by Savi Sharma
Vivaan flew back to Pune for a quick trip and he came over the morning that was to be my first day at work. His eyes widened as he took in the clothes thrown over the house. ‘Did your wardrobe explode?’ he teased.
I groaned and slipped into his arms. ‘I don’t know what to wear,’ I moaned. ‘Nothing seems right. Should I go traditional or not?’
He pulled back and examined my outfit, taking in my turquoise and gold saree. ‘I think you look perfect,’ he said endearingly.
‘You’re biased,’ I retorted accusingly before I softened. ‘But thank you.’
He started picking up an armful of discarded clothes and I disappeared, re-emerging moments later in a teal outfit. Vivaan grinned at me. ‘I don’t dare tell you that looks nice too, or you’ll go change again, won’t you?’
I rolled my eyes, but knew he was probably right . . . although I was running out of clothes. I started to scurry back around, but Vivaan caught my arm before I could flee again.
‘I have a present for you,’ he said and held out a small, wrapped box.
Slipping the lid of the box off, I saw a beautiful pen with my name etched on it. It was the match to the pen I had bought Vivaan the day he launched Musafir. Tears stung my eyes as I lifted the pen out of its box, touched by his thoughtfulness.
‘I can’t believe you found the exact same pen,’ I breathed, loving the weight in my hand.
‘It took some time, but I wanted you to have the twin to mine. You and I fit so perfectly together,’ he said, his eyes taking on a faraway look before they refocused on mine. ‘Now, pack it up. You don’t want to be late for your big day!’
I was nowhere near being late for class, but I was happy to arrive early, relieved that the classroom was empty. Flipping on the lights, I sat at the desk and sorted through my notes once again. As the dean of students predicted, my class filled up quickly and I was anxious to meet everyone, hoping I would not disappoint them.
About fifteen minutes before class started, they started drifting in, looking at me curiously. I pushed myself out of my chair and walked around to the other side of the table, taking a casual pose against the desk in hopes to seem more approachable.
I started talking with the students, noting with pleasure how many eager faces were looking at me.
‘I am Meera,’ I introduced myself nervously. ‘I’m an author-turned-professor, and while I don’t have the typical background most of your other professors do, I think my experience as a writer will lend a beneficial perspective to you.’
A hand shot up from the back of the class and I nodded to the girl, communicating that she could speak. ‘I love your books,’ she gushed. ‘I was so excited when I heard you would be teaching here!’
A tingle of happiness ran through my body and I gave her a huge grin, which grew even wider as other students murmured similar statements. I didn’t just have a full class of eager students; I had a group of faithful readers and fans of my work!
‘How did you decide to start writing?’ one student asked, leaning forward on her desk.
I smiled. ‘I had always wanted to be a writer but I really didn’t know where to begin. I used to go to this café a lot and one night, that café hosted an author, who kindled my interest even further. I knew that in order to become a writer, it was as simple as just starting to write. About anything.’
‘But you didn’t just choose to write about anything,’ someone responded, leading me into my next statements.
‘No, I developed some friendships with people in the café and as we got to know each other a little better, I realised that they all had fascinating stories of overcoming challenges to achieve their dreams. I was inspired by their history and was driven to capture them in my first book.’
‘So it’s that simple?’
‘For me, in that instance, it was. But writing, just like any other career, is something you have to work at. Ideas come and go, and what seems like a great storyline sometimes just doesn’t come to life on a piece of paper the way you expect it to. Just like a child, you can guide it and nurture it, but it will have its own personality and behaviour. . . influenced by you, definitely, but it is its own entity.’
‘You make it sound like a story is a living thing.’
‘In a way,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘it is. You might sit down and start writing with the thought of going in one direction, but sometimes, it is as if your story grows legs and runs off down an entirely different path. In the end, as long as you put your heart and soul into it, it doesn’t matter how much the final version changed from your outline.’
‘When is your favourite time to write?’
I laughed. ‘Just about any time. I love it as my day job but there is something about writing at night too. The night-time minutes travel a different path than those in the day.’
‘Do you ever have a hard time describing people? I hear that sometimes, that is the hardest part of writing.’
‘Think of it this way,’ I suggested. ‘Are we actually people, or are we the personification of moments? Perhaps if you look at something a different way, you will be able to pull the words together better. Books are so magnificent that the words leave whispers in our minds, long after the end of the story. There are those poems or stories that are so astounding that even after you finish them, you put them in your bag, not to read again anytime soon, but just to keep them close to you.’
I heard a titter of laughter, but I also saw a lot of students nodding.
Another student raised her hand tentatively. ‘Do you ever struggle to write?’
I gave an exaggerated groan and a ripple of laughter went through the classroom. ‘I am struggling right now,’ I admitted. ‘It is partly why I am here right now. I felt the need to reconnect with people. Kind of like recharging my batteries. But don’t spend your energy on complaining that you haven’t reached a goal. Spend it on moving forward to make it happen.’
‘How?’ someone asked.
