You Are All I Need

by Ravinder Singh

  I wanted to be as distracted as I could on my birthday. An empty mind generates negativity. I went to office and started working half-heartedly at my desk, forcing myself to concentrate. The phone rang—it was him. I declined. He called again. I again declined. After his third call, I decided to pick up as an exception, politely accept his birthday wishes and get it over with.

  ‘Hey,’ I said.

  ‘Look to your left, idiot!’ he shouted on the phone.

  There he was, outside my office bay, crazily waving at me.

  My eyes welled up. I was motionless. Tears started rolling down my cheeks.

  ‘Come outside,’ he mouthed and waved again. I stood up and rushed towards him as if in a trance.

  ‘Why the hell are you here?’ I shouted after reaching him.

  ‘Shut up!’ he said softly and hugged me tightly.

  With one touch of his warm body against mine, I started crying loudly. How much I had missed this comforting touch, this reassuring voice!

  In that very instance I knew that I could not stay away from him any more. It had been a stupid idea in the first place. We talked a lot, shared so much that was buried inside of us all this while. We were back to our old selves—we were back to being ‘us’.

  We realized that what we had was too precious to let go. We had to continue nurturing it, protecting it from those who didn’t understand it.

  Being the kind of daughter who shared everything with her mom, I wanted to run back to her again and tell her how much I still loved him. I wanted to tell her I could not be without him. However, every time I tried talking about it, the reaction was the same as it had been the first time that I broke the news to them. I could no longer take it. I could no longer relive the worst day of my life. I stopped sharing. I stopped trying to tell her. My dad stopped discussing this topic at home, assuming his daughter was as obedient as he expected her to be and that I had been able to switch off all emotion inside me.

  On the other hand, he and I continued to meet and cheer each other up. I was back to being happy again. My morale in office was back. I was no longer crying. The environment back home was also coming back to normal as I was no longer discussing him.

  This is our tenth year together.

  We have found our middle ground—not together but not apart.

  From a mutual break-up to planning a milestone trip to mark our anniversary, we have grown up.

  With fulfilment in our hearts and excitement in our eyes, we have completed our road trip early this year.

  Driving through the empty roads one late evening, with Arijit Singh playing in the background, and another failed attempt at GPS with poor network, we are literally on the road to nowhere. We have no idea where it is taking us.

  But despite this uncertainty, we are at peace. This moment is symbolic in our lives.

  Not all love stories move towards closure in the same way. For some, the journey itself is the destination.

  We are both doing great in our professional and personal lives, fully committed to each other—in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer. The only exception is we are not living together; our relationship doesn’t have a legal name and there is no document we have signed.

  Our families have still not come to terms with it. Things have been left unsaid, undiscussed and have been assumed to have died. We are tired of fighting with them. At some level, we understand their concerns, but we can’t fully agree with what they want either.

  We have found our happiness beyond the clichés of society. Life is all about being happy; however you define it or quantify it, everyone measures it differently.

  We have found our happy place. This is our garden, beyond right and wrong.

  14

  Once Upon a Love . . .

  Suranya Sengupta

  It was in the early Seventies that I lost my father. At eighteen, barely an adult, I had to quit my studies quite reluctantly and join the first job I could find to sustain my widowed mother and little brother. The working hours at the factory were quite long and I didn’t mind them, only for the smile of relief I received from my mother when I handed over my hard-earned money to her. I had it all planned—how to progress with work and make sure my brother’s education was not hampered—until life happened unexpectedly one day.

  Every day I passed by her lane—a short cut on my way back home. I could reach my house a few odd minutes before time. In the fairly empty dark alley, her veranda provided the only light on my way. She would sit there, on the first floor veranda on a swing, her long hair braided on either side. She would swing gently, reading a book or humming a tune to herself. I would often see her gazing up at the star-studded sky. It was pretty late for anyone to be on the streets—my job was new and at odd hours. The city slept by the time I managed to get out of the factory. The light from her veranda would fall on the concrete lane below, helping me see in the dark. I would look up on an impulse, and some days our eyes would meet briefly before I would walk away. I was always in a hurry. My mother would be awake. I needed to get home. At times, it felt as though her eyes would light up every time I looked up at the veranda hoping to find her there.

  Had it become a habit seeing her there, or did she actually wait for me every day?

  One evening, a storm shook the city. It poured heavily and the streets were waterlogged. I struggled to find my way through the alley, cursing myself for not bringing an umbrella. Summer thunderstorms were unpredictable. As I neared the illuminated veranda, looking up at it almost out of habit, I saw her holding something in her hand. I neared her house, and suddenly there was a plastic bag thrown down at me. Jolted by this unexpected gesture, I ducked, yet it landed on my head. She giggled. I looked up with a smile and she ran inside, conscious of the fact that I’d heard her laugh at me. Inside the plastic bag was a blue umbrella. With little yellow flowers printed on it. I stared at the empty swing before putting the umbrella over my head. It protected me from the rain drops for the rest of the way. I smiled in gratitude. My mother was surprised to see me dripping wet, yet with an umbrella over my head. She asked who it belonged to. I didn’t know why I lied. I said it was a colleague’s.

