Rambling routes of Bugyal

                                        Every day is a winding road, I get a little bit closer

                                 Every day is a faded sign, I get a little bit closer feeling fine

-                                                                                                                                                                                                - Sheryl Crow

It was a long winding rocky trail between the two hills and I couldn’t decide that between the leaves under our feet and my thoughts, which was more slippery.

Sun, mist, rains, hailstones, rainbows, awestruck moments, hearty laughs, inspiring people, interesting conversations, rude discourses, drama and happy ending, the Dayara Bugyal trek in Uttarakhand was like a good old masala Hindi movie. But the gem of all views was at the camp at Dayara where you had a ridiculously clear view of the Gangotri massif, Jaonli peak, Draupadi ka Danda 2^nd peak to the east and the Bandarpoonch massif to the north. Fascinating!! 
Thank you Indiahikes!!

Further down from the camp at Dayara, where the finches and sparrows of known and unknown kinds were chirping their hearts away, little ferns grew on the branches of the rhododendrons and oaks; it was a world of their own.

One evening, when it was time for the birds to go home, I sat beside the trees watching thunderstorms gathering far away. Is someone on the Janonli peak now? They better run! A mighty storm is approaching. But before I could wrap my thoughts up, the clouds with the trails of lightnings and thunders disappeared from my view as if it was just a passing thought! The mountains spoil you with breath taking visuals and experiences every moment and you always crave for more.

And as usual, the conversations are amazingly refreshing as well! When you say hello to someone in the hills, never ever are you gonna get a frown for an answer. Even if someone is jaded walking for several hours looking for her lost cow. 

Cut to four days later, we were in Dehra and decided to go for a day trip to Mussourie. By the evening, tired walking up and down the historic lanes of the pretty town, we headed to Kalsang, a Tibetan food joint. And I promptly dunked my head into a comforting bowl of Thukpa to drown the disappointment of not meeting Mr. Ruskin Bond at the book shop that he visits occasionally. (Apparently, he had cancelled his visit that very day ☹ or maybe the shop owner had weaved his own story )

“If you are seeing this, your vacation has officially ended” – read a text from one of the fellow trekkers with a snap of cheerful faces, taken just before we bade goodbye to each other at the Barsu base camp.

The platter of words next, don’t actually have a prelude. Because, it’s an ensemble of expressions that had come to me and my words had dwindled to few, maybe to save themselves from an out pour. 

When words are few, when words are new                 

And the map of your thoughts is skewed

Take a walk, brush up your mind

You are never a step away from your find

  

In the hills, you are never a step away

Never a step away from your kind

The kind that knows you, feels you, is you

And yet in your thoughts twisted and twined

There are walls built in your head

There are walls built in you, as mighty as the mountains

Past the Bugyal oaks, along the sunny trails

The shades walk around but perceptions stay

Wrapped in a sea of indifferent faces                    

Plastic smiles or judging gazes

You go back home safely

Without a scratch on your skin or your heart            

And one night, under the starry milky way

The stealth of the dark unfurls to say,

Was there really a leopard in the valley

Or were you just afraid of each other?

The Tale of the Grass

                                                  The Visitor

It was a bright morning. The air was clear, birds were chirping on the trees and the neighbourhood was waking up. The lawn outside the big orange coloured house was sparkling with dewdrops on the tips of the grass. 

A blue kingfisher landed on the grass, sat there for a while, pecked and cleaned its feathers and then flew away.

Meanwhile, a tiny blade of grass in the lawn woke up too. He breathed in the fresh air and yawned with eyes and mouth so wide open that a tear trickled down his eyes, trickling all the way down, till the ground drank it.

Sleepy eyed, he shook the last drop of dew off himself and started getting ready for the day when suddenly out of nowhere, something in the air flew past him. The tiny grass bent over right on time else that thing would have almost landed on him!

“Can’t you stand straight? I almost lost my balance!” said a voice loud and clearly irritated.