‘Reach for the fruit on the branches, don’t wait for gravity to hand it to you. Dreams are only realised when you fight to grab hold of them. Giving the power to fear is taking power from confidence.’
‘Wow,’ I heard someone breathe.
‘Determine the limits of your capabilities and then take one step further. Follow your dreams, even if you have to chase them down. It’s far better than waiting for them to come back around. Think about the most basic question: Why do we tell stories? We do it to distract, to celebrate, to soothe the pain of life.’
‘But what if you don’t know what to write about?’
‘Look around you. Amazing things happen every single day. They can happen with trumpeting fanfare, or silently in a whispered prayer. No one person can keep a running list of these miracles, but they are still there. The difference between a trivial event and a significant one is only that the small one may pass by undetected. Find it. Write about it. You can grasp on to something and hold it tight . . . or let it trickle away.’
‘You are so successful,’ a girl commented, ‘but you are in a minority. What about the others who have tried to become writers and failed?’
‘The most terrifying things in the world are right inside of you—your power to make either amazing successes or horrible failures,’ I responded. ‘But it’s not enough to want something. You need to earn it first and foremost. And don’t look to what other people are doing. When you stand with the crowd, you hide from success.’
I looked around, loving the crackle of inspiration washing over their faces. ‘Which leads me to my next subject,’ I continued. ‘Tell me your stories. Why are you in this class? What brought you to this very moment, sitting in front of me?’
I was exhausted at the end of the class but thrilled at how well everything turned out. The students were attentive and wildly supportive. I hoped that like Arjun inspired me to write, I would be able to extend his gift to my students.
I left them with one last thought: Don’t regret anything when your
day ends, but use it to inspire greater things the next day.
I didn’t have to wait long to learn that I already had. One student approached me when I left the class. ‘I can’t tell you how amazing it is that you are our professor,’ he said, fumbling with his books. ‘Your books are an inspiration, and I know that they have changed many people’s lives. I have always wanted to be a writer myself but, like you, I didn’t know how to start.’
‘And now?’
‘I’m completely inspired after this class. I can’t wait to go back to my dorm, right now, and start writing.’
‘Thank you so much for saying that,’ I responded. ‘I’m sure you’re going to have a lot of fun once you get started.’
I bid him goodbye and started walking towards the office. I was planning to head home, but I started to have a thought. It was the smallest hunger, but I recognised that feeling once more. I wanted to write. Not forced, not false.
I was a little apprehensive. Maybe I should let that hunger grow a little bit more? Perhaps I should go home, or drive to see Nisha and Kabir.
No, I decided the urge was strong enough and walked to my office. I was calm and walked at a deliberately slow pace, but my heart was pounding. In my office, I sat down carefully, almost as if I was afraid to dislodge the thought in my mind.
Ah, but it was still there.
First, it was one word that caught my attention and my mind grasped at it. Like an electrical shock, that single word charged through and connected with other words, until they rose up in front of me, each one demanding to be captured by my pen. But in capturing them, I didn’t hold them back; I let them fly.
27
FATE
Well, this is an interesting turn of events. Even I have to admit that.
I guess Karma works that way sometimes, though.
I had great plans to destroy these people, to take everything I had given them, and tear it away. I wanted to hurt them, to make them struggle. I wanted them to feel the sense of regret so that it ate them away, destroying their confidence in themselves.
But Vivaan just had to end up in the cab with Parth. I thought I was sending him on a path to rejection, but no, he had to open his mouth and inspire Parth to quit his job and start his own company. And then they ran into each other again? Even I didn’t see that coming.
And Kabir. Why did he have to take care of his customers so well? I thought the fire I created would be the end of his happy dreams. But no. He had to run into those students that day. If he had just poured coffee and kept his mouth shut, those students wouldn’t have recognised him. He would still be back in his stupid little apartment feeling sorry for himself. Instead, he has been inspired to open a coffee stall.
Then there’s Meera. I thought by ruining her book deal, I would have taken away her desire to write. But just look at what has happened! By testing her, by taking away her dream, it inspired her to write an entirely new story!
That’s the funny thing about me—fate.
What makes a person great? It’s not wishing things will happen, but working to make them happen; they have done that.
People sometimes call me luck. Sometimes luck is good, and sometimes it is bad. I might be praised or cursed. The handbook of mortality is not about how to die. It’s about how to live.
You can bury your head in the sand and ignore a problem, but it doesn’t mean it’s going to change anything. Just because it’s not visible to you doesn’t mean it has gone away. Really, it’s probably going to be bigger when you do acknowledge it once more. So, don’t shut your eyes to your problems—keep them open and face them head-on.
These people learned that. I can challenge, I can test, I can push. Just like I have with these friends. But they changed themselves, and you know what? I can change my colours too.
I think it’s time to admit defeat. I tested them, thinking I would break them. But they rose above everything I threw at them.
You can’t triumph over someone who refuses to lose.
Perhaps, it is time for their luck to change. It’s time for me to change once more.
