Incredible Living

The Mahapatras were a class apart. Literally. Twenty years in the city and they were yet to venture out of it. Or, to the other end of it. Their life began and ended in the two televisions sets they had -- one in their bedroom, the other in the other bedroom. Real conjugal togetherness had long given away to the virtual reality of shows. What tied them together then?

Breakfast. And dinner. Or, the ritual of one serving it to the other. Death breathes its life in them. While the husband chewed each bite diligently, the wife measured it out in an utter sense of dutiful detachment. The perfection of it was poignant. She knew if the dal tonight was too thick for his taste by the look of it. Or if even if he did not know, that he would need another helping of rice.

While news and sports channels kept him hooked after work, daily-soaps and cookery shows engaged her during her work hours. The house was slowly decorated in dust, cleverly pushed off but never completely cleaned. The glitter off the screen shone through the solitude of the space. Their's was a love story fit for the camera. Not a word other than need, not a gesture other than nothing.

This is the love rediscovered the day Mrs Mahapatra lay dead in her sofa, the TV on, the cup of tea gone cold. The lock turned, the door opened, and Mrs Mahapatra did not say, 'I have switched on the geyser' as she walked towards him with a bottle of water. He knew.

Death is often studied to be the great leveller. Mr Mahapatra was never the kind to be able to articulate how much it revealed of his habit of a wife.

Mrs Merchant's Will

From the time the property dispute between her mother and her maternal uncle took place, little Zeeba promised herself never to allow such a situation to occur with her children. Later she got used to her father taunting her mother whenever he fell short of any other logic to appropriate the current condition to. Zeeba did well in life to get married off to the Merchants of the thread business. On becoming Mrs Merchant, she indulged in a lot of popular, profitable and pious charity. That was her only profession -- to see that charity was well invested in. 

Her husband died a timely death leaving her son, Rustom, at the reign of their business. This was absolutely not a problem if the reign was not made of a silk thread. One had to be careful, very, very careful, lest it gave away. And her daughter Perizaad, was fond of difficult sewing patterns in life with the embellishment of the brocade to hold it. The problem would arise. Definitely arise. 

He had done well to entrust the decision upon the subjection of the mother for the division of the assets and soft properties like the art pieces and antique furniture that the household cherished. They had lavish bungalows in four cities of India, and some farm houses and hill station villas too. No other claim but the children. Mrs Merchant was diagnosed with Leukemia about a year back. It ensured a lavish treatment, and a caring recovery unit. All of this was made to measure. What hit her most, however, was the uncertainty of life and the constant pressure of the promise she made to herself as a child. No child of hers would ever fall apart because of a mismanagement in the will.

Each morning after breakfast, over the next months, whether in Panchgani, or in Dalhousie, Mrs Merchant opened an ivory notepad and decked up herself in her Mont Blanc fountain pen, to try and write the will. She needed to have a draft before she consulted her lawyers. This daily tearing off of the papers and inability to find a mathematical equivalent to peace, was doing her more harm than any cancer germ ever did. She tried, she failed. She tried again, she failed.

Finally, on the afternoon of this day, the Mont Blanc penned this in emerald green:

"August 24, 2015. Monday. Whitefield, Bangalore.

Dearest Rustom & Perizaad,

This must be after my two hundredth failed attempts to design a will, that I write this. Your father was a gentleman, an intelligent business man, a caring husband and a loving father, among other things. He was, however, a coward, I think, or shrewd, to have entrusted this duty entirely on me to share the various assets and other property valuations between you both. Now, this could be easier done if I were to sell everything away and divide the sum equally. But none of us wants Merchants Thread to finish off in a snap, do we? So I thought, and I thought, and I thought. And suddenly I have come to this conclusion.

1. The two of you will be in charge of office for each alternate year, where the proceeds of the profit would go to you, and the other, in equal measure. (Even while the other is not working, yes.)

2. I have carefully drawn a table of contents for the most loved and valuable assets, including the paintings and furniture. As observed, you both have distinct tastes that vary, and thus make my work easy. Upon a discussion to be held this Sunday at brunch in our Lonavala farmhouse, we will mutually accept our shares. 

3. No wife or husband of yours will be entitled to change this decision that you take on Sunday. No claims further can me made by either of you too.

4. Your children will inherit your share of property only.

5. At any cost, Merchant Threads will not stop from making charity its subsidiary business. It will now run in the name of 'Threads of Hope.'

6. All above points will only be put to action after my dissolution from life and limits of living, for which, I can access any bank account, or property, at any time. And most importantly, point one has been drawn with a view to run the company efficiently, burden-free and controversy-free. When one of you is not working, you will of course be accessible for the consideration of a worthwhile decision by the other. 

See you on Sunday, 11.30 am. I will be there.

Love,

Mumma."

She asked her help, Martha, to make copies of this to be sent immediately to Rustom, Perizaad and their lawyer, and asked her to get the tickets for Saturday to Mumbai. All that possessed her now was to see how this would be received, and to live to see it.

Mrs Merchant's Will and Final Testament was published and accepted by her children on Sunday, after her burial. As soon as the will was worded, they saw to it that her medicines were altered so that she she died a dignified death. They received a copy of the letter each, along with the news of her death, together. Before they could arrange for her body to be flown for the fancy burial, they devised a way to share the property to their benefit. Their adamant mother was living way too long without a decision. Most points from Mrs Merchant's letter were turned topsy-turvy. However, the children loved her enough to let No. 5 remain.

They renamed it to 'Merchant of Hope.'

Blindfold

Ayesha lay on her bed, not too soft in its opulence, nor too hard in its utility, wondering how tomorrow would be. Another day of living the life of one Kripa Thakur. This daily transformation from Ayesha Iqbal to Kripa was costing her her solemn sense of sanity. She was playing the lead in The Bride. At nineteen, when cultural conflicts are too many, the excitement of decking up as the bride was inevitably fading, fast. Too many things that Kripa could do would never open up to her, she knew.

