by Savi Sharma
‘You are full of surprises tonight, Vivaan.’ Now it was her turn to tease.
‘I am,’ I returned. ‘I’ve decided that I’m going to start blogging about some of my trips and share my photos on Instagram.’
‘What a great idea!’ she said. ‘Your photos are amazing.’
‘I can’t wait to take you to some of these places myself.’ And suddenly, I was aware that I didn’t feel the pang I had been feeling when I thought of travelling. When I lost Musafir, I felt like my gateway to travel had been closed. The thought of travelling, I realised now, felt like an impossible dream then.
But I knew I could turn my back on my regrets now. I didn’t need to keep them in the present.
I could start to inch that gate back open, and I knew I would be able to travel again. Until that happened, I could quench that hunger by sharing my adventures on a blog. Who knew? That could attract even more attention, so by the time I was able to start my company again, I could have a social media following.
‘Do you think you can help me set up those accounts?’ I asked Meera. We agreed to meet the next morning, so she could help me with that process.
I crawled into my bed that night. As I looked up at the ceiling, I felt happy that things were starting to turn around for me again. This time, as I made my way back to my dreams, I would make sure my friends were able to rediscover their dreams too.
But I knew that wouldn’t be the end of the story. It isn’t enough just to achieve your dreams and expect them to stay right in place. They need to be nurtured through hard work. And they might not always fit together, but our job was to figure out how to fit them together. I knew we would.
25
KABIR
Nisha and I shared a beautiful, warm embrace before we left for our walk. Since our trip to Goa, we had grown even closer than I could have imagined. Sometimes she and Jianna joined me on my walks; sometimes I went alone. This day, she was wide awake and babbling happily so we left for a walk before the predicted rain came in that night.
I was feeling better than I had in a long time. My scars had healed to the point that the pain had dulled from discomfort to barely a memory anymore. I was thankful that Nisha and our friends had taken such good care of me during the early stages of the healing process, taking up the reins that my amazing doctors and surgeons had initiated in their excellent care.
Don’t push people away, but remember that keeping them near to you is not enough. You must also allow them into your soul by sharing your hopes and dreams with them. I did that with Nisha, every day now.
Of the utmost importance, Nisha and I agreed, were my daily walks, now that I was able to venture out without worrying about the bright Indian sun hurting my body. The walks were critical, not just to bring my body back to the level of fitness that I enjoyed, but also to help clear my mind of all the clutter that formed when I worried about finances and mourned the loss of my beloved café.
I knew I would rebuild, but as Nisha and I pored over figures, we had no idea how it would happen. The savings that she had were sustaining us, but would not support us indefinitely. Nisha talked about going to work somewhere, and I would have supported it, but I knew her heart was in raising Jianna. Our little girl was heartily into her third year, and every day was a new discovery . . . and a new challenge. Nisha didn’t want to miss a moment, and I was thankful that my wife was content to stay at home.
All these things passed through my mind as we made our way past colourful storefronts, crossing busy streets. As usual, I didn’t know where we would be walking; like Jianna, who delighted in the smallest things in our world, each day was a new discovery.
And then we saw the white double archways welcoming people to the Savitribai Phule Pune University. I loved walking in all the university campuses, taking in the different students and the cross-sections of emotions: frustration, excitement, anxiousness . . . whatever their education handed them that day.
This university, in particular, was a favourite destination of mine. There was something invigorating about wandering through the smartly maintained gardens, but I was particularly drawn to a pathway enveloped by dark, thoughtful, and old trees. Walking down that path felt like walking into a secret. A delightful secret, one kept close to the heart.
After making our way through the walkway, ducking carefully under some of the trees that were encroaching further, we returned to one of the green gardens and sat happily on one of the benches.
A group of young students made their way past us and we nodded our hellos to them before my eyelids slid shut and I turned my face to the warm sunlight.
‘Excuse me,’ I heard tentatively.
I opened my eyes and the group of students had backtracked, now standing in front of our family. ‘Yes, can I help you?’ I asked, curious.
‘You aren’t from Kafe Kabir by any chance, are you?’ the young girl asked.
My face widened into a wide grin. ‘I am,’ I confirmed. ‘I am. . . was. . . the owner, Kabir.’ I reached out my hand and shook her hand.
‘Oh wow,’ she said before turning to one of her friends. ‘I told you it was him.’ Suddenly, the entire group was murmuring, some in greeting, some in surprise as they realised who I was. The girl dropped on to the bench beside me, her face sad. ‘I was so very sorry to hear about the fire.’
I pursed my lips, touched by her sincere look. ‘Thank you,’ I stammered. ‘I appreciate that. I take it you had been to Kafe Kabir?’
Several people in the group nodded. ‘I didn’t get there as often as I wanted to, but I loved going there,’ she said.
I glanced at Nisha. She was grinning, enjoying the conversation we were having.
A young man cleared his throat. ‘I remember going there one time and didn’t realise I was short on funds. By the time I realised it, you had already poured my coffee and gave it to me anyway. You didn’t have to . . . and a lot of people wouldn’t have . . . but you were very kind and told me it was payment enough to promise to go back and study hard.’