Have I lost the battle? Never! I’m just changing my mind a little bit about the destruction I’ve rained down on them. I’m tired of creating chaos. Believe it or not, it is exhausting to keep people on their toes. Even the puppet master grows weary of moving people around.
Everyone has dreams, but not everyone has the courage to follow them. Always move forward and pursue your dreams with ferocious passion.
28
MEERA
‘I love you too,’ I said into the phone, and hung up, cradling it as I reached to turn off the light.
So much had changed since Vivaan took the job with Parth. At first, he was unsure if he really wanted to move, even though he said it was temporary. When he came home from meeting Parth in Goa, I saw the spark back in his eyes and I knew it was something that I had not been able to give him, no matter how many words I spoke. Parth was able to offer him something tangible, a job.
A job offered him real hope because it gave a reassurance for the future.
In the end, we decided that every minute that passed was one less ahead of us and one more behind us. It was time for Vivaan to embrace his new path.
‘I can see something now,’ he said, wrapped in my arms the last night before he left Pune. ‘I needed to take ownership of my accomplishments as much as my failures.’
‘Yes,’ I murmured. ‘Then put them behind you while holding on to the lesson.’
‘Exactly.’
When he left, I charged headfirst into my writing and only came up for air when I spoke with Vivaan on the phone or if I was with Kabir’s family. As always, our hopes and dreams were interconnected by threads we couldn’t even see or feel. But they were there, keeping our four-sided friendship strong.
I missed Aashi and desperately wanted her back, not just for her amazing organisation skills and all the quiet ways she helped me, but also because her company was soothing. But I couldn’t afford to rehire her. I hoped that would change soon, although I didn’t know how. Oh well, that was something I would figure out eventually. Let the words come first.
For now, the words were washing over me in waves, and just like one does at the ocean, it didn’t really matter if I shifted my feet or took a few steps backward or forward; the waves were still there, faithfully returning after each short retreat.
One day, I stood up and twisted at the waist to release some of the tight muscles. Looking outside, I decided to take a break. It was Tuesday, and I had a suspicion that Kabir might be at the closest coffee stall to my house. At three locations now, it was the newest one, so I had a feeling he would be there to oversee the training.
Sure enough, his smiling face met mine as I approached the newest of the coffee stalls, and a cup of cappuccino was already waiting for me by the time I crossed the street to talk to Kabir.
I took an appreciative sip and moaned. ‘This is the perfect way to celebrate a productive day,’ I said.
‘Another good one, then?’ he asked, and I nodded, sipping again. ‘Things seem to be on a roll for you these days. Nisha was just saying that you haven’t been over in a few days. She misses you but she knows why, and she is so happy that your writing is coming along so well.’
‘I’ll have to call her on my walk home,’ I said, pulling out my purse to pay Kabir. Of course, he argued, but the man would go broke just supporting my coffee habit.
Finally, he grudgingly took my money. ‘How is Vivaan doing? Did you speak with him today?’
‘Of course,’ I said in mock horror that the idea would even cross his mind that I wouldn’t speak to Vivaan. ‘Every morning and night. And sometimes in between . . . although I have to call him then because he is terrified that he’ll be breaking into a thought. Silly boy.’
Kabir nodded. ‘I can understand his hesitancy though. Those days that you struggled to write bothered all of us.’
I looked at him, surprised. ‘Truly? I kn
ow you were all aware that I was frustrated, but I tried to hold it in. We all had so many other things to worry about.’
‘Your emotions are like another colour of the rainbow for you,’ he said. ‘You wear a very distinct colour when you are struggling to write.’
I pursed my lips and thought about his statement for a while. ‘Interesting description. Can I use it?’ I said with a twinkle in my eye.
He held out his hands in an open gesture. ‘What is mine is yours, Meera.’
‘You are a good man, Kabir. How is this new stall going?’ I asked, watching the other staff taking over to serve other customers.
‘Amazing. And just in time. I have another location—’
‘What?’ I gasped. ‘You just got this one up and running!’
He chuckled again and I loved hearing that sound come so naturally to my friend once more. ‘I told you, my plan is to have a stall near every college. We are turning such a profit that there is no reason to hold back the expansion.’
‘I can think of two reasons to slow down,’ I said, half teasing but half serious.
He waved his hand. ‘I will never go back to that overworked man again,’ he said solemnly. ‘Nisha and Jianna come first. Always.’
‘Good man,’ I said, giving him a pat. ‘I better head back now. I think my break is over.’
‘Do you want another cappuccino?’ he asked. ‘One for the road?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t want my hands to start shaking while I’m writing. But I might come back later in the afternoon.’ I cocked my eyebrow at him in silent question.
‘I won’t be here,’ he responded. ‘We’re taking Jianna to the butterfly exhibit again.’
‘That sounds even better than coffee,’ I sighed. ‘But no butterflies for me today. I want to get at least one more chapter written and start polishing up some of the other ones because when I fly to see Vivaan this weekend, I plan to leave my laptop behind.’
‘Wow. I’m impressed. Go then!’ he said, shooing me away.