Everyone Has a Story 2

by Savi Sharma

  Relief flooded me. In one conversation, she had calmed my fears in so many ways. She was truly the most amazing woman, and she was my wife. With her by my side, we would be okay.

  18

  MEERA

  ‘Vivaan,’ I said, hating my voice. It sounded weak. ‘Please, don’t push me away.’

  I heard a short laugh on the other end of the phone. ‘Meera, you’re overreacting. I’m not pushing you away. I just need to do some things tonight, so I can’t come over.’

  What do you have to do? Sit there in your dark apartment and feel sorry for yourself? Because that seems like it’s all that you do! I screamed the words in my head, but I managed to keep them in. I knew they would only hurt him.

  ‘I am not overreacting,’ I insisted. ‘You’ve grown more and more distant. I barely see you anymore.’

  He heaved a sigh and I could hear a lot of background noise on the phone like he was tapping something against the counter.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘You said that yesterday.’

  ‘Meera, I mean it. I’ll see you tomorrow. Please don’t give me a hard time,’ he said, weariness in his voice.

  ‘I love you,’ I said, but I knew the words were just that: words. What good was love when it ripped through you and poured tears into your heart?

  ‘Love you,’ he said absently and hung up.

  I looked at my phone for a long time before I placed it on the desk beside my manuscript.

  I scowled at the page, which was mostly empty. There were exactly two full paragraphs. The third one was half empty. The final sentence wasn’t even completed. I dropped my head in defeat. It wasn’t even that I was interrupted by Vivaan’s phone call mid-sentence. I stopped writing twenty minutes before he even called. The sentence was incomplete because the words were just gone.

  Can I even call myself a writer anymore? I thought desperately. Why am I even torturing myself with a book that won’t sell?

  It was just one more thing on my mind. Two days ago, I had to release Aashi from her duties. After pouring so much money into Musafir, I had to cut back on my own expenses just to keep moving forward.

  I adored Aashi and she had always been there for me, but I couldn’t ask her to work for me without paying her. She had her own expenses too, and I needed to release her, so she could find another job.

  I wept as I hugged her that day. ‘I will always be here for you, Meera,’ she said, tears in her eyes too. ‘I know this is only temporary. You’ll start writing again, I know. It is in your blood. Just remember I’m only a phone call away if you need me.’

  Even now, I doubted the wisdom of letting Aashi go. Maybe tomorrow things would change, and I would start writing again.

  But you can’t buy food on maybes.

  Besides, even if I did start writing again, even if the words started tumbling out even faster than I could write them, who would want to buy my book? I had plunged from the top-selling female writer to nothing. I couldn’t believe how cruel people could be. Authors that I met at the lit fest, people whose hands I shook, were flinging venom at my name just to promote their own work.

  They had morals, they said, suggesting that I didn’t.

  Morals? Ha! They lied just to push their name out there. They couldn’t do it on their talent, could they?

  ‘That’s just mean, Meera,’ I scolded myself. ‘You are not that person.’

  I picked up my phone again, needing to get out of the house and away from these destructive, negative thoughts. I needed people around me. I climbed into my car and started towards Nisha and Kabir’s place.

  19

  VIVAAN

  I couldn’t stand to be in the city anymore. Everywhere I turned, I felt there were signs of my failure. I couldn’t go near the neighbourhood where my office was located. The area, the restaurants, everything reminded me of those hopeful days when things seemed so promising.

  I avoided Meera, barely able to take in that brave smile masking the devastation she must have felt.

  Honestly, if I could have, I probably would have run halfway around the world again. But I couldn’t afford a plane ticket to the next state, never mind travelling abroad.

  But I still had my car, and I could still buy petrol, for a little while longer, anyway. I slid into my faithful vehicle and started to drive.

  As the tall buildings of Pune shrunk in my rear-view mirror, I began to breathe a little easier. I didn’t know where I was going, but I did know I couldn’t turn around and go back any time soon.