“Who’s that? squealed the grass.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know me?” the tiny grasshopper threw an attitude, brushing her leaping legs.

“No.”

“Haha, that’s why you look so lost in dreams,” laughed the hopper and carefully stretching one of her right legs in front said, “Hello, I am Sandy!”

“I am Hem-,” the little grass was about to introduce himself aloud when something caught his eyes. Behind the white flowered bush, he saw a pair of legs. He had seen legs running around in the lawn in the evening, these were those. When he saw a catching net next to those legs, he immediately knew what it was. The legs were slowly moving towards them!

As if suddenly waking up from a dream, he screamed, “Sandy! There’s a catching net coming after you!! Run run!!!”  Just about then, someone jumped towards them, throwing the net and fell flat on face over the grass. It was a little girl.

The net had missed the grasshopper, Sandy had hopped away. He sighed in relief.

“I missed it again!” cried the girl, her face buried in the grass. “I know sshomeone alwayssh tellssh the hopper when I am coming” she lifted her face looking to the right and to the left, crying loud.

“How could she know about our secret?” the grass was puzzled. He didn’t say a word, closed his eyes and stood straight hoping the girl would eventually go away. But the cry grew louder and louder until he couldn’t bear it any longer.

“Hush now, your eyes would swell as big as potatoes and turn as red as tomatoes if you cry any longer!” he said impatiently. The little girl lifted her head hoping to see who was talking and upon finding no one, continued sobbing.

“It’s me, the grass.” 

She looked at him with teary eyes full of surprise when he said, “Now, if you stop crying I will tell you a story from a long time ago, about a faraway land of magic.”

She was very puzzled indeed but as the little grass bent his head, swaying in the breeze, the girl looked at him and stopped sobbing, waiting for the tale.

                                           The Tale of the Grass

Now, quite long ago but not so far away from the land of magnificent peacocks and royal tigers, was a land that was home to the mighty elephants and the mighty Elephant grass.

Glistening in the golden rays of the sun, strong and deep rooted, dressed in rich green and even taller than an elephant, stood the proud and fierce grass! Neither the animals nor the birds dared to venture in where they stood. But one afternoon, when the sun was getting ready to set, footsteps were heard near the grassland.

“Meyyyh,” a lonely goat cried nearby.

“No, don’t go there! Stop stop!” cried the little boy who was running after the goat, but it was too late. The goat had rushed inside the grass.

The little boy looked up at the huge blades of green standing in front of him and suddenly remembered all the stories of men who had never returned from this place. He could not leave without his pet but how could he even enter inside.

“Please let me to enter,” requested the boy.

There was no response, so he moved closer and just about then a thunderous voice roared!

"You cannot enter. This is not your land", shouted the fierce grass.

“I..I live nearby, I promise I would get my pet and return,” the boy could barely speak.

“Go back to where you have come from! We don't care about your pet", they hissed in anger.

It was getting late. The helpless boy couldn’t think of anything any longer and rushed inside, the sharp blades cutting deep through his skin. He tried to move through but couldn’t. After a long struggle, the boy dropped down on the ground to never return to his home again.

It was such a shameful act that even the setting sun turned blood red that day. For several days, the blades of green stained crimson stood silent, not knowing what to feel. After a few more days, as the evening wind cried for the little boy, the land felt deeply shaken inside, as if it had lost someone dear.

Strangely, next year, the grass didn’t feel like growing so tall anymore. And each passing spring, they grew shorter and softer; till the time when they stood so tender that even babies would roll over them but won’t get hurt! Why, even movie stars with their delicate frames would roll over them and won’t ever get a scratch!

But what happened next literally blows my mind till now. No matter who stepped over the grass, they could always spring right back to stand straight. They would grow back even if someone burnt them!

Now, by the time the story ended, a woman had come around, looking for the little girl. And finding her fast asleep, she took her in her arms and went inside the house.
I had heard the story of the tender grass from that little girl and now the story is yours!

