Not Just a Day's Freedom

“Namaste,” Papa greets the battalion of strangers with folded hands and a smile that runs from ear to ear, “I hope you didn't have any trouble with the commute?”
“No, absolutely not. It was a pleasant journey.” the balding, wrinkled man (who I assume to be the father) hugs Papa.”
“Arey, please come in.” Ma ushers them in.
The potential groom, a few years older to me, sits down on the sofa beside his parents. He blushes a little as my parents give each other a look of satisfaction. I stand at the door of my parents' room, partially hidden from view and awkwardly clad in a saree, helplessly waiting to get on display when I'm called. I suddenly remember all the arguments I’d had with my parents before I finally agreed to see this one last guy. My insides feel like a slowly activating volcano, ready to burst out any moment.
“Come, they're waiting.” Ma approaches me. She holds me by the shoulders and gives me one final look, the way an artist looks at a finished painting. I pick up the tray of snacks and follow Ma into the drawing room, place it on the coffee table, and take my seat beside Papa.
“This is our daughter Shalini.” Papa introduces me.
“Hi, my name is Aditya Mehta.” the potential groom smiles a bit too eagerly. As he straightens up, I notice a slight pot-belly. I fake a smile and look away.
In a moment, the advertisement begins as usual. Aditya's parents compete with each other to praise their son to the skies. Ma and Papa encourage them with occasional bursts of commendation. I glance by turns at the clock, their faces, Aditya's inflated-ego face, my feet and the tray of snacks. They continue their exaggerated bragging as I recall the morning's hustle and bustle.
Papa had been up two hours earlier than his usual time, and bought all these snacks to feed these disgusting people. I had to have an unusually early cold shower and then stand in blouse and petticoat as Ma draped a yellow silk saree around me, which felt more like a trap. When I protested, the only answer I got was that it's our sanskaar to be dressed appropriately. I had to impress this one last family of strangers, after all. A girl can't live her life alone, can she? Specially in India, where at every turn, every crossing, someone or the other is mentally undressing her and planning to rape her. And then, so many people will demand an explanation when you take a decision about your own life. Well, so much for independence.
“So, Shalini, what are your skills?” Mrs Mehta, Aditya's mother asks.
I take a deep breath, “I'm a graphic designer, besides I dance the Kathak, and I'm also a student of martial arts. Yellow belt in Karate.” I smile.
“No, I mean, can you cook? My son stays alone in his apartment in Delhi, I really need someone to take care of him and feed him like I do.”
The lava almost reaches the brim. “No.” I stare into her eyes defiantly. “I don't cook. And besides, shouldn't you be looking for a nanny instead of a bride if you want someone to take care of your son?” I stifle a laugh. Her nose cringes up a little and then she fakes a smile.
“Uhh...she means her cooking is not good enough yet. She's still learning.” Ma interjects nervously, fearing that my life might be doomed if they reject me. The volcano erupts.
“No, Ma, I didn't mean anything of that sort. I am independent and successful. What else do you want? And if you're looking for a girl who can cook your son meals and clean his messes, I think you should just leave!” I almost yell at them. Ma nudges me and mouths them an apology. “No, I take that apology back. I will not apologize for being better off than this guy munching on snacks my father bought with his hard earned money, only so he can take home a nanny with benefits.” I stand up and trot off to my room. Behind me, I hear an exasperated cry from Mrs. Mehta, “I'm sorry, I don't want this kind of a girl for my daughter-in-law. Bhaisaahab, we'd better leave.”
“Yes, let's leave for goodness' sake.” Mr. Mehta agrees. I hear my parents apologizing, and by the time I'm halfway upstairs, the sounds die out and the main door closes.
