Tears of Mehndi

 The mehndi looked a tad too bright. Sunlight streaming through the windows gave an ethereal glow to the small room. She lay still, studying the intricate patterns of mehndi. All woven in narrow loops, entangled in a web of crimson orange. Her husband of a day was snoring beside her, content and happy. Bringing her palm to her nostrils, she inhaled the fragrance of henna. Her eyes closed instinctively, memories came flooding back. 

The sun beat down mercilessly on a hot April afternoon when she decided to apply some mehndi. A visit to the neighbourhood parlour was what she wished for a long time, a fetish…as she had toiled for her semesters. Dupatta tied around her cherubic face, with coolers shading her eyes, she took off on her bike. That was when she saw him. The same chocolate brown eyes bored through her jet black ones. 

Picking up speed, she evaded further scorching looks from him. His mother, Susan auntie always loved to pamper her with sweets. She had a sweet tooth and aunt knew how to pull the strings. A visit to her house always brought silent stares from him- aunt’s only son. She always felt his eyes bored into her soul, he seemed to know the deepest secrets lying in the endless abyss that she called her heart. All through the childhood years, he had been a withdrawn, yet intelligent child. The teen age raging hormones did nothing to his demeanour. She loved their companionable silence.

It was after applying the gooey mehndi did she realise she must have come walking. She kicked herself mentally for bringing her bike. As she stood on the parlor’s steps waiting for her mehndi to dry off, he came. Picking her keys from her outstretched palm, he started the bike and waited for her. Frustrated at his silence, she blew few unruly strands of hair across her face and sat behind him. 

The wind ruffled his hair as the bike rolled down the narrow alleys. She fought the urge to run her mehndi laden palms through his soft hair that glistened in the sunlight. She had been waiting almost four years now, for him to open up- to say something, anything. His looks were always clear, what she never comprehended were his words. Mumbled and crushed between breaths. He was never the talking one. The bike neared the last turn to their street and that was when she licked her dry lips and whispered in a low voice, leaning unto him- “I love you”.

What happened next was something she can never bring to remember again. All she could remember was the chaos, the smell of burnt rubber, blood and loud shrieks. It took her few minutes to register her vocal chords were straining from her shrieks. The truck had stopped finally. He lay still. No wounds. Nothing. Only a trickle of blood from his ears and another from his nose. Tears streaming down her face, she reached out to him. His eyes- they told a hundred stories. The look of love, want, desire...time went still.

She fought to blink back her tears. It has been four more years waiting for him. Everyday she dutifully visited him. He had withstood a tracheotomy, always surrounded by tubes and wires. Yet he was nothing. A vegetable. Breathing, never feeling. Suspended in a void. She talked to him in soothing tones. She told him how bright a future they would have. The children they would have. The arguments, the endearments. She laid her soul bare for him. For him to wake up one fine day from the coma and look at her with those chocolate brown eyes.

The last time she visited him was two days before. She had foolishly hoped one day he would come back. That was never to be. Susan auntie fumbled with his clothing as she arrived and she helped her dress him up. All dolled up, eyes closed, he looked handsome and full of life. She held his fingers in silence. A tear rolled down her cheek. Words failed her today. Tomorrow would be her wedding. She was leaving town soon. This ritual would stop. Should stop. 

He could see her totally broken today. She was in shambles, a solitary tear rolling down her porcelain cheek. He wished to wipe it away with his kisses. Why was she crying? She was always strong, vibrant and hyper with life.  He was hurting. How he wished he could open his eyes and talk to her...hold her hands...smell the mehndi...

Where was she? He ached to see her. Didn't she promise to see him and talk to him everyday? Was that screeching of car tires he heard? The sound died down soon and a cloak of contentment spread over him. He never wanted to wake up again. All he could now see was her palms- intricate patterns of mehndi adorning them. All he could inhale now was the alluring fragrance of mehndi.

The Red Balloons

Holding the balloons, she stared at the black overcast skies. All she could see was the gloom and pall. The last time she had seen her, the little one had waved gleefully at her, sitting on his lap.He...the man who was the hero of her dreams. The man who held her hands through those days of struggle. The man who stood by her side whenever she was down. The man who wiped away her tears of remorse and regret. Yet...who is now a total stranger. Will he turn up? She almost pulled out her hair in despair trying to think of one rational solution to the problem on hand- the starry eyed two year old baby- their baby.

When they met...

Today was the Our Lady Of Snows Festival and he was elated. Happy to the core, a beaming youth brimming with energy and love for adventure, he set foot in his best pal's house. The street was teaming with people and that is when he spotted her amid the crowd. Bargaining with the balloon seller there she stood- all of childish innocence and content writ largely on her cherubic face with baby fat still showing in her cheeks. The red saree she wore showed no justice to her tiny figure and she looked straight from a fairy tale- Alice in a red saree. He chuckled to himself and steered through the crowd to pull her braid. He loved doing that, scaring her and making her angry...he loved those two eyes go red with anger...creases forming on her forehead and wished he could kiss those trembling lips- some day. He would marry her, by God. He would convince his best pal to get the hand of his loving sister...the little red balloon lover.

Few months later...

The bus screeched to a halt and she got down. She had already called him and her searching eyes felt relief the moment she saw him. There he stood,awaiting her, his face masked and troubled. "You shouldn't have ran away like this...", he hissed under his breath and saw tears swimming in her eyes. He felt instantly sorry. " We are not so rich to support us. Nor do i have a proper job", he explained, as silent tears rolled along her cheeks. He hated to see tears in her eyes. " Tell me you don't want me. I shall find my own way", she blurted out indignant. Firebrand, he chuckled to himself. Holding her hand, looking at her eyes, all he could say was, " Come, let us go home".

