered why I stopped dreaming. There was nothing left now. No dream to paint my sleep, no visions, no voices. There should have been a void. But the thief was a skilled expert. He filled up the entire void with an endearing feeling of peace. The peace crippled me. It humbled me. I felt incapable of panicking, though my world and I were stripped.

The thief washed away my life in one night. And when I woke up in the morning, blinking in the sunlight, I realised that the Sun was still shining in my world. And then I opened my eyes fully to see a beautiful treasure that he had left for me.

I knew then that I had traded my world for freedom. And in that freedom reigned the only love that could never be stolen, as it could never be owned. 

A Special Note of Thanks to All of You

                                                                                                                                     Mumbai,

1^st August, 2011

To My Dearest Followers,

This is a very Special Note of Thank You to all of you who have supported me from the time I picked up my pen to compose my first word in my blog. Although I do not have a mind boggling number of followers, but the quality of your encouragements through all your comments as well as emails have prompted me to send across my humble collection of short stories to a handful of reputed publishers in India. Now, 2 months later, my first collection of short stories which I have named “Strange Connections” is underway. The editing & the cover design work is going on and the earliest the book is expected to hit the market will be in December.

I would especially like to thank Legacy who inspired me to write again after a ten year break from creative writing. I have also mentioned the following people in my acknowledgements :

Drachma – For being the first to encourage me and always being my ardent reader.

Psycho Basher – For the complete and unconditional support.

Cayman – For always being there and for giving meaning to my writings.

And to all those whom I have not mentioned, every single word from you has been my inspiration to reach out & connect to a nameless stranger who knows me intimately through my writings.

Thanks for all the inspiration guys. You all are simply wonderful!

With Love,

JM 99

The Gulmohar Tree

Right in the centre of the construction site of the new five-star hotel stood a gulmohar tree. The tree was an impediment to the layout of the plans for the premise. There was no other option but to bring it down.

Over many long and laborious years the roots of the tree had slowly penetrated the earth, spreading out intuitively to suck in the life force that made the tender sapling bloom into a strong and proud tree. The roots branched out unevenly in apparently random directions but sure in the knowledge and wisdom of experience. The roots brought stability and security in the whimsical tides of fortune. It held the gulmohar tree firmly and obstinately. It prevented the tree from sailing on a raft of clouds to experience the euphoria of flight. It stopped the tree from walking away from disaster. It grounded the gulmohar tree decisively and surely to its home and its identity.

Over many a summer and monsoon and autumn, the sapling had shot up and reached for the heavens through its branches spread out to greet the call of the wild. The branches divided and subdivided to embrace the creativity unimaginable to the roots. They sang with the birds and danced with the breeze. They embodied the deepest aspirations and expressions of the soul of the tree and bore flowers of radiant, unparalleled beauty. They brought fulfilment to the gulmohar tree.

The tree weathered many a storm due to the strength of its roots and sought many an ideal due to the expanse of its branches.

The engineers of the construction site pondered upon the most effective method in bringing down the gulmohar tree. They debated whether to uproot it from its stump or to cut off the branches first. It is always a dilemma which is more painful.....the death of the life flowing through the body or the ruthless murder of the spirit of life. What can the roots support if the branches are amputated? What is security without dreams? What good are the branches when the roots are wrenched off? What are dreams without strength?

In the middle of the construction site stood a gulmohar tree; and while the engineers were busy making plans to replace the tree with the foundation of a swimming pool, the tree lived and breathed and dreamed life to its overflowing brim, blissfully unaware and unconcerned about five star hotels and profitability of business.

After all, the tree had learned that the intensity of life matters more than illusions of permanence. 

The Complete Picture

I smile.

I have a sip from my cup. Green tea with lemon and honey. Here am I, perched on the window seat of a perfect life, having a perfect cup of tea. Only thing is that the perfect life is an incomplete puzzle and I have just glimpsed the missing part that will complete it. I have just seen the complete picture. My perfect life is not perfect any more. Perfection lies in completion of the picture.

There is a key somewhere in the universe that will determine the one single move that will place the missing part in its proper place and give meaning to a truth beyond the definitions of reason. Or it may be a series of moves synchronised by a higher hand. Why do I feel that the orchestra is already set in motion? Why do I feel the inevitability of the impossible? Why do I know that what is wrong has never been more right than now?

I look outside the window beyond the lazy traffic and see a makeshift pavement tea shop. I see men from the poor walks of life...the daily labourers, the watchmen, auto drivers, the construction workers; I see them huddled together enjoying their tea , their gossip, and their mutual company. My eyes fall on a particular figure for no particular reason. He sits there on the ledge, contemplating over his tea. I see imperfection in him. I see perfection in him. I feel he is no different than what I have ever been. Does the universe hold the key for him too? Will he one day find the missing part to complete his puzzle? He should, for after all, he is same as you and me.

I feel incredibly fortunate. I have a vision. It does not belong to my life and the window seat. It belongs to the mountains and the sea and every bit of me. Maybe the vision is my life. It belongs to me. The flower that I hold and whose scent I breathe in belonged to a bush which is part of the garden that I see, that borders the walls of our compound just below my window seat. We all belong to each other, we all hold together the complete picture. The vision saved my life. I have hope. Beyond my window seat lies a pavement tea shop. Beyond imperfection, lies completion.

I cry. There are no words to describe the rhythm of the beats to which my soul is dancing. There is so much joy in those tears. There is so much longing in that joy. There is so much contentment beyond that longing. There is so much pain in that contentment. There is so much love in that pain. And there is the whole universe in that love.

I smile.