I bang the door shut, clutch my saree and undrape it in one pull. In a while, I change into shorts and a tee, wash off all the makeup my mother had forced me to wear, and fling myself on the bed with a thump.
“Shalu, open the door!” Ma knocks. I decide to keep silent. She knocks again. I don't move. “Shalu, open the door, will you?” Ma commands sternly. I unlock the door and stand there, jaws tight, breath rushing and eyes welling up with angry tears. A resounding slap lands on my cheek.
“What have you done? Why did you insult them like that? Do you know they came all the way from Rohtak to see you? You're a girl, Shalu, no matter how successful you are, in the end you're a girl! You need a husband to protect you from this dangerous world. Who will look after you when we are no more?” she begins sobbing.
“Ma please, for God's sake, stop this melodrama. I'm not in the state of mind for this right now.”
“You're never in the state of mind. You're twenty seven years old now, Shalu. Do you have any idea how difficult it was for us to find Aditya? You don't have much of a choice once you're above twenty six.” she sits down on the edge of my bed. Streams of tears roll down her cheeks and splash on the floor. “You ruined everything. I told you not to be rude and disrespectful, but you…”
“Ma, please. I can fend for myself. I mean, seriously, just because I'm a girl, I need someone to protect me? I can protect myself. And I earn enough to feed three people decent meals thrice a day. Why don't you just let me be?”
“Why don't you understand?”
“Understand what, Ma? Understand that even after being successful and talented, you can't exist if you're not married and if you can't cook?”
“Beta, it's not that. If you live alone, you will have too many problems to deal with. What if you fall sick and can't get up? Who will take care of you?”
“I can always have Neena and Roshni when I need help.”
“Yes, but they're not family, are they?”
“I don't need family to take care of me when you're not with me. And how does a stranger become family just because he's taken pheras with me?”
“What will our relatives say?”
“Have they ever come to help us when we needed them? How does it even matter what they say if I want to live my life the way I want?”
“Oh, Shalu! It's no use arguing with you. Do what you please.” Ma stands up, disgusted.
“Ma, I'm a human being above everything else, and I have the right to freedom of choice. I choose to die a spinster. You can't impose things on me.” I say as Ma walks out of my room shaking her head in dismay.
Four years later, I bump into Aditya Mehta at the supermarket. His pot belly has grown larger, his hair has begun greying, and he has three huge shopping bags in each hand. A smallish woman walks towards us, with a toddler holding her hand. He introduces us.
“Meet my wife, Sunita. Sunita, this is Shalini. She's…” he pauses briefly, his eyes searching for a word.
“An old friend.” I complete his sentence.
“Nice to meet you.” Sunita mumbles feebly. She looks frustrated with a toddler and a saree to take care of at the same time. She must be around twenty eight, I presume.
“So, you've not brought your husband along?” he asks.
“I don't have a husband. Didn't marry yet.”
“Any reasons why?”
I remember all the days I'd had to sit in the drawing room, facing a family of strangers. The face Ma made when I said I'd had enough. The nasty comments from my relatives when I threw a grand party on my thirtieth birthday, and declared that they should stop looking for an eligible bachelor for me. The lechers in the street who never dared look at me after one fine bashing. The colony aunties who called me names while they had to obey every word their husbands said, or get beaten. The nights I took my parents to dinner at expensive restaurants. The moment I became CEO of the company I worked for.
“Well, because nothing tastes better than freedom.” I smile.
His little one is fairly irritated and throws a tantrum, and we part ways. He, with his obedient, sanskaari, perfect-home-maker type wife and child to protect, and I, with my freedom to dream and achieve heights he's never seen. Happy Independent Life, the voice within says as I walk out.

