I Don't Know Where I'm Going But I Like The Direction

A life without purpose, success without satisfaction and a jar without coffee can make a person feel incredibly dismal.

It was one of those seemingly long nights when sleep just didn’t wish to kiss my eyes. My mind was too preoccupied to be cajoled into a fitful slumber. I’d had a most dissatisfying day that was slowly beginning to overwhelm me now. Perhaps it was because I’d run out of coffee that morning, maybe it was because my boss had given me a polite ticking off, possibly because my new—not to mention the most expensive coat I could boast of—was most unceremoniously drenched in muck as I crossed the road, or was it simply because I felt my life was meandering aimlessly?

It was 3 am in the morning and I simply couldn’t remember how long I had been lying awake having this conversation with my heart. I was intrinsically quite a punctual person and therefore my feet graced the kitchen only at 6 am but at this point of time I felt the sudden urge to trudge there and scavenge for some hidden traces of coffee powder that could possibly be left over.

I dragged my feet upto the kitchen, switching on the light as my mind still pondered over the plethora of thoughts that seemed to be gushing forward to claim my attention. The coffee pot was predictably empty, but my foul mood refused to recognise blatant logic as I determinedly began to rummage through all the containers in my kitchen. I had no intention of convincing myself to sleep and I’m quite sure I must have grasped the basics of ballet that night as I practically stood on my toes to reach out for the farthest containers on the topmost shelves. It was about half an hour before it occurred to me that my kitchen did provide alternative beverage options like tea. I moodily put the kettle to boil and sat down, ready to drown my sorrows at this unearthly hour.

Just as I was impatiently scowling at the kettle, the shrill sound of my doorbell almost frightened me out of my wits. I incredulously glanced at the clock. It was only 3:45am. Reaching out for the knife, I crept upto the door. My heart was thudding just the way it did when I crossed 6.5 on the treadmill and I cautiously peered through the hole. I almost stumbled in shock when I saw my milkmaid standing outside sleepily adding the milk packets into the bag I’d hung there.

She left before I could digest what was happening and pulling myself together, I rushed to my balcony and called out to her. She seemed quite surprised at my unusually angry tone and before I could say anything, she defensively said that she had delivered the right number of packets. I irritatingly clicked my tongue and asked her why she had chosen to start her job so outrageously early. She seemed completely astonished as she replied, “But I didn’t start early. The moment I saw the watchman open the gate, I came in to start my routine. I’m right on time!”

I sighed as I resigned myself to the fact that I really wasn’t going to be sleeping tonight. I called out to her again, “It is only 3:45 am! Why has the watchman opened the gates at this time?” By now, even she seemed substantially confused and we both called out to the watchman. He looked up at me and enquired what was wrong. He received two indignant looks before the milkmaid vehemently ticked him off for opening the gates at the wrong time. The watchman’s expression was a highly advanced version of what the milkmaid’s had been when he replied, “But I didn’t open the gates early. The fourth floor Mr. Sharma was jogging and when he completed his third round I opened the gate! I’m right on time!”I put my hands up in despair and said for the second time, “Its only 3:45 am! You’ve got to be dreaming!”

The watchman, however, most certainly wasn’t dreaming as just at that moment I saw Mr. Sharma jogging upto us. He cheerfully waved out to me and as I blankly waved back I really began to wonder if the whole world had not slept that night. The watchman, whose punctuality had now been cast into doubt, pompously rose and called out to Mr. Sharma and asked him pointedly why he had decided to jog at this time. Mr. Sharma now received three blatant stares and gulping nervously, he replied, “But I didn’t start jogging early! I heard Mr. Gupta watering his plants and that’s when I start jogging” and giving the watchman an additional glare, he stated, “I’m right on time” I was now considering designing a board which screamed, “IT IS 3:45 AM” but instead I wearily remarked, “It’s only 3:45 am.”

My tea was ready but this confusion seemed to be far more interesting. The milkmaid, the watchman, Mr. Sharma and I, now together called out to Mr. Gupta, fortunately, we both lived on the first floor and our windows faced each other. The moment he stepped into the balcony, we all started a chaotic banter. He received four squirmy glares as I told him that he had absolutely no business watering his plants at 3:45 am and that he should be a little more considerate about the delicate routines that were so interdependent. I have to admit that Mr. Gupta’s expression was by far the best one till now. He looked completely baffled as he faced me and said, “But I didn’t get up early!” Before he could complete his sentence, I shouted out, “For God’s sake, it’s only 3:45 am!”

“Only 3:45?” he asked astonishedly

“Yes!” I replied irritatedly.

Now he seemed even more irritated than I was as he replied, “No wonder I felt it was a little darker than usual!” and as we all waited expectantly for a valid explanation, he looked at me and asked confusedly, “Has your clock stopped working?”

“No” I said acidly, “I just got it repaired today.”

Now he seemed even more nettled, “Then why did you get up so early?”

As the audience now turned towards me, I shuffled uncomfortably on my feet. After all, not everyone likes to drown their sorrows with half the society in attendance. I looked defiantly at Mr. Gupta and said, “What has that got to do with you watering the plants at this time?”

Now positively belligerent he replied, “Because it is when you switch on your kitchen light that I know it’s 6:00 am and it’s time to water the plants. So madame, I’m right on time by my clock”

Now four pointed glares boomeranged back at me with a resounding chorus in unison, “It is only 3:45 am!

A small smile crept upto the corners of my mouth and before I knew it, standing right there at 3:45 am, all five of us burst into peals of laughter at this hilarious situation. After my pathetic attempts at profuse apologies though I just couldn’t stop laughing, we all sportingly acknowledged this as a highly energizