Of broken glasses and beer.

Jagged edges.

When glasses descend

kiss the ground

with  stunning brutality,

their edges acquire a unique beauty.

Broken shards surround their romance

collateral damage

in a quest to stand out.

Once smooth

glasses are now instruments for damage.

Poke them into your palm

and you might draw blood

glistening beads of life force

the very colour of the wine

that once rested in those glasses.

But now,

jagged edges

are all that remain.

The beer and the sun

Courtesy: Ankita Shreeram

One glass of beer and a walk in the sun

All we wanted was to have a bit of fun

Cobble-stoned paths and shuttered shops

One canvas beneath and one besides us

One to tread on, the other to run fingers by

We had shut out the sun but it continued to burn

In a dancing flame in the pit of our stomachs

And when we felt the flame diminishing,

We abandoned cool cobble-stoned causeways

Hopped on to a black and yellow magic carpet

Ands sailed apace to have another sip of sunshine

Two glasses of beer and another walk in the sun

This time my feet wanted to dance, not to run

Shadows of overhead leaves danced on our arms

While the monsoon sun kissed our beer-warmed fingers

Golden warmth smiled through my lips

And voices of joy sang through my eyes

When the sun went down, so did the fire in our bellies

This time we let it die, happy to cradle the ashes

There would be another walk in the sun

Another look at children's toys and posters that promised to brighten your days

Another stop at raucous bars and another dance on rain-kissed streets

On a day not too distant from this one.

Harbour view

Courtesy: Ankita Shreeram

 Bright golden stars

Float upon the distant sea

Like jewels strewn with a careless hand.

A reluctant moon spies on their asymmetry

Perhaps plotting a tidal wave

That would reassemble the jewels

Into a perfect half-circle

Cast in the moon's image - 

Ode to it's narcissistic beauty.

As the sea joins hands with the blackening sky,

The golden stars acquire a salmon halo

Like a scarf made of spider web strands

And then steeped into salmon-hued glue

To keep the golden warmth safe

From the hungry water,

The moon's covetous eyes

And distant observers ashore.

Silence.

My feet

Sing songs of sweet agony

My muscles

Tell tales of disharmony

But my mind

My mind is in deep slumber

A nudge

No answer

Don't desert me, thought-buddy

Silence and I, we're awkward strangers

But now we're left alone

Like a man and a woman on a first date

Hesitant but fearfully hopeful

I take a tentative sip

From a glass full of stillness

Silence fidgets, then relaxes

The room darkens

Quietens

We smile, hands lying on the table,

Uneasily

I keep looking around for familiar intruders

Memories, regrets, analysis

But this is thought paralysis

Silence begins to melt

Though the room is cool

Melds into the velvety darkness

Leaving me alone

A heavy serenity

Wrapped around me like thick smoke

Inescapable, strangely comforting

Now I don't want my thought-buddies back

But I know they will come

Already, the door is opening

Inch by inch

Silence, she won't stay too long

A hard woman to woo

Maybe next time

I should let her take a sip instead.

Blur for clarity.

Let's crush the paper

bring the corners together

the world folding up

maps shrinking

distances blurring

let the sun shine on all of us equally

At the same time

let it illuminate all our eyes

at once

let seas heave into mountains

and mountains collapse into cornfields

let the world fold up

maps going up in flames

forests melting down on us

continents merging

boundaries blurring

let it all end

come together

fire and ice

deserts and icebergs

a storm unimagined

a tornado unforeseen

let it take our smiles and our tears

Our dreams and our fears

And hurl back at us

Something more honest, purer

More magical, truer.

Thank you, Robert Frost, who wrote, 'Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction, ice is also great, and would suffice.'

The Girl Who Died Next Door - 9

Almost blue.

(Story so far: A new neighbour moves into the vacant apartment next door to Kavya, a television professional. His name is Shayan and he's an artist. The apartment had been abandoned after Suvarna, the teenaged daughter of the family that lived there, committed suicide. Shayan becomes obsessed with Suvarna's spectre and paints her day and night, allowing her to age and live through his canvas. His obsession comes in the way of Kavya's strange fascination for him, and keeps their story from ever becoming something more than a neighbourly friendship.)

I saw Shayan so little these days that it almost felt like I'd gone back to my neighbour-less days. I was almost blue, because I wasn't sure that it mattered whether I saw him or not. Chet Baker's Almost Blue seemed the perfect choice for the moment. As the mellow notes caressed my weary, melancholy soul, everything seemed clearer; all those times Suvarna had averted her eyes from me, in fear I had thought. But suddenly, I was reminded of a woman in the train who bore burn scars all over her neck and arms. Her eyes had held the same furtive, frightened flutter. One might have perceived it as hostility but fear was what it really was and perhaps, a call for help. Was Suvarna's seeming avoidance of my company a convoluted cry for help? Were the rumours about the servant true after all? And if so, perhaps she was having her revenge on me for not coming to her aid; for not hearing her silent, veiled pleas. Perhaps that was why she had chosen to monopolise Shayan's canvas - both physical and mental. That canvas seemed to have become her playground; a sorry substitute for life. Sorry? Really? My mind whispered. It was right of course. There was nothing sorry about the medium Suvarna had chosen. Within his palate, Shayan possessed every fathomable colour; every hue known to mankind. Did life offer such a wide choice? It does, but the tragedy is that much of this choice is out of reach. If our lives were paintings, there would be a dominant spectrum of colours in each but none would boast of every colour in the kaleidoscope. None would be able to say - "I've seen it all." Perhaps, living within Shayan's brush-strokes was not such a bad idea after all. Idly, I contemplated haunting Shayan when I died.

***

The doorbell rang one Saturday morning, while I was deep in alcohol-induced slumber. In my dream, I missed a step but before I could plunge headlong into nothingness, my eyes cracked open. For a moment, I thought I was suspended in mid-air in a land of no-return. Sometimes I think I had a narrow escape from being marooned in that world of no sensations except heart-stopping dread. My head spun when I stood upright. It seemed that the phantom of last night's inebriation was still determined to haunt me. I decided not to fight it. With the honey-brown phantom's arms wrapped snugly around my neck, I walked unsteadily to my door. When the clouds cleared, quite unlike the stubborn monsoon sky, I saw a dishevelled Shayan shuffling on my doorstep. His eyes simply wouldn't focus on one single spot and I wondered if he could have possibly downed more whiskey than I had the previous night. And then he surprised me by reaching for my hands. "Kavya, you have to help me. She's going to die and I have no idea how to stop it! I simply cannot stop painting." I watched his features contort with pain and desperation and contemplated upon the warmth in his fingers. I like people whose hands are warm and heavy with something pleasant. People with cold, clammy hands make me want to jerk away with a combination of distrust and repulsion. "Show me," I said, and followed Shayan into his apartment. Our hands were still entwined and I had to hold my breath so stop his warmth from seeping into me.