How are you!!!

I hate starting conversations. Especially with people I know. No, not because I don’t want to talk to them, it’s just that the conversation starts with something very strange. It’s that question where, if you are in a quiz competition, you grab your fellow quizzer by the collar of her shirt and whisper in her ears, “Don’t answer it straightaway! I know, it’s a trick question!!”

 “How are you? Is she asking how I am at present or how have I been doing since we saw each other last time. But wait, when exactly did I see her last?”

Initially, understanding the exact meaning of the question used to be my struggle.

Now, by the time the thoughts get the better of me, I blurt out the most generic response. “All good, and you?” As if, shooting the same question back is as necessary as personal hygiene.

By the bye, have you noticed, how there’s so much science involved in the process? Because you always end up travelling time. Going way back to remember your state of existence when you had last met them. But all this is necessary if you are interested in the game though.

Oh! You don’t know the game, do you! Well, your answer to the “How are you” is like a banana. And here’s the deal; you don’t get to eat it! The banana is grabbed by the person who asked you the question and now when they get home, they will peel the banana off from every angle possible, to uncover the fruit of what you said! Eat it they will for sure, in fact, they will even share the banana with others.

“So, what’s the game about?” you’d ask.

Well, the game is to not slip. No, not on the banana peels silly! The game is about knowing the exact meaning of the question and not miss answering the actual question. 

Because for all you know, that same “How are you?” can mean anything from “I just mean to greet, I am very polite” to “I am asking this 'cause I don’t have anything else to ask” to “Please answer with just a nod, I didn’t mean to ask, just splurged it while passing by!” to “The other thought in my head was so offensive that I had to ask this stupid question instead!”

Speaking of greetings though, how nice it’d be to have something else rather than the ‘how are yous’, ‘whatsups’ and ‘what’s your scenes’; an idiom or a phrase, a quote or a proverb maybe? We’d be able to greet each other as per social norms while keeping it a least worked out ritual. And if we ignore the fact that the thought of it sounds nonsensical, we can still pass on some meaningful information to each other, in form of quotes and proverbs!

“Hi! No pain no gain.”

“Hello there! Exactly as cool as a cucumber!”

“Excellent! Here’s what I came to you for…”

Little confusing, subtly polite yet point blank. Just that and nothing else.

Hang on, hang on. There’s another side of this unexplored. The exploration though, is as personal a note as the starting sentence of this post was.

Honestly, as much distress and misery a seemingly simple question has brought me, strangely, it has also brought me quadruple that amount of joy of connecting with someone. And believe it or not, I have literally seen start-ups conceived, products launched, space shuttles designed, and colonies formed in Mars, meaning of life realised and superpowers gained, all by the end of the question “How are you”.

Okay, gaining superpower was probably an exaggeration.

But that’s what those conversations felt like! Magical. Because not so far away from the heap of banana peels, there’s always someone who would listen to all that shit that happened to you just today morning and understand every nerve of you saying, “I am so much better now.”  There’s always someone who’d be as much if not more excited than you, knowing your experiences and would be a part of the joy that reflects on your smile. There’s always someone who would walk that extra mile with you, understanding fully well that later, you may or may not have any recollection of that walk at all.

So, go ahead, don’t be a jerk like me and answer that question, being true to yourself and to your heart’s content. And when you are done, drink 4 dollops of love and 2 dollops of patience and ask, “So, you tell me now, how are you!”

That thing called love

Each year, several tourists are disappointed upon their arrival in Paris. Apparently, it doesn’t look like the city they had dreamt of; in fact, the reality seems diametrically opposite to the picture in their imagination.

Have you ever tasted a cuisine you always wanted to try at a restaurant only to realise that it tasted almost like mud, literally? Unless your favourite food is mud (well, at the age of six, my friend Dolly’s was), what you taste is called disappointment. Not only mud, disappointment comes in many other flavours and probably the most popular one is the one tasted in love. At times, disappointment is the inability to find the exact way to express a flash of thought that just passed you by; the one I am having right now while writing this.

