|| H O M E ||

The phone rang and with little interest he received it. Who calls when I'm busy? 
"Hello.", he quipped.
"Busy?", asked the voice from the other end.
"Oh sweetheart! I'm never busy for you."
"Is that so?', laughed the voice, a naughty little laugh.
"You doubt?"
"Come home early today."
"Why?"
"I have a cute little gift for you."
"Darling, I'm on my way.", he hung up smiling to himself.
Buttoning his suit, he called a few of his workers and instructed them about the day's work and left for home. He was a famous business tycoon, Mr. Ujaan Chaterjee, who dealt in diamonds and lived in Mumbai, in a huge mansion with his beautiful wife Mrs. Hemlata Chaterjee.
He had met Hemlata when she was doing her graduation in English Literature from Jadavpur University and he had visited Kolkata for a month's vacation. Hemlata's best friend was his sister, Mitali Chaterjee. It so happened that the friendship between these two strangers took a different road and before Hemlata could become a graduate, she was married off to Mr. Chaterjee and became Mrs. Hemlata Chaterjee. She traveled to Mumbai on the night of her reception and thus began her new life as Mr. Chaterjee's lawful wife. Though she was eight years his junior, they were the happiest couple among all of Mr. Chaterjee's friends. Mr.  Chaterjee gave her every happiness that he could and she in return never once complained of having to leave her education incomplete. Instead, she kept the house and made it a home . She cooked delicious Bengali cuisine, much to her husband's delight and Mr. Chaterjee got back the feel that he had missed for years. She decorated the house with her paintings and it was Mr. Chaterjee who felt proud when visitors complimented his talented young wife.
Mr. Chaterjee was a workaholic and worked every minute of the day, but he was always free for his Hem. There was also a slight feeling of insecurity in his heart as Hem was a pure bong beauty, a rare sight for all Bengalis living in Mumbai and he could never trust his bachelor friends. He was a short tempered man and never really understood Hem's obsession over books. While he was always loud and bursting, Hem was sophisticated and silent. Despite all their differences, Hem and Ujaan loved each other with everything.

That evening when Mr. |Chaterjee was driving back home, he kept on wondering what could that cute gift be. Maybe she has baked little cupcakes for me... or maybe she had ordered something for me and it has arrived... Mr. Chaterjee could never think of anything that was not materialistic.

He parked the car in front of the house and got off, softly whistling to himself. "Hem!", he called out as he opened the door, "I'm home Love".
Hem's voice came from the first floor and he ran up the stairs while unbuttoning his suit. There in their bedroom, sat Hem with a little baby boy on her lap. The bed was covered with toys and little baby clothes were spread on the other side of the bed. Hem smiled looking up at him as he stood beside her in bewilderment. "Here, hold him. This is your son Mr. Chaterjee.", she said shyly.
He continued standing with his hands in his pockets. A few seconds later, he replied,"My son?"
"Yes. Take him in your arms."
"Wait Hem. Who is he?"
"He is your son, Ishaan Chaterjee."
"What are you saying? From where did you get this baby?"
"Actually, I had told you about the old lady who stays in that small house beside the grocery store."
"Whom you've been meeting every week, that lady?"
"Yeah. I had also mentioned his grandson... she lives with her five month old grandson. That her son and daughter-in-law had died in a car accident."
"Well yeah."
"Unfortunately, she died last night of a sudden heart attack and her neighbors found in her diary that she had written...", she broke down.
"Written what Hem?", he asked after comforting her into silence.
"That after she died, her little boy would be looked after by us as she had no other family. In fact I was the one who had promised her that she needn't worry of her old age as we would always look after her boy if she left the world. And so she had written down in her diary. And honestly Ujaan, what would have happened to this little baby if I hadn't been there?"
"He would have gone to an orphanage like all other orphans in the world."
"But we are there. And I have always loved him as my own son. So I have brought him here. He is our son now. We will call him Ishaan. We will provide the evidence and get his name changed. And our family will be complete Ujaan! We'll become parents. In fact we already have. Isn't this a blessing?"
"Not at all."
"Ujaan?
"Adopting a baby? That too of some random lady? I mean... loving someone else's child is not my thing. I can't love someone who is not my own"
"Believe him to be our own Ujaan. It's not necessary that only blood relations are our own. People who genuinely care for us are own. They might or might not be related by blood Ujaan, but that hardly matters."
"It does. I cannot accept someone else's child."
"But I thought you would also like a little baby in the house."
"Of course I would like but not someone else's child. I wanted a child of our own and..."
"But you know we can't have a child of our own."
"I know dear but we are okay without a child as well."
"No Ujaan, No. We are not okay. This house is so big and after you leave every morning I'm the only soul in the house. It comes to swallow me. The loneliness haunts. It's frustrating!! Plus, once I get my motherhood fulfilled, I'll have no more complaints against life."
"But darling I'm there for you always. And, how can any random kid fulfill your motherhood?"
"No Ujaan. You are always in your office. Till late into the night. So many nights I fall asleep on the sofa waiting for you. And, he can. He might be a random kid but he is a kid. And every kid can fulfill parenthood. All he needs is love"
"Wait. I'm working always but that's solely for you. I work so hard only for you."
"How is that?"
"If I don't work hard then how will I get you those expensive gifts that I bring for you?"
"I never wanted gifts. All I wanted was companionship. But you were always busy. Yet I never complained. I understood your pressure being a reputed businessman. But you? Even after we lost the child, you kept busy with your product launch. Even then you couldn't spend time with me. You could never see the pain in my eyes, never feel the loneliness.", tears built at the edges of her eyes again...
"Hem, even I had lost the child. I also went through the same pain."
"But you had your business and product launch and meetings and tours. You had your way out of the pain, but I suffered each day of the last one year and I was waiting for you to one day come and hold my hand and say that you would share my grief, reduce my emptiness. But you didn't Ujaan. And yet I kept quite because I loved you. I still had faith in you..."
"Hem, I do love you. I love you a lot..."
"No you don't."
"Oh don't say that my dear. I'm ready to do everything for you..."
"Then accept our Ishaan.", Hem demanded, "or else I'll leave for Calcutta."
"No no wait. Hem, don't go away. Okay, this boy can stay in this house but please I can't be his father."
"Ujaan?!", cried Hem aghast.
"No Hem.", he cut her, "I have never been able to understand your thoughts and I still don't but I respect them. So you too respect my feelings and keep this boy away from me. I'll go to the court and complete the legal proceedings but I can't father him. I can't act like his father. No. And you will not force me. I'm going to my office. Bye."
He drove off at full speed.