His apartment looked even worse for wear than the last time I had set foot in it. And yet, the blasts of colour that emanated from the portraits carefully stacked all over, somehow made the rooms beautiful. And I hated them for it. I hated the fact that every stroke resonated with careful deliberation and loving perfection. I despised the softness in her features and the dreamy wistfulness in her eyes. I wanted to shut my eyes against the realisation that that was exactly what Suvarna might have looked like, had she made it past the turbulence of her youth. "I wished I'd known," I found myself saying. "Known what?" "That the servant was molesting her. I'm sure of it. She tried to tell me, many times. Not in so many words but in several other ways. I wish I hadn't been blind." If I had bothered to listen, Suvarna would still be alive, Shayan would have never been a part of my memories and he would still be smiling and sane. He would still be himself and not this raging mass of despair that now stood over me, refusing to let go of the comfort of my skin. I jerked my hand away and for a moment, enjoyed the hurt that crossed his face. Of course, that was immediately followed by regret. That seemed to define most of my life - impulse followed by regret. "Where's the last painting?" I asked and followed the motion of Shayan's pointing fingers. There she was, Suvarna, in her twilight days, her beautiful features wizened by the curvature of years and her milky glow dimmed by the shadows of approaching oblivion. "I don't want her to die," Shayan whispered, the thickness in his voice like a coil around my bones, pressing until they threatened to snap. I made the mistake of speaking my mind. "Isn't it a good thing? You'll be free, at last." Bony hands were gripping me by the hands and enraged eyes threatened to set my face aflame. "Free?" Shayan said, the low decibel of his voice pooling at the bottom of my heart like inky fear. "These have been the best days of my life, Kavya. I have never felt so absolutely absorbed in my life and my art as I have felt these last few days. With every wrinkle and silvery strand that I paint, I find my soul shrinking. I fear there may be nothing of me left when she's gone." With a start, I realised that my eyes were moist. This was unexpected. It struck me that Shayan had spoken of Suvarna as though she were his soulmate. "Why don't you ask her what to do then?" I said coolly, wrenched his fingers off my reddening arm and managed to walk out of his apartment without shivering once.

I spent the next hour staring vacantly into the morning, from my perch on the balcony, resisting the strange moisture in my eyes.

(To be continued)

In a Bombay train.

 

Courtesy: Jorge Lascar (Licensed under Creative Commons)

 Loud, cackling women

Erratic. Not in sync

With the rhythm of the

Train’s wheels

Or the drums beating in my ear

Or the fine whirr of the words

Rising out of my book.

Harsh, raucous speech

Abuzz with tawdry, uncontained excitement

Mutating, no longer human.

A foreign tongue

Of a foreign species.

The drums beat harder

The words rise swifter

Their music interspersed with

A voice I know so intimately

A voice I could name in my sleep

The railway announcer’s voice!

Youthful, splendidly even-paced

Like she had been born for this purpose.

For answering that existential question

Of where we are headed

And where we will eventually go.

If my life is indeed a train journey

And I don’t get to choose

Who travels in my coach,

I’d at least like to choose

The colour of my train.

A woman peers at my book

A little longer than necessary.

Frightened, I wonder

If she can see the words rising up as well

If she might want to seize them

Before they inhabit my mind.

Drums have now become

The mellow ripple of a piano

A beggar sings of love, of unrequited passion

The cackling has quietened

Human again

But not yet sublime.

And here we are, at yet another station

New coach members

New scents of aspiration, desperation

Vacant bliss and noisy frustration

I must permit them

The familiarity of my skin

Of the vibrations of my thoughts

Which have now become confused,

Misdirected mass

Of cackles, croons and cloistered cacophony

Rainbow of sounds

Bouquet of annoyance.

There I see men clad in orange overalls

Weathered skin darkened

By the passage of time.

Peering into unexplained mysteries of the railway tracks

And if I peered along with them,

Would my skin become weather-worn and shadowy too?

Buildings struggle to wriggle out of their foundations

And coconut palms strain to kiss the clouds

As we pass

But not a single nod of greeting

Not a whit of acknowledgement

We’re strangers – them and me

But we see each other everyday.

We’re strangers – the world and I

Though we breathe each other everyday.

Valley. Flatten. Fools.

Pic: Ankita Shreeram

Valley.

The swirling mist

Joined hands with sedate, grey clouds

To hide the valley from our eager eyes

Our thirsty eyes

Our city-weary eyes

Maybe if we’d all dived in

With our city-weakened bodies

And primitive desires

We might have made a hole

In the singing mist

And our laden souls

To allow,

A little joy inside.

Flatten.

Touch and go. That's all it was

But I still believe

At a meandering turn,

I might find you

Waiting.

Holding a smile in your hands

And an embrace in your eyes.

Time will flatten

Like a deck of cards falling

And it’ll be like

We never stopped singing together.

Fools

By the door of her stone house, she stood

Unsmiling, watching, sedate

Her sari was a dull maroon

And her children were a happy brown

Their merriness and her silence

Both blissful, yet different

So different

From the unrest in my heart.

They played with sticks and stones

And she, with paddy and hot coals

We’re fools, you and I

We play with people and thoughts instead

And we feel the needles poke in bed

Our sleep as murky as wakefulness

Guilt seeping between different levels of consciousness

Dissonance causing cracks in the armour

We so proudly wear.

I want to be naked

Mentally.

Soulfully.

Bodily.

Because You will cloak me

The one I seek

The one I see in the dreams I don’t remember

And walk with in the walks my selves don’t return from

You will show me

That we were never meant to hide.

Alone. Thirst. Economy.

Pic: Ankita Shreeram

Alone.

Can’t a word stand alone

Before a fullstop?

The way I do

Before the finality of your words.

I teeter

But pride holds me aloft

Your cowardice hems me in

Holding me in place

Unable to move

In any direction but away.

Thirst

We sipped from each other’s minds

Careful not to drink too much

At a single swallow

So the pool would remain deep

Forever.

What I tasted intoxicated me

And I wanted more.

I wanted

To feed my insatiable thirst.

Economy

Careful, lest you say too much

Care too much

Let your love too loose

Orphaned

Unsettled

Aimless

You will disintegrate

Bit by bit

Pieces cast into

Dark, uncaring nothingness

And you will yearn

For the softest echo

For a sign

That you are being heard.

Familiar Strangers.

Her eyes, they didn't reveal much, even though they were the first thing you noticed in her 2 by 2 inch display picture. Her tweets, they made you feel that 140 characters were all you ever needed to weave magic with words and make sense of life's esoteric puzzles. Following her was easy, accomplished with the mere click of a button. The quest before him was now to ease his way into her life, to charm her with his words. And when he did, they took a virtual walk together in the cold crispy air of London's famed Hyde Park. She let his words flow over her, whisper into her ears and enrapture her soul. She let his words in, and in doing so, she let him in.