Through the rehearsals, lasting a good three months, Ayesha was living in and out of the souls of two completely different individuals. Kripa was a free-flowing, impulsive, yet homely girl, fitted to the occasion of being the perfect bride. All this while, Ayesha was a taught, restrained and curious character. The clash of the two characters left within her a vacumn, a void. On the penultimate day of the opening, Ayesha refused to get up from the bed to face the tomorrow she was afraid of facing the previous night. All she wished for was Aditya to kiss her beyond what was staged, in his love for Kripa. And in his love for Kripa, somewhere, be well to observe that it was Ayesha he was loving back. But this could never be.

Even if Aditya did love her back, what could she, Ayesha, do about it? Unlike Kripa, she could not give up her chosen profession for which she had to fight and marry the man of her dreams in an even dreamier setting. She had to kill Kripa. Tomorrow, she decided. She would then bare herself on the stage, bloody-eyed but content, Ayesha.

The day began well even though she was terribly late for the final practise. The costumes were covered in character. The lines were rolling out in the melody of a perfect harmony. In the next change, Aditya would disagree to elope with Kripa and give her the word of visiting her parents instead. And kiss her. Kripa.

As the lights went dim amidst the chaos of other actors brushing up their last minute shortcomings, the director noticed a change in Ayesha's stance in standing next to Aditya. Before he could yell 'Cut!', Ayesha and Aditya were engrossed in their liplock. 

Only one came out of it alive.

Why kill Kripa when I can let her do all that I cannot be?

Touch-Up

Dr Kushal Basu entered the private section of the opening of the sculpture exhibition at the Alankar Art Gallery -- his wife Rini’s invite to one of the many. In his summer white jacket over his royal blue shirt, he looked overdressed for the intelligentsia that the khadi-kurta clad Calcutta art scene was infamous for. In recent times some of the more ambitious kind had found out the tussar to drape, but the jholas would inevitably accompany. The gathering was an hour old, and the whisky, wine and vodka were reaching their three quarter end. Artists who were names, artists who were still struggling, artists who were originally artists, all flocked around a pretty coterie of curio items strewn over the large area. The voices were getting louder, the words slurrier. A quick scan, and the doctor diagnosed the only two new faces there, both young. His diagnosis could be relied upon for he was one of the most banked upon names in the field of cosmetic surgery. One was leaving, a smart girl, obviously an art college student, making her way with one of the professors, way too closely, and another, a little too introvert to belong here.

Sharing glass clinks across the length of the room, he finally made it to the seating area where Radha di was surrounded by her usual fan following. The other new face sat next to her on the other side. Radha di introduced him to the internationally renowned artist Brinda Roy. He exchanged a handshake while mentioning he had attended a week long facial-sculpture workshop at the Royal College of Art, London. Brinda Roy appeared impressed, and generous in her congratulating Dr Basu about it. Just as Radha di was about to introduce the young, new face to him, Rini made a warm welcome entry. Kushal watched as flocks of old men made their way towards her and hugged her. Some, a little too tight, some for the sake of bridging a social distance. She looked fantastic, as usual, in her heavy Kanchivaram saree and abnormally big gold necklace. She had claimed an artistic appeal about it when they had bought it at the Dubai Gold Bazaar, he still couldn’t fathom how. Like a pro, Rini made it to each corner, each table extending personal greetings and remarking on the familial space. ‘Hope Abhijit is enjoying Jadavpur’, ‘How is Mrs Sanyal?’, ‘How could you miss the himsagar? You should have called me. I will send some over from the last batch tomorrow!’, ‘Yes, I had the hilsa at the Grand Hilsa Festival. Can’t cook like Joyee di yet!’, ‘How old is Sudakshina? Dear, dear! How she has grown! Do bring her to our place when you come next.’ Like his deft moves with the glass clinks, Rini moved with her smiling one-liners. Kushal wondered where she summoned so much interest from. She put her hands on his shoulders and sat next to him. ‘Radha di! How nice of you to call me here!’

She was introduced to Brinda Roy too, and finally, at the end of the second hour, the crowd was asked to disperse. As they all walked out together, behaving like old friends beneath their envious, competitive masks, Sameer Sekhawat, the gallery owner offered a special thank you to the jamai of the house, Dr Kushal Basu, for being able to make it out of his busy schedule. He cursed the Bengali culture of hospitality which was well bred into the Marwari community living there. This special mention would cost him around forty to fifty thousand, now that he was obliged to make a purchase. Another stone hurled at my image. Rini was busy speaking with Brinda Roy cajoling her to their place for the adda where everyone else was going when suddenly a meek but confident voice came up to him.

‘Hi Dr Basu. My name is Gaurika. I am Brinda Roy’s daughter. Lovely jacket!’

The second new face, young. And, a millionaire at that.

Offering his skillful surgeon’s hand, he said, ‘Thank you, Gaurika. Well noticed.’

‘Well, I noticed you noticed me too.’ There was no sign of nervousness in this sentence. It felt like a burning knife into the cold skin. The diagnosis of a meek introvert went wrong. Or, right. He had merely judged the cosmetics of the girl. The character was yet to be explored.

As the lift was packed with drunken artists, Dr Basu asked if Gaurika would like to take the stairs. ‘Sure!’ By the end of the first flight she chirped, ‘Thank you for breaking the boredom of the intelligent. Now the whisky makes some sense.’ After a pause she added, ‘Sorry, I meant pseudo-intelligent.’

Kushal took her hands and smiled. ‘I understand. What do you do?’

Not at all uncomfortable at finding a stable hand for the stairs, Gaurika mentioned she was pursuing her Masters in Art History at Royal College of Art, London. ‘Yes, that is where I had first seen you. Dr Kushal Basu, forgive me if my drink is making me speak too much, I found you really attractive. My friends said I was foolish of course. I was counting on you to come over this evening.’