Though Mr. Chaterjee couldn't tolerate the boy, Hem found her lost identity as a mother and lived rosy days with her little Ishaan. Every night they fell asleep reading children's bedtime stories and during breakfast, after Mr. Chaterjee had left, they would read fairy tales. Hem taught him to paint and play the harmonium. At a very young age little Ishaan had learnt a lot of creative arts from his mother and was slowly becoming a bookworm. Mornings were his favourite time of the day when he would go about the house holding the end of his mother's saree and hear stories about kings and queens and battles and heroic victories. After Hem would finish cooking, they would sit with pencils and crayons and paint bright pictures of mountains, trees and villages. They would also practice sargam on the harmonium and when Ishaan grew up a little, maybe five years of age, Hem started teaching him Tagore's songs.
Mr. Chaterjee's return marked the end of his happy hours. He always snapped at the little boy and deliberately kept Hem away from him. Every time Ishaan called out "Baba", Mr. Chaterjee would shout the house down with his booming voice and harsh words.
"I'm not you baba haven't I told you? Never call me baba again."
"But then what will I call you?"
"Nothing. Don't call me anything. Just don't call me ever."

Ishaan would run weeping, into Hem's arm and kissing him gently she would wipe the tears off his dark innocent eyes. Every time Ishaan ran to welcome him when he returned from work, he would be pushed away with utter ignorance. Hem could never approve of such behaviour towards her child. She would speak up and it would result in heated arguments between the once peaceful couple. But she couldn't do anything else because she knew that Mr. Chaterjee was the financial pillar of their lives. And she couldn't dream of being a single parent with incomplete education and living in India.
Innocent as Ishaan was he would still run to Mr. Chaterjee every evening and be pushed aside. He would still innocently call him "baba" and be shouted at.

Later that year, when Mr. Chaterjee returned from one of his business tours, Ishaan leaped with joy upon his arrival. "I will see baba after one whole week Maa. I'm so happy!", he told Hem.
How I wish he too would be so happy. But alas! Thought Hem.

That night, Mr. Chaterjee was emptying his trolley and showing Hem the gifts he had got for her when Ishaan came jumping with excitement.
"What have you brought for me?"
"Go away boy."
"But baba, my gift?"
"There's no gift for you and I'm not your baba.", he burst out, and left the room with a file in his hand. He went downstairs to sit with his work again and tried to calm down. How he hated it when Ishaan called him baba. 

Back in the room, a crying Ishaan was comforted by his ever loving mother and sitting on her lap finally managed a smile after Hem had given him lot's of hugs and kisses.
"Baba doesn't love me at all, isn't it?"
"No my dear. That's not true."
"Then why does he always scold me?"
"Fathers always scold their child because they love them a lot."
"But then why didn't he bring me any gift?"
"Because he is planning a surprise for you."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll go and give him a big good night kiss right now.", and saying so, he ran out of the room and down the stairs calling ecstatically, "BABAAAA!!!"
Hem ran behind him to stop him. She knew that her husband would lose all his cool once again he hears a "baba" from Ishaan.