She counted the days when he would return to Mumbai and she could put a face to those lovely words. They knew only each other's minds and souls - not mundane details like what they did and how many years they had spent on the planet. Yet, she was certain that he would be young and beautiful. A man who understood her thoughts so well and wooed her spirit with such unparalleled sensuality had to be the man she would love.

The day dawned cold and bright when they would meet. He wanted to let the mystery live a little longer, and asked her to wear a blindfold. She had a penchant for intrigue and obliged with pleasure. Evading the cops and curious glances of passers-by, he led her blindfolded, trusting self to his car and his world. What happened then changed her world.

***

She would read a random story and wonder, "Is this what he was like when he was younger?" There is so much to wonder about when you know so little about a person. The very dearth of facts acts like a drug, pulling you ever closer, until all the information erupts in your face and leaves you with a choice - to accept a lifetime of boredom, untouched by mystery or to spin greater mystery out of the facts you are now privy to. She had looked forward to the time when she would be faced with that choice. How delicious would it be, to hold in her hands a fate so heart-stopping, a fate that would undoubtedly affect him irrespective of his willingness?

As the car caroused along the highway, the miles rushing up to meet them with unspecified joy, Anika tried to restrict her smile to respectable proportions, well aware that the curve of her lips would be heightened with the blindfold cloaking most of her face. "Will you tell me your name now?" she ventured, suddenly feeling ridiculous. What did she look like, sitting there with her clasped hands, wandering lips and hopeful words? And then he trailed a single finger along her arm and all doubts were silenced. "Rudra." That was a nice-sounding name, she thought. It wasn't so ordinary that you didn't want to be associated with it and not so exotic that you had trouble recalling it. He already knew her name of course. That was her Twitter handle. @Anika. "I like your name," she informed him. He chuckled, a sound that reminded her of the numerous waterfalls that appeared suddenly along the Mumbai-Pune expressway during the monsoons and disappeared with as much haste.

The music he played was soft and lyrical, the kind she listened to when she wrote. "So where are we going?" she asked, basking in the glow of the sunshine that seeped in through the closed windows. "A special place," was all he said. She had not told a soul about this encounter. Anyone who got a whiff of it would obviously doubt her sanity. And yet, if you really sought the novelty of adventure and the edge of magic, the lure of something transcending the barriers of probability, you couldn't help but throw caution to the winds. "What do you think of the music?" he asked, the intonations of his deep voice connecting with different fibres of her being. "It has oriental influences," she responded. "Yes. You do know your music well," he said and she could hear a smile in his voice. Music had been one of the several themes they had conversed on. His fingertips began teasing hers and she mustered the courage to tease him back. The tiny wisps of contact send shockwaves through her body, and she took a deep, steadying breath, her body turning hot and cold as she wondered where it was that his eyes lingered. That had to be the worst and the most tantalising part of being blindfolded; not the inability to see but the inability to control where the other person's eyes wandered. "Why are you blushing?" he asked lazily, withdrawing those teasing fingers. "I'm not," Anika protested, as her face heated up further. Rudra laughed. "It suits you. Makes you lovelier somehow," he murmured and her heart skipped a beat. She experienced a sudden, desperate need to tear the blindfold off and finally get a look at the man who had drawn her into this intoxicating web.

All too soon, the car stopped. The crescendo of anticipation and excitement in Anika’s heart had reached its climax. All the feelings that had led up to this unreal moment now quivered on the edge of revelation. “I’ll remove the blindfold once you’re seated,” Rudra said softly, as he opened the door for her and rested one light arm on her waist as he guided her along what seemed to be an uneven pathway. Presently, she could feel the blaze of the morning sun on her face and she was glad for the summery yellow dress she wore. The fresh, salt-tinged scent of the sea reached her nostrils and Anika smiled in delight. “Are we at a beach?” The sea would go a long way in settling the overactive butterflies in her stomach. “Indeed we are.” The cool breeze wafting in from the coast blunted the effect of the scorching sun somewhat. And then, they reached a shade of some sort and Rudra turned her around to face him. The touch of his surprisingly cool hands on her bare, sun-warmed shoulders made her feel quite light-headed. He leaned in close to untie her blindfold and the woody notes of his perfume brushed against the sensitised skin of her neck. She blinked a few times to adjust to the sudden light and then looked up into the unseen face that had featured in so many of her thoughts over the past few weeks. The sight that met her eyes nearly sent her reeling.

“Rudra!” She exclaimed. This was Rudra Iyer, a colleague from work that she was vaguely acquainted with. In fact, she might not even have known his name if not for the fact that he sat right across from her, a few rows away. Non-existent shadows clouded her vision in that sunny brightness as she tried to reconcile her reserved colleague with the man who had wielded so much passion with his words. Even though he was over six feet tall, Rudra Iyer seemed to shrink in front of her as he faced her doubt and barely veiled disappointment. “Yes, it’s me. But let me explain. Will you sit at least?” Still wrapping her head around this sudden turn of events, Anika sat down on the carpet spread below the beach umbrella and noticed for the first time, the chocolates, the wine and the flowers. She sighed. A strange sadness threatened to envelop her now as she felt the much-awaited revelation pale before all her expectations. Undefined though they had been, nothing could have prepared her for this. Rudra Iyer, the reclusive copywriter, known for his brilliant bursts of creativity and his general dislike of humanity – he was the man behind those intense messages and those beautiful verbal images he had drawn. “So was it all a plan? You followed me on Twitter with this end in mind?” she asked, trying valiantly not to sound accusatory and knowing she had failed when she saw the slump of his shoulders. “Wow, this is clearly not how I thought this moment would play out,” he said dryly. He sat down before her and reached for her hand, but she recoiled. Taking a deep breath, he sat back and scrutinised her, as though wondering which words would cajole her best. “Anika, you intrigue me. You always have. But I don’t do social interaction very well. Now the written word, that’s a different story altogether. Twitter happened by chance. I didn’t plan any of this. Everything just took on a life of its own once we began talking.” She stared at him, trying to read beyond his words, read into his erudite eyes and his insolent stubble. Had she ever really noticed him? Anika was in client servicing and she never interacted with the creatives department. There were other members in her team who did that. Her role was limited to interfacing with the brands that approached the agency. And with a job like that, she had to adopt an effusive, extroverted personality even if that wasn’t entirely true. No, Rudra Iyer had barely registered on her radar. Yet it seemed that she had featured prominently on his.