  It wasn’t until I was passing by buildings on either side of NH48 that I was starting to get a sense of where I might be going. It wasn’t a deliberate trek, but more of a pull like I was being drawn to a certain region.

  The pull started to get stronger as I turned onto SH65 and saw the Siddhi Vinayak Hospital. Memories rushed at me—this wasn’t the hospital that Meera was taken to when she had her accident, but the building reminded me of those horrible, terrifying days.

  I kept driving, pushing my car, seeking open spaces. The road started to wind, and I had to put both hands on my steering wheel, turning my attention to my driving. For a few minutes, I felt a relief from my own torment as my focus was on the twisting, turning road ahead of me.

  Then, my car took a hard left turn. Sure enough, I was on the Rajgad Fort Road, just as I suspected. I knew what was up ahead and I looked forward to the challenge.

  Yes, there it was. The Balekilla Road. It ushered in the entrance to Rajgad Fort, where Meera had fled the day I told her about my past; the news that my bride was killed on our wedding day nearly tore Meera apart. Knowing that she came here to escape her misery, it followed that I would trail her years later to escape my own misery.

  Life was so unfair, and I hurled this phrase at the heavens as I started the trek to the summit. Those drugs weren’t mine! I didn’t deserve the speculation and the negativity. All I wanted to do was turn my own wonderment with our country into a way to support myself and Meera, if she ever chose to marry me. If that was even an option anymore, I thought bitterly as my feet pounded determinedly on the earth.

  The open, green fields soon dissolved into a considerable hike and at the pace I had set my lungs started to burn with the effort it took to ascend the Murumbadevi Dongar Hills. Looking up at the steep incline ahead of me, it wasn’t hard to see why this fort was difficult for enemies to attack. Captured? Yes, it fell, but not without a struggle.

  I wished I had the fortitude to fight the injustices against me, but I toppled with very little effort. Perhaps I wasn’t strong enough. Maybe I didn’t really want to succeed.

  These thoughts taunted me as I rushed up the path. At times, I felt like I was fleeing my very failure, running away from my shame. And, for a few footsteps at a time, I could escape. My mind refocused on other things. . . Meera’s beautiful face. . . Kabir’s smile the day he opened his own café. . . My thoughts would settle on happy thoughts and I could feel a few heartbeats of relief.

  But then the burning in my lungs would be too much and I’d have to stop to catch my breath. And, like an enemy catching up with me, my disgrace, dogging me this whole time, would catch up and nearly overwhelm me.

  My mind would taunt me with other images. As I sat there, gasping for breath, the white, carefully constructed walls of the jail cell I was unceremoniously thrown into on the first day of Musafir’s premier tour especially taunted me. I heard the metal door shut firmly, determined to barricade me from the dream I was living only a few hours before.

  That long, horrible night, I lay on a thin mattress on a concrete bed in the jail, miserably curled into myself. I was so distressed after being caught with drugs that weren’t mine. How did that happen? I asked myself again for the hundredth time. I hated feeling helpless, but that was how I felt that night. I was stripped of everything, from my own clothes to my dignity.

  As the weeks went by, the only plausible explanation was that Shridhar must have slipped the drugs into
my bag. At first, I dismissed the thought because it was so unfair to accuse another person of something they didn’t do . . . even if the accusation was only in my mind.

  But his name continued to persist in my heart, and the more I thought of it, the more I was convinced that it must have been Shridhar. He watched me being accused of something I didn’t do and left me to pay for his crime. What was my crime? Not taking my satchel with me when I left the bus. Stupidity, nothing more!

  Part of me wanted to verbalise the accusation and call the police, but what purpose would it serve, really? It would only keep my name in the newspapers. Even if I was right and even if Shridhar admitted to the crime, the PR would still bring up that horrible night, and the details of my fall from grace.

  I thought I was defeated that night; I didn’t realise I could fall further from grace, but I could, and I took my beloved Meera with me as I tumbled downwards. Misery pressed against me, heavy hands pushing and pulling as I struggled for every breath on the path to Rajgad Fort.