Down in the hall Mr. Chaterjee was holding a cup of coffee on one hand and clutching some important papers in the other, going through the contract papers of the next big deal. As Ishaan plunged into him the coffee spilled over all the contract papers and everything was spoiled. even his suit was coffee stained and for Mr. Chaterjee, this was the limit. He slapped him hard across the face.

As Hem spent that night comforting an upset Ishann, Mr. Chaterjee sat fuming in the hall and made up his mind of sending Ishaan to a boarding school. Next morning he announced his decision and left Hem shocked. It didn't affect him and he informed that Ishaan would be sent away in a week.
"He is too small to stay in a boarding school and he has never been without me."
"I don't want to hear of anything. I've had enough of his nonsense and he is going to a boarding school and that's final."
"He can't do anything on his own. He needs me Ujaan."
"That's even better. He'll learn everything."
"No Ujaan please. I'll not be able to live without him."
"You did before he came so you can now also."
"No Ujaan please!"
"It's just a matter of habit."
"Ujaan no!"
"My decision is final."
"Please Ujaan."
"Stop it Hem."
"Ujaan please.", she pleaded, but Mr. Chaterjee turned deaf ears.

After a few days he drove him to his school. While leaving the house Ishaan made many requests but it seemed that Mr. Chaterjee had become a cold-hearted monster. Ishann cried for two days without a pause and was down with fever, yet Mr. Chaterjee wasn't moved.
Before leaving the house, he turned back once and shouted with a shivering voice that made Hem feel the shudders down her spine.
"Even you have stopped loving me Maa. Even you have stopped loving me!"
 Ishaan sat crying in the car and pleading to him in the most innocent way possible.
"I'll not call you baba, Promise. Please don't send me away."
"I love you baba. Please let me stay with you and maa."
"Sorry baba. No baba. Please!"
"I don't want to go, baba please!!"

And with an emotionless face he dropped him off at the school.

Back at home, Hem cried to sleep every night and hardly spoke a word to Mr. Chaterjee when he returned. They ate in silence and the silence deepened with each day.

"See, recover from the depression Hem. That boy will come back during his holidays."
"But until then? What will I live with? Can you tell me? for whom will I worry and whom will I hover over? Whom will I teach to paint and to sing? Whom will I read stories to? Whom will I share my loneliness with? Once again Ujaan, once again you have filled my life with emptiness. Once again I have become all alone. There's no one with me. No one!"
"Hem..."
"Ujaan, you never understood my loneliness. Never! You always took my feelings for granted. Every time you hurt Ishaan, I wept seeing his painful eyes. And that day when you slapped him, it was me who felt the blow. I'm his mother Ujaan. You cannot separate me from my child. And the day you sent him away, you lost me too. But you cannot understand anything because I'm still here. But one day you will. One day you will feel how loneliness hurts. One day you will."

                                                                            ***

A few months later, he received a call in his office that Hem had met with an accident. He rushed to the hospital with a palpitating heart. Upon his arrival, he was notified about her death. Hem's absence left him devastated and all alone. Ishaan came and left without a word. He cried silently in his room hugging his mother's picture. Mr. Chaterjee watched him from a distance, sometimes tried to talk with him, but his ego came his way. The day Ishaan left for his school, Mr. Chaterjee silently wished that once Ishaan would turn back and call him "baba". But Ishaan left without a word.

After Ishaan's departure Mr. Chaterjee felt broken to bits. He was lost in a world which he couldn't fathom. He returned from work to an empty house. He had no one to welcome him. No one came running into his arms. For the very first time in all these years, he felt the true value of companionship. He missed Ishaan. He went to his room and ran his fingers through his books and his belongings. He hugged Ishaan's photo and cried incessantly.

Hem was correct...no gift, no riches can substitute the joy that a child gives... no jewelery can fill the emptiness in one's life... Hem had been so alone... Oh!

He missed Hem and more than the loneliness, a father's guilt of neglecting his son, haunted him. He became restless without his boy and the constant worry of his well being troubled him. He lost sleep and appetite until one day he realised that he needed Ishaan... he needed Ishaan because he loved him, he depended on him, he was his father.

The next day he drove to his school and picked up Ishaan in his arms. Ishaan was surprised and exclaimed, "Baba?"
Mr. Chaterjee's heart filled with joy. He hugged him and kissed him and tears formed at the edges of his eyes. With little fingers, Ishaan wiped his face and Mr. Chaterjee said, "Come home son. It's incomplete without you."
"No.", cried Ishaan, "You'll scold me always."
He leapt off his arms and started walking towards his class. Fighting back his tears Mr. Chaterjee turned around and started walking out of the corridor when suddenly he felt a soft tug at his left thumb. He looked around and Ishhan asked him, "Will you let me call you baba?'
"Yes my dear.", said Mr. Chaterjee.
"And will feed me everyday?"
"Definitely son."
"And will you play with me, like maa did?"
"Anytime you want.", he smiled through his tears.
"I love you baba.", Ishaan smiled innocently, his deep, dark eyes brightening up.