Few months later...

Life had never been so terrible, she thought as she rinsed the clothes one last time before hanging them dry. Life was so miserable it could get, she wrung the clothes in angry desperation. He leaves every morning for his driving job at early mornings and comes back home late at nights, when she is half asleep. She hated the long days when she had to cook, clean and run for the bus that took her to the supermarket where she toiled twelve hours a day, standing with her legs weighing her down. There were no light in her eyes. No love in her life.

 Happiness had long left her and sleep had deprived her. She still wished to play with the red balloons. Red...reminded her of that day when she lay in a pool of red, at the landing, having hurtled down the stairs. He discovered her five hours later...unconscious and the fruit of their love lost...Pain shot through her as she shut her eyes to that painful thought and turned to face the next customer with a smile.

Few months later...

The sound of her crying baby woke her and she looked at the little angel. Contentment filled her as she hugged the little one. He rarely stayed home, toiling for bread and she respected his commitment for family. Now that she had left her job, all she had was her baby to care for and her mobile phone to play with.

Few months later...

He was their mutual friend, much younger to her husband and she welcomed his frequent visits home. Her husband never seemed to find the time for small talks and little kind gestures. Unknowingly, she was falling for this new man in her life. It was all wrong, it was all confusing, yet she was falling down. The loneliness of days and the loveless nights were getting on her nerves. She found comfort in the wrong hands and before she knew what was happening...she was astride a bus, holding her baby, with the wrong man.

Life is one cruel game. Her husband stood at the threshold of her parental home, the same place where she had played with the red balloons. After an hour long cajoling and pressurizing from her relatives, she handed over her baby to him. The look of plain hatred and anger that her husband shot her, would haunt her till her death. 

Little raindrops fell on her red balloons. She sat still, a statue bathed in the rain. Her husband had promised to come. To show her the baby. To show her what she lost. To show her how dreadful a guilt she carried. Yet, he did not come. She had waited for hours. Silent and lost. All she had now were a bunch of red balloons and a bundle of guilt. Tears streamed down her face as the rain washed them away. The red balloons drooped down, yet she clutched them tight. She might play with her girl, some day, with these red balloons...

p.s.: Read the past in red and present in black...in case you are confused

p.p.s.: This is definitely not fiction

p.p.p.s.: Had a great Valentine's Day...thank you darling L!

The Bluebell Fairy

This post has been selected by blogadda as a WOW post

 

 

 

And before I knew it, I had hit send...

 

And as the mail sent message popped up, I bit my tongue. I shouldn't have done this. But I was left with no option. Twenty years of patience and waiting and now I have spoilt all this because of a moment of indecision. Chewing my nails, I glanced at the screen refreshing the inbox. Nothing. No mails. Slowly I got up, walked to the balcony and held the ice cold railing. The huge empty land across the road stared at me back. Cold. Distant. Unloved.

 

A warm tear rolled down my cheek. Life...I remembered him at my relative's wedding. As someone who mingles happily with friends and relatives, I was almost the star of the wedding, laughing and playing, tugging at the available plaits of hairs and kanjeevarams. In my final school year, chirpy and glad, I always made heads turn. That was when she saw me, an elderly lady and by the time I knew what was happening, my fate was sealed. All my siblings got married in their teens and I was escaping the noose somehow. This time over, I was caught in the web. The myriad web of wedding and its related chains caught me. By the time I could decipher what was happening, I was the wife of a stranger who seldom smiled.

 

A stoic face sans any expression- all I could remember of him was his stony silence. My mother was interested more in probably the riyals he would shower from the Gulf rather than the love her daughter would get. He left back to the Gulf, the very next week I was declared pregnant by the doctor. I shudder even now thinking of the time when my daughter was born. The cute little bundle of joy came to this world and showed me what life was. What love was. Her first smile, her toddler steps, her first words, I was there watching her bloom into the beautiful flower she is today. Thoughts of my daughter brought a smile to my face and I watched at the rattling bells, swinging slowly in the balcony swing.

 

I tried to remember the last vacation when my husband had flown down from Gulf. When was that? Four years back? He was taken aback at the beautiful teen who came bounding from the stairs. My daughter, the little angel. I could still remember his mask slip away for one second, looking at his daughter and then he was back to his usual self- watching the non existent traffic on the road from the balcony...the same balcony. And that time when he left, I knew he left for good. With one longing look at his daughter he had turned away and walked through the gates.

 

The big rented house echoes with laughter of children and soulful music. Dance and music reverberated the empty halls and staircases. The evenings were divine and the nights...filled with agony and want. My daughter had just now called from Bangalore, wishing me her customary good night and here I sit swinging under the stars and stormy skies. Twenty years of loneliness, longing and bitterness...of nights caring for my sick daughter, of days fearing the people who lent me loans, of darkness that threatened the very bit of my soul. And here I am, at the end of the tunnel, with no light in sight.

 

I had to take that decision long back. I had the time, but never the courage. And today of all days, I found courage. The strength to say No to him. The determination to send him out of my life. The swing rolled front and back as I snuggled into it, watching the Pole star. And memories of the morning's incident came rushing back to me. I had watched the old couple who walked holding hands every early morning from the same balcony. All wrinkled and in their late 70's, they walked silent, every morning. The lady loved the blue bells that hung down from my balcony and every morning the old man plucked one of them and handed it to her. She would turn it around, look at it and place it in her basket. This was almost a ritual for both of them and for the past few days they were missing. With a pang of regret I was watching the blue bells today morning, holding my coffee mug and the old man came walking slowly.