  Finally, I crested the summit, my thighs burning with the effort of my half spring up the steep slopes. Maybe at the top, I thought, I would see clarity in the thin air. I would be handed the wisdom of why I was being tested, why the help I promised to Kabir was torn away from me. Why Meera’s own living was suddenly undermined by that horrible day.

  If I thought it was going to come as I stood, vulnerable in front of the fort gates, I was wrong. No consoling ideas came to me, no out-of-the-box thinking to dig myself out of this horrible mess.

  The winds pressed against me from all four directions, wiping the sweat from my body for a few minutes before quickly instilling a numbing chill on my limbs. I didn’t realise it was going to be this cold that day.

  My head felt as numb, as disjointed as I felt my extremities becoming. If my arms and legs were defeated by the cold, and my mind was going too, what was next? My heart? My soul? I looked around, panicked, expecting to see some crazed enemy from centuries ago readying to take his death blow. I was sure I was dying.

  But it never happened. My heart kept beating and my arms, quivering with cold and exhaustion, kept moving, rubbing the other to provide some comforting warmth. And my head kept racing with memories of caustic, defeated dreams, once so happy, but now turning against me like a family pet that unknowingly developed rabies. I was contented once, but those feelings were made even more despondent with the misery I was handed.

  Slowly, I made my way to Chor Darwaja, the very same path that I knew Meera attempted that day . . . and she failed, falling down the steep stairs, almost losing her life.

  Was I tempting destiny? Was I challenging it to bring its worst to me? Or was I on that very same path . . . expecting it to best me?

  I didn’t know.

  My legs were shaking with fatigue as I pictured Meera’s tiny feet climbing the same steps. She told me later she climbed quite a way before she realised she was wrong to run away and she turned away to come back to me.

  ‘I felt like I could touch heaven from there,’ she told me in the hospital, several weeks into her recovery. Could I do the same? Could I touch heaven?

  I turned around, taking in the amazing vista below me. It truly was awe-inspiring, as dangerous as the path may have been. I might not have been able to reach to heaven from here, but I definitely could sense its presence all around me.

  I sat down on the cold, damp, grey step in front of me. And waited for absolution.

  I should have felt peace like Meera did. But I still felt the weight of losing my dreams.

  A small group approached me, slowly ascending to find the ‘hidden door’. Scooting over on the cold step, I let them pass, determined to make eye contact with each one as they approached.

  ‘Almost there?’ one man gasped as he entered my view.

  I nodded. ‘Taking a break myself,’ I said. ‘But you’re almost there.’

  They passed, and I waited until the gentle, breathless murmurs of the climbing party disappeared behind a small bend.

  Slowly, I stood, the weight of my failure making me feel a gazillion times heavier. I could have been on the summit of Everest, hemmed in by my own misery, my oxygen tanks depleted, and a snowstorm rushing towards me to force me off the path.

  I fought the feeling and stood straight on the step where I had sat.

  I took a breath. And then another one.

  I looked at the steep steps below me, the ones Meera had fallen down. But I was sure she had tried to protect her body as she plummeted down, and that was why she lived.

  What if I didn’t fight it? What if I opened my arms and welcomed gravity while I stopped trying to fight fate?

  My left foot tentatively rubbed against the edge of the step and I heard small pellets of earth dislodge as I tested its security.

  Although the path down looked straight and sure, I knew my own path was forking. Nobody would think it odd if I fell, tumbling down from the heavens I nearly touched. I could follow that route. Or I could cling to the rail and inch my way down the slope again. But where would that path lead me? Would destiny turn once again and allow me a happy ending? Or was that safer path down the hill going to end in even more misery?

  My cheeks were stinging with the tears streaming down my face as I made my decision.

  20

  FATE

  This is deliciously wonderful! I have taken away everything that they have. . . their financial security, their means of living. . . poof! Gone! Isn’t it amazing how quickly I can turn a charmed life and push it into utter misery?

  But wait.