“Why did I intrigue you? Before we began speaking on Twitter?” she wanted to know. Rudra smiled. This was something he had expected. “I saw beyond your mask. The chirpiness, the unruffled attitude – it was all so normal and agreeable. Yet when no one was looking, there was restlessness in you that called out to me, a desire to get away, be swept away by adventure. That’s when I went looking for you on Twitter – to get a glimpse of your thoughts and see if what I felt was just the product of an overactive imagination or a lucky insight into the real you. Your tweets – they are out of this world. They wrap around me like silken threads and charm me with their frank sensuality.” Anika’s breath quickened as he spoke and suddenly, she had no trouble believing that he was indeed the one she had walked in Hyde Park with. Everything fell into place now. She had heard about Rudra going on a holiday around the same time that that had happened, though she had obviously made no effort to gather details. Yet, to fasten all those vague fantasies onto this man, no longer a fascinating stranger but someone she saw everyday; it seemed impossible. “I can’t do it,” she thought mournfully and realised that she had spoken out aloud. “I’m sorry Rudra. I think this is where our story ends. Real life is very different from Twitter. And I didn’t expect my existing life to collide so violently with what I imagined would be absolutely new.” Rudra stared at her, the hardening of his jaw telling her what she needed to know. “So you’re discounting everything that we shared? Simply because you already know I exist?” Anika sighed. “It just doesn’t feel right. I don’t feel that way about you. I felt that way about the man I exchanged those messages with.” “But we’re one and the same,” Rudra said with barely controlled anger. “I’m sorry,” was all Anika could say before she picked up the discarded blindfold and retraced those steps, this time with eyes wide open.

***

Monday morning would bring with it enough work to distract her from looking across the rows at the tall, lean man who rarely spoke and rarely smiled, Anika hoped. What she hadn’t counted on was the void that the sudden cessation of their messages would cause. And the way it messed with her focus on work. For the first time since she had joined Diffusion, Anika found her well-relied upon mask slipping and it frustrated her no end. Furtively, she watched Rudra Iyer type furiously at his computer and swivel in his chair with a pen in his mouth as he waited for a brainwave to strike. She watched him drum his long fingers on the desk as he sipped on endless cups of cappuccino and unbutton the top of his shirt as the day wore on. She found herself unconsciously licking her lips, leaning forward as she wished she could discern more details. She found herself scrutinising every woman he spoke to, on the rare occasions that he did. And then sometimes, when he suddenly looked right back at her, she hurriedly turned back to her computer screen, guilt causing her face to flush crimson. A few days after this tortuous situation, Anika had to fill in for a colleague on leave. “Follow up with the TBZ campaign. Rudra has to submit the creatives by 6 PM,” Brijinder, her boss told her. Her heart skipped a beat on hearing Rudra’s name. Finally, providence had conferred upon her an excuse to speak to him and get a closer look. She attributed her garish curiosity to the fact that she had woven so much fiction around the blurriness of the details regarding the man behind those messages.

Anika waited until after lunch to enquire about the creatives. Rudra watched her skirt-clad figure approach from afar, the kitten heels making her sway in a manner that had him gritting his teeth. He knew she was replacing Kiran today. He was prepared to face the moment with absolute nonchalance, even though the unfair disaster of their ‘date’ still churned up untold fury in the pit of his stomach. “Rudra,” Anika said and he hated himself for enjoying the sound of his name on her generous lips. “Are the TBZ creatives ready?” Don’t be distracted by the way the end of her braid teases the nape of her neck. Or by the slight quiver of her lips that betrays her nervousness, he told himself. “I’m done with one print ad. But we need to give them two more options at least. That’ll take me a while.” Anika wrung her hands, wondering how to deal with the hard-nosed Rudra. “The clients will call us at 6 PM. We need to give them a brief of the three options. Can you at least come up with the ideas for the other two?” Rudra regarded her unemotionally. This was his chance for revenge, small-minded and hardly satisfying though it would be. If he refused to cooperate, Anika’s ass would be on fire. But he would also be guaranteed her unending ire. “I’ll try. Check with me again at five.” A few moments of silence passed as both of them gazed at each other, perhaps trying to read into each other’s eyes the inspiration that lay behind those glorious words. Then, as though snapping out of a trance, Anika stepped back. “I’ll do that,” she said and turned on her heel, oblivious to his hungry stare that watched her until she was back at her desk and still within sight, as she had been in all those days that he had stolen glimpses of her, dreaming of one day ripping off that mask and tasting the inky sweetness beneath.

***

“Will you walk with me?” he had asked her, from across the oceans in a faraway street in London. She had granted her excited acquiescence, curled up on her bed at home, the evening sunshine paling against the glow in her heart. He had described the nip in the air, the wind among the leaves and the playing children that sent the sand flying. Then, he had decided to rest awhile on a wayside bench and soak in the fresh scent of the dewy grass and imprint the mellow beauty in his memory. It was then that he had slung a virtual arm over her shoulder and leaned in to sniff her hair, making her heart skip a beat as she nearly felt his breath lift a few wayward strands. She should have found it strange that he had exhibited no curiosity about her appearance, but then that had just been their way. Theirs had been an exchange that didn’t require the burden of cursory details. Or so she had thought. As she absently scrolled through the messages that now spoke of passion gone wrong, Anika wondered why exactly she had reacted so adversely to Rudra. Was it that she was repulsed by him? Far from it, given the way he seemed to capture her attention in the last few days. No, what had unsettled her had been the sudden imbalance in their relationship; prescience and deliberation on his side and innocence and naiveté on hers. What had made their connection so magical, in her mind at least, had been the blindness on both ends, the strange attraction that was based only on words and imagination. And yet, if she considered the twist in events that Rudra had suddenly forced her to confront, the new storyline would read something like this: This intense, reclusive and incredibly talented man, who couldn’t spare a word or a moment for most people at work, had inexplicably become enamoured by her, Anika Roy. He had observed her for days, weeks perhaps and divined facets of her personality that she rarely admitted to her own self. He had gently nudged into the soft layers she kept hidden from most, with a single instrument – words. He had taken her on the finest flights of fantasy, cast an inimitable spell on her mind and aroused her with his thoughts. Anika found herself smiling as she contemplated this brand new story. It might not have been the story she thought she had been reading but it wasn’t any less beautiful. Decision made, she stood up and made her way to Rudra Iyer, who presently had his legs crossed on the neighbouring chair while he doodled on a notepad. He looked up, surprised. “It isn’t five yet.” “No,” Anika smiled. “But I thought you’d like to have coffee with me.” 

More.

Juhu Beach. By moi.

I'm never satisfied. I went to Juhu Beach after a decade or so this Sunday. Yes, it was filthy to the point of revulsion. But I was ready for that. All I'd wanted was some proximity to the sea and the feel of wet sand sinking between my toes. I got that. I strolled along the sea, my dress billowing in the breeze. I smiled at the dashing waves and trapped them within the confines of my camera. I watched little kids frolic in the muddy water and shy women stepping delicately into the sun-kissed ripples. I saw stalls selling all sorts of snacks and vendors enticing the weekend crowd with their fancy wares. But I wasn't satisfied. I wanted more, though the 'more' remained frustratingly undefined.