At the second level of stairs they halted for a bit. The surgeon was quite obviously cut open. Years of practice, experience and dexterity had not prepared him for such a conversation. He could not decide if she was merely drunk. He certainly hoped not. He could earn the gratitude of the mother for taking care of her tipsy little teasing daughter, winning him a painting worth many lakhs, else the daughter – a priceless togetherness. ‘Thank you Gaurika. Here’s my card. Call me tomorrow when your words are not tangled with each other. I will wait.’ And he touched her cheeks softly. They were smooth, like rich milk.

‘I will, Dr Basu. And I am not drunk.’ She smiled. ‘I would appreciate if you do not discuss this with Rini di. She is very sweet.’

He walked her to his mother and their car. ‘Good night, Ma’am. Good night, Gaurika.’ Damn you Brinda Roy. You will regret the moment when you refused to acknowledge my skill for which you daughter fell a prey. He walked back to Rini and whispered in her ears, ‘Enough of this show acting. I want you in the car in five minutes. And no more artsy adda tonight at our place. Get rid of them here. Make any excuse. I am hungry. For you.’

Rini gave him a friendly nod. ‘Oh Kushal you should have mentioned earlier! Why do you always need to be so sweet? She turned towards her group of drunkards and said commandingly, ‘Gentleman, and Radha di, I am sorry we have to rush tonight. Kushal has an early morning tomorrow. High profile. He needs rest. And the sweetheart that he is, he wouldn’t let me entertain you guys by myself. So let me get back to you tomorrow. We will have an adda by the weekend, surely.’ She waved and made her way towards the waiting car.

As they got off, she received a text on her phone from an unsaved number. It said, ‘Done. Calling him tomorrow.’ Dr Kushal Basu, come home and tell me how much you want me tomorrow. Love me, need me, cannot do without. Melting stones is not a surgeon’s skill. It calls for an artist’s touch.

Letter to Daughter IX

My cuddliestpie plumpum C,

Hi! Momie is exasperated. The length and depth of love she fetches from so many corners and so much to hide away, some to let go, rest never to be fulfilled, is tiring. Given the introduction, I believe you can well understand I am in a foul mood. Filthy, to be precise. I am having to sit and study, C! It is not funny! Every time my fingers itch and ache to return to this open, more inviting tab of the laptop, a sinister portion of my rational mind kills me softly with constant whispers, repeating that I am going down to the level of committing a crime no less than that of an unplanned bank robbery. Cccccccccccccccccccccc. C-c-c. If I could, I would drown myself in the sea.

I hate this deadly double-bind in me. I will let out the secret to (only) you today. Momie hates, detests, resents studying. This business of studying that is, for petty things like scores and selections. How impossibly limiting is that, little one? No, you must forget the contents of this letter right away after having read it, yet, just listen, this one time. Momie hates turning pages when she is under the pressure of what went away in the page turned last. How can she pay attention when she is busy remembering what she did not?

Momie thus returns to what she does best, does in the excitement of being able to share and does in utter helplessness -- write a letter. And tonight it had to be you. The new keyboard is absolutely flawless, the keys are singing, as are the clouds. It would be so much more melodious, these hours, storytelling about characters who would tiptoe out of the keys and tap-dance in full rhythm with the intricacies of a plot. They would wear costumes of affairs and attention. Some would kill, some would lie, some others simply love. Or, love simply. 

But look, they are not. I loom larger than them tonight. Me, in my utmost misery of becoming grander than their outcome. My pathetic shortcoming of restlessness, my inability to prepare. I want to fly instead. Is momie mad, C? May be. She wants to fly into your arms, be wrapped in their sausage-size. I pray C, that you are never bored, or come to such a situation where you must study in spite of yourself, and should you still, you do it minus Momie's record breaking attention-span. I pray for you to soil your hands with colours, maybe of the soil or that of sweat. Get out of that page, and live, C. Like I never could. Run. Fall down. Get the dirt on your knees. Bleed. Put on the ghungroo, dance. Or, dance without it. Get the piercings done. Do. Travel. Disobey, but do not disrespect.

Immerse yourself in the air around, breathe it in. Fearlessly. 

And then when you smile, share it with Momie :) Love. In all its muchness.

Crossing the Signal

From the maroon sedan, the boy-beggar noticed a hand. It slid out of a power window, half-open, a fifty-rupee note held firmly. He made a run towards it before others could reach it. As he tried to thank the man behind the hand, he realized he could see no face. The signal would leave in another nine seconds. He looked back at the hand, only the top of the fingers visible, over the steering. They had nails unlike the colour of any he had seen in his clan. Fair. And even. The surrounding cars started their engines, an indication he must make way. One last look and he saw the steel-looking band on his right ring finger. Silently he let out a prayer and crossed the road, fifty rupees richer over others.

As the Elantra suavely stood out in the queue of cars with its curves, Snigdha, from her ordinary-looking Punto's driver seat watched an extremely manicured hand slid out a fifty-rupee note for a beggar-boy. She could not decide on which to admire more -- the car or the hand. She decided against her share of the alms when she saw the amount and planned to put it in the i-20 account instead. The signal would leave in nine seconds. Something about the fair hand distracted her completely. Shamelessly she peeked inside the half-open window to barely notice the plump platinum band sitting politely on his right ring finger. Disheartened, she started her car. 