  These fools still have. . . love? And. . . hope? How did that happen?

  Huh. Well, they think they can escape me. But what good will these things do if they don’t even have a way to support themselves.

  Without financial comfort, they have nothing.

  They may be fighting me right now. Me. Fate! The fools have no idea how strong I am. Even though I turned their lives into utter chaos, they still resist the path I have laid out for them.

  Ah, but one can only fight for so long. Nobody can fight me for too long. I’m too powerful, and I don’t need to play fair.

  I wonder if they look back and think about the times when life went so smoothly for them. When things were just lined up in a straight line, ordered, happy, and predictable. Did they think then how quickly I would be able to kick at their neat, tidy lives?

  It’s just a scuff on my feet, really, but how quickly I can knock things down, tear apart their well-ordered lives.

  Just like a child, when I start playing, I have a hard time stopping. It’s so delightful to see the disarray that I can create. My own personal mud pie.

  21

  NISHA

  ‘Ma!’ Jianna shouted as she toddled toward her favourite red ball. I watched my little girl with amusement, seeing the wonders of her world through a set of two-year-old eyes.

  Despite stress of the last few months, our little girl remained unaffected, and it was soothing to watch her antics as she mastered her running abilities.

  We were at the Kamala Nehru Park once more. Although it was a little further from our apartment than some of the other parks, this was one of our favourites. Jianna loved the green animals carved from lush bushes and would crane her neck to look up at the giraffe every time we saw it.

  But she particularly loved the open spaces. Just to move at full toddler speed delighted her and today she was trying to kick her ball at the same time, shrieking with delight every time she moved it a few inches.

  Kabir was with me on this day, although he had opted to sit in the shade while I chased the baby around. I knew he was still uncomfortable, but he was laughing at Jianna’s antics as she would wind up the ball and promptly throw it on the ground right in front of her. I was so happy to see him outside for the first time in a long while. Perhaps the fresh air would help him heal even more.

  Jianna darted off the grass onto one of the stone walkways and went to kick her ball ag
ain. This time, though, she missed the red orb and her tiny foot landed the top of it, knocking her over.

  The poor sweetheart let out an angry wail and I rushed over to pick her up, snuggling her close. With the other arm, I grabbed the ball and we returned to where Kabir was sitting, Jianna crying uncontrollably.

  ‘Is she okay?’ Kabir was sitting straight like he was about to launch himself off the bench to join us as I was heading back to him. By this time, Jianna was thrashing in my arms and I had to struggle to hold on to her as I joined Kabir on the freshly painted green bench.

  ‘I’m sure she’s fine,’ I said soothingly. I swung Jianna’s legs over mine and started to inspect for cuts and bruises. Sure enough, there was an angry scrape on her left knee. She must have landed on that knee when she lost her balance, my poor sweetheart. There wasn’t much blood, but the skin was torn, and I could only imagine how much that stung.

  I dug a cloth out of her bag and poured a little water on it, putting it on her knee to soothe the pain.

  Soon, the crying turned to teary sniffles and finally stopped altogether.

  I lifted the cloth and inspected the boo-boo. It was going to be sore, but it could have been much worse. Interested in the condition of her knee, Jianna looked down with wide eyes. ‘Ow?’ she said, and the understatement made both of us laugh. Then, she scooted off my knee, held her hands out for the ball, and took off. Curious, we watched her deliberately place the ball on the ground and reel back to kick it again.

  ‘You clever, determined girl,’ Kabir chuckled and I looked over at him. Just as I was going to respond, an idea started to blossom in my mind.

  Never far from my mind, my thoughts turned back to Vivaan and Meera. Just like Jianna, they lost their balance in a way. So did Kabir, I mused. Everybody had their own dreams and each dream was interrupted, just like the baby’s play when she tripped over her ball.

  Jianna didn’t give the pain of her scraped knee power over her. She didn’t let it get the best of her. Instead, he allowed some tears, but then she moved past the pain. She gained control of it, instead of letting it gain control of her.