Anyways, did I tell you, disappointment comes with a personal credit account. In fact, it operates exactly in the same way too! You have a credit of disappointment allotted to you every month and you can choose to lavish your disappointment on bargains of your choice or spend all of your disappointment in one go on that one exquisite piece of purse…err sorry..piece of pursuit I mean!!

And there’s smart metrics on your spending pattern too, that constantly keeps reminding you throughout the day. And even if you are a completely unconscious fellow not caring a freckle in the world, there will be one caring soul, who tracks your Account of Disappointment Credit; who, with the precision of a yoga practitioner counting her breath would delightfully inform you of your lag.

Life is strange; strangely weird, rather weirdly strange enough already to be dealing with one’s daily disappointment check. But what if you could become free from credit? What if you were just unable to get disappointed at all? You’d say, well, that happens only to those who are marvellously close to the truth or marvellously away from reality. And I say, you are absolutely right. All this smoke talk isn’t practical and even so is love. Not practical. Exactly which is why it filters your vision every time you look at a disappointment and inspires you to go on.

The lines after this portion of the post were scribbled shabbily on a notepad almost a decade ago, in the back seat of an office shuttle in a country far away from the nook I am writing this post from. 

The day was tiring and trying, and I have a faint memory of writing the lines accounting to some looming big disappointment. And thankfully, that’s all I remember!

A beam of light searching

drops of water fade away

on the smiling tips of grass,

as green they are

betwixt the lines of thoughts trailing.

Trailing as the sun goes down

by the clouds playing hide and seek

just beneath the magenta sky are lines

lines of distant dreaming.

Voices loud, voices squeaky

voices over the soothing wind

One more day just thoughtful enough

one more dream in making.

Steps by the Ganges

Ask for regular maintenance and ...

Tentacles of smoke dissolved into the hot and humid air as he spoke gallantly, his sweaty face was glistening in the orange rays of the setting sun.

“Ask for regular maintenance and even the gods will run away. Otherwise why Vishnu needs to appear in an avatar to clean up when it becomes messy? Everybody else can only give advice from afar and you people know so many of such people, don’t you?”

Thunderous claps followed his pause.

“And even though these recent schemes were not launched during our party’s stint in your service, you all know that all of it was actually our brainchild. See, even if the food is served at someone else’s party, the credit of making and serving the dinner goes to our Anand caterer only no? The people who know it from the beginning are the ones that make it work and grit through the shitty battles without troubling you. So that you can eat the three meals of the day peacefully. So, now you decide you will eat or wash the plates while someone else eats of your plate.”

This time rolls of laughter accompanied the thunderous claps.

His knowledge of the locals and their expertise was better than his word play, an art he had embraced with all of himself. And by the time his body guard had finished rolling both his sleeves up, the man had finished gurgling his gregariously put together speech with the last round of thunderous claps approaching. It wasn’t by fluke that he had created a territory in the local political orbit, in just a few years. Sketching one’s space in a small town is a matter of perseverance, you can pass even an ordinary stone as diamond, provided you have polished it’s edges enough.

The rings smoke had subsided, the air now carried a very strong smell of fried meatballs. A young boy collected the finished plates from the wooden benches outside the eatery. He went inside, unloaded the plates into a bucket full of water with a splash. His colleague and friend, aged about the same, helped him carry a sound box outside the shop. Nowadays, food needed to be accompanied with music. Even the hotels in big cities did the same.

In a minute or two, the speaker blared out Kedarnath Bhattacharjee’s voice. ”Dheere dheere se meri zindagi me ana”. Many small towns have not grown up beyond the nostalgia of the eighties and nineties.  It was yet another usual evening and after the verbal junk, the loitering crowd was ready for a refill of roadside delicacies.