Mr. Chaterjee hugged his little son tightly, vowing to love him forever and deep down his heart, silently thanked Hem for keeping back her love for him in the form of their son, Ishaan.

Moonlight Sonata

It was a moonlit night as I lay in bed listening to Beethoven's 'Moonight Sonata', the wind blowing through my hair. I sit beside the window and gaze at the moon.  It's full moon today but for the first time I decide not to write on the moon's eternal beauty but the story that for long I had kept hidden in my heart. The story that changed my life...

Two scores ago.

I was sitting beside the window listening to the 'Moonlight Sonata' on a full moon night with the collection of 'Lucy Poems' in my hand. I was amazed by the love and companionship Wordsworth gifted Lucy Gray. She was one lucky woman I thought to myself. I wanted someone to share my words with... someone who would be as full of words as I am. A gush of wind blew my hair and as I was busy brushing the hair strands off my face as I had no one else to do it for me, I noticed that the newspaper lay on the floor. I leaned on my bed to reach for it and that was when my eyes caught the advertisement given by a person who was as crazy as I am... or let me put it in a different way... as literary as I am...

I was a small paragraph that narrated his need of someone who was interested in being his friend through letters and not the social networking sites. I read it twice or thrice to actually believe that a person in the twenty-first century was craving a pen friend. It excited me like nothing else had in the past few days and I immediately sat down to compose my very first letter that I would post. I head only written letters in the English Grammar classes in school but was never priviledged enough to write it, fold it neatly, seal it in an envelope and post it. And of course I never waited for any reply so eagerly.

This is what I wrote:

Amar,

           Maybe I should formally begin this letter as it's the first time we're giving ourselves chance to communicate with each other. But on the hind side, our objective is to become friends and formality has never pulled any person close. I'm in a dilemma at present on my way of communicating so maybe I'm just going to let my thoughts flow. 

            It's the 21'st century and no one today makes pen-friends. Well... maybe few people like us do but I've never come across any until I bumped into your words in the magazine that day. I loved your way of publicizing your need. It was creative and it completed its job of letting people know what you require. 

                                        "I'm in desperate search of a companion who is as filled to the brim with words as I am and is willing to freeze the moments hence in pen and paper. A likely soul is most welcome to pick up the pen and embark on a written journey with me."

It read exactly like this and I cannot tell you how happy I felt upon reading this. Yes, I am filled to the brim with words, not as much as you are but a lot more than you perhaps. I'm overflowing. Would you also like to be a platter to accumulate all my words and prevent them from getting lost?

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               -Aayat.

I had written and re-written this letter a dozen times before posting it. It was 3:00 a.m. in the morning when I retired to a little slumber and was up by six that day to post it. I slid it through that narrow cut on the red and black painted, oval shaped container containing lots of official and boring letters and it gave me a weird satisfaction thinking that it was only my letter that had some emotions associated with it... some literary value... something that had a binding force...

I checked my letter box every morning before leaving for college and every evening when I returned. Many a rosy hour had I spent imagining what the reply would read like. It was exactly on the next full moon night when I returned from college and slid my fingers into the letter box that my heart skipped a rhythm as my fingers tenderly touched something. With nimble fingers clutching the envelope and a silent little prayer up to Jesus I pulled it out. It was the REPLY!

I ran to my room upstairs and unfolded the paper with a wildly beating heart. I ran my fingers through the letter and felt it. I smelled it and breathed it in. It was the first time in my life that someone had written something to me… only to me… someone had actually taken time to write for me… It felt so special!

Thus began a journey filled with words and penned down in the letters that travelled long distances only to make two hearts feel like they had never felt before. I waited with the same eagerness every time I posted a new letter and spent hours in the library composing a possible reply for the next time. Added to my window side reading collection with Lucy Gray were our letters. I felt blessed when I saw I could communicate by using a pen and a paper and not the internet. I didn’t have to depend on the network for connection. We were always connected.

Amar became an integral part of my life in a matter of a few letters and some words with lots of feelings. He told me that he had started listening to Beethoven at my recommendation and I had started enjoying the tunes of Mozart. I also thought of Tennyson a bit more than I had previously done while he informed me how he admired Wordsworth’s love for Lucy. Our horizons expanded with each letter and life became a bit more beautiful each time we found an envelope in our letter boxes.