  Was it difficult to say it was hers because a stranger had helped me? Or because she was no longer a stranger?

  The next day I carefully wrapped it in the same plastic bag. With a note saying ‘thank you’ in my native language. I was not sure if she would understand it, but my knowledge of languages was limited. She had been my saviour on a disastrous night. She needed to be thanked.

  That night when I hurried home I stopped below her veranda. I looked around to check the empty alley. Her eyes opened a little wide, watching me stop. She got up from her swing and came up to the railing, leaning over just a little, watching me anxiously. I was a pretty good thrower in my gully-cricket team—a skill that once got me the newspaperboy’s job in the neighbourhood in my early teens to support my school education. That day my skill helped me land the umbrella safely back on to her veranda. To my surprise, she waved at me. I obliged.

  Days turned into months without any words exchanged. Sometimes it was a wave of a hand, sometimes just smiles; most of the times we just gave each other acknowledging stares before I walked past her veranda and she went inside. Something in me knew she would wait, no matter how late I got; something told me she knew that I knew. How strange are these silences that speak more than a thousand words ever could? I could never have believed the poets if not for her.

  One of the days, however, she was not on the swing. Instead, she was standing on the edge, leaning over the veranda railing and staring at my end of the lane. I frowned. I noticed that her skirt didn’t match the blouse she wore with it. And that she had kajal in her eyes. It looked like she had dressed up. It was unusual for her. Her braids were always neatly oiled. Her cheeks shone in natural radiance and she had a tiny mole on her chin. I was a little embarrassed as she blushed when she saw me stare. In a trance, as
though captivated by her deep dark brown eyes, I waved. She waved back with a smile lighting up her eyes. Then she was gone. I wanted to talk to her that day. She probably wanted to hear me as well. But not a word came out of my mouth. It was as though I was stripped of the ability to speak. I had never expected such feelings, never even dreamt that a well-spoken person like me would not know what to say to someone. I had also rehearsed in my mind several times during work what I wanted to tell her—things about me, who I am, about my family and, most importantly, where I stayed. My slum house was nothing compared to the mansion she lived in. I sighed and walked away.

  For the next few days I tried in vain to bring words to my mouth. It felt like forever. Every day I would work hard and wait for the evening. Every evening I would take the short cut home. Once in a while, when I stopped to wave, a toffee, a chocolate or a packet of biscuit would land my way. I carefully saved the wrappers after eating the goodies.

  I had bought some ribbons and chocolates with the money I’d saved from my tiffin and given those in return. She had smiled the next day, flaunting on her braids the ribbons I had given her. Sometimes I was happy I couldn’t talk to her. What if she judged me after knowing who I was? What if the education or the status I never had was important to her? Could I afford to get hurt and end the dream that was keeping me going? I often lay awake at night and wondered about the possibilities. I was no match for a girl like her—well brought up, educated and beautiful. But could I ever feel this way again? Did I even want to feel this way with another person?

  One day her veranda was empty. The lights were off. I shuddered. Was she unwell? Had her parents found out? A sudden fear of losing her gripped me. A strange urge to knock on their door overtook me. But I restrained myself. What would I say? Who was I? The question was left unanswered.

  Two days later, she was on the veranda again. My eyes lit up in happiness. She smiled, knowing I had been worried. I waved my hand in a questioning gesture: Where were you?

  She touched her forehead: Fever.

  Worry swept across my face. But just then, someone called her inside. That was the first time I got to know her name. I walked away with a smile of relief. She was fine. Everything was fine.

  The next day a piece of paper landed softly on my head. I looked up as she hurried back inside and shut the door to her room. Frowning, I picked up the piece of paper. There was a scribbling in pencil that couldn’t be deciphered in the shadows of the alley. That night, while my mother slept, I read her first letter to me. Her handwriting was childlike. The pencil seemed to have been sharpened more than once in the letter. She had asked my name, where I stayed, why I was late every night. I stayed awake till dawn, heart thumping, writing my first letter to her.

  The letters continued for almost three years. The pencil scribbling turned to scented papers and ink. I improved my vocabulary just to impress her, and started reading books again. She recommended quite a few. We discussed poetry in our letters.

  One evening, along with a letter, her teary eyes haunted me: Take me away with you. My marriage has been fixed.

  Her unsteady scribble didn’t let me sleep that night. I twisted and turned in my bed. Was I brave enough to hold on to love? I didn’t know the answer. She had unknowingly put so much faith in me. Her face, her smile, her giggle, her tears, her fearful eyes haunted me. I got up early at dawn. I found myself outside her veranda in broad daylight, sleepless. It was like the heart was fearless now. It wasn’t afraid to hold on. I threw a stone at her veranda and waited. She ran out. Did she know it was me? Of course she did. The twinkle in her eyes met my smile. Her eyes were questioning. I nodded. I saw her cheeks wet with tear drops. I wanted to wipe them off. I wanted to hug her and never let go. I wanted to hear her talk, listen to her sing, know what she smelt like, how soft her touch felt. I wanted to know everything then and there.