 

 

The lady was missing and just as I thought of calling out to him, he looked up, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. Agonised, as I rushed downstairs, he had plucked the lone flower and held it tight in his shaking hands. As I kept on asking where his wife was, he ignored me totally, looked upwards, pointed at the bright blue sky and walked silently, shrugging my hands off. That was when I decided to give up on my husband. He did not need me. But I needed someone. To hold my hand. To walk along. To pluck me a bluebell. To age together. To die together.

 

Putting all my unshed tears bottled anger of decades, I drafted the shortest mail of my life. " I quit. You will be receiving the divorce notice shortly". And before I knew it, I had hit send. And had ended the loneliness of twenty four years. Twilight permeated the darkness. And I stepped down from the swing. As the first rays of the sun kissed the blue bells, I welcomed a free and radiant morning.

 

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda

The Glass Slippers

At the stroke of midnight, her train arrived. Her senses prevailed and clutching the wailing infant, she waited with bated breath . Her memories whistled past, as the train thundered plundering her senses. She could feel the heat, the hot wheels scratching the cold iron.

Like him and her. Hot and cold. Fire and ice. Two people who should have never met. Who should have never exchanged vows. She wouldn't be here, if she knew he was not destined for her. If only she knew...If only she had known...If only she understood fairy tales never happen in life. Never did she wildly imagine this would happen. A ghost of a smile escaped her lips as she remembered the first day she set eyes on him- her own Prince Charming. 

An innocent salesgirl was no match for him. The first time she saw him, he was wandering through the supermarket, his look pensive, his brows knit together in an uneasy frown. He looked almost lost. As dutiful as ever, she had walked to him and asked- " Sir, what would you like to buy?". He turned to her with a calculated cool, his eyes sizing up her slender frame. Plain appreciation filled his eyes and he let out a low whistle. She could feel blood drumming in her ears and could hear her heart beat fast. This was no ordinary man. One look at him, she knew he was rich...filthy rich. Her brain sent her warning signals which she chose to ignore. And pay she did for her mistake, with her life.

He left the shop happy, whistling and bright. His idea of waiting for his new girlfriend to finish her dance classes, at the nearby supermarket was indeed the best one he had for years.  He loved the salesgirl, she had that air of innocence around her. Huge eyes set wide apart, slender figure, petite and luscious lips, she looked angelic, even in her uniform. He started visiting the shop almost every day, hunting for trivia. Ignoring all warnings from friends, she awaited eagerly for him. 

He started wooing her, showering her with gifts. Dresses, perfumes, bags and slippers...she remembered one particular slipper that almost resembled a glass slipper. Reminded her of Cinderella. She had always imagined herself as Cinderella, since she read the fable in her school days, wishing some Prince would come for her some day. She had ignored her parents' advice, stuck to him like a nail to a magnet and ended up pregnant- one fine morning. When she announced she was pregnant, he was quite taken aback. God, he hadn't thought of that. A baby? That sounded confusing at first.

He thought a lot, spent time weighing the advantages of being 'taken' and decided to go for it. His parents had been pestering him for a daughter in law and an offspring would be an added advantage, he mused. The wedding was a fairy tale, with thousands of guests, flashy cars, glittery jewels, expensive clothes and gourmet food.All that it lacked was 'love' from him. May be he is quite busy with the wedding, she thought. May be he will be normal soon, she hoped. Everything went on a nosedive the moment they were alone. Sensing her nervousness, he held her hands and said-" I married you just to rid of the 'villain' tag. Expect nothing from me. You will be fed well, clothed and accessorized in finery, go by flashy cars. But you are never my equal. I love women. Loads and loads of them. I just want to be free. So long as you remain within your limits, we both shall be happy".

She blinked away silent tears, tried to shake her head and clear away everything like a dream. She was Cinderella. She had everything- cars, jewels, servants, money and even the glass slippers. The clock chimed twelve as he turned away from her and she stood shaking like a leaf. Pooh! Everything had vanished in a cloud of dust. She had everything, but not 'love'. She remained distant, dreaming in her own world. She hated seeing people, stayed indoors, singing softly and whispering words of love to the yet to be born little one. And when the little daughter was born, he was away partying. He was now a total stranger, who had few words for her and the little one. 

It had been one year, since she had met him. August 14...she thought, as a forlorn smile lit her face. Tomorrow...she will be free. As everyone in the country. She had gained strength. The little one's first smile had done wonders to boost her strength. 

The train rattled away as she sat near the window clutching the child. Stars lit up the night sky, clearing the darkness. A silvery moon shone from the dark clouds. She looked at the blissfully sleeping little girl in her arms- her little Cinderella. May be her little girl will own a glass slipper someday...May be the little one will find 'love' someday.

This post is part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by Blog Adda.

Love is a butterfly

One rainy day...

Rain lashed the huge banyan tree where I stood huddled. Wind howled in my ears and drowned out his words. I could not hear them, though I could see them coming...A single tear that had threatened to trickle down the long eyelashes had now turned into a free and steady stream. Hiding my face from him, I ran. So fast as my legs could carry, to the confines of my room. He took a few steps towards me, then chose wisely not to. 

The last two days had been so confusing. He had been elusive, the first I had seen him so, all these years. He kept smiling at me in the training classes, passed on curd at the hotel during lunch hour and everything else had been normal about him, or so it seemed. I noticed he was much withdrawn and aloof. I smiled at the little Jesus motif on his pen. He was never religious, I knew that. May be that was one of the reasons why I tried to remain distant from him. He talked less to everyone and maintained a careful silence whenever I was around. And i was dying to talk to him. To listen to his 'da' and watch his smile light up his eyes. To ruffle his hair and laugh at his crazy jokes. To watch the nimble fingers hold the cigarette stub. To tell him finally that i made up my mind. To tell him that our Love-Hate relationship was over. To bare my heart out in the open...