“Aayat, isn’t it strange that so strong a connection can be formed by letters? I find myself waiting for your letter like I never waited for my job interview even. It’s weird how I feel such strong companionship with a person I have never beheld before my eyes. But I still know how you look like. I know how the edges of your eyes are and the curves of your lips. I can see the strands of your hair fall across your face. I can see the earrings dangling from your ears.

It is all so different and strange. But you know what’s even stranger? I hear you speak to me softly in my ears when I read your letters.

Maybe your voice travels from afar and reaches me.

I believe… I strongly believe that when two hearts are so connected, no distance matters. I can hear you from wherever I am. And I know you can hear me too. Can’t you?”

This was one letter that touched my soul. It felt me and I felt it. It was so endearing and so beautiful! He knew it well that even I heard him in each of his letters.

My library hours were spent in reading and composing letters. Coincidentally, it so happened that, mostly our letters reached each other on full moon nights. I have always liked the full moon. But that one chapter in my life has taught me to love it.

“Not only us, the moon also waits for us to receive our most prized possessions. I’m sure the moon loves us and our friendship more than we do. You know Amar, that apart from us, the moon is the sole witness to the love that we share. We are mortals and one day our letters will stop.

 But we will still go on. We will be immortal till the time the world sees a full moon night.”

Every full moon night gave me a joy beyond expression. I lay in bed glancing at the moon and listening to Beethoven; often reading his letters and played at the back of my mind the evergreen romance of Wordsworth and Lucy. A full moon night always meant the ‘Moonlight Sonata’ and his handsome voice travelling from afar. Beethoven’s music and his voice were a combination that created magic!

I smiled to myself and hummed Mozart in the shower. Sometimes I even saw Wordsworth walking around. I believed I was going crazy and I was too joyful to remember that such pure and effortless happiness is often short-lived.

“You know what happened yesterday? I was reading Wordsworth in the corridor and one senior professor of the English department noticed me. He was surprised to find out that I, being a non-literature student was reading literature. He has offered to give two hours of extra class after college on anything that I would like to learn in literature. I was overjoyed.

I thought a lot the whole evening and decided to learn the philosophies of Romanticism. The philosophies which had driven Wordsworth to write those magical words and capture my heart forever.

He was overjoyed to know that I am interested not only in literature but also the literary movements that had inspired the writers to create such magic. My class begins from next week and I will let you know each and every detail of this new adventure I have embarked upon.”

I shared each and every story of my life with Amar this way. Each special story became even more special every time I wrote it down to send it to him. Such was our bond. We celebrated the arrival of every letter and spent the evenings with Beethoven  and Wordsworth mostly sometimes accompanied by Mozart and Browning. It was upon our letters that we both decided to start reading the works of Sylvia Plath and “A Mad Girl’s Love Song”  became our favourite.

We also composed poetries over our letters and wherever we got stuck, our creation was rescued by the other.

“Amar,

            I had my first class on Romanticism yesterday. It blew my mind. He was really impressed by seeing my grasp over the language and my interest in the subject. I felt blessed to be able to study with him. He is a very knowledgeable person. He taught me a lot and I felt as if I was living in a dream.

Let’s do something a bit more literary.

“How magical would it be!

If with raindrops the moon I could see.

If peacocks could dance in the moonlight too,

If I could sail forever in the oceans, blue.

If stories could build over coffee,

If poetry could come like fruits on trees…”

Amar, be my partner in completing the rest of the lines?

                                                                                                                                  Yours,

Aayat.”

Exactly on the next full moon night our creation was completed. As the moon smiled through my window, I unfolded the white sheet and read the words.

“Aayat,

           

“If letters could sound

In tunes and rhythms

If eyes could spell out words,

If  heart could escape the grasp of minutes,

And time not be the sword.

If souls could flee,

The clutches of death,

And live forever on…

If dreams could be yours,

And eyes be mine,

And hearts beat on and on…”

Forever your partner to complete every incomplete line.

Yours,

Amar.

I fell in love that day.

The moon smiled at me and I loved him more and more. Finally I mustered up the courage to write to him… to put my feelings in words so that we could freeze them forever.

On the next full moon night, everything changed. I never wanted to look at the full moon again and even stopped reading Wordsworth.

I opened his letter only to glance at the words that turned my emotions into a joke. I had remained just his friend despite all the poems and music. I could feel with what heavy heart he must have written that he could not tie the knot with me to make me his forever, but I felt drifting away from him. He knew me well and guessed that I would not write back to him and he told me that he would remember me as his friend for the rest of his remaining days.