The Park-Circus signal was one of the thickest. And afternoons were always a tricky time. One could never count on whether the roads would be empty or filled. This court case was like living a daily ritual of the scraping off skin from bone. It pained. It did not matter, the amount of alimony, for the Mehras were well-off for two more such alimonies, and yet live lavishly. The cut came from the social stigma attached to a dirty divorce. No. This pain is because I love Radhika, still. Damn. Maybe a poor boy's prayers will help me fight the pain. Parthiv handed out a fifty-rupee note to the beggar-boy. He counsulted his watch. Nine seconds more. He looked at his ring finger thinking of how Radhika had surprised him with it right in the middle of a business convention both of them were attending in South Korea. It is too tight for comfort. The red light flickered. He shut the half-open window and pulled his car into the first gear as the light turned green. If I could only have an inkling that everything would be a part of her grand business plan. A small car with a loud honk was constantly stirring his thoughts disturbingly.

He looked at the rear view mirror and signalled left for a halt. The small car pulled up behind too. A young girl came out of it, in fitted trousers and a even better fitted shirt. Her shoes and watch spoke of an admirable taste. 'Hi, my name is Snigdha. I have never done this before, and it is a little weird now that I am in the middle of it and cannot return...' She looked nervous for the first time. 'I...uh...loved your car.'

Parthiv could not understand the situation. All this to praise the Elantra? 'Thank you, uh, Snigdha, right?' She smiled. 'Is that all?'

'No! I mean yes. No.' She certainly looked unsure. 'I mean please forgive me, but you have to understand, I have never done anything like this before.'

'Like what?' He was curious. In the middle of the road, in the middle of the city, in the middle of the day.

'I, uh, I really liked your hands. I took a chance to see if I would like your face. I do. Would you like to have a cup of coffee with me? Or, tea?' 

Snigdha waited. The deed was done. Chances should be taken. She felt relieved. Regretfree. Parthiv was shocked, spellbound. My hands? 'Sure. You are pretty smart, miss.' Pause. 'Pretty and smart. The tea...where and when?'

'I will call you. Can I have your number?'

Parthiv gave her his card. It said "Parthiv Mehra. Joint Managing Director, Mehra & Bothra Group." His contact details were furnished. 'Snigdha, uh, before we leave, I would like you to know, this really is the first time something like this has happened with me. That too because of my hands. I will wait for your call.'

'Do.' She turned to get inside her car.

As Parthiv shuffled through the Don Bosco buses and cars he failed to comprehend what just happened. All he could think of was how his hands shook when he signed on the agreement to apply Morphine on Papa Bothra. Greed had got the better of him. Radhika never got to know.

Or so he thought. Radhika had to wait for four years to have him handcuffed. In loneliness and memories. 

Meanwhile, as impulsively as she had honked at the Elantra, Snigdha decided against the phone call. 

Gathering Fragments

Azeeza Maheshwari Khan was a successful carpeteer, with her label Baraka, catering to a line of elite loyalists. Her story was out of a fable, where success flew on carpets across clouds into countries. But she desired a corporate clientele now, a company which would only wall her designs in thick boardrooms inside thicker frames. 

Once over a brunch at The Leela, she chanced upon the extremely powerful couple of the Mumbai constructions site, Firoza and Zubin Bharucha. Out of their page three shine, they looked even more glamorous. Especially with their year old son in between, they attracted envious glances from fellow brunch-mates.The woman looked nothing short of a show-stopper, and the man? Well, the man was what every woman would die to live with -- caring, considerate, cute. This is an ideal company to hold hands with. Daadu, you would have been so excited. Not so much you, Ibrahim. She looked across the room towards the buffet from which Ibrahim, in his beefed-up muscle showing royal blue t-shirt and football playing calf muscle on display beige shorts, smiled back at Azeeza, inquiring whether she would like a glass of orange juice as well. Azeeza nodded in negative. She was enjoying her chocolate rich coffee, her mind whirling to catch up with her ambitions. With what-ifs.

Meanwhile, at the corner table, Firoza was eyeing Azeeza. She needed a smart socialite to represent her profile and manage her lifestyle. Interviews for such personalized work were a passe. She needed someone from the community of her movers and shakers to live up to her schedule, with glitters. This girl seemed in control of her shimmer and status. She had the aura of an achiever. She would be good.

While collecting his glass of orange juice, Ibrahim found Firoza eyeing Azeeza. What a fucking fantastic looking woman! What shoulders! What a neckline! And that fucking pendant! Bloody sitting right in the middle of what must be two beautiful breasts! What a turquoise! As he walked back to his table, he looked at her even more directly and lulled over how wonderful her lips must be to kiss. Like honey over Greek yogurt, maybe? He was finding it impossible to stray his look elsewhere. Azeeza seemed too preoccupied with the consistency of her pasta anyway. Golf was his passion. He wondered how it would be to invite her to a round of golf at his club. But how? Just at that moment, Firoza got up from her table to collect her son who was after his soft ball. And walked straight past Ibrahim. What a leach! Doesn't even know how to eye a woman subtly. Bastard. She picked up her son in her arms, smiled saintly to whoever wished to capture its essence and walked back to her table, leaving a trail of Gucci.

Bloody woman wears Envy. Azeeza did not miss the attention the Bharuchas were absorbing. Where did the husband go? I am sure he is henpecked. Oh how nice it would be to pocket that guy. Damn the pasta. How dare they overdo the sauce? 'I say, Ibrahim, I was thinking of an expansion. For Baraka. Thinking of a source by which we could do an entire housing facility.' Her expressions went alive, the room lit up. 'Think. Each apartment of a complex would have Baraka Carpets. Some on the walls, some on floors, some others could get it on their ceilings! Can you imagine the popularity? Each will be different, of course!'

How does she do this? Thinking the wildest possibilities so craftily? 'Brilliant, Azu, but wild. And how do you propose that will happen?'

'Oh Ibrahim! Allah is great, don't you say? I am sure some way will come up. Don't worry. Eat.' Like hell your plan would work, Azu. 'I might need a favour from you though.'

'Anytime, Azu.' Shit. This sounds dangerous now. What might she be after? Abbu's ancestral property in Pathankot? 