Few years back...

First day, first college, first classroom. Everything was new and fresh..the college, the class rooms. For a small town girl entering a college, i was pretty nervous, but maintained steady. The whole class turned around to watch me, the girl with a boy cut, the short stature, reed-thin frame. Feeling probing eyes, i turned my head to look straight into the most expressive eyes i had ever seen. A big friendly smile ensued and i was surrounded with warmth. By the break time, i gathered he was friendly with everyone. He came to me in long strides, his six foot frame towering over a midget like me. "Any help, you can ask me", he smiled. His smile- not just a smile, it is a flower that blooms...slowly. His small lips that open wide, revealing white teeth in contrast to the deep brown cigarette kissed lips and the smile tinkling along the little eyes with long eyelashes drooping. 

As days passed, i moved out of my shell. It was tough, fighting out for the marks, recognition from professors and participating in everything under the sun- debates, essay writing, poetry, football, athletics, quizzes. Fighting for recognition does strange things to you- you never try to perceive others around you. I was almost insane, mad for 'more'. How much ever I achieved, i was thirsty for more. It was this craze that hid something precious from me. Him! 

He waited patiently every evening for the classes to end, to walk with me till the terminus, buying me ice creams and happily chatting away about the day. He bought me roses, cared for me, followed me everywhere i went. Annoyed and irritated...that is how i felt initially. My name was not to be sullied. I was a great student, someone who was going to be the 'best'. He was a hindrance. Noting my indifference, he proposed...not once, a million times and hundreds of ways- subtly, openly, strongly. I understood, but feigned indifference. I had to complete the course, settle down in a job. Love could always wait. 

So i started pretending. Pretending to hate him. To yell at him. To make him look a fool. To alienate him from his friends. How much ever i hated him, his love simply kept growing. A single day's absence from college brought him to my home. With feverish lips and burning eyes, i could feel his love as he barged in demanding why i was not at college. His eyes changed a vivid pool of concern looking at my tired face and care spilled in his words. As he left, all i could feel was hate- i hated me for not loving him. 

Years flew fast and he remained the same, we openly showed hatred, I was fighting him at the flimsiest excuses and hiding all the love within. Nothing could move me. Not his day- long wait on a Valentine's Day, not his cards and roses. I was fighting a different battle of proving myself. Not loving someone...The last i ever saw him was on the journey back home, the last day in college. Clutching a bunch of  postal envelopes that he gave me with a long sermon on writing to him, I stood smiling. Nothing registered. I had completed graduation. All i was waiting was for a job. That stood between me and him...I shall tell him my love someday and till then, let him hate me...as much as he can.

Now...

Two years is a long time. People change. Cities change. Everything changes. Love too...I never wrote back to him. I never called him. I believed he could never hate me and his love would never change. I was naive, back then...Love can change. Hate can change. People evolve. He too had evolved. That rainy day, he had evolved...into something beautiful. A butterfly...He had found love. Someone caring for him was waiting for him back home. He had chased love amid all the hate and discovered it. I was so happy for him, elated...yet sad for me. Years have flown by, he had married his sweet heart, i had married someone real nice, landed in a job, have kids and everything in life. As i note my first grey hair, i cannot help but smile, thinking of him...All that is left of him are a bunch of postal envelopes concealed in my box a few fond memories... and this-

This post is a part of Wrote Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

As I Fall...

This post has been picked by blog adda as a WOW post!

Tring Tring...the phone rang...

 

The shrill tone echoed along the long dank corridor. Footsteps rushed to pick up the phone. Then ensued a free-for-all and finally the receiver ended up with the little guy in his white pyjamas. His mouth still wet and smudged with red cream, he yelled a loud "Hellooooooo". The lady in a black satin night gown stood beside him, her long hair tumbling down her curvy back. She looked pale and exhausted but a smile dazzlingly lit up her beautiful face. " Pappa!", exclaimed the little guy with all his might. And as a chill hand touched my shoulder, I turned and looked straight into her face...the face contrite with unshed tears and something else simmering deep inside- agony. My throat goes dry...

 

The phone rings...tring tring...The shrill tone echoes along the corridor. the smell of fresh cake being baked touched his nostrils and the little guy in white pyjamas runs towards it. So does his mother- the beautiful lady with long tresses that almost kissed her waist with her every footstep. The playful tiff  ends with the little one winning the fight and yelling a mighty "Pappa!" over the phone. This happens almost every night, as I watch them in the adjacent flat, from my fourteenth floor balcony, holding my cigar, reminiscing my non existent family. The call from the young man who is employed abroad and the two loving souls who run to talk to the man of their lives...hmmmm...

 

With a wife divorced years back and no kids to hold on to, my life is just the routine and mundane "run of the mill. All I want is a loving hand to hug me tight and call me "Pappa!". And she- the most adorable woman I've seen all my life. What kind of a man would live life apart from such love and beauty? Her husky voice when she sings to her son, her elegance in black sarees, her lovely locks of soft and wavy hair...Oh God...I am mad with want, hungry with need. It was one such dark starry night that I went knocking their door. I had heard her bedtime story being read out with warmth and the ensuing silence must have emboldened me.