Six months passed by and no more letters came. Neither did I post anymore letters again. But nevertheless I didn’t stop writing to him. I wrote a letter every full moon night and kept them to myself. I saw the full moon every time it came but it never smiled again. The ‘Moonlight Sonata’ played in my room but it failed to make me feel… until one day the last letter arrived…

I prayed to Jesus for one meeting with Amar… for his well being and happiness… but I didn’t know that something terrible was waiting for me. It was my younger brother who noticed a letter in the letter box and gave it to me saying that it was from ‘Amar’. I didn’t believe him and went about my work that day. When the sun set that evening and I was walking down the road by the brook that I suddenly felt the unstoppable urge to read that letter. I reached for my room and saw the envelope on my table.

It was from Amar. I looked out of the window and the full moon smiled at me.

“Aayat,

If memories could come again,

And touch our souls like the rain.

If time could stop still,

And eternity we could feel.

And know where dreams come from…

If I could freeze our moments,

And change my end,

And rise again like the sun…

My dear, my heart has stopped,

But still does love

And in yours will it go on….

Yours,

Amar.”

I excitedly sat down to write the next poem for him and suddenly the reality struck.

“My dear, my heart has stopped,

But still does love,

And in yours will it go on…”

It dawned on me why he didn’t want to bind me in marriage and make me his forever. Because he was dying. He knew he wouldn’t live to see a forever with me. But he kept back his love and his heart beating in me.

I received a letter from his friend on the next full moon night who informed me that Amar was terminally ill. He had confided his love in him and said that I had always been his and no death can separate us. He had composed that last letter on his death bed and died with all our letters beside him.

I cried. I cried my heart out. But strangely a smile flickered at the corner of my lips. The moon smiled through the window, Beethoven felt my pain and I heard Amar sing to me…

“If souls could flee

The clutches of death

And live forever on…

If dreams could be yours,

And eyes be mine,

And hearts beat on and on…””

                                                                                                                       -Reva.

Petrichor

It generally doesn't rain on February but for some reason it is raining today ever since I woke up at 5 a.m. this morning. Perhaps even nature has felt my pain and is crying with me, trying to escape the cruelties of life... Maybe... Maybe not... I don't know...

A lot of memories.. the best memories of my life had been made and coloured under the beautiful drops of rain or on calm and soothing rainy days. These memories, I know, will never be recreated again... it's my hard luck. But I know that I have to live with it. 

Today when I looked out of the window and felt the rain drops, a string of memories came rushing back. We had began our journey under the rain. I still clearly remember that day when I was running down the street with my mother shouting behind me to prevent me getting drenched in the rain. But I've always been a crazy lover of rains. No one can stop me from feeling one with rains... It's the most beautiful creation of nature... It made me meet the most beautiful and wonderful person I've ever known... It gave me so many occasions to write poetry on... It gave me fulfillment.. And when it stops raining and the wet soil just fills the soul... Petrichor!

I was running down the empty street in utter delight when I saw him sitting in a bus stand and scribbling something down in a small black diary. Beside him was kept a guitar. I was curious to get to know him so I went and sat down there and waited in silence for him to finish putting his thoughts in words. He got stuck after a while so I peeped into  his diary and read his lines:

"My heart was aching when the rain kissed me,

And I was struck by the eternal beauty."

I sat for two minutes while he chewed his pen trying to construct the next line. He couldn't get it and I felt the dire need of helping him. Not being able to construct a line is such a deep pain and I could really feel his breaking heart. 

"And I felt that my happiness could't have been more,

As I breathed in the Petrichor.", I said with a smile. 

He looked at me for a second and then hurriedly wrote down the lines and still glancing at the page asked for my name. "Reva.",I said. 

He wrote below the lines '-By Reva and Omair'. 

He looked up and smiled at me and extending his hand said "Friends?"

"Friends.", I smiled. 

Our friendship began on this note. That day however I was not sure if we could continue being friends because I felt that maybe I would never meet him again. But two days later we again met in the library searching for 'Wordsworth's collection of poems'. We began searching together and found it and with a joyous heart sat reading it under a shady tree. We discovered that we had both read them several times before and could very well recite them, feel them together. An hour into this we closed it and started talking. I suddenly remembered that we hadn't thought of any title for the poem we had written that day. 

"Omair, what about the title of the poem we composed together?"

"I couldn't come up with any suitable title."

"Let's both think now."

"Yeah sounds good."

A few minutes went by and we quipped in unison "Petrichor."

We exchanged phone numbers that day and realised that we stay only two blocks away from each other and visit the library twice a week on the same day, listen to same music every night. Though we had each other's phone numbers we hardly exchanged words over phone or text messages. Instead we wrote each other letters and put in the letter box of each other's houses. The smell and feel of letters is so refreshing and soothing that it just rejuvenates you even when you're at your worst. I loved to check the letter box every morning and taking the white little envelope to my room, opening it, unfolding the sheet put inside and running my hands through the words and reading them. It's so different... so beautiful..