Love Alone

He was a masterpiece.
The perfect blend
Of beauty and destruction,
Of enchantment and doom.

His eyes were deep oceans
Where whole universes could drown,
Never to be found again.

His smile was a lightning bolt
That could turn whole forests
Into ashes.

His voice was the melody
Of a winter breeze upon unfrequented roads,
The lapping of waves against sand.

He was the moon
Amidst a sky full of stars.
His world was hidden from plain sight
His heart was caged in barriers
Nobody could break.

And yet,

She fell for him
Pouring her life blood into the oceans,
Turning to ashes with lightning,
Freezing in the winter breeze,
Dissolving, losing herself in the waves,
Chasing the moon on new moon nights

For the more she loved him,
She found the ocean parting at her feet
Revealing treasures unknown.
She found the calm after the thunderstorm,
The petrichor only she recognized;
She found sandcastles after the waves receded,
And silvery moonlight after the eclipse.

The more she loved him,
The more she realized
It didn't matter
If she was the only one in love.

Better Late Than Never

It was the 5 th of November, 2005. I sat face-to-face with Kunal at a corner table at Barney’s Café, after three long days of deliberation, two-and-a-half hours of telephonic conversation with my best friend, and finally, asking him out for coffee. The last light of the winter sun lit up his face as he sipped his coffee, occasionally looking at me, and then withdrawing. This was supposed to be our last meeting; the first and last meeting we ever had outside school.

“So, umm...You're leaving for Bangalore then?” I tried to keep the conversation going.
“Yeah, finally.” He replied, looking away from me, perhaps outside the window.
“Won't you...” I stuttered, “I mean...won't you miss Belmont?”
“Perhaps. I don't know.”
“You've studied here for longer than I did, right?”
“Yes, seven years.” his lips slowly curled into a wry smile.
“I’ve been here for five years, yet it makes me so emotional when I think of not being a part of it anymore. I’m gonna miss everyone. Specially...” I tried my best to conceal the quiver in my voice, “…Specially you, Kunal. I’ll miss you.”
“Hmm.” He pursed his lips and looked me straight in the eye. Those olive brown eyes that had enchanted my heart, made me fall in love for the first time in my life, were devoid of the sparkle I thought I'd see in them. My heart broke a little.
“Don't you feel emotional?” I broke the awkward silence that kept trying to set in between us for the third time. He looked away for a second and paused. The corner of his lip rose into a smirk. And then, he broke the silence.
“No,” he took one last sip and put his mug down, “I don't have emotions.” He looked at his watch. The sun had died down beyond the horizon, and all that was left was the pale, weak twilight, fading away into the darkness. “Thanks for the coffee.” He rose to leave.
“Sometimes, it's good to be emotional.” I touched his hand. He looked at me with a stony face and turned to leave. I rose too, and silently followed him outside into the street where we would part ways forever.
“Wait! I’ve got one last thing to say.” I called. He turned around. “Since this is our first meeting, I didn't want to say this, but since it's also our last, I will.” I finally mustered all my strength and courage to speak.
“Kunal, I’ve wanted to tell you this since the day I first met you. I thought it was just a crush that would fade away with time, but no, it just won't! It has only grown deeper and deeper in the past five years. I don’t need an answer. I just wanted to let you know I love you, just in case...” he smiled wryly.
I flushed as he took a step towards me. He gave me an amused look, and said, “In case, what?”
I took a deep breath. “In case I don't have another chance to say this.” I blurted out. He smiled.
“I heard you.” He paused for a moment and nodded, frowning lightly as if he was trying to understand the whole thing like a difficult math problem. “Goodbye.” He waved and disappeared into the crowd. My jaws grew tense as I struggled to keep my tears from betraying me in a public place. Sure, I did say I needed no answer, but there I stood in the middle of the street, neither accepted nor rejected, hanging between holding on and letting go, as a crowd passed by me.

Not having an answer never hurt so much before I mustered all my courage to say the one thing that really mattered. I dug my hands deep into my pockets and walked till I reached the stairs of the local museum, a Colonial era building converted into a museum after Independence. I sat down on a step and looked all around. Tears burst forth from my eyes, chilling my face as a cold winter wind blew. He neither told me he didn't want me, nor did he accept me. How could he do that to me? How could he torment me like this? I had no answer.

I checked my watch to discover it was 7:40 pm. I had to get back to my room and pack up for my return home the next day. Luckily, I managed to get the last bus. I gazed at the city’s flickering lights, and all I could think of was his cold, passive reply, “I don’t have emotions.”

Back home, Mona, my best friend and neighbour had come over to celebrate my homecoming.