 

I knocked on the door and waited with bated breath as she opened the door wide, her smile lighting up her whole face and my whole being. The smell of freshly baked cake floats around the hall as I walk behind her, adoring her long tresses and curvy back. She insists on having a coffee as I watch her moves with lust and longing. Unable to resist my feelings anymore, I pull her waist from behind. Unexpected of the sudden movement, she turns, flips and falls back with her head hitting the granite counter top. Blood gushes out as a stream...flowing freely on the kitchen floor as I watch stupefied with horror. She lies still and it takes me just two full minutes to register that she is dead...plain dead. Sweating and panting, I turn to run, as the little one in his white pyjamas stands near the kitchen door clutching his Tom teddy, his eyes wide with fear. His mouth still is wet and smudged with the red cream from his favourite cake. Shit! I try to think fast. What did he see? He shouldn't be alive...is what my head orders me.

 

" I didn't do anything", I yell, as he tries to kick himself free from my vice like grip. I grab the big Tom teddy and push the little one on the ground, smothering him. His limbs flail and try to grab something, anything...And I could reach the phone cord. Pulling it around his neck and smothering his groans with the teddy, I exert all my energy in wringing his tiny neck. His limbs loosen and finally he lies still...I run fast from the house, so fast as my legs could carry me and rest only when I reach the confines of my home.

 

I try to wet my parched lips and shriek at the top of my voice. But I can muster just a weak ahhhhh....I wrest myself free from her grip and the hollowed eyes of her little son. I finally break free, the cigar in my hand still intact. As I tumble to my death fourteen floors from my balcony, all I can see is her long tresses of hair rolling along my death and her soft husky voice reading the usual bed time story.

 

Tring Tring...the phone rang and rang and rang....

 

 

This post is a part of  Write Over the Weekend an initiative for Indian Bloggers by Blogadda.

 

Together in Love- Part 6

Story so far...

The elderly couple are in their last days- both fighting diseases and wishing to be together till the last breath. The story is recounted by the old lady- the story of her life with the incredible man she fell in love with. Their courtship is a melody by itself, the strains of a masterpiece by Bach...

Happiness...it starts as a tiny soap bubble, builds up, billows out and in a moment, bursts. The prelude to the wedding was a fairytale come true. The Prince Charming came riding his favourite white maruti omni! The lavish gifts of sarees, watch and perfumes had me hanging in mid air- suspended in time, elusive to everyone around me.

Hectic shopping, skipped breakfasts and long nights spent on the phone talking to my love- all that took its toll on me. The black circles around my eyes grew like nights on a bright summer evening. Something had to be done. A visit to the parlour might help, i thought. And a hefty chocolate bribe to the brother got me to the beautician.

Armed with wax, masks, creams and paraphernalia, the process of making me beautiful started. Only half way down the facial did i realise that i had not informed him of my visit to the parlour. I called him and started explaining where i was when it suddenly happened- i turned around and everything went blank- i passed out on the terrace of my beautician, armed with my mobile in lifeless hands.

He must have gone crazy with fear. The next moment he had called mother and lambasted her for sending me alone to the beautician. Next call was to father and by the time the car arrived with a cartload of relatives with worried faces, i was up and shining brightly. In all the hullabaloo, i forgot to call him. When i finally did on arriving home, i was almost skinned alive! For not informing him, for not taking care of my health and for not calling him when i was alright!

Shouldn't i have told him of my illness then? I wonder why i conveniently hid the fact that i was unfit for wedding then. How the doctor had warned me against getting pregnant. And how did i get into this mess called marriage? Questions that were answered in time. Answers that made me understand his love for me. I still remember that day- our visit to the family doctor, her apprehensive eyes, the pensiveness in the room and the tensed knots in his forehead.

Who wouldn't be happy to know his wife was carrying his baby? Every normal human would. But he was obviously not. Thanks to the kind doctor, who was intent on saving the baby. And i remmeber the stoic silence with which he drove me back home from the doctor. The determination with which he said he wanted to talk to my parents- alone. How nailbiting those few hours were, as i waited for my parents to arrive. How he broke the news to them calm and composed, that their daughter was an epileptic. How he took things forward from there- the regular visits to doctors around the town, the frequent injections, medicines and numerous tests. And how despite his care, i slumped in the bathroom with my unborn baby...

To be continued...
 

Together in love- 5

Story so far...

They have successfully completed their journey of life- almost. Now counting their days- she lies paralyzed and he tends to her despite his old age, this is the story of their courtship, wedding, life and love. An arranged marriage that has all the hullabaloo of an average Indian wedding, follow the story of their wedding and there after.

The fruit salad tasted just perfect. The rasam smelled awesome and i move to my room for the last dash of make up. The lemon yellow organdy saree showed me a little plump, but glowing! A bindi in the forehead and a dash of sindoor, i am ready for him. Restless, i walk the length of the house. The little brother looks rather bemused at my restlessness and gives me a sucker punch on the way to the kitchen. Mother is too busy with her cutlets to note the fight between her children.

Finally they arrive- the groom and his brother to give us the formal invite for the wedding. With a small smile, i am dismissed with all humility. The discussion continues on the church, the choir, the priests, the wedding hall and other arrangements. I sit transfixed on a chair, with my eyes and ears trained on him. All i could listen to was the musical baritone he was talking. Nothing else registered. 

As he gifted me the first saree he bought for me which attracted him when he was window shopping, i could not trust myself! Imagine, a man buys saree for his fiance without asking her choice of color or material..how unbecoming! The moment i see the fine silky fabric and my favorite beige color, i envy his selection. With a smug smile, i collect it. Do we women acknowledge our men buying us gifts? Never! It is always, it could have been better...

Invited for lunch, the duo dig in as i wait patiently at the table, serving dishes with mother. "She made it", boasts mother, serving the rasam. His face remains impassive as he tastes it. It has way too much salt only when i tasted it later. The fruit salad too went to his hands with the same- " she made it" introduction and the reaction was pretty much the same. 

