I wish you bliss!

I remember days when my colleagues/well-wishers would pester me to get married. The sessions would start as a joke, escalate to levels which could be easily sample cases of sexual harassment by co-workers, and would invariably end in one of them wise ladies saying, ‘Jokes apart. I want to see you happy. Don’t get married if you don’t want to but be in a relationship with a wonderful guy.’ The hysteria would die and others would sober up and nod in chorus. The conversations would keep me thinking long afterwards. Somethings that were spoken about, I would share with my mother; doubts I would clear up with one of best friends—P; and the parts that I understood but was too embarrassed to share with anyone I would try to forget. Even though I laughed with everyone during the late afternoon sessions when all of us would be taking a break, to the horror of our male colleagues, these talks left me feeling a little lonely and thinking that I was missing something vital. There would be days when I would be busy in some social engagement or the other and would not have enough time to brood over what was said. Those were good days. However, days when time was a plenty, I would start by laughing to myself remembering something that was said. Invariably I would then move on to being depressed thinking that maybe such bliss was not my cup of tea.

There were many, who, through my twenties told me I was old enough to be married. Others warned, ‘If you pass the marriageable age, all the good guys will be off the market.’ I responded with nervous laughter sometimes. On other occasions I would cheekily quip, ‘Achi cheez banne mein time lagta hai. The boy is getting ready to match up to my expectations.’ I believed in the statement only 5% of the time. I hated everyone who told me to lower my expectations and to not be too choosy. Some would think that telling me that my mother was a cancer patient and might not be around long enough to see me tie the knot was the best way to convince me to cross the threshold. As if that thought did not haunt me every minute of every day.

Now, I live with a man. The world and I call him my husband. He takes care of me. Loves me to the point of cherishing me. I understand the bliss that my colleagues and friends so oft spoke about. Having pop-corn while watching a movie in our house, tucked in the cushions of the sofa, suddenly I get transported in time and I think about what L had said or V had remarked. A smile spreads across my face as I realize all that they wished for me has come true. And how!

I wish the same bliss for my unmarried/single friends. I wish that they find someone they can bully into buying a chocolate for them at the end of the day. Someone they can ask to cook for them on a lazy Saturday. I wish they find someone who makes them laugh and whose eyes well up when he sees them cry. I wish them bliss.

But I want them to wait for the guy who makes the world go round for them. I don’t want anyone to lower their standards or expectations. Finding love in your thirties is better. You can share all the mischief and misfortune of your twenties with your partner. They weren’t there so the bag of stories remains sufficiently full to entertain each other on long, never-ending drives. Since you missed each other during the troubling twenties, you end up valuing each other much more. Doing silly things doesn’t seem too silly if it makes the other smile. I want my closest friends to experience all this and more.

I might sound full of mush. Some might be squiggling their noses at what I have written. Some might agree to what I say and others might define love and marriage based on their experiences. To each his/her own. But for my closest friends I wish bliss. The kind of bliss where you fight bitterly with a person and then rest your head on their shoulder while your tears soak their favourite t-shirt.

She got used to it

The first shared laugh

He laughed at her. After assuring him that she would talk to him later in the evening in her previous two SMSes, she had in her third SMS asked him if he was the same guy she was supposed to talk to.

Then, they had spoken. Like friends who had known each other all their lives but had just started the process of meeting each other. He had asked her what she did for a living. He pretended to understand and then after her long explanation called her a content writer because while snooping on the internet he had seen someone recommend her as a content writer on LinkedIn. They had laughed loud enough to put a lion’s roar to shame.

The Second Act: Chivalry

She travelled half way across the country to meet him. He was late. She refuses to admit that it was her fault just because she was unable to inform him on time to leave his house. The fact was that he was late. And he would listen to her accuse him of the sin to win any argument they were to have in the future.

Traveling meant that she was carrying a heavy bag. He offered to carry it. Twice. Out of politeness she refused. Twice. He did not insist or offer again. She put in one more point in her kitty to win any related or unrelated argument in the future.