We met in the library on Sundays and Wednesdays in the evenings. On Saturday mornings we would go to the usually deserted place on the mountains and read poetry together. One fine Saturday when it was raining very heavily we decided to sit in that old bus stand where we had met and were going through a new book of poetry when we came across a poem called 'After Rain' by Edward Thomas. That was one of our most beautiful discoveries. 

We had spent hours sitting under a tree and reading a book- either poetry or stories.We had composed so many poems together. I cannot express what joy it gave us to compose poem together. We felt united. We felt one. I would sometimes set tunes for some of our poems and he would play it in his guitar and then we would sing together. He taught me to play the guitar while I taught him to paint. An our favourite subject was 'Rain'. We composed huge number of poems on rain and it's beauty and the calmness we feel during a shower. 

We shared our deepest moments and conversations when it rained. We talked life and emotions and feelings and poetry either soaking our skin in rain or watching it clean the world. We breathed petrichor together... We held hands and looked on into eternity and let our thoughts flow.

Our bond grew stronger and stronger and poetry and rain were our backbones. They held us together always. I completed him and he completed me. The whole of me loved the whole of him. We felt so comfortable with each other. It was such a relief to see that while people searched for stupid occasions to celebrate their bond or show affection, we celebrated our bond everyday, every moment. Each second was so special... I believed that we would never be apart. It was not possible. 

One day I asked him, "What if anyone of us die before the other?What will happen then?"

"What do you mean?"

"We will be separated Omair!", I was almost in tears. 

"Why are you thinking about all this suddenly?"

"Just random thoughts."

"Don't worry. We will never be separated."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I am like the cloud about to burst, you're like the rain and our bond is like the petrichor."

"I didn't get you."

"You will one day.",  he smiled.

It has been ten years now that he is no more suffering from personhood but he is still with me I know. I find him in the poems I read and the poems I compose. I find him in his letters and in the bus stand. I find him on that mountain and in the library. I find him everywhere. Because he had rightly said that he is the cloud about to burst and I am the rain. We can never be apart. And our bond... it is like the Petrichor. I cannot see it but I can feel it...

The rain has stopped and I see the couples happy that finally they will be able to celebrate their bond on Valentine's Day. I remember how we celebrated our love each day, each second. I breathe in the petrichor and embrace our memories again with a happy smile and a few tears and sit down to read our favourite poem for the millioneth time- 'After Rain' and from afar I again hear him reading with me... 

Our love has lived on... like the petrichor...

                                                                                                                                                  -Reva.

Dear Waves

I stood alone at the shore
Sadness had never engulfed me more.
The waves dived in and crashed,
The nightly beach it clean and washed.
Like it had washed you away,
Into the depths of oblivion one day.

I watched them rise and fall through the night.
And made a prayer as the Sun came in sight.
"Dear Waves, I have a wish to thee,
Please bring my friend back to me."

                                                                                                                                           -Reva.

The Wait...

I will always remember the day,
When the sun had set and you had gone away.
When in your memories my heart did shiver,
When you didn't come back and were gone forever...

Long hours I had spent eagerly waiting,
My eyes were wet and heart was aching,
Even beside the blazing fire, I went numb with cold,
"Stop punishing yourself", I was told.

But I waited and I still do,
Can I ever stop waiting for you?
Till my heart will beat and I'll see a day new,
I will embrace our memories and wait for you...

                                                                                                                                               -Reva.

When birds sing along,
I hear you humming our song.
The soft rustle in the leaves
Some magical dreams I weave.
Dreams so fresh and new,
Dreams which are all about you...

You play with my hair,
Your eyes, so warmly they stare.
And mine smile. They smile at you,
Such moments are precious,
Such moments are few...

Standing under a nightly sky,
A drop of tear in my eye,
Looking for you among the stars,
You share my pain from afar...

                                                                                                                                                      -Reva.

Someday She Will Ring the Doorbell...

It had been almost ten years that school was over yet our group had remained the same. We were a group of six people and always together. After school ended we got busy in our life that usually happens. But we did remain in touch and met up as frequently as possible. Well, best friends remain best friends irrespective of anything. and so were we. The tag of  'best friends' is always not needed and so was it not needed in our case. We were just always there for each other. Even before going to parties we sent each other photos of dresses that we wanted to wear but couldn't choose. We took the most critical decisions of our life by consulting each other before our parents. During the most heartbreaking situations she was there to pick up the broken pieces and put them back together again. She was the one who taught me to love Fred with my broken heart and it was a beautiful experience to love him and be loved back. She was my bridesmaid when I got married and the first person to speak to both sets of parents about getting us married. When my kids were born she became their Godmother and christened them too. After few years when the turn came to send them to school it was she who chose the school. Of course my husband was there to take the decision but nothing was ever done without consulting her. Fred loved her as much as I did or maybe just a little less because no one can love her as much as I do.