Only when poor me ate it later did we find that the pine apple had turned the salad to a sour potion! After the meal disaster, it was time to check the wedding arrangements. His brother left the house with father to review them and i was left with mother, him and the little ones. "He knows you are very sweet!", he says to me as i stand baffled. He points to an ant marching defiantly from my neck to the upper torso. Peals of laughter erupt from mother. As if picking cue, she suggests we watch the engagement video in the other room. With the video on, she silently moves out of the room, pulling the little ones behind her. Brother number one gives me a mighty pinch on his way out, as i yell in pain. 

Holding his hands and watching our past, dreaming of our future...those moments were probably the happiest of my life. It took almost half an hour of cajoling and coaxing from his brother- "shall we move" anthem was sung a fifty times before the mister decided to move from my arms finally. A chaste kiss on my forehead and he is off. It takes me forever to regain my composure and wave good bye to the groom's party. 

It has always been a difficult task to wave him goodbye. Be it on one of his numerous travels abroad or the simple errand run, i find waving him bye unnerving. I try to flex my fingers and wave. They remain still, stuck to my sides. He continues spoon feeding me, his hands shaking and my mouth drawn in a stubborn line. The phone call in the morning from the children has been a huge dose of adrenaline for us both. Children...how did we ever manage to grow old with them? The boy who gulped down watch batteries and the girl who stood watching cartoon as blood oozed from her head...i smile again, this time, content.

To be continued...

Together In Love- 3

This story is a series narrating the love story of a couple. Their highs, lows, their laughter and tears. Now in their 60s, the story is recounted by the lady. Theirs was an arranged wedding, with all glitz and dreams. Their period of courtship is elaborated in the early posts. They saw each other and gave the 'aye'. Now the saga continues...

The first tear slowly rolled down with a tiny hesitation. The rest followed freely. Huge hiccups engulfed me. Crouching under the water tank, bathed in the moon light, i cry angry tears. His voice still rings in my ears- " You broke my heart, dear." Funny, i fumed. How dare he accuse me of breaking his heart? It was he who did it, in a well planned heist.

Trouble started brewing the morning when the elders started to his place to discuss 'terms' of the wedding. I had bought him two gifts- a figurine of a couple white doves in love and another- a kissing clock! The little boy and the girl dolls walked towards each other in measured steps and smooched each other every minute! Oh, so romantic, i thought. Perfect gifts- first time presents for the fiance. Both neatly packed and thrust into the hands of my little brother, i felt as if  i had pulled a coup. 

Mother had walked past him and instantly fell for his timid smile and lithe physique. She liked his trembling hands- she did recount it to me later. That was not the case for father, he hated his relatives instantly. The 'discussion' started and after much furor, they fixed the deal. One of his uncles had asked father- " Your daughter had earned so much all these years, you can give more". Duly relayed this by my brother, i was getting more anxious. When the little one said that the fiance did not take part in all this and chose to stay out, i was fuming. How dare he?

Was it not his duty to restrain his people? Did he not like me enough to marry for love rather money? I waited for the storm to ease, dust to settle down and then called him to kick up a fresh one. The moment he he said a gruff hello, i started spitfire. He waited patiently for me to yell, curse and finally say "I hate you." Did i mean it? I am not sure now. But then that was what i said. Not a word for a few moments. Eerie silence the other side and then those words- " You broke my heart, dear." With this he hung up and i stood stupefied, staring at the phone pointless. 

I refused to come down from my haunt, mother sent for me couple of times and when i did not turn up, she came upstairs to look for me. She tried to pacify her sobbing daughter and finally played the match maker, trying to explain her son in law was not at fault. Another call from her to him and finally he agreed to talk to me. After much coaxing and cajoling, i accepted his 'apologies' gratefully, for no fault of his and skipped downstairs in mad glee.

I eagerly waited for the car to arrive. All dolled up and ready, i was itching to get to our house- the venue of our betrothal. Frequent phone calls in hushed Hindi- we were both good at it, we conversed with ease while the whole household shook their heads in despair trying to decipher the " Bindaas"and " chumma dho na"! The groom and his party had already arrived and he was wondering at our hand made decorations- a flower rangoli by me, a tray of sugar with our names designed with finely chopped cherries, dangling flower arrangements that we all did the night earlier- uncles, aunts, cousins all together! 

The moment my car arrived on the threshold, i got down and ouch- dropped my mobile to the ground- clumsy as usual. As i picked it up, i heard his deep gurgling laughter. There he was, watching me from the window and laughing. I decided not to drop a thing the whole day, in front of him. With much fun, laughter and prayers, we exchanged the rings and garlands. Left to fend for ourselves a few moments, i made him search desperately for our initials hidden in the mehndi magic on my palms. He found it instantly, holding my tiny palm in his huge strong hands.

The 'paparazzi' of the day were happy shooting out tirade and when the lens man asked him to place his hands on my shoulders for a portrait, i snapped. I don't know what possessed me to say a stout "No", but regret my scrapbook misses a few intimate pictures of our first day together. After lunch, when the cars started moving away, i stood at the porch, watching intently. He never turned once towards me, was too busy organizing his people. When he finally slid into his car, he seemed too preoccupied to note me. I stood rooted, my lips trembling, waiting for him to look at me once- a glance. Just a glance. Mother was too anxious that she moved aside.

The line up started leaving. A fine drizzle from above started bathing me and tears were ready to spill out when he rolled down his window pane. With a swift movement befitting a man, he waved once, blew a kiss and the car sped past. I stood dumbstruck and mother erupted in laughter looking at my pathetic face! "Wait..you will pay for this", i swear at him. He made me a complete fool, awaiting His Majesty's orders and i was looking for an opportunity to strike back at him. The opportunity came knocking my doors, soon...