“Hey, it's so good to see you back home!” she hugged me when I entered my room, surprised to find her waiting. “So, how did it go? Did you ask him out?”
I nodded and sat down on the edge of my bed, clutching the sheets.
“Are you okay, Sophia?”
“I don't know, Mona. I think I shouldn't have said it to him. I ruined everything.” I looked away. She touched my shoulder.
“It’s okay, Sophia. At least you can say you tried. It's okay.” She consoled me.
“I’m not hurt, Mona. I didn't expect that he would act like a rock in front of the girl who has loved him for five years. I'm shocked.”
“It’s not your fault that he acted like a rock. Sometimes, people don't realize who they really are. They forcefully try to live upto an image of themselves in their head. They try to be who they think they are, instead of being who they actually are. And it's okay, because mostly, they stop at one point and realize they were wrong.”
“What if it’s too late before Kunal realizes?”
“Better late than never, Sophia. Now don't worry about all that. Come with me.” She stormed out of my room downstairs and plonked herself on the sofa. “Look what I got for you.” She took out a miniature pottery kit from her bag, complete with a step-by-step guide and a little battery-operated wheel.
“Oh my gosh! Thank you so much, Mona! How did you know I wanted to learn miniature pottery?” I smiled.
“I read your mind, you know!” she laughed.

Six years passed by like a whiff of wind. I had completed my education, worked with a regional fashion firm for some time and then quit the job to start my own boutique. My fame was beginning to spread to the neighbouring towns and cities, and I was happy doing what I loved to do. Well, apart from the excruciating dilemma in my heart, that is. To wait or to forget, that was the question.

One September afternoon, I decided to let both my assistants have the day off after lunch. I finished off a couple of orders and wrapped up for the day. I walked slowly, breathing the radiance of the pleasant autumn day. A few grey clouds hung low under the ceiling of cottony white clouds. I remembered some of my clients that morning: a short, fat lady asked for a custom made skin-tight dress. A bony, dark-complexioned girl came in asking me to design something in sheer black fabric for her. The thing about these women was that they didn’t care about fashion advice; they just knew what they wanted, even if it wouldn’t look good on them. Perhaps sometimes—I thought—we don’t really need what we want.

As I reached the bus stop, I noticed a familiar figure leaning on the steel railing. A cool breeze was blowing as the sky began to get overcast with grey clouds. My heart skipped a beat as he met my gaze. It was Kunal.

“Hey, how are you?” He said as he walked up to me.
“Umm, fine, I guess.” I replied, looking away.
“I think this bus goes to Church Street, so you live there?” he asked, fidgeting with the strap of his backpack.
“Not Church Street actually, the previous stop. What are you doing here?” I met his gaze. He smiled nervously.
“Visiting some relatives nearby. They’re coming to pick me up.” He said. “I’ve heard of your boutique. You’re pretty famous, eh?” he asked playfully.
“Maybe.” I shrugged. “Where do you live now?” I asked.
“I do a lot of travelling between Chandigarh, Delhi and Lakshminagar.” He said.

The bus arrived. I bade him a hasty goodbye and I got into the bus. I took my usual seat: third row, left window. He kept looking at me as the bus picked up speed. My mind was full of thoughts, memories and questions unanswered. Why did he come up and talk to me if he didn’t have emotions? I still didn’t have an answer. It began to drizzle when I got down, and since I didn’t have an umbrella, I had to take shelter in the bus stop.

I took a deep breath as the petrichor filled my lungs. I was transported back to the time I and Kunal were classmates in Belmont International School. I loved how he laughed, the way he took notes in class like a stenographer, the way he excelled at everything. On rainy days, I would sit by the window in my hostel room and write poems for him, only to shred them and throw them in the trash later.

It was not that we were miles apart; we did have conversations, but we never went deeper than class notes and career planning. He barely spoke to anyone about himself, and spent most of his time immersed in books. If he ever talked, it had to be something important, related to the syllabus, or something about football.

I loved the way he meticulously organized his notes into sections and sub sections, writing everything in bullet points, often adding personalized comments in purple, blue and yellow sticky notes. I used to borrow his notebooks just to sit for hours admiring his notes as if they were masterpieces, running my finger along each line, looking at each letter as if it were a hieroglyph.

My roommate thought I fell for him because he was ‘cool and all, what with that voice and those guitar skills’. It’s not true. I fell in love with him because in him I saw a beautiful soul, endless possibilities, and someone who speaks the language of my world. He never got into fights and politics, and whenever he had the chance, he would even take a few blows to stop a fight. And that made me admire him all the more.