Zubin was enjoying a Corona at the bar-top when on inquiry he was told that Ibrahim Khan was a pro-golfer who had to let go of it for the sake of an empire in Cements handed down to him by his aunt. This was a surprise which till date Ibrahim could not decide, changed his life for good or for worse. Cement. Golf. Eyeing Firzi. Nice combination. Let's get you to work. 

As the two couples departed, each took back their own thought to cultivate.


That night over an intense love-making, and sweet nibbles faked of ecstasy, Azeeza whispered into Ibrahim's ears. Ibrahim was too trapped between her legs and life to mouth a no. Completely spent, he lay beside Azeeza wondering if she could read his mind. 'I want you to sleep with Firoza Jehangir Bharucha, and get me that contract, as I devise, if you have ever loved me. You must do it for your Azu. Oh! Ibrahim!' Ever since the brunch, all that Ibrahim could think of, was Firoza. She had captivated his senses, his soul. As he kissed Azeeza, he imagined Firoza ruling over his bed, his body. And just when he was losing his sanity to ecstasy, Azeeza's whisper brought him back to the reality of the illusion. 'What are you saying, Azu?' Don't you dare retract from the plan.

Azeeza cupped his chin, kissed him tens and twenties softly. 'Please understand.' Bloody bugger. All over your eyes you have Firoza written in lust. I am doing us both a favour. Now put that ass to use. 'You will, won't you, Ibrahim? Would you rather have me sleep with her husband?' Oh, how I would like that for a change. Delicious!

'I am your husband, Azu! Don't ever say such things! I will do anything to protect your dreams, to make them come true.' This woman. Is she capable of that too? Is she not? He went back to kissing Firoza. The illusion over Azeeza. If this tastes so sexy, how would the real thing be?


Slightly snoring in the chiseled arms of Zubin, Firoza could sense he wished to discuss something. He was waiting for her to breach the sleepy silence. Feigning was a failure. 'Yes Zubi, what is it?' Bloody woman! This is why I always loved her. Her competence, her diligence. Zubin smiled. He was awfully betrayed with what she had done with the shares of his father's company. He wanted them back, restored to their individual galore resting in the throne of Bharucha Estates. And he knew it well that the only way he could ever do it would be openly, without the deception of his half-sister, now his wife. 'How do you always do this, Firzi?' She is expecting this line.

'Oh Zubi, for God's sake, say something new.' She looked up to his eyes. 'What happened, Zubi?' Although the world believed she used him and benefited from this marriage, she did love him. Even if out of habit.

'Since you had me promise to restrain myself from any kind of affairs,ever...' he took her face in his hands, 'only for the sake of the merger of Bharucha Estates into Jehangir Constructions, we will name it F.Z. Industries Private Limited, would you go around with this cement baron, Ibrahim Khan? Firzi, the government subsidiary had stopped and it will be impossible to make the merger possible without cement at a price we want. Please Firzi.' One, two, three, four. God, she is thinking it over.

'Why Ibrahim Khan?' Firoza was concerned, calculating.

'Because, Firzi, baby, he has no interest in business. It will be a cakewalk. The conversion rate will be speedier.' Please say yes.

'Let me think over. Is he as good looking as you, baby?' Like I care. 


Conveniences exchanged, a couple of years later, over a brunch at The Leela, the Khans and the Bharuchas were discussing probable successes. The Bharuchas were now calling the mother company Jehangir Bharucha Construction Pvt Ltd. Their recent property was the talk of the investors and those from UAE and Germany too invested in the Baraka Condominium. Each apartment in it, was nurtured by the cement and clothed by the carpets of the Khans. The deal was the biggest in many years over the real-estate landscape. For every property that Firoza would raise, Azeeza would now foster. Everyone won.

Firoza gave birth to a beautiful daughter, and Azeeza to a son. The bookies were placing bets on the wedding of this toddler set and a subsequent Bharucha-Baraka venture twenty, twenty five years later. Mutual secrets were the best held ones.

Needless to say, the women had their say, their way.

Letter to Chhuti XV

All that I have ever wanted -- Chhuti,

And you are here! Your tiny little hands, impossibly holding the entirety of life, in its wholesome expansion. You, with your unbearable benevolence and your multitude of possibilities. When one asks me now, 'What are you doing?', I reply I am with you. And they, they foolishly as who are you. As I laugh slightly, I pause today. Do you know who are you? Well, let me try telling you today who you are to me then.

You are this afternoon of working at ease. You are E-A-S-E. In case people think ease is a luxury only few can afford, I would like to point it out to them, no, it is not about anything to do with 'afford'. It, on the contrary, is about a 'conditioning' of the mind (and body?), where one may have ambitions to pursue and choices to make, but does so at one's comfort, intelligently. It is about a well-thought out lifestyle one is oriented to live.

Who does not like money? Or, which millionaire does not want to make another? But in the quest to do so, if I lose the invaluable time to afford a time-out, it is a waste, is it not? And that, Chhuti, are you. A privilege. A premeditated privilege. I am working non-stop now and cooking too, ideas for a tomorrow which my yesterdays could not imagine.

Life is not about philosophizing, but living a practical philosophy of living well. And you, my dearest, are that theory which puts to action such living. That's who you are!

Thank you,
K.

Case Study: Dr Namrata Pandit

Namrata Pandit. Everything about her was awe-inspiring. The correct, smart, attractive woman who led a desirous, single life, brought to mind one word, automatically -- though she was polite, and mostly a healer -- 'fearless.' She was the envy of her neighbours and the pride of her relatives. She was popular among friends and loved by fellow doctors. So, what could possibly be missing in her life tonight, you think? Oh, and she was a General Physician by the way.