I've taken three trips already this year. I've seen some wonderful places and spent time with some of my best friends. I've encountered unfamiliar tastes and equally unfamiliar shores. I've run across the entire length of a beach in Pondicherry and collapsed with laughter in a cramped rickshaw in the bylanes of Mahabalipuram. I've marvelled at stuffed birds in Chennai's Egmore museum and watched the stars in the pristine Varkala sky in Kerala. I've had goosebumps at Ranga Shankara theatre in Bangalore and been transported into a space of my own at Fort Kochi beach in Kerala. I've travelled far and wide within as well as without. And yet, contentment eluded me in every one of those trips. If Kerala wasn't eventful enough, I didn't see enough of Bangalore. I explored Pondicherry to the hilt with my friends but still, I feel as though I missed something very vital. And that feeling mars the otherwise rosy tint of my memories.

What is satisfaction, really? Is it a state of complete fulfillment, with no desires or doubts whatsoever? Or is it just a calm state of being where desires can co-exist with the bliss of the present moment? I had fleeting moments of contentment this Sunday and during those three trips. But I want more. I've never dealt too well with vagueness and uncertainty. And maybe that's why life is dishing them out to me in generous doses. So that I can slay my Achilles' heels and become maestro supremo of my own destiny. But while I struggle, tell me if you would, how I can quieten the voices of discontent that crowd me in my sleep.

Everybody sleeps alone.

A collage of 'Nobody Sleeps Alone' at Ranga Shankara theatre, Bangalore (By Ankita Shreeram)

The play was called ‘Nobody sleeps alone’. And the title made absolutely no sense until at one point towards the end of the play, one of the protagonists delivered a flaming monologue. Godfrey began by declaring "Nobody sleeps alone", because our unfulfilled aspirations keep us company while we dream. But then, he turned on himself to aver with equal passion, "Everybody sleeps alone". This darker version of the seemingly jovial Godfrey impressed upon us the truth that all of us are completely alone, even if we’re sleeping next to our better halves. Which one of these arguments appeals to you more – nobody sleeps alone or everybody sleeps alone?

On the face of it, they are contradictory statements. But if you think about the implications, you actually realise that they can stand side-by-side. If ‘alone’ implies merely the lack of human company, then yes, in sleep, we are all alone. But it is absolutely true that our ideas, thoughts, aches and doubts never really leave us. They cling on to us in wakefulness and manage to break through the barriers we put up during sleep. In our dreams, we are all exposed. We stand naked because we are both participant and spectator. Artists live their dreams in the work they create. The rest of us consummate them in our dreams.

I watched this play at Ranga Shankara theatre in Bangalore. The newsletter said it revolved around gangsters in Mumbai. My friend and I were slightly amused to encounter this slice of Mumbai in a new city. My fears of being subjected to a hackneyed story proved to be unfounded. The story was engrossing. It featured three main characters - a teacher and his two students. They were being schooled in the art of deception, manipulation, and several other esoteric skills that would make them perfect gangsters. The aim was to pull of a heist successfully. But of course, the students fell in love and things went downhill from thereon.

It’s not the story itself that made the play so marvellous. The quirky traits of each character, the haunting monologues and above all, the incredible background score ensured that I would savour the play over and over, each time dwelling on a different nuance. Calling the music that the percussionist produced a ‘background score’ seems blasphemous to me. The music throbbed with so much energy that it was like a fourth protagonist. When Sarayu and Wazir danced around each other with their mutual passion, the drums danced too. When Wazir and Godfrey clashed, so did the cymbals. And the instruments didn’t just mirror or support what the characters did. They barged right in wherever they wished and set the stage aflame with their sonorous rhythms.

The play was a tragedy. There was nothing tragic about the way Sarayu performed for Wazir in her private chamber. But there was definitely something very tragic in the moment that Wazir shoots a man. He realises that he has done something he didn’t want to. And that knowledge twists inside him like a poisonous serpent. It is in this moment that Godfrey’s two-facedness is revealed. And so you don’t mourn his death. You do mourn the ill-fatedness of Wazir and Sarayu’s love story. But the most beautiful love is one that is left unfulfilled, is it not? 

(P.S.: This is not a review and I know next to nothing about theatre.)

Don't be a feelings whore.

Too much is written about sex and too little about feelings. Sex is easy. And most of us know exactly what we're getting into when we do it with no strings attached. But what really leaves you feeling used is when you whore your feelings for someone who never deserved it in the first place. Using people emotionally without contributing much in return - that's the real tragedy of our times. Sorry, but that can never happen with 'mutual' consent, unless you happen to be a masochist.

Yes, you desperately want to find your soulmate and fall in love. But that doesn't mean you allow every man/woman who shows you the least bit of interest to take over your soul. Let the right one in. Have standards. Don't be easy. And certainly don't mistake choosiness for selfishness. When it comes to caring about someone, it's good to be selfish. Not everyone deserves a place in your thoughts. Not everyone deserves to be included in your prayers. Let people earn that place, the way you earn one in their lives.

Be polite. Be approachable, even. But don't let the floodgates of your heart open at the first sign of attention. Don't start dreaming the second you sense a connection with someone. Because people are rarely what they seem at first. People are always different when they're in 'chase' mode. That carefully built persona of charm and humour rapidly falls apart when they realise that you've given them your heart.

You will be tempted to play counsellor when someone comes to you with their issues, because let's face it. Solving another person's problems makes you feel so good about yourself. It makes you feel valued and it buoys your self-esteem like nothing else can. But if you start believing that they care for you in return, then you may be setting yourself up for an enormous disappointment. Because most people are unapologetically self-centred. They love you for what they get from you. They don't care two hoots about who you really are or what you want from life. That can only happen when you're attuned to each other as equals - not as patient and counsellor or victim and saviour.

Don't whore your feelings. Because it's no fun to have your emotions raped and blown to smithereens. It's no fun to be taken for granted and discarded once you've pulled someone up from the dumps. It's no fun to invest so much of your time, thoughts and affection, only to realise that there is zero gratitude on the other end. Guard your feelings, if you will. Don't hide behind your barriers but don't be an open book either. Don't be a magnet for negative people, because they'll never be able to give you anything in return.

(This post is not directed towards any particular person. It is merely an account of my feelings at one point in time.)

The blink of an eye..that's all it took for love to pass me by.

The more fleeting your encounter with a person, an idea or a place, the more magical and meaningful that experience is. That seemed to be the common message woven within the storylines of Midnight in Paris and Before Sunrise.