The fried meatballs, samosas and kachoris were the only respite on a hot evening. On other days when a cool breeze dawned after the dusk, most strollers went to the ghat instead, the steps by the Ganges. A group of young girls and boys were buzzing past in their bicycles when one of them strutted right in front of the shop.

“Wait wait, why don’t we take a break here for two minutes before the next class?” stopping by the shop, one of the boys pointed at the samosas.

The sudden suggestion was met with a mixed reaction from the bunch and only one girl stood silent, smiling shyly, trying hard not to turn red. By the time the indecision and arguments got the better of them, someone observant, raring to make it to the next level of lifestyle in a metro city screamed, “It’s already time for the next tuition, I am leaving.” Once again, love had to give into the hands of logic.

24 karat gold at the price of two sparrows

There are quite a few stages in the complex process of small town courtship that require (at least according to some knowledgeable souls) time and space and much more in alignment with each other than found in equations solved by famous physicists. The roadside eateries are a fantastic place to just loiter around with friends endlessly (at times, even without ordering food) and still not make it to the list of prodigals in the town.

Well, in this town, when you graduated to the next level, the popular destination, even a few years back, was Milan Studio. The proprietor who couldn’t have chosen a better name for the place , was however, known for his hair transplant more than his knack for photography. The army of tiny hair lings that stood their ground, holding the fort in undying faith garnered more attention that the carefully selected photos at display and intricate frames that spoke of his body of work. With smart phones around, sadly, there was none to peek at the studio, so, he would kill time palavering with the neighbour, Atmaraam Jewellery shop.

The gold jewellery shop placed very strategically beside the studio, had served for years as the alternate pawn shop for men and women who had enterprising partners and spouses, keen to make easy money before fleeing. Promising to serve the best fake 24 Karat gold at the price of two sparrows literally (or so they claimed), Atmaraam’s the obvious choice when somebody made it big in the town. The quality of the gold however is directly proportional to the amount of money hoarded by the purchaser and is usually the best quality if the money is from funds leaked from government sanctioned initiatives. On a good day, you can even catch some interesting conversation at the entrance of the shop.

“Oh! Mrs. Trivedi are you back in town? Why haven't I seen you in the club!” 

“No Mrs. Kumar, it’s just for a few days and anyways Pinku’s father is not keeping well.”

“Ordering something new?”

“Yes, but just a few only.”

The rigorous calculations of whether the expenditure towards Mr. Kumar’s ailment was or was not excruciatingly over and beyond the handsome amount that went towards Mrs. Kumar’s adornments, would be done by the intellectuals of the town. They choose to sit themselves at the chowk, near a tea stall in the middle of the market place, not so far from the over-crowded and only functional beauty parlour in town. If not observing the passing trail of humanity and banter, they would be found discussing the latest way you can double your investments in a month’s time or how the current government is faring in its reign. If you are a part of this lot, you are Something with a capital S. Groceries would let you take home stuff for free, your children could order an extra plate of pulao at the local restaurant without paying for it and you are treated like a celebrity at the temple.

The only other alternative (but not so reliable) mode of salvation is featuring in Chanda sir’s evening huddles. But then, sometimes the conversations there are so single-tracked that after a while you feel completely clueless and drowsy, overloaded with all the mind-shattering philosophy and scientific prowess mankind has made himself privy to.

Well, however entertaining or grim, the options are accessible only to men.

Anyways, even till quite recently, if you happened to escape the lure of Atmaraam’s jewellery, the leering of the ones at the chowk, the third stage of your courtship would be spent at the steps by the Ganges. And on a cool autumn evening, that’s where Benu had met Rupa; for the first time. 

His heart had raced at the possibility of a conversation with her. Coming from a rather distant village, he didn’t know the specifics of a small-town life, of how rules are as sacred as the rising of the sun from the east. Getting her to agree to come and meet him was such a life changing affair that he didn’t care to educate himself on the small town mandates.