‘And have you?’ I cocked my eyebrow at him teasingly.
‘Yes sir,’ he confirmed. ‘That very day I was studying for an exam. It was one of the highest marks I’ve gotten.’
‘That is terrific,’ Nisha said, nodding her approval.
‘Then it was worth the investment,’ I winked.
He laughed, and then sobered. ‘I was thinking about that the day we heard about the fire. And you were hurt?’ he asked gently.
I nodded but deliberately brightened up. ‘I am much better now, though,’ I said.
‘Oh good!’ another person in the group chimed in. ‘So you will be rebuilding soon?’
I sighed. ‘If only it were that easy,’ I said. ‘It takes money to rebuild.’
They groaned collectively, all sympathising with the frustrations of being financially limited. ‘That’s too bad,’ the first girl said. ‘I really, really miss your coffee.’
Collectively, the group murmured again, and several chimed in with stories of local coffee disappointments. ‘It’s just not the same,’ one person said sadly. ‘The cafeteria coffee is horrible.’
‘What about coffee stalls?’ Nisha asked, curiously. ‘Didn’t I see one close to the edge of the campus?’
‘One,’ somebody confirmed. ‘And I guess it’s not bad. But it’s not Kafe Kabir’s coffee.’
‘No. . .’ another piped up.
We talked coffee beans for a little longer and the baby delighted them with her cooing.
I asked them their names. ‘When Kafe Kabir opens again. . . and I know it will somehow. . . I want you all to visit. I’ve enjoyed chatting with you all and I would love to buy you a coffee.’ I looked at the boy who had run short on money that day. ‘And a second one for you,’ I teased.
The skies were starting to thicken with clouds and I remembered the weather forecast. We were still quite a way from home and I wanted to get back before the rain started. Nisha and I stood up, shook everybody’s
hands in farewell and headed home.
Your perception of events reflects the outcome. Even the simplest event can become the most meaningful when we assign our perceptions.
We walked in silence. I was thinking about the group of students, all eager to tell me their coffee woes.
Just as a thought began to form in my mind, Nisha cleared her throat. I knew she was preparing to say something important when she did that.
‘Those kids sure missed your coffee,’ she commented.
‘I know,’ I said, ‘but they’re going to have to wait a little longer. We aren’t in a position to rebuild yet.’
‘About that,’ she mused. ‘Maybe we could rebuild Kafe Kabir earlier than planned . . . and bring it closer to them.’
‘How do you mean?’ I started to ask, but our conversation was halted. The rain started and we dashed the final half block to home.
We were laughing but out of breath from jogging the path to our apartment after the deluge started. Instead of cursing the rain as I might have done in the past, the cold sogginess only made me laugh harder.
‘You should have brought a raincoat like we did,’ Nisha said when we walked into our apartment and she took off her jacket. ‘You’re soaking wet!’
I couldn’t help it. I picked her up and swung her around, making her half shriek, half giggle. ‘And now you’re as wet as I am,’ I responded, and shook my mane of black hair in her direction.
‘What has gotten into you?’ she clucked, pulling at her damp, thin shirt before she grabbed a kitchen towel and tossed it to me. She then proceeded to take the baby’s wet jacket off.
I caught the towel deftly and started to dry my hair. But then, I looked down at Jianna, who was staring up at me with a tentative smile and curious eyes. I bent down in front of her and shook my head again. She squealed happily when several large drops landed on her, too.
I jogged into the bedroom and changed my clothes quickly, then came out and scooped her up. She ran her fingers through my wet hair and then in her dry locks; apparently, she wasn’t done with the ‘Daddy’s all wet’ game.
After we settled in, Nisha sat close to me on the sofa, her eyes dancing.
‘I have an idea,’ she started excitedly. ‘I was thinking about those kids back at the university. What if we started a coffee stall instead of building a full-blown café?’
‘What?’ I said. ‘Do you think we could?’
‘It would be a much smaller investment and it sounds like you’d have some steady customers.’
‘Hmmmm. I like the idea, but it is very different from what I was doing at Kafe Kabir.’
‘Well, different but the same. Kind of like life. What we consider our future is only our perception of that future. When we realise this, we take the power away from destiny and reclaim it for ourselves. And just as we take the power away from the future, we should not be giving it to the past either. Take it, examine it, and then set it aside. But past or present, use it to make yourself better, always.’
‘Wow,’ I breathed. ‘You are so insightful, my beautiful wife.’
She waved her hand in dismissal but grinned. ‘After all, coffee is coffee. Let me clarify. . . Kabir’s coffee is Kabir’s coffee. You can go back to your old suppliers and of course, you still have all the recipes. We just need some equipment and would only need a little area to open the business. What do you think?’
I drummed my fingers on the table, deep in thought. ‘It certainly is a different image than the one you cultivated when we owned the café,’ she said slowly and I could see some doubt creeping in. ‘Maybe it wouldn’t work. What if you don’t like it?’
But I loved the idea.