To be continued...

p.s.: Wishing the All India Strike on 20 and 21 every success.

p.p.s.: Yesterday i hit a teen in the counter. Couldn't help it as i was photographed by him in his mobile. Had to destroy his memory card too. Didn't someone tell him " I am an auntie"???

p.p.p.s.: I kind of love interacting with my daughter so much. Last week, one night when i urged her not to drink too much of water, she did it nevertheless. Irritated, i yelled- " Baby...what are you doing?" Her reply was- " Reloading my kidney, mom". Well, too much for a seven year old, i should say! My daughter...

Together in love- 2

The Church bells chimed as i knelt down. Very careful not to crumple my silk saree, i intently watch the floor, lost in a plethora of raging emotions. The business statistics answer sheet had been submitted in half an hour. I tried to imagine the look on the examiner's face when he sees almost nothing in the paper-except a few hearts and arrows, interjected with few question marks. 

A quick glance at my watch the millionth time, my cousin brother rolls his eye upward. It is almost an hour past the time they had mentioned to meet us. The evening sun was painting the Church in hues of fuschia and orange. My nerves knot in tension as i sit ramrod straight staring at the floor tiles. My uncle who had been waiting outside for the prospective groom and his brother scurries to us. Picking up the cue, i turn away. 

Footsteps fast approached us, as i looked upon the white sports shoe and lifted my eyes. Though i had already seen his picture, the man himself standing beside me was almost a dream come true. Tall, lithe, languid and vibrating with laughter- he stood bathed in the evening sun- a glorious Greek God. My heart beat palpable, i stood up and threw him a timid smile. Not that i was bowled over now, i had already fallen for the man seeing his button- up picture- hook, line and sinker.

I still remember the phone call he made to me the month before. Engrossed in my business statistics, i went dead still when mom pronounced- "here is a call for you from him". Him...the man whose picture was hidden secretly under my pillow. My books flew, my pen went for a toss and by the time i reached the phone, i was breathless. Mother held the landline, as my shaking hands picked the cordless phone. "Hello", i tried to say so timidly as possible. The voice boomed on the other side- " Hello, do you love me? Will you marry me?" No preamble, no introduction. A glimpse of his direct and honest approach. Mother erupted in raptures and i still don't remember what and how i answered him. I was just waiting for the day when we would meet, checking and rechecking my questionnaire to him!

Chest high to him, i tried to look straight at his face when he was looking the other way. The suppressed smile on his face showed he was amused- he found something funny. After the initial introductions, i scratched my aunt's palm so hard that she winced. Finally we were given the few precious minutes of 'us' time. All the issues i had planned to discuss just didn't cross my mind. I could remember nothing, my mind just went blank. 

" I will not be home like usual husbands"- was the first sentence he spoke. And smiling, i did answer- " I can never be home like the usual wife". We broke into laughter at this and i still do not remember rest of the conversation. All that i could remember was that they arranged a formal meet of elders. Unfortunately, me the clumsy girl of the entire class- rammed her two wheeler in the parapet wall, as he stood watching with mock horror in his eyes! A glimpse of what his future wife would be! The meet of elders went well, with fits of rage and laughter. They had agreed for an early wedding. I was waiting for a opportunity to meet him and God heard my prayers... How?

To be continued...

p.s.: Hope you all had a great Valentine's Day!

p.p.s.: I got through a promotion exam and will be starting my training shortly. Thank God, people of my city can now ride a train without a fight!

p.p.p.s.: Planning to buy an Italian chopper soon. Aircraft fuel might be cheaper than petrol in near future, guys! And i can always get the chopper free from Raul & Co. ;)

Together in love

This is the third time the door bell had chimed. The coo coo reverberated through the eerie hall way and I let out a silent curse. It must be the little ones from next door. Ignoring the chimes, I lay still. The ceiling fan above circulates the damp air. I love the dampness, the chill walls and the wet floors. Tiny droplets of water trickle down the window sills. My palms itch to touch the cool drops as i usually do. I try to lift my head, in vain.

Craning my neck I try to look at the rocker by the bed. He is there, as usual. His weary hands hold the scrap book. Does he ever get tired of it, I muse,  a slow smile curving my lips. The smile goes crooked, my lips twitch. Sensing my movement, he scrambles slowly to the bed, his hands still clutching the scrap book. With a stumble, he lands on the bed beside me. My husband- clumsy as usual. I smile again, the peculiar twitching now more pronounced. “ I know what you feel now”, he says, a twinkle in his eye.

                                                            ***********

The water flows in a unique pattern, marking an intricate odyssey of waves as I stand mesmerized. I am married! The sensation brings queasiness to my stomach. My insides thrum with energy that I never experienced before. Standing before the vanity mirror inn the bath, nervous, I tie and untie my hair. Wham. The light goes out. Power outage. 

As I struggle to train my eyes in the darkness, there comes a lone light through the door crevices. “ Don’t worry. Just a power outage. I have a candle for you”, comes his gruff voice. The tiny flicker radiates a warmth in the tiny room. Like him- warm, soothing and tranquil. Dressed up, as I come into the chilly room cooled by the sea breeze, he stands by the window sill. Towering six feet, clad in off white pajamas, he stands pensive watching the starry skies.

As instructed by mother, I light the diya as he stands watching me intently. Folding my hands, I murmur a small prayer as he watches astonishingly at me. Known to be someone who is not so conservative, I myself wonder why I ever listened to my mother. He motions to me to sit on the bed as we both fumble. Long lazy hours pass by as we murmur in soft voices, holding hands. I don't even have an inkling of what we said. May be those were promises- to live and die, together. A new start to a new life of togetherness, I think with glee, unaware of what the future has in store for us.