Even I have been with her on every turn of life. I am more than sure that she has never faced any problem alone. Maybe I was not always able to solve them but she had my support always. After her mother's death when she was left broken and dusted I remained with her every moment and brought her back to life. When she decided not to get married I supported her because marriage is not the only happiness in life. It is not the only companionship. And as far as she was concerned she would never feel alone or in need of companionship because I was always there with her. I know I have never left her alone even once. After I got married and moved to a different city she too went there with her job and we stayed together. Fred loved the idea and we were a very happy family. We have memories that can never be recreated with anyone else. I had a kind of blind faith in her that I didn't have in Fred too. Such was the intensity of our bond. And then one fine day everything came to an end and my time stopped.

I remember the sensation on my skin and the chill that ran down my spine when the call came from the hospital. I was in my night clothes and ran out that way. I remember the way I drove there and the scenario around. I had called Fred by then and he too was on his way. I ran up the stairs to the ICU as fast as I could. But by then everything was over. Fred reached in a few minutes and just stood still. But he is more stable than I am. Even now. He completed the formalities and then we left for the cemetery. That journey felt never ending. We reached home at night. I don't remember what time it was. Fred prepared dinner but nothing went down my throat. Yet I had not shed a drop of tear.

Sometimes the pain is so immense that everything within us just dries up. It can't be expressed by crying the hardest. It's so immense. My house felt empty, my kids were without their Godmother and I was without my advisor, companion, sister, comforter, secret keeper... I was living without my heartbeat. Everyday just renewed and increased the pain. Every nook and corner of the house carried her memories and it chased me wherever I went. I tried every possible way to forget and move on because life goes on. It gives us the hardest of lessons and leaves us to face the reality. Life had betrayed me. Every night I spent on my bed silently crying over the memories and grasping them to my heart. I could hear her voice always. Like she was calling me wherever I went. It chased me every second. When I dozed off I would suddenly wake up with a jerk and run to the verandah or our favourite attic or the terrace feeling as if she had called me. Everyday on the breakfast table I prepare her plate as well and unconciously every night I Would make sure that the mosquito repellant was working. I continued texting her for days on end and waiting for her reply. But it never came and it would never come. This realisation dawned everyday and went away too. I again found myself texting her.

I would look at her photos and cry myself to sleep. My children gathered around me and Fred did everything humanly possible to get me to live again. But life was impossible for me. It became difficult to continue to live with each passing day. I didn't know how to decide on things and who to consult. The person whom I trusted blindly had left me and I was just struggling each day to be able to survive. Life was so evil! But maybe she was there somewhere watching me and my pain and perhaps even crying with me. Maybe she is the one who gave me the strength to get back up and start living because I know she can do everything.

I did live after that. I grew my children up and got them settled and took many many more decisions by myself. I faced difficult and critical situations without batting an eyelid. But every time I felt that things could have been much easier with her around. Maybe I would have felt a bit more secure... But I knew she was there somewhere and I know that she is still there and is reading this and crying with me again... Because that is who is she is... She always watches over me...

"Time heals"- people say but I haven't healed yet. I still serve her meals, check the mosquito repellant, buy gifts for her on her birthday, text her and wait for her to reply. Every time the doorbell rings I feel maybe this time it's her. she has come back to me. Though she is not, I still wait and will do so. It's her fiftieth birthday today and I am here writing about her. I went out yesterday in the evening and bought a present for her and today morning I even baked a cake like I have been doing all these years. Today for dinner I will make her favourite dishes and will again check if the mosquito repellant is working and tomorrow the frist doorbell I hear I will hope to see her standing there. Maybe she will say "I was just playing hide and seek with you." I still haven't come to terms with the loss. Maybe one day the sun will shine and she will actually ring the doorbell. Just someday...

From Sunrise to Sunset.

Walks are so much deeper than car rides,
When two people walk side by side,
Immersed in words, that flow like music,
And footsteps sync in rhythm...
Where steps are light and small
And deep are the feelings that call...

When a long walk marks the beginning,
And we watch the sunrise together,
When the day turns into evening
Watching sunset beside each other,
Beautiful are such moments,
When we write our own story,
Our friendship takes a pleasant bend,
Deep in feelings and its own glory.

Long strolls on empty lanes
Sharing all our sorrows and pains
We see ourselves new and deep,
And form a bond as unique as friendship...

                                                                                                                                           -Reva.

Far From the Madding Crowd

Sudden plans on winter evenings,

Long long walks be the best feeling,

No destinations fixed in mind,

Free were we, not bound by Time.

The fountains were singing a melody

We watched along silently,

With silence on our lips,

Our hearts spoke out loud.

The evening was so deep!

Far from the madding crowd... 

                                                                                                                                                      -Reva.