Perhaps it was fortuitous that I watched both films on consecutive days. In Midnight in Paris, we have the protagonist falling for a woman from another era. They share a single kiss and in that moment, he feels immortal. It is the kind of magic he has never experienced with his fiancee. On the other hand, the protagonists of Before Sunrise have but a single day and night together, before they must part ways. Both films were immensely beautiful and both reiterated the charm of a transient love. The word 'love' does not make an appearance in either relationship but the viewer is aware that they are soulmates. Though I was charmed by these stories, they set me thinking. Why is it that the epic love stories are always tragedies or transient encounters? Is it that a lifelong romance is too mundane and too riddled with familiar roadblocks to make it to the pages of a magnum opus?

There is an element of truth in the conversations that Jesse and Celine have in Before Sunrise. They talk about how relationships go downhill when they last too long. The things you once found endearing about the other person begin to grate on your nerves, says Jesse. Is that true? I have never had a romantic relationship that lasted longer than two years. But I've known several people for much longer than that and I don't love them any less than I did when I first befriended them. We can discount family from this discussion because those are ties wrought by genetics, interdependence and bonding that can never compare to voluntary relationships.

Applying the same logic to moments, I recall the time when I breakfasted at Le Cafe in Pondicherry, with the sea glittering behind my back and my hair blowing in the breeze. If I shut my eyes, I can experience the serenity and the bliss I felt then, with crystal clarity. But how was that moment any superior to the one I am experiencing now? This moment where I sit cross-legged on my bed, with the sun streaming in and these words pouring out of consciousness? What makes some encounters and experiences more special than the others? I believe it is just the connotation we attach to them that makes them more memorable than the rest. That, and the intoxication of knowing that those moments may not return and those people may not be encountered again.

The certainty of seeing my mother in the kitchen each morning, of brushing my teeth and walking down the street outside my house somehow diminishes their charm. Or at least, that's what I glean from several films and novels. I beg to differ, though. In fact, I differ with complete conviction and defiance! I believe that every encounter, every relationship and every moment can be infused with the magic reserved to 'once-in-a-lifetime' occurrences. All it takes is a little imagination. A little attention to detail. A small pause. And the sudden realisation that you simply adore the person you are with. The ground you're standing on. The air you're breathing. And the life you're living. :)

The Girl Who Died Next Door - 8

My car heaved and lurched as it raced over pothole-ridden roads. The good thing about these jolts was their democratic nature. Young or old, famous or nondescript, every single soul in cars, on bikes and in buses rose and fell rhythmically with the road’s ups and downs. Idly, I wished I could capture them mid-motion, in a photograph. People gazing rapturously down at their phones, people with their noses pressed to their windows, people with arms and dupattas dangling outside autos and people with handkerchiefs pressed to their noses to insulate from the smoke. “Do you enjoy photography?” I asked Shayan, who sat with his hands crossed in his lap, the picture of docile obedience. “Not really.” “Why not? Aren’t art and photography closely related to each other?” I persisted. His hands uncrossed themselves and a glitter appeared in his eye. “There is a fundamental difference between the two,” he said earnestly, leaning towards me while I continued to deny him, peering at the traffic instead. “Art can never be duplicated. Yes, we have excellent forgeries but there will always be a flaw somewhere, tiny though it may be. But with photography, it is possible to duplicate a picture with the very same composition and time of the day.” I smirked. Shayan was starting to become predictable now. “So you’re saying that visual art is superior to photography. All artistes believe their discipline is superior to everything else – be they photographers, painters or musicians,” I remarked. He shrugged. “I don’t know about that. But I do know that my work has to be exclusive.” I took the car a few inches ahead. “You discount too much. There are so many technicalities involved in photography. I’m sure a professional will be able to provide many counter-arguments.” Being an amateur photographer, I was aware of terms like shutter and aperture but I knew better than to expound on their intricacies.

***

There is no particular trait common to all camera-friendly individuals. Television anchors may be extroverts, introverts, aggressive or peaceful people. But none of that matters when the director gives his cue. So I had no way of predicting the sort of relationship Shayan would develop with the camera. “Were you aware of the events that led to flat 103’s owners moving out when you rented it?” Oddly, I felt as though I was in a courtroom. We waited to see how the witness would respond. “No, I was not. I was in a hurry to find a suitable flat and this one sounded perfect. I was hardly inclined to ask the owners why they moved out.” He could have been talking to me on his couch, a mug of coffee cradled in his hands. We had hit the jackpot. Shayan was that rare commodity who was totally oblivious to the camera. “So you think that tragedies should have no impact over the value of real estate?” I stayed out of the frame, this being a byte and not a full-fledged interview. Shayan shrugged. “I don’t really have an opinion. But I do believe that every place has its own vibe. If you like it, then you choose the house. If not, you don’t. That, coupled with practical factors like location and size make the decision for you.” I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to use that. It sounded too whimsical. But personally, I agreed with Shayan. I asked him to stay for lunch but he declined, as I had known he would. “Shayan,” I said suddenly when he was about to descend the staircase. “Thank you.” We stood there, a few feet apart, our eyes entwined in a smile. It was a good moment.

***

One Saturday evening, I woke up from a disturbed afternoon nap to find that I had slept through my jogging time. Hurriedly, I pulled on the Nike pants and sports bra that made me feel particularly sexy. I opened the door and found two ghosts staring me right in the eye. “Mr and Mrs Ganguly,” I said at last. They looked tired and gaunt, as though the sun denied them its daily lustre. “What a surprise,” I added, unable to prefix the surprise with ‘pleasant’. Mrs Ganguly’s face twisted into a parody of a smile. “We thought we’d collect this month’s rent in person; see how things were faring around here,” she explained. I wondered if they had seen Shayan’s paintings of their dead daughter. “No one is answering the door though. Do you know where Shayan is?” Mr Ganguly asked. I was relieved. I didn’t think their weary spirits could bear another shock. “I’m sorry, I have no idea. Would you like to come in for some tea?” I hoped they would refuse my offer. The Gangulys were nice enough people but after those unsettling dreams, I needed the release of a good run. And then it occurred to me that perhaps Suvarna was haunting their psyche too. So I held the door wide open and allowed the Gangulys to walk in. “Please make yourself comfortable,” I said mechanically. I brewed the tea in my kitchen, wondering if Mrs Ganguly noticed the peeling walls or the way the sunrays filtered through my curtains. I imagined them looking into the distance vacantly, each lost in their own memories. I had an overactive imagination. The tea came to a boil.