A year passed with not another trace of Kunal. I spent my days thinking of him, and then drifting off to other things, knowing that it’s all in vain. I loved him, but somewhere, a voice inside me began telling me it’s in vain. I gazed at the sky on starry nights, wondering if he was watching the stars too, and pined away in secret for a love that couldn’t possibly happen. And then, on the 16th of December, 2012, I received a parcel at work.

It was a box wrapped in brown paper with my address written in black marker on top, in his remarkably neat handwriting. When my assistants had taken their leave for the day, I took it out from my cabinet and tore it open. Inside, was a paperback titled Starry Nights and Dreamy Days: The Collected Poems , with my name below it, and a hand written letter:

Dear Sophia,
Seven years ago, outside Barney’s Café, you told me that you love me. If you don’t, now, it’s okay. But just in case you still do, I need you to know the truth about me. Please forgive me for showing utter indifference that day, because I didn’t do it to hurt you; I did it to save you from lifelong heartache. I am no actor, but that day, I had to appear heartless, just to prevent your heart from breaking.
My mother committed suicide when I was ten years old. She may have been relieved of the burden of life, but my father and I were left with a vacuum nothing could fill up. I was still learning to take care of myself, and she left me alone, with nobody to turn to when I needed someone to guide me. My father stayed in office till late, and all I had while I stayed awake was my dog which soon died.
When I was twelve, I was diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukaemia. After two years of treatment, I recovered and returned to normal life. I didn’t do well that year, but in the years to come I studied hard and became one of the best students of Belmont. In 2005, my illness returned. And this time, it had begun slowly spreading throughout my body. The drugs I was prescribed, only stretched my life longer, but didn’t guarantee complete recovery. I was perfectly okay on the outside, but my blood was a poison. Each day I came ten times closer to my end than I would normally.
Last week, my doctors surrendered. There’s nothing that can save me now. My days are numbered. Sophia, I don’t want you to go through what my father and I did. Losing a loved one leaves an indelible scar on your heart. And I wouldn’t ever want to be the reason for yours. I know, not knowing whether to wait or to forget is painful. But please forgive me; it took me seven years to muster enough courage to reveal the truth to you. But now that you do know, please pray for me. I have just two weeks left on this beautiful planet.
Also, I know you didn’t want an answer but here’s mine: I love you too. Ever since your roommate sneaked me copies of the poems you wrote for me, I fell in love with you. I have sent you a specimen copy of the anthology I made out of your poems which will be published on your birthday next week. I’m sorry I didn’t admit it earlier, but better late than never. Please take care of yourself, and don’t forget me.
Goodbye,
Kunal.

A teardrop silently fell on the paper as I read the last paragraph. I read it again, one, two, three times. I whispered, “It’s okay, Kunal. It’s okay.” I let out a deep sigh,” You don’t have to apologize.” I put the book and the letter in my bag and stepped out into the cold winter night. The smell of coffee from the coffee shop next door made me feel sick. I remembered his face in the light of the setting sun seven years ago. “Better late than never.” I mumbled to myself. At least I had an answer to last me for a lifetime. 