He held all the doors they had to go through throughout the day. And there were many. She noticed and appreciated the gesture. Later, she would proudly tell all her friends how nice he was to do so.

He maneuvered himself and sometimes her to keep her on the left of the road. He was protective. That was new for her. She eventually liked it.

He chose the perfect setting for the perfect first date. He was funny and caring. He was chivalrous. Well, for the most part.

I’ll miss you; Thank you?

The train was about to leave. The signal for the train to leave the platform had turned to green from red. The wheels had started to chug towards Delhi. He had looked at her earnestly, her hand still in his, and said, ‘I’ll miss you.’ She had returned his gaze in kind and had in all earnest replied, ‘Thank you.’

The train left the platform. She went to her berth. He left the railway station. She hit herself on her head. Hard. And she thought to herself, ‘What’s wrong with me.’

Building a home in Uzbekistan

She went away; on a holiday with 24 other women. To a country which had been home to the man who had laid the foundation of the Mughal Dynasty in India. The holiday was everything she wanted it to be and then a little more.

She enjoyed with the girls all day long. Always making mental notes to share moments with him when she missed him the most. She sat in hotel lobbies texting him or talking to him over Skype. Wifii was their best friend, then.

Uzbekistan will always be a part of their lives. She bought the first things for ‘their home’ there.

Letters

She was not demanding. He asked her what she wanted for her birthday. She thought a lot. Then made a simple demand, ‘Write me a letter.’ He did. Even if the letter did not do the trick of winning her heart the fact that he wrote because she asked did turn her heart.

She carries his letter with her. Reads it once a while. Smiles.

She told him she had written to him several times. She had known him all her life. She had just met him now. And then she wrote to him again.

Get used to it

Their families met. The wedding was officially on the cards. They posed for an awkward photograph where they were smiling like idiots.

They met the next morning. He held her hand. She said, ‘It’s a little weird.’ He did not let go. He looked at her and said, ‘Get used to it.’ She stared back, ‘Hold it better.’ He adjusted his hold on her hand. They walked for sometime, hand in hand. He squeezed her hand while making a point. Or sometimes, just like that.  

She got used to it.

And she still smiles thinking about it all and all that is in store.

Stalker

The nightmare leaves me breathless. It is as if I have been punched, punched hard in the gut. I somehow manage to stealthily leave the comfort of the bed without disturbing my friends. As if, of their own accord, my feet take me outside of the house and towards the terrace.

I stand on the terrace of the eight-storey building. It is past mid-night. Surprisingly, the moon is rather bright tonight. It is surprising because the moon has successfully managed to dodge the dense cloud cover. On their part, the clouds provide ambient light to the night sky. I am alone. I stare at the other tall towers of the complex. All the houses in all the surrounding towers are shrouded in darkness. Only one window, as if a spotlight is being directed at it, catches my attention. I forget my manners and stare at the window. Then, squinting a little I take in the details of the room’s furnishing. I can see a bed covered with a clean, white bed sheet. At least it looks clean from where I am standing. My gaze travels a little and my eyes rest on a table adjacent to the huge window. There is a laptop sitting on it. It looks like a MacBook and I smile to myself remembering the machine that sits in my room. From this distance it looks as if the owner is working. Not Facebooking or Twittering for sure. A flickering on the wall on the extreme right hints at the TV. There is a bottle of water next to the laptop. And suddenly the human angle in the story intrigues me. I turn my head left and see a man’s legs. He is wearing a pair of blue check shorts. He is sitting on a chair, which I imagine is very comfortable. A mosquito bites me on the curve behind my knee and I bend down to give it a scratch.

In that split second I am afraid that all that I had seen and for the most part liked might vanish. I could just be sleepwalking or it could be an elaborate dream. After all, I live on the ground floor of a building in which access to the terrace is restricted to CPWD workers. What am I doing on the terrace of a building in the east of the city? I suddenly straighten up. The movement is so violent that I am almost certain that I have inflicted myself with a spine injury. Fortunately, I have no time to ponder over my injury. As soon as I get up my eyes rest on the open, large, window. And a fraction of a second later, I see the man.