The light comes on and I try to focus on the face before me in vain. As the light fades again, all I can grasp is the whisper- “ It is a boy”. I want to sleep. Slip into oblivion. Hide in the darkness. But they wouldn’t let me. “ Speak…speak to him”, mother’s voice booms and I hate to listen to her. The mobile thrust in my hand trembles as his voice booms- “ Darling, how are you? I don’t want to talk more and disturb you. Take rest, baby. Love you.” Unable to decipher a thing, I close my eyes, aghast and tired. Love…such an amazing word….Yes, i love him- the husband!

To be continued...

p.s.: This story is total fiction and the characters have no resemblance to anyone living or dead :P

p.p.s.: This story series is my Valentine gift to all my readers in love.

p.p.p.s.: I am in love- hopeless romantic, that i am!

Queen Of Spades- Part 6

The smell of fresh hay and hushed whispers of men resounded through the Royal Stable. Kuyili was breathless as she sprinted towards Chinna Marudhu who was petting his black stallion. " I need to talk to you", she sounded so desperate and Chinna Marudhu viewed the stable. The men had stopped their whispers. All eyes focused on her. He hated it when she came like this, spoiling his work. He knew how Periya Marudhu's eyes lighted up on seeing her, how he threw furtive glances at her and how he sought flimsy excuses to enter the maids' quarters to look at her. Kuyili's unwarranted attention on him was unnerving. He despised her. Hated her. Loved her!

He nodded his head and taking his cue, she rushed to the Royal orchard nearby. He followed suit and hissed, " Don't you ever dare disturb me when at work. Why don't you seek Periya Marudhu if the issue is so important?" Kuyili looked visibly offended, she cringed. " I looked for him in the stables. He is away on some errand. Listen, we shall fight later. Something important has come up", she said. " Rumors are doing the rounds in maids' quarters. King Muthu had invited Poonguzhali to his Harem and she is on her way, dolled up as a bride!" Chinna Marudhu felt his head reeling and the world spinning. How could he? He loved Velu Nachi so much. That wretched Royal blood! He thinks he could  just walk away? How could he take on a mistress when the Queen herself was nursing a new- born?

"There comes father"- oil painting Raja Ravi varma- courtesy cyberkerala.net

" Does the Queen know?", he asked, his voice pained. " No, i intend to inform her now", she replied. He stood rooted, contemplating what to do next. Sending a message to Ramnad Palace would be of no use, the messenger would reach there in two days time. Something had to be done, fast. " Come, let us meet the Queen", he clipped. Both of them were just in time to see the King entering Velu Nachi's chamber. Puzzled, they decided to wait for the Queen. Periya Marudhu had whiff of the rumor and he too raced to Velu Nachi's chamber only to stare silently at the other two friends waiting outside.  A few moments of tense silence gripped them and they saw King Muthuvaduganathan leaving the chamber. 

All the three pounced inside the room to find the Queen seated by the window,   her face devoid of any expression, totally masked. " Don't you worry, Queen. I shall behead that vile serpent of a woman", Chinna Marudhu thundered, his face red with fury. " Don't you dare!", yelled Periya Marudhu. " Let us see what plan the Queen has devised." Silence. She stood up slowly, her eyes never wavering from the horizon extended far. " If the King prefers a maid over me, so be it. I wish this matter is left as such. If i need any help, i would definitely call my trusted friends". With these words, she nodded her head towards the door. Unable to discuss anymore, the trio marched out. Velu Nachi remained shut indoors for many more weeks. The King of Ramnad visited the Sivagangai Queen, but was helpless to do anything, against his daughter's wishes.

Poongodi continued to receive the unwavering attention of the King, yet he forbade her from attending the Royal Court. It was here did Velu Nachi find her solace. She was an ardent orator, an able administrator and a versatile woman. Muthu liked her long debates with courtiers, her vision for development, her affinity to the French travelers and Portuguese traders. It gave him immense pleasure to watch her at Court, as she had totally shut him out from her private chamber. His 'romance' with Poongodi did wear off soon, as she gave birth to a girl child. 

"Looking into the mirror"- Raja Ravivarma- courtesy cyberkerala.net

Velu Nachi took great care of her toddler, spending every moment alive, with the little one. As years passed, the little one grew brave and valiant- Vellachi Nachiyar, the Princess of Sivagangai. Unable to bear the loneliness, Velu Nachi adopted a girl child, named her Udaiyal and brought her up as her own, much to the chagrin of the King. Her affinity to the French lead King Muthuvaduganathar to invite the French Generals for know-how on warfare. The Sivagangai army learnt to make guns, gun powder and were building the fort with mortars and shells. The soldiers used to swords and valaris learnt the trick of handling the guns and mortars from the French. 

News of the French interests in Sivagangai went to the notice of one man who vowed to fight the French till his last breath- Nawab of Arcot, Muhammad Ali Khan. He had planned revenge on the French who killed his grandfather Anwaruddin Muhammad Khan in a fierce battle.  His father Chanda Sahib ruled for a very short span under the French, losing crores in taxes to them. Hyder Ali of Mysore was too big a threat to ignore and Muhammad Ali sought the help of the British, who in turn helped him regain the Throne from the French. 

Death of Nawab of Arcot- Anwaruddin Muhammed Khan in battle against French
Painting by Paul Philipoteaux

Unaware that the British eyes were roving over his Kingdom, King Muthuvaduganathar entertained the French, inviting the wrath of the British and the Nawab of Arcot. The British along with the Nawab were planning a mid day raid on Kalaiyarkoil Temple of Sivagangai.The King of Sivagangai walked straight into their traps with Poongodi and his daughter from her.

To be continued...