“We were lucky to find a tenant for this flat despite...” Of course he couldn’t complete the sentence. “Suvarna’s death?” I wanted to say cruelly. After all, they had conveniently left it out while leasing the flat to Shayan. But instead, I smiled. “It’s nice to have a neighbour again.” I wondered how to broach the subject of Suvarna’s haunting. Were the Gangulys superstitious? ‘Aren’t all Indians?’ my alter ego smirked back at me. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” I began with a deep breath. “Do you sometimes feel like you can sense Suvarna’s presence? In your dreams perhaps?” Mrs Ganguly gasped. “What are you talking about?” her husband asked, sounding a tad defensive. “I dream about her,” I admitted. And then I noticed that Mrs Ganguly had begun sobbing. Her husband noticed at the same time. “Look what you’ve done!” The man was furious. This wasn’t going well at all. “I’m sor...” I began but they were already leaving. “We should never have come back here,” Mr Ganguly snarled before banging the door into my face. My door, in fact. I wasn’t any closer to solving the mystery of Suvarna’s haunting. But I had spared the Gangulys the trauma of witnessing their daughter age on canvas. At least, that’s how I rationalised Mrs Ganguly’s tears away. 

(To be continued)

Help.

Pic: Ankita Shreeram

That's a call for help directed at my own self and the universe at large. Because while I seek solace in my family and my friends, they can't really see right through to my soul. And I can't show them, even if I want to. "No one really understands," is a refrain we hear every now and then. All of us feel it, at some moment or the other - this niggling feeling that our problems are unique. Psychologists can cry themselves hoarse about the similar nature of angst faced at different stages of life but the truth is, no two humans experience pain in the same manner. Eckhart Tolle writes about the 'pain-body' in his theses on spirituality and the deeper meaning of human life. This pain body is a kind of destructive alter-ego and it represents the accumulation of all the negative feelings and experiences we have been through. These feelings and experiences cast lasting impressions on our memories and over time, lead us to believe in harmful patterns that soon become self-fulfilling prophecies. Believe it enough and it will be true. Unfortunately, that is an axiom that works both ways. Believe that you are unworthy of good things and life will prove it to you. Believe that you are the most splendid being on this planet and life will prove that to you as well. Somewhere in my childhood, I began to believe that I wasn't worth being befriended and that I was too ugly to be loved. Today, I know that neither of that is true. I've struggled with my demons and I have managed to lull them from time to time. I've reaped the rewards in terms of a few good relationships and an increased sense of well-being. But I will admit that I haven't entirely slayed them. My 'pain-body' is still in existence. I love solving other people's problems. Reaching out to them and easing their pain brings me satisfaction. But at the end of the day, it is only a means of distraction from my own issues. The 'other' is always easier to perceive and resolve. It is the 'self' that confounds and tortures. Relationships crumble when two people come too close for comfort. Imagine the relationship you have with yourself - so close that you are one. So close that dichotomy makes no sense and yet it exists! There is duality in every sense - I talk to myself like there are two of me, I wrestle with myself like I'm my own opponent and when I smile, I feel an echo from deep within. And that perhaps is the crux. The alter-ego is merely an echo of our real selves. And an echo says nothing new. An echo reveals nothing of importance. An echo is but a mere repetition. The affirmations are our own to make. Let them be so strong that their echoes resonate till the end of time. Let the belief in one's beauty and purity be so strong that nothing can cause a chink in that armour of positive energy. Help is ever at hand, in one's own heart and in every atom that makes up the pseudo-reality around us. It's strange. None of this is real but the problems this unreality churns up feel so crushingly real. I've been looking for salvation since a long time. I was briefly distracted by work - my karma. Now I am distracted by lust - kama. Neither of them are an end in themselves. They are merely means to an unending series of desires and disappointments. Love will make sense only when I slay my demons completely and find a partner whose demons have been cast into nothingness as well. Until then, every entanglement will be just that - a complicated, agonising twist of difficult-to-decipher words, feelings and expectations. Marriage will make sense only when it is between two souls who are complete in themselves and yet seek to create a greater, deeper reality by combining their life paths. In any other case, it will merely be a parody of what it's meant to be. 

Why do so many Bestsellers make it to the Rejection Pile?

Nearly every time that a book hits the bestseller lists, the event is inevitably followed by an article on how said book was rejected by a gazillion publishers before it made it to the presses. Why on earth would the world’s foremost publishers close the doors on age-defining novels like the Harry Potter series, Jonathan Livingston Seagull, Animal Farm, Gone with the Wind and Chicken Soup for the Soul? A quick read through the rejection histories of some of the most widely read novels in the world reveals that the reasons ranged from ‘not interesting enough’ to ‘too controversial’ or even the inane ‘too long’. In fact, it all boils down to the whims and fancies of those occupying the editorial positions at these publishing houses.

Bias against New Authors

Printing books is an expensive business and most of the times, publishers are loathe to experiment with a new writer. But then, the number of noteworthy first-time authors is so massive that this trend ought to have been bucked by now - Paul Harding, Arundhati Roy, Christie Watson and Kathy Taylor to name a few.  According to Andrew Franklin, publisher and managing director of Profile Books, only 20 out of 500 fiction submissions each year are eventually commissioned. That makes it a meagre 4% acceptance rate. Other experts cite an even lower figure – 2%. For an unknown name to cut through that clutter is a Herculean task. Yet, it does seem unfair when celebrities who haven’t a clue how to write a readable book get published in a jiffy. But who said there was any fairness in the world of creativity? Luckily for first-time writers, several avenues have opened up in self-publishing.

Intolerance for Offbeat Subjects

It is so much easier to go with what’s been tried and tested when there is money and painstakingly-built reputation at stake. Yet, the best novels have little precedent. That’s what makes them so extraordinary and memorable. Controversial subjects as in the case of George Orwell’s Animal Farm, an allegory on Stalin’s reign over the Soviet Union or simply hitherto unexplored themes as in the case of Rowling’s Harry Potter are both impediments for publication. Does that mean that writers should not dare to explore? That they should stick to mundane themes that are bound to interest readers? That’s certainly not the message publishers would want to broadcast to the literati.

Being Blind to what Readers Want

The trouble with publishers is the sheer volume of manuscripts that they receive on a daily basis. Jadedness is bound to seep into the editor’s decision-making process when he/she has to sift through a mind-numbing number of stories every day. But is that an excuse for failing to set personal preferences and prejudices aside and judging a book solely on its ability to capture the imaginations of its target audience? Personally, I find the Chicken Soup series overtly idealistic and plain ordinary at times. But does that take away from the books’ ability to touch a chord with the majority of readers out there? Of course it doesn't.

Tons of excellent children’s books have been rejected by hard-nosed publishers who could have simply taken a child’s opinion on the manuscript before dismissing it as ‘silly’ or ‘boring’. If stories are to be believed, that’s how Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone finally made it to Bloomsbury’s presses. Chairman Nigel Newton gave the manuscript to his eight year old daughter on a whim and when the child returned within hours, asking for more, he began to realise that he might have just landed a winner.