The Need for Accepting Constructive Criticism

With the advent of affordable creative tools, abundance of DIY tutorials for you-name-it, free access to exposure to international audiences through platforms such as YouTube, and some newbies with inflated egos, constructive criticism has become a common word that definitely is as commonly accepted as common sense is found. The word ‘constructive’ is defined (by Dictionary.com) as “helping to improve; promoting further development or advancement (opposed to destructive)”. But then, if you know someone who is exhibiting their ‘skill’ and ‘talent’ (with the obvious beginner’s flaws, or even, master’s flaws), and if you’re trying to point out their (or whoever-the-fuck’s) mistakes in the piece, you might be in for serious destruction.
I mean, God forbid, if they have that HUGE mountain of an ego, your remark just might not land into their creative intellect, and instead hit the mountain, and (since it’s more like rubber, expandable and all) bounce back towards you with a momentum you never expected. Get the idea? Yep, that.
The purpose of creativity is to express what’s within you, nurture yourself and grow into a better individual. Now, if you want to tell someone something (anything, even telling your crush you like him/her), you’ve got to use the right words, the right tone, the right time and well, the right language in the first place. Imagine this: you’re saying ‘wo ai ni’ (Japanese for ‘I love you’) to a British girl. She doesn’t get you. I tell you to try saying that in English and you tell me to fuck off, because you ‘know what you’re doing’. What will happen? She will probably never get your message, and there goes a perfect love story down the drain! This is what’s happening to all the people who have those ego mountains.
If you want to be famous and all, you have to accept that you’re a fallible human being and even the masters made mistakes, so you’re not even close to exempt from that. Accept that you can make mistakes, and that it’s okay. If you don’t burn your hand in a flame, you’ll never learn not to touch a flame in the first place. Accept yourself with your flaws, and strive to eliminate them as you grow. It takes time and patience to produce quality art, no matter what your medium is.
Without making mistakes, we can never learn. However, sometimes we lack the perspective to see our own flaws. Try turning to look at your back. Can you see your back? No? Well that’s what happens in some cases. And that’s when other people come in. If you have a weird ink stain on the back of your shirt, you may not see it, and hence you may think your shirt is flawless. Someone else may see it, and point it out. This can lead to two consequences: first, you may tell them to oil their own machine instead of pointing your flaws. Second, you may listen to them, cross check with a mirror (I’d definitely do that), and get it washed (or do something to temporarily fix it till you get it washed). In the first case, you become the laughing stock of your peers, but in the second, you don’t. It’s just a matter of acceptance.
The problem with people who can’t swallow (forget digest) constructive criticism, is that when someone points out their mistakes, they think they’re saying their work is bad. We have to understand the difference between “that was nice but such-and-such needs improvement/could’ve been done better” and “that was totally worthless”. I think as youngsters, we need to stop being so middle-aged-uncle-ishly rigid in our approach to things. It’s okay to make mistakes if you can learn from them, and it’s okay to have your mistakes pointed out by others when you yourself can’t see them. You don’t have to make excuses to protect your ego and make yourself seem perfect, all you need to do is listen, and be brave enough to change. Nobody on this planet is, was, or will ever be perfect. It's only those who dared to change themselves for the better who went down in the pages of history, or art history, for that matter.
By the way, you’re welcome to let me know if you find any flaws in this little outrage of mine. :)

One Night Stand

Tell me your name, and maybe,
Maybe all your secrets.
I see your empty world as I drown
In your blue eyes.
You're loveless, alone:
So alone I want to hold you
and give you a piece of me you can take
Wherever you go.

Tell me about your heartbreaks,
Your nightmares, your sleepless nights—
Tell me, tell me everything.
Leave yourself asleep in my arms
as I kiss your dreams goodnight.
Love me, stranger, for we both know
The sun will come to take you home
And you won't have me again.

Close your eyes as I sing you my lost lullabies.
And leave me a souvenir, a memento—
Tell me your name.
And maybe, maybe all your secrets.

Constellations on my Skin

You traced a constellation on my skin
With your feeble breath—
And it faded into your absence:
Your crippling absence.

How I have pined for your glances,
the evening stars know.
And yet, they only sigh from as far
as you are now from me.

All that remains
Is an unsaid goodbye; an unheard sob,
and a thousand unwritten letters.

How I run away from you,
my dreams know. And yet,
They keep bringing you back
to trace constellations upon my skin
Until I become your universe—

When did your breath fade away
into your absence?

Oh! Your crippling absence!

The Song of the Rain

I am saudadé,
strung together with the tears
Of a lost love song.
I am the mirth
Of children playing with paper boats,
Running wild and free—
Upon muddy fields.

I am the poems you always left unwritten;
I am the sighs,
The last goodbyes,
The longings of April afternoons:
Unkempt apologies and unheard sobs,
Heartbeats as slippery as moss.
I am the gravestone of unsaid words
that you buried deep in your heart.

You hear me—soft on your windowpane —
harsh on your heart.
Torrents down the awnings—
Tenderly splashing, singing
Familiar songs in strange notes, reverberating
through the paperback you seek shelter in.

I am saudadé, the smell of love
The petrichor that brings you back
Letters from the past.
I am the song of Rain—
Listen to me.