He has a receding hairline. He is multi-tasking. He is talking to someone on the phone and working on the document open in front of him and he looks up at the TV at regular intervals. I realize I have not moved at all in the last 10 minutes. I feel like a stalker so I start strolling on the terrace enjoying the cool night breeze and the promise of rain in the air. Walking from one corner of the terrace to the other I have a clear view of his room. I walk to the starting point with my back to his room. I notice on the third round that I walk a little slowly when I can still see his room but my pace increases when my back is towards him.

It is a refreshing exercise I realise. I could get used to walking on the terrace past midnight looking at the man who multi-tasks. Away from the daylight when I feel burdened by the responsibilities I shoulder, night, it seems, envelops me in a much needed hug. His presence, albeit just a shadow at a distance, is comforting. I start talking to myself. I imagine a conversation between us. At the start, the conversation is light and casual, maybe, even a little flirtatious in nature. Then we connect while I continue to have this imaginary conversation. I tell him about my favourite books, actors I cannot stand and tales of my travel. He continues to sit on his comfortable chair. He fidgets a little and then reaches for the bottle of water. Meanwhile, in my mind, our conversation progresses. He tells me about life in another city away from his home, his love for his car and how he still misses pulling his sister’s long hair just to tease her. I smile. I increase my pace. My back has turned towards his window. I glance quickly at my watch. It is close to two o’clock now.

He is irritated with the attention I am giving to my watch. I look at him indulgently. He realises we don’t have much time so he forgives me quickly. He regales me with stories about college, the music he loves and the fictional characters he loves to hate. He makes me laugh. On my part, I tell him about my bad singing and how I sing despite everyone, really everyone, I know discouraging me to even hum. He laughs loudly at this and promises to never stop me from singling. I tell him I’ll hold him to his promise one day.

I turn, looking forward to resting my eyes on his window and his bed with the clean sheets. I see he has stood up now. I stop on my tracks. Concentrating all my energies in mentally willing him to look my way I realize belatedly that I was holding my breath. I start coughing a little as I take deep breaths to compensate. He clearly has no idea that I exist. He yawns and stretches his arms. Then I see him slowly walk towards the wall. He switches the lights off. He hasn’t closed the window or drawn the curtains. So, I can still see him thanks to the ambient light. He walks to his bed. Picks up the remote control and switches off the TV. I see him take off his slippers and he lies on the bed and rests his head on the pillow.

I wish him a goodnight and hope from the deepest centre of my heart that he has a restful sleep. Even though I know that I won’t be able to recognise him if I saw him the next morning, I am grateful to him for his company after the nightmare.

I call it a night myself. I climb down the stairs to my friend’s house where I am a guest for the weekend. I open the door, almost stealthily, and chuckle to myself as at past three it dawns on me that I was a creepy stalker for nearly three hours.

Dance

The rhythm was easy, enticing, and if possible, also sensual. The music caressed her arms just inches below from where he held her. They moved gracefully. As if they had been practicing for years; as if the moment had been painstakingly choreographed. They stopped for a fraction of a second and looked into each other’s eyes. They gazed into each other’s eyes as if trying their best to see what the future held. They returned to the motion as gracefully as they had stopped. Like they had never stopped. He looked down. The gaze broke. And the music stopped.   

How She Met Him: The Jump

She raised herself on tip toes. Stretching her right hand to the maximum height, she knew she could not be taller than this. But she tried to get in one more inch, anyway. You could tell that the strain had begun to hurt her. The muscles of her thighs were as tout as they could be. Any medical expert would have told you that just a fraction more of stress and her muscles would tear up. Her legs had begun to tremble. But her resolve was not shaking. The right hand, stretched in the air, was just centimetres away from the intended target. Being in that position for longer than her body could take and the staring match that she was engaged in with the stone wall ensured that tears were streaming down her cheeks. Despite her years, standing like this, she looked like a school student punished by a teacher for creating a ruckus in class. Like a stubborn child, who wanted to prove to the teacher that a severe punishment was not enough to tame the wild personality, she continued her endeavour to stretch beyond the limitations of her height.