In Conclusion

Of course, to give publishers due credit, they also have solid reasons for rejecting manuscripts. The number one reason is that the book does not fit the publishing house’s profile or requirements. Authors need to ensure that they send their books to the right imprint, depending on the genre and target audience. All major publishers like Penguin and Harper Collins have numerous imprints catering to each genre. Additionally, even when a publisher has a diverse profile, they have an agenda at any given point in time. If publisher Z has decided to focus on thrillers for the time being, even the best romance novel may be relegated to the rejection pile.

The best solution seems to be to hire more manpower to devote the deserved attention to those whopping piles of manuscripts. Appointing freelance commissioning editors would be a great way for publishers to minimise the potential bestsellers they miss out on. Already, new agents are entering the market to cater to the burgeoning number of manuscripts being penned by immensely talented writers worldwide. And with the advent of e-readers, multimedia publishers need not worry about shrinking sales. 

Snapshots of Love

Was it love when we stood on the seaside promenade in the stormy rain, listing all the reasons we shouldn't be together while our eyes were helplessly drawn to each other's lips? Was it love when I would crawl out of bed at 2 AM so I could exchange a few words with you, which inevitably turned into an hour long conversation? Was it love when we pledged to be together forever, finding ways to fit into each other's dreams? Was it love when you felt compelled to pour out every idea to me in excruciating detail, while the mere sound of your voice set my senses on fire? Was it love when I searched for reasons to speak to you, your words providing me solace in the darkest hours? Was it love when I declared my passion for you, intoxicated and incoherent, surrounded by so many censuring eyes? Was it love when all I looked forward to  were your Skype calls even though the connection allowed us to exchange barely a few lines? Was it love when I couldn't enjoy a single day at work after you quit, assailed as I was by your memories? Was it love when you said you missed me, that whoever I'd be with would be immeasurably lucky? Was it love when the mere mention of your name made me blush furiously? Was it love when your embrace made me feel like I was finally whole? Was it? 

The Girl Who Died Next Door - 7

Like water, some of us flow through life effortlessly, changing form and colour as required and never resenting the loss of our individuality. And then there are those like me who wear their individuality like an unshakable cloak, refusing to change or adapt to the extent of self-defeating rigidity. Yet, in Shayan's arms, I felt fluid and removed from myself. His hands could have shaped the sway of my emotions in any which way they desired. Later, I would be outraged at that temporary loss of hold on myself. But in that moment, I found it beautiful. I found it incredibly magical. And I wanted it to go on forever.

"I drew another portrait," he confessed, instantly turning the warmth in my bones to shards of ice. "Did you draw her?" I asked, unwilling to extricate myself from his embrace. His hands released me instead. My flushed skin embarrassed me. Why did I kiss him? But he kissed you back, my mind whispered. "Her? The portrait bears a resemblance to the previous one I drew, yes," Shayan said, all of a sudden aloof. "I feel compelled to draw..I've never felt this way before. It's actually quite exhilarating!" he continued. Suvarna's spirit exhilarated him? The thought repulsed me. All I said was, "Show me."

The easel stood in the intimate interiors of his bedroom this time. "I drew the portrait as soon as I awoke from a nap," Shayan said by way of explanation, probably cued in by my questioning eyebrows. Bless body language. There was no doubt about it. The tilt of her chin, the curve of that nose and the shimmer in her eyes - Shayan had captured Suvarna's essence perfectly. And if it was possible, she looked even more alluring in this avatar, closer to thirty than twenty five. "She has aged further," I commented stonily. "Yeah. She just seems to get lovelier with every passing portrait," Shayan mused, making my gut twist. "It's Suvarna. You don't find this the slightest bit disturbing? The fact that you keep drawing her portraits and she keeps aging in them as though she were still alive?" "That's an interesting theory!" Shayan murmured, his head tilted to one side. "As though she were still alive. Indeed. Perhaps it's my sub-conscious that is trying to offer her a convoluted form of justice through these portraits." At least, he had now accepted that it was Suvarna he kept drawing. "What when she dies in your portraits as well?" I asked, strangely scared for this man who seemed so willing to be in the grip of an unknown paranormal force. "We'll see," he said, his lips curving in a lopsided smile. I didn't smile back. "Why did you kiss me?" I wanted to ask. And what if he said, "Because you did"? That would crush me. That really wasn't what I wanted to hear. And so I left the question unasked. I left my thirst unquenched.

***

I believe in ghosts. I believe in all sorts of phenomena. After all, we have long since established that anything is possible as long as it is within the purview of human imagination, and perhaps even when it's not. Where Shayan could barely tolerate that apartment earlier, now he rarely left it. He waited to draw Suvarna's portraits like a child awaiting her day's quota of candy. The portraits were few and far between. But when they came, he never failed to show them to me. I began counting the days when Shayan's Suvarna would die, so I could have a normal conversation with him. It was all he spoke of. It was all he thought of. And he didn't seem to think it was unhealthy at all. How much could I, a veritable stranger, interfere? And what would I say? That I didn't want a dead woman capturing all his attentions? That I wanted him to finish her off as quickly as possible so we would be rid of her spectre?

One crisp Wednesday morning, I knocked on Shayan's door. We were to travel to work together and shoot his segment for the tragedy episode of Realty Check. The sight that met me had me rushing to clear my face of disgusted incredulity. From his bedraggled hair to his thoughtlessly assembled clothes, Shayan looked like a complete mess. "Is this how you want to appear on national television?" I asked him. He had the grace to look sheepish. "I'm sorry, I haven't dressed up in so long." You haven't been out in so long, I wanted to say. "Let's get you into something better. And do you have a comb somewhere?" I asked, walking past him into the house, now littered eerily with Suvarna's paintings. She appeared to have hit her sixties in the latest one, occupying pride of place on the wall, above the clock.

"Do you own any formals at all?" I asked Shayan, rummaging through the clothes in his cupboard. "Sorry. I detest those things." I finally settled upon a crisp white kurta and grey cotton pants. I pulled the comb through his hair, which was slightly wet and smelt of fragrances I didn't recognise. I had him sit on the bed and leaned over to brush his hair, the gesture feeling oddly intimate and unsettling. "I've become too obsessed with my paintings, haven't I?" Shayan asked, his breath teasing my chest tantalisingly. I wanted to take the opportunity to lash out at him and let him know what an antisocial freak he had turned into. But there was a note of disarming vulnerability in his voice that made me desist. "You just need to get out more," I said. "And wasn't your break supposed to last only for a couple of months?" "I don't feel like getting back to the routine of a job," Shayan shrugged. "My savings should see me through for couple more months. After that, I might consider taking up one." "Or you could sell these paintings," I suggested intrepidly. Shayan stood up to look at said paintings, depicting the aging and impeccably lovely Suvarna in various angles and magnifications. “I don’t think I could do that. Not even posthumously,” he said, making my bones freeze.

[To be continued]