Even though she ate her lunch alone at school or at times accompanied by her bench mate (who deserted her often) it was impossible to approach her at school. Her silence was almost like a fort around her that let only a few in. It was the very reason why he felt drawn towards her, almost against his will. 

The head bowed down, the side parted braided hair, the soft voice and the pinched chin when she smiled rarely, was met with neither a lot of enthusiasm nor a handful of disdain. But that silent gaze loaded with unspoken words was a rarity, maybe distinct enough to be conspicuous in a dusty small town.

Somehow, his memories of her were too deeply etched to be replaced even by the sight of her bloodied body, lying on the stretcher. 

The Steps by the Ganges

A lonely crow was hopping back and forth and nibbling on leftovers from the offerings to the river, scattered on the rubbish accumulated on one side of the ghat. It was hot and humid by the riverside so Benu rooted himself on the other corner, where the water could touch his feet.

“Wake up, Benu, wake up!!!” the knock on his door was loud and urgent. “It’s Rupa!!” the wailing voice continued. 

By the time Benu had opened the door, leaped out bare feet in his boxers and vest, cycled like a freak and reached Rupa’s house, the Police were investigating the area. He still could catch a glimpse of her hanging feet. It’s been fifteen years since that morning when they had found her body violated and hanging from the ceiling of the bedroom. No one in her family was in town the night before. And no one had exercised a muscle of curiosity later, to find out what had happened. Life moved on; just like someone else's business.

A lone fisherman in a dinghy hurried his sail home. It was a quiet evening. Sitting on the steps, Benu strained his sinews and tried to recollect how he had felt that day but all he remembered was the day when they had sat on these steps by the Ganges.

On that day when Benu had met Rupa, the sky was a lustrous azure with mounds of clouds sailing. They had sat on the steps for a while, him talking to her as she sat silently but eagerly facing the river as if she could hear his words better after they were reflected on the water. And when the afternoon had rolled onto the dusk and the dusk met the evening, she had stretched her legs to touch the water. At once, he had leaped down further a few steps. 

He pressed his memory again to remember bits of their conversation. But the cool breeze, the gentle water and her feet closer to his, was all he could remember from that evening.

“P—eee-aa—nuts, take or leave, take or leave take or leave,” a confident seller shouted at the top of the steps. Benu Prasad got up slowly, brushed the dust off his trousers and unfolded them from the bottom, wore his shoes meticulously, climbed the stairs and followed the hand pulled cart on the road. Pulling a thick wallet out from his back pocket he looked at the seller, “How much for ten rupees?”

Not Another Random Rambling

The Beginning

Fir bhi yuhin kabhi ek hasrat karaah si

Banti hai zindagi ka bahana, ya fir bahane ki zindagi

And yet once in a while, a desire clad like a scream

Becomes the dream of your life, or the life of your dream

This is the end of the story. Well, because, eventually looking at the title and the beginning, you would have had imagined the kind of material that will be served in the pages ahead, for your mind to chew on. Words that will be tossed and sautéed in the heat of the moment and served with a garnishing with familiar emotions. I dare not disagree. So, I will wrap up with a random wedding instead.

The bride was lifted by four men, supporting the four corners of the pedestal she was sitting on. They were to raise her high enough for the groom to be able to see her face. Well, the groom was airborne as well. With almost the precision of a mid-air drill, the pedestals were competing to reach higher; the cheering crowd around made it all worthy for the men who carried the human obelisks on their shoulders.

“Oh gosh! What kind of a shamelessly giggling bride is this!” one of the aunties in gravity challenging head buns and earrings (the ones that will later broadcast the spiced up, blow by blow updates of the situation to privy ears) threw her words in the air, “lojjar to naamgondho nei!” 

The bride was enjoying the moment to the hilt although trying in vain to glue herself to the pedestal. Her body shook in tremors of lively laughter and she barely managed to hide her face behind the beetle nut leaves she held with her delicate mehendi ordained fingers.