I will tell you, reader. Namrata Pandit was an achiever, a go-getter, a tigress on prowl by the day. Whilst, once the day declared curtains, like a flower, the courage petals in her went for a shut down. Invisible little monsters haunted her through the late evening into the night. It often took her mild medicated pills -- one of the many these 'med reps' left her to prescribe -- to sooth her nerves. A doctor's life, dear reader, I must once again highlight, has no family time. One of the reasons, Namrata decided to remain single. Our doctor, though, on havoc nights kept looking at the neon of the bedside alarm, to see its digits change shape and leave a semi digit of sameness behind. She would pray to be called in for an Emergency at the Nursing Home with which she was attached. The rest of the night then, she used to think, would pass of actively and alarmingly without a second thought.

Nights on which she did fall asleep were another site. Yes reader, site, not sight. It was a site on which dreams could be developed, such was the peace painted on her face. It felt like a conspiracy between God and Peace to gift Namrata a night. The bedside neon did not scream in its noiseless tick. And suddenly she would be awake -- boom -- a nightmare. The explosion on Peace by the Enemies of conspiracy. Her heart beating faster than time could keep a count and her surroundings trying to make logical sense to her, Dr Namrata Pandit then often takes hours to go back to sleep. These were the nights she hated the most. She feared the most.

She often wondered if someone were sleeping next to her, would she cling on to the person, and like a contagious disease, if the fear would be transmitted. Or, it would be soaked in to evaporate and give back a strong, warm, knowing embrace. Who knows, reader! I can only tell one thing about her -- she certainly does not sound like me.

The letterhead shone by the overhead car light. A red Volkswagon Polo did not look red in the dark. It read -- Dr Namrata Pandit,  MD. Consultant Psychiatrist, St Teresa's Nursing Home. 

The Song of the White Crow

Priyadarshini Parlour: Outshine Others! No. Inner Beauty Explored. No. Your Secret Recipe. No. Damn. I cannot even think of a tagline. How will I ever manage the place? Outshine! Yes. Just that. Let me see how it looks. Priyadarshini then cut swift lines across each of the attempted taglines and neatly wrote 'Priyadarshini Parlour: Outshine!', a genuine look of victorious satisfaction written all over her beautiful face. 

Priyadarshini Mathur was born in a middle-class family in Meerut, to a home-maker of a mother and a banker of a father. Bankers then did not make the same money as bankers now do. Nor did they have fancy adjectives assigned -- like 'Retail', or 'Investment', or 'Specialised' before Banking. The salary of a nationalised bank officer was enough for the monthly groceries, child's education and occasional movie-show. Shopping was a luxury held in behest ahead of festivals, twice a year. It sufficed for a clever life-savings, but never for an annual holiday. Eating out in newly opened restaurants was a crime even to be discussed. From here grew Priyadarshini, named duly because of the extraordinary features she was born with. Being too beautiful in such a place was a curse. She attracted attention and lucrative marriage proposals which could be stalled only by placing the pursuit of higher education.

All she ever wanted to do, however, was open a beauty-parlour and run it with the high-handedness of an underground mafia boss, like they showed in movies. Often, over studying about the Indus Valley civilization, she catered an idea of what new hairstyle she would confide Madhuri Dixit to flaunt. Oh yes, in her fair flying, she was always amongst the film industry celebrities. Or while she struggled in completing a complex circle sum in Geometry, she would make it the face of Manisha Koirala, and imagine a conversation in which Manisha would ask her to assess her hair quality and look, and consult for a new one. Subjects changed dramatically fast. She was now refashioning Deepika Padukone over Hegel and Kant. 

Sadly, Hegel and Kant of pages helped her earn scholarships and stipends contrary to the Kapoors and Khans of the industry who could not win her an appointment. Priyadarshini was not the one to lose hope. Her ambition was fixed, though disoriented geographically. New Delhi. That was where she had set her eyes on. Not Mumbai, but New Delhi. Ideally, it was a mere bus ride away from where she hailed, but the distance was a whirled storm she needed to brave. She knew she could not digress, nor afford to, tell her parents about her original plans.

At age thirty two, achingly beautiful and even more achingly restive about unfulfilled desires, she allowed her penchant for scissors, style and the cash-box to overshadow the promise of a lasting relationship. New Delhi, I will own you. These were the candy thoughts who comforted her during her break-up and her confrontation with aging parents. Things ought to change, New Delhi.

'Priyadarshini Parlour: Outshine!', she finally relied upon. The name that would take up her life's savings. Each time her uncle gave her money for Holi, or the Diwalis that went un-burst, she carefully fed her money-sack, a rundown pillow-cover sitting quiet amidst her many kurtis and salwars. It would make the required noise only when hand-held. It jingled in pleasure. The only other time she had heard it was when she had to withdraw money from her precious fund to undertake that priceless course in hair-dressing. Discreetly, obviously.

She was now in Itanagar, one of the more peopled places of Arunachal Pradesh. Far, far away from Meerut, and New Delhi, to the extreme North-East of India, it opened up to her the possibility of fencing the chaotic rhythms going on in her mind. As she took up a job of teaching in one of the newer universities, armed with her PhD, she thickened her pillow-case further and took it to the banks. The location was selected, the hair-cutters were hand picked and she scheduled the price and consultation first hand. Everything is in place. I am still the mafia boss and my success will let me open branches all over India. New Delhi, wait for me.

One week after the sublime success of 'Priyadarshini Parlour', she now stands by her window, content, and coffee in hand, undecided over what to do with the letter on the sill. It was stamped 'Santa Cruz (E), Mumbai.' It was just like yesteryears. The crow cawed endlessly, waiting for a crumb of bread, and it felt like the clouds had draped it in its white majesty. Is it Kareina Kapoor, now Khan? Or, Anushka Sharma? No, Deepika must have heard of it from Michelle Gurung, the Arunachali superstar! What if it were Madhuri? Asking for me to help her comeback? With a make-over? 