  Almost like a flash of lightning, things happened. Her sister caught us exchanging letters. Her father walked out and threatened me. People gathered, gasping and whispering comments on my character and my upbringing. Her brothers held my collar and pushed me down to the ground. My eyes didn’t leave hers as her mother held her arm tightly. She wept, she begged and she said she loved me. For a moment my heart stopped, before it started beating faster. Amid the noise, her voice was all that mattered, her tears were all I could see. The crowd was looking at us like we were criminals. Her parents ordered me to leave. I shoved past her family; I gave her my hand. I asked her to take it. I told her I promised nothing but love. She said she didn’t need anything more than that. Her father slapped me. Her brothers beat me up. The neighbours hurled abuses at me and threatened to hand me over to the police. I returned home bruised in heart and mind. They locked her up.

  For three days I tried to catch a glimpse of her in vain. On the fourth day I was a warrior. I knocked on her door, surprising her father. She ran out and I gave her my hand again. This time she let go of her mother and ran to me. Her soft, warm hands touched mine. For the first time. And for the first time I felt like I was complete, a man with a purpose. She made me that. Her eyes spoke a thousand emotions. She hugged me, and I promised to never let go. People gasped. Her family threw out her belongings. They reminded her that their door was shut to her forever and that she was dead to them.

  My mother first looked shocked and disgusted when I brought her home, after learning about what I had done. The neighbours said a love like that happened in stories. Real life was different and harsh. The girl was making a big mistake, and that I had my eyes only on her money. My mother put up with all the taunts hurled at us and soon became our biggest supporter.

  Thankfully, those were better days. Although love and a marriage of choice was judged and often criticized beyond a point, the families later accepted. There was no honour killing. Our parents still loved their children more than society or religion. Love was rare—and respected. Choices made were honoured and promises kept. No one could stop lovers who decided to be together. No one approved of them either. But we had our own way with the world. We painted our own world away from norms. We were romantic warriors. Our cousins and friends worshipped our actions while their parents winced at it. Did we care? Once I knew my house had become a home for her, I gave her all the love I could. I was complete. We were complete.

  Today, my son introduced his choice to us. Her religion was different. Her family threatened to kill him when she confessed of their relationship to them. He looked unsure of what they were doing, their commitment and love, if their earnings would be enough to sustain them and whether they could live through their differences and make a home in harmony. His questions troubled me. His mother looked worriedly at him, then at me, as though she’d read my thoughts—like always. I looked at my son’s troubled eyes as a thousand insecurities showed up in them. He was not ready to commit to her, on a life threat. He was practical, unlike us. He knew he had choices. I accompanied him to file an FIR against the girl’s parents and hope for the best. And somewhere between the legal formalities of threat and protection, I found that today love had lost a battle with society—the love that his parents had lived was simple, blameless and boundless . . .

  It was a feeling of pure, unadulterated love, without the complexities of society’s imposed boundaries that made us doubt our feelings for each other, and the commitment it needed—to choose each other against all odds, every single day, for the rest of our lives.

  15

  Yesterday Once More

  Sarbani Ray

  As the figure approached her, smiling, treading on the red-brick walkway of the garden, Ananya experienced a sense of déjà vu. The chant of the morning hymn from the prayer hall, together with the red sky, a prelude to the rising sun, resurrected the past in perfect precision. The years lost their numbers as she went forward to meet him, with the light steps of thirty years back, on the other side of life. She was about to call out the familiar name, when, out of nowhere, Urna appeared.

  ‘Oh, you are
here on time, for a change. That’s really great! Mom, this is Ahan, my friend and the class topper. I told you about him.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Ananya stopped, suddenly feeling heavy on her feet, and slightly drained from the moment’s agitation. Still, she kept looking steadily at the face of the young man in front of her.

  Ahan, an otherwise smart person, smiled nervously, uncertain of the intense gaze fixed on him. Ananya could sense his discomfort, but couldn’t take her eyes off the face. The young man was a spitting image of Rohit!

  Was it real, or her imagination, fuelled by the surroundings of their youth?

  ‘That’s an exaggeration, Aunty. Urna herself has done so well, grabbing an excellent package in campus recruitment!’ Ahan responded to Urna’s outburst, and the friendly exchange that followed helped Ananya regain her composure.

  Urna had always been an independent girl. Studying in her mother’s alma mater was her own choice. Ananya never interfered with Urna’s decisions, unless absolutely required. Fourteen years back, when she and Ranjan had decided to part ways, Urna, aged only six then, had decisively expressed her willingness to stay with her mother. Ranjan, too relieved, never looked back, severing all ties with them. He always blamed Ananya’s success in her career for his own failures.

  Surprisingly, Urna never seemed to care much for a father figure. From a very early age, she was a strong woman, quite capable of standing on her own. Sometimes Ananya sensed a role reversal between them. Her corporate job took most of her time, in the city or on tour. Urna, meanwhile, managed her studies and home all by herself. Ananya wished she had been that strong at Urna’s age!

  As Urna and Ahan talked about various programmes that had been arranged during the course of ceremony, she sat there in the familiar setting of her youth, counting the changes that had appeared over the years. She had come here on Urna’s admission day but hadn’t got a chance to look around, as the stay was too short.