“Aiiiii look out, look out!!” by the time the father of the bride was about to trespass by his third cardiac arrest, a fifth man had supported the almost falling pedestal of the bride. The girl, like the crowd hushed by the shock of the moment, caught back up again with the celebration in a minute.

It was the beginning of the final ceremonies for her wedding that involves a pertinent ‘gaze’ along with good humour acrobatics, Shubho drishti. In a while, the sound of conchs arrested the air and she slowly parted the beetle nut leaves, unveiling her face, adorned with designs made of white silt on her temple and cheeks. She lifted her eyes to meet the eyes of a very amused man, sitting on the other pedestal, his olive skin emitting blue light. They locked their gaze amidst the frolics under the blue and white shamiana.

The temporary vehicles of the bride and groom were lowered down and some of the carriers dispersed in various directions, in ambitious pursuit of checking the huge checklist of the sundry things that need to be performed during a Bengali wedding. Crossing their path, was a white headed man in a traditional attire of dhuti and panjabi who seemed to be particularly in hurry, despite his stooping back and struggled gait. Lifting the trailing ends of the garment he was not very used to be in, he looked around squinting his eyes under the dazzling lights. Having spotted the one he was looking for, he sped to the area where an elderly woman in a sublime blue saree was pouring pink transparent liquid into glasses.

“There are other people to do all this work, why are you here? Mamon is looking for you”, the man, hands on his hips rattled the words, catching for breath in between words.

“Why were you gawking at me like that during shubhodrishti?” she didn’t move an inch.

“Why shouldn’t I? I will look at you whenever I want” he seemed irritated.

“Well, you jammed onto where Mr. Sen was trudging and he had almost dislodged Mamon off the pedestal! Goodness, my heart had skipped a beat!” she chewed each word. “You know what Mrs Singha said? How will the bride gaze at the groom when her uncle and aunt are having shubhodrishti instead! Preposterous!!”

“Hahaha, she’s rediscovering her wit after all these wasted years, good for her!” he gave way to a hearty laughter. “koi, ektu dao to, gimme some of that pink sherbet.”

“Try and grow up a bit!”

“Exactly!” he grinned.

The Middle

Contrary to popular belief, the middle path is always a tricky way to trudge. The middle of something is always a place where weird things start unfolding. Things you had neither summoned in your foresight nor summed up in your maths while calculating the cost of the journey. And the beauty in intricate designs of fate is such that you rarely know when you are approaching it, you just know when you are there, in the middle of that something.

The middle is somewhat vaguely intriguing as well, like the coming of age of a boy, who at times doesn’t want to leave the trails of innocence but has been sold to adulthood already. But there’s no intrigue in the one I am telling you. In fact, sans the titillating bits and interesting twists and turns waiting around the corner, it will appear to be a rather malnourished middle. And in such stories, there are aimless conversations, chores and then some more aimless conversations.

So, time passes by and you never really know if it’s going forward or backward. After a long gestation, you wake up rupturing the cocoons of life and find yourself in between a conversation again.

“Have you had dinner?” he pulled the sleeves of his shirt up, baring his thin wrist.

“Yes. And you?”

“Nope, was waiting for you.”

“C’mon, since when did you grow into a nutcase?” she exclaimed. “You knew I had to take this phone call.”

“It’s not like I wait every day, just thought of catching up.”

“Hmm. How’s work? I noticed you smiling in your sleep in the morning.”

“Oh fancy! Was I? The new project is one step behind of getting terribly messed up. We have lost quite a few days in deliberation, you know how it is to work with agencies,” he rattled in a single breath and chuckled.

“What’s that there?” She looked on and pointed towards his forehead.

He touched the nodule on the right side of his forehead, feeling it with his curious fingers, the mop of his hair playing hide and seek with his fingers. She looked on, with long unpractised admiration.