I understood her hesitation, knowing how proud I was to be spearheading Kafe Kabir. This would be a much smaller scale. Takeout only, no place for people to sit. ‘I’m not as worried about my image right now as you would think. It seems like it would be a step down perhaps, but Nisha, I have missed the customers so much. I’ve missed frothing the milk and watching their delighted faces when they took their first sip of my coffee.’
Nisha, my steadfast supporter, nodded firmly. ‘Then I think we need to figure out how to make this work, Kabir. We can’t succeed until we force it to happen.’
I let out a breath I didn’t realise I had been holding. It seemed like such a perfect solution, but without Nisha’s understanding and encouragement, I was absolutely nothing.
I reached out and held her hand. ‘I guess at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter how large or small your coffee shop is,’ she said. ‘I know it’s something that you love doing and I will support you one hundred per cent.’
26
MEERA
I was nervous. I didn’t remember the last time I had felt that fluttering nervousness, the fight-or-flight desire . . . that at the moment was strongly suggesting that I choose flight. I scrambled off the wooden bench where I had been sitting and pretended to inspect the posters on the bulletin board.
‘Help wanted in the library . . . weekend hours preferred.’
‘Roommate needed. Must be a non-smoker and willing to help with chores.’
‘Books for sale. Psychology, sociology, accounting. Like new condition.’
I smiled at that one.
I scrutinised each word on every poster. And then read them again. I resisted taking out my phone to look at the time, knowing that I had arrived almost a half hour before my interview.
Sitting down again, I thought about the events that brought me to this day. I struggled with my new book for several months after returning from Goa. Nothing seemed to be working well for me; the words that had been my constant companions seemed to have ditched me or were hiding, or something. I just wasn’t sure.
What I was sure about was my next book just was not coming together. I would manage to pull together a half of a scene before deleting it again. I tried different mediums, writing a hard copy, which I loved the most; I tried working on my laptop. I tried inspirational music, upbeat music, everything. Nothing brought the words out of my mind, whether I wrote in the early morning, or in bed before I fell asleep.
The only bright spot in an otherwise frustrating life was how strong my relationship with Vivaan was growing. We hadn’t talked about marriage anymore since that night so many months ago, but I knew it was on his mind, and it was definitely on my mind as well.
Even with him in Bangalore, we were doing fine with a long-distance relationship. I craved talking to him but knew I needed to let him focus on work. Our time was in the evenings, and we carved out an hour every evening to ‘be’ together, even if it was only on the phone.
His work with Parth was going very well and, despite his apprehension about going back to the world of numbers, he seemed to be enjoying this type of work tremendously. Between that and the attention his blog had been getting lately, he was much more content than I would have imagined after his dream to start Musafir had been stepped on so cruelly.
I wished I was feeling as contented as he was, I thought dryly to myself.
The same words that were my friends had been waging a war against me. But, like a failed coup, I would turn them back to my side.
I was making changes. About few week ago, I was staring at the walls in my house, desperately trying to find some inspiration somewhere. It occurred to me that one of the reasons I was struggling so much with writing was perhaps because I felt a disconnect with my characters. Which then led to the thought that perhaps I was too isolated from people. After all, when I had written my first two books, a lot of the inspiration was in being at Kafe Kabir, in immersing myself with people.
I needed to be back among people, I determined. But how?
My mind trailed through several possibilities, finally deciding that a part-time job somewhere would be the most ideal. Something that also used my love for writing.
A few weeks later brought me to my current position, anxiously awaiting for an interview as an English professor.
&nbs
p; The rumble of an old door opening indicated that my interview was finally coming to fruition. I introduced myself, and shook the hand of the dean, following him into his office to talk to him about the position he was filling.
‘Yes,’ I confirmed. ‘May I ask why this position is available?’
‘It happens sometimes,’ he said. ‘We had a professor on staff, but she had to leave to take care of a family emergency. I don’t know when she’ll be back.’
‘I understand,’ I mused. Although I was trying to temper my excitement, it felt like the job interview was going extraordinarily well. He seemed very pleased with my responses.
The dean nodded so emphatically that his shaggy grey hair shook a bit with the movement. ‘I need to be honest with you, Meera. I do have some reservations about why you are interested in the position. After all, you are an author, not a teacher.’
I grinned. ‘I find inspiration and stories amid people, so I’m here.’
He gave me a little smile and tented his fingers, putting his elbows on his desk. ‘Well, that is interesting.’
‘And while it may seem like I’m not qualified—’
‘I’d say you are overqualified,’ he said.
I shrugged modestly. ‘I simply feel that I have a lot to offer your students with my experience and background.’
‘You do make a good point.’ He nodded, and my heart leaped, suspecting that I would be offered the job very soon.
We spoke for another twenty minutes, and then it happened: the job was mine! I could have hugged him, I was so happy. But I was even more thrilled when he slid open a desk drawer and took out a well-loved copy of my first novel. ‘I told my wife that I would be meeting you today,’ he said with a blush. ‘It would make her entire year if you would be so kind as to autograph it for her?’
That next week was a blur as I scrambled to acquaint myself better with the university system as a whole and transition into this exciting new career move. It might be temporary, but who knew? It certainly seemed like the perfect complement to my writing.