The small-town innocence and faith made Priyadarshini Mathur keep the envelop unopened. Her accompaniment to the white crow's melody. Each lonely morning, her New Delhi dreams weighed more than the cash rich Itanagar fulfillment. There was no competition here, she reigned. Alone. The Queen of Consultation, the Queen with the Scissors.

***

Little did she know what fell under Santa Cruz (E) PO, Mumbai. Mumbai University had invited her for its fest to speak in the 'Unschooled, Unhelped Entrepreneurs Forum.' No, that was not important. Sushmita Sen was the Chief Guest. 

It is true they say, when you can hear the crow sing a melody, life wears a white death blanket. The invite date is over. Priyadarshini continues to imagine Madhuri's makeover. In a sad happiness.

A Story about You

They called you singular, they also considered you plural. They knew nothing. They often asked me who you are. Not that I knew, or know. Maybe you are mad. Mad because without you, sanity makes no sense. Mad, because all that is glorious and then sets to rust, do against you. You and I, go hand in hand, and everything in between -- a tiff too many, a soft touch of the lips, a lie, lovers.

Let us go then, You and I. No, not to poetic anaesthecized tables, but to bland riversides instead, on equally ordinary evenings, and bloom it into a special one with each other beside. Some tales we will tell, some desires we will trace, some leisurely cups of tea have. We shall not indulge in the complex counting of lifetimes in coffeespoons around sultry afternoons. Just You, just Me. We shall unearth the river.

How would it be, to uncover it? To rediscover its flow? May be we will find kingdoms of Us in it, from a long forgotten Yesterday. May be we will be together called Mad. Perhaps we are. Why else would this be a story? A story about You? Of young green leaves travelling in autumn air, when auburn ones are laden on the roads? You, in your smoky, rusty, classicism of neo-nowness.

They asked me about You, you know. I had nothing much to convey. I tried though. They only understood tickets and berths and reservations when I spoke of travels. I tried telling them of you in waves and heights and cobbled streets. They asked me of cuisines and cultures. I paused. I stopped. There was no point. They would never understand me. Because they never understood You, the Story.    

Outdated!

'What's with the date, Dhwani?' Arindam inquired with concern. The day was semi-dark, semi-stormy. From my window I could see a spare squirrel trying to run around the heavy branch, from nothing, perhaps in search of a companion. Arindam was being too nice to me. I wonder why. Not that I had to avoid any kind of indecent advances from him. He was a friend from my coaching center five years back. I was studying then to qualify to teach. He was not from this city, sincere and genuine. The problem began with him falling head over heels in love with me. Why does it always get complicated with love? This was pure text-book material, his commitment. 

The interview is on 6th, stupid! I had blurted out. It was a miserable slip. 'What's with the date, Dhwani?' Arindam had inquired. The date. Should I tell him? Where do I begin? It unfolds each year like an episode from a long lost fat novel one does not read because of its thickness, but returns to, because of its ease. 6th. I begin. I hope it won't break your heart, Arindam, and I won't lose the friend in you. 

'Would you like to know of the date, Arindam? Each year, backwards?' I courageously blurted the question, finally.

'Yes.' His integrity unnerved me.

'Well then. The 6th of this month. Let me trace each year through. This year, I became a decade old. Of a dead institution. Yesterday I was consumed with the odd happenings in my life, where I stand, without a job, without financial stability, without a companion, without success and fame. Yesterday, I decided on what my calling was, for life. I could not decide on anything else, could not work on anything else. My calling is here!' Will he hate me because I am a sucker for popularity? Oh God, no! Let me quickly move to the year before.

'The year before, Arindam, I was offered the job, in full-time capacity, to teach. One solid source of guaranteeing reputation and stability. Which I gave up earlier last month.'

Arindam held my hand in a never before gesture of understanding.

'The year before, on this bloody date, I was slated for the government sector interview, remember?' I laughed thinking of the nervousness which had washed over my preparation. I was such a fool!' What are you doing on August 6th, Dhwani? Shikha had asked on the phone. I told her I would celebrate, I would mourn because of the reason. Then I asked her why she asked after it. Your name is on the interview list for that day.

'The year before, 2012, on this day, I passed the insurance examination. Arindam!!! Laugh! You had literally yielded my soul out of my skin for deviating so purposelessly! Why are you writing random examinations, Dhwani?!!

'I know. Fool. Smart fool. Continue.' Arindam spoke just like the school teacher he has now become.

'You know what happened in 2011. Try thinking it out. Come on!' I teased him delibeartely trying to script a lie in the meanwhile he would be scratching his brains for nothing he knew. 'Bugger! I had taken you along to buy the new laptop, and the silver neck-piece with the money I received that day. Pending for the two years! It seemed such a lot. Oh, Arindam! You were even shocked by the amount I was spending. I said I would. I deserve to.'

He didn't seem too convinced, but I moved on with the pace of truth.

'2010. I was in BHU. On that fateful day, I slept with one of the most charismatic men I ever knew. I was in paradise. We had a lot of bhaang after that. It was a week long bed and breakfast affair. I was overjoyed.' Arindam, coming from a small town, was visibly taken aback. How on earth would he take my history?

'Then?'

'I will now break the linear narrative, Arindam. Let me go back to 2005.'

'The suspense, Dhwani! Yes, 2005. What happened? Why is it a scar?' He seemed a little restless.

'I married Sarat that monsoon.' 

Silence. He looked at me as if I never spoke a word. Please do not exaggerate that I kept it hidden, that I lied, please Arindam. Arindam shifted his position. 'What?' That was all he could manage.

'Yes Arindam. I was once married. Much married.' 

'What happened? Did he die?' He was bitter-sweet.

'Reviving the celebrations of 2005, in 2006, Sarat handed me a car key. His choice. No discussions. And we had a rough night. Apparently I was not up to the gift he gave me earlier in the evening. Not up to the Swift.'