“Ah, this one, this has been there for a while, I remember to have touched it before.” He shrugged his shoulders.

She reached for the green tube of trusted antiseptic cream in the closet of the settee. Handy closet. It was his idea. 

Apparently, on some rainy days, the most romantically alluring sentence is –‘Have you had dinner?’. And no, antiseptic creams probably don’t heal bumps on your skin, neither does time heal pain. Time simply makes the pain bearable comparing it to the numerous inflictions you experience, every other day. And in a rigmarole of chores, in a hopscotch between the beginning and the climax, it’s very tiring to preserve the folds of a memory as neatly as it had first etched your heart.

And yet, time passes by and you don’t know if it’s really going forward or backward. After a long gestation, you wake up from the cocoons of life and find yourself in between a conversation again.

“This is getting tougher by the minute” her face was almost purple in pain and anger.

“It’s the same with me, I never imagined life like this will be so darn difficult” he jeered in pain.

“What’s the use of putting up with all this? It’d be of no use if we are not together”

“So, are you saying the obvious?”

“What is the obvious? Open your eyes, look around, nothing is obvious. Things are just certain.”

“Certainty is as certain as the faith you have in it.”

“I am not saying I’m losing faith on us.”

“I am not saying you are either.”

“I don’t think this is heading towards a logical conclusion.”

“Absolutely, there’s no point in discussing any further.”

The Rains

It didn’t even take minutes for the drizzle to grow into splashing rains, pouring on the maroon tiled roof. It’s a time of celebration, it’s a time of togetherness and of isolation too. They say, there’s something mystic in the sound of the rains and it affects your psyche like very less other sounds. The sound of earth in scorching sun, the sound of the first cry, the sound of passion unleashed and the sound of your own soul. A sound less impaired that invades through the borders of your soul, no matter what you are up to!

And before you figure out what you are up to, once again, time passes by and you never really know if it’s really going forward or backward. After a long gestation, you wake up from the cocoons of life and find yourself in between a conversation again.

“What are you up to?”

“Stuff.”

“Let’s go for a walk today”

“Nope, there too much on my plate today.”

“Exactly which is why you need to digest, what better than walking?”

“Are you at the mouth of that alley again?” she frowned as she stretched his mouth and examined his teeth.

“Which alley?” he struggled to pronounce the words with his mouth open but complied.

“That alley, where your common sense is robbed by your idiosyncrasies.” she chuckled while inspecting the lobes of his ears next.

“So unfunny, you should do a page on the local newspaper, they’ll be inspired by this heightened ability to be completely boring,” he made a long face mimicking the serious air about an imaginary priest at work.

“Why can’t you be a normal man harbouring healthy habits like cleaning the goo inside your ears?” she reached for the box of earbuds in the closet of the settee. “Oh! By the way, I forgot to tell you, Mamon called today. She wants those blue and white striped cookies for her birthday.”

Random talk is where they met each other usually. Big fat drops of rain poured down and embraced the earth. It was raining after quite a while, you could tell by the smell of the earth lingering in the air for long.

It was one such rainy evening when they had met. It had been long since they had swiped each away from the senses. Honestly, I don’t recollect the exact coordinates of the place but how does it even matter? At a wedding or at the border of Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan selling sweet meat, all the same, so how does it matter?

And what followed is not a love story per se but a story. Clad in casual daywear, clean hair combed neatly to the back, nothing upbeat about the attitude either, an ordinary story. A story with most of the common ingredients thrown in, fluttering hearts, a moment of truth, fighting the forces of the world, blissful togetherness, blissful space, fluttering rage, a moment of truth, fighting the forces within, blissful togetherness. Cooked in slow to medium flames of love and served for life, slurped up in the zest for life, plates licked clean. Only the conversations remained.

Those random talks.

P.S. By the bye, in case you are still looking for ‘a love story’, why don’t you consider the real faces, if you were reminded of any while reading this. Maybe that’s actually the story you are looking for!