Sweat started to drip down her spine. The black t-shirt that had seemed like a good option in the morning, when she had slung her camera bag over her shoulders and left her house, was now sticking to her like second skin. The denims seemed to have absorbed all the humidity of the day and had turned into a stiff version of themselves. Had she known earlier that the desire to touch would engulf her to this extent she would have given more thought to her attire. However, at this moment nothing mattered but just her goal—to feel the cold, yellowing stone under her fingers.

He was there, jogging like he did daily. The rhythm of the jog worked like a mantra to invoke the ruthless strategist in him. Every day of every week, except on Sundays, he would take the circuitous route that seemed to run along the ruins of the tombs like a silk ribbon wrapped around a box holding an expensive gift. The rhythm reminded him of clocks and he liked to believe that he was a machine—solid, predictable and dependable. Being a machine helped him distance himself from emotions which in the past had on several occasions got the better of him. When dealing with the thirty- something-himself, he was like a strict class monitor, who believed that the honourable thing was to maintain order even if it meant losing a few friends by altering the course a little.  Even if he felt like taking a different route on his morning jog sometimes, he resisted the temptation and continued on the path like, you guessed it, a machine!

However, today was different. He had been thinking of something and had changed the route without even realising it. He could not remember what was on his mind, as he stood, resting his hips on one of the broken stone walls of the ruins. He could not even recollect the moment when he stopped staring in the vacant space and started looking at that girl who was trying to achieve the impossible. He did not remember when he had started rooting for her success. When his casual stance had changed and his body had tensed as much as hers. He had concentrated all his energies to ensure that if he had to, he would will her to touch the stone she was aiming at. It was important to her, that much was clear by the effort she was putting into it. Why it was important for him that she touched the stone was a mystery.

She had come to the monument with the aim of clicking some photographs for a project she was working on. She had stood there staring at the calligraphy on the walls that had been built hundreds of years ago. Oblivious to the crowd of early morning walkers and photography enthusiasts around her, she stood looking at the walls for what seemed like an eternity. She did not know how to read the language of the inscriptions but the need to understand their meaning had consumed her in a flash. No logical reason could explain why she felt that she would understand the meaning by merely touching the calligraphy on the cold, yellowing stones. But only the fulfilment of this need made any sense to her at that moment.

He could see her strain. He was also battling, battling very hard, the urge to go near her and help her achieve what seemed impossible. Something had connected him to her. He was yet to see her face but he was attracted to her. He was sure that she was not even aware of his existence. But that did not matter. He knew he was strong. She seemed strong willed. They would make it work. Their combined energies would help her become at least an inch taller. She would touch the inscriptions on the stone.

Even as he willed his energies to her, she let her hand fall. She suddenly stooped low; her hands nearly touching the ground; knees bent. Like a rocket launching into space, she launched herself in the air. He followed her with his steady gaze, almost as if giving her momentum. To him it looked like everything was happening in slow motion. The tip of her finger touched the embossed calligraphy on the wall. She emitted a sound that was neither a scream nor a laugh, yet both. That sound was beautiful to him. Mid-air, she flung her head back, a big smile on her face. He too smiled and took a deep breath realizing for the first time that he had been holding his breath for the jump. His eyes closed as his smile widened. There was a loud sound. People froze in their paths for a few seconds. And before he knew it, he rushed to her side. Helping her up, he took her camera bag from her and took out the water bottle for her as if he had himself packed the bag for her.

The excitement of touching the calligraphy inscription on the stone wall and the fall left her a little bewildered. She followed his lead and let him help her without any questions or hesitation. Her reverie broke when she heard him ramble, almost to himself, “I’m sorry. I closed my eyes and lost contact. Then you fell. It’s all my fault. I’m really sorry.” Despite her bruised knee which was now starting to bleed and the aches that had started to surface, she burst out laughing and said, “I’ll forgive you after a cup of coffee and few painkillers.”