His look mellowed. I love his eyes. His sensitivity. 'Dhwani.'

'2007. He was away. I do not remember where he was. I was happy. Till that date. He arranged a party. I failed as a grand host. I failed in remaining sober. I failed that night too. It was a pathetic evening and a worse night.'

If only you were richer, smarter and from a city, I would love to love you, Arindam. No man I know shows such kindness. Arindam's passed me the bottle of water.

'2008. We reached Benares that morning. We checked into a decent place. He went out to oversee the saree making factories in the name of an anniversary. I was alone by the ghats wondering what I was doing in my life. I had to miss a precious CL at NSTI having joined it two weeks back. They had already shown me their disapproval. The glory of the dirty ghats by the romantic river remains in me.'

'Where did he work?'

'Birla Cement.' The bastard. 'Everyone loved him. He was successful, social and completely husband-like. 2009, he told me his gift to me was a flat. In a locality I never heard of, of the space I would cringe in. A party at the cost of a travel with my friends planned forever. He simply refused to let me go. Anyway. 2010. The decisive year. I filed for a divorce on that date. I had my Orientation at the new course I had taken up in JU. I did not miss it. Nor for the party. I reached the party after it began. He did not spare to bell me under my ear while the songs and alcohol were flowing. I gifted him the law suit later that night.'

Arindam came close to me. 'May I hug you?' This is exactly why I can never imagine loving, let alone marrying you. You are unsuitably sweet, you idiot buffoon.

'No. Not if you to still need to seek permission.' Was that too harsh?

'Dhwani, will you marry me? I promise to erase the date out of your memory vocabulary.'

What an ass! I remember each year, each incident with pride, often with fondness that I have survived. 'Is that mercy you are showering, Arindam? Sorry. You are not my type. I am too wild to be restrained by your soft-spoken sensitivity.' Oh God he might just break down. Don't cry Arindam! I will lose respect for you.

Adjusting invisible creases on his trouser, he said in a grave tone, 'I think you still love him.'

That was an ancient comment, Arindam. As ancient as Sarat. All of you are outdated. 'If that makes you happy, Arindam, I do.'

The Quotes Factory

'To be or not to be, that is the question,' paused RKM, in his no longer dramatic silence, reaching absolutely no effect. His hairline was thinning rapidly, his skin sagging and the shaking of his hands became evident the day he wrote Hamlet on the board. The swerves of the 'm' were unstable, and the 't' was loosely connected with the loopless 'e'. Raktim looked at the man, completely distanced from what he was trying to teach, in absolute liberation with his imagination, wearing a mask of attention which would not disrupt his creativity. People. People are my favourite things. He shifted his attention to Mandira, across the classroom, in one of the front benches. What a girl! She knows so much yet she listens in awe. What a waste. Why does she only speak in others' words? Damn your grass, Yeats, and damn your coffee-spoons, Eliot. How nice it would be to attend her lecture instead of RKM's. Raktim opened a page of his notebook, wrote down 'ConFuseD' and started sketching in and around it. 

RKM: His wife, a housewife. No! A school teacher. Naaah. An ageing Air-India, saree clad air hostess, hahaha. No. He would die. Mrs RKM best suits the role of some kind of a social activist, passive one. The Shantiniketan types. At-home artist. Decorating her home, her only passion, or maybe we can assign some kind of religious frenzy to her. Ya, done. His son, ashamed to be their child, is happily studying what he does not want to in Bangalore, away. Got selected for a prime job in his campussing.  Average, and average built. RKM likes Mandira. For his son. He has discussed this exceptionally bright student of his with his wife, who plainly is filled with disgust for "girls today in shorts and vest-like t-shirts. We need someone more homely for Arunabha." RKM is disappointed. Secretly, he likes the novelty of Mandira, her zest for the subject, her command in it, and of course she is attractive. Who would not like to be associated with her? 

Cut. A Reception. RKM and Mrs RKM greet guests heartily. Both are secretly unhappy about their Arunabha getting to sleep with Mandira tonight. They avoid each other's eyes. Mandira does not steal any bit of the limelight, she is the limelight. Traditionally draped in silk extravaganza, the ornaments cannot outdo her features. She is chirping away at the sight of her friends and family members. Arunabha is nervous. He still finds it quite unbelievable that Mandira is his wife. Who said arranged marriages could not be interesting, any less exciting than eloping?

Cut. An apartment. Made ugly with stamps of vermilion on walls and ritual dressing in flowers. Mrs RKM spoonfeeds RKM with liquid enzymes and calls out Arunabha for the same. They had just retired to his room, together, her son and his wife. Arunabha obediently drinks it. She hands him over the bottle and asks him to offer it to Mandira. He takes it and leaves. Mandira changes and comes out of the washroom in comfortable night clothes, not nervous. They exchange cursory conversational sentences when they hear a scream. 

Cut. They are all waiting outside their building, waiting for the fire to burn out. There was not much damage, no accidents, no casualty. Each eye outside, eyed Mandira, invisibly and inaudibly blaming her for being "unlucky." She holds on to Raktim's hands, looking for a friend.

Wait. What? No, not Raktim. It should be Arunabha, the dolt. Who is too coy to hold back her hand. 

The bell rings declaring the class over. Mandira runs over to him. 'So, hero, to be or not be? Who did you make me murder today? Or was I your adulterous, seductress today? Here, let me find out.' She looks down at the page on which Raktim had scribbled ConFuseD.

The 'c' wore flowers, the 'f' caught fire and the 'd' became a door. Other alphabets in between formed a pattern, of supreme symmetry. Raktim could not come to terms with his feelings for Mandira. Love? Envy? Just my muse? Passion? Love? Envy? Really?

He tried to decide and playfully wrote down, “I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum.” To which Mandira replied, with a curvacious handwriting and an ever victorious smile, “This above all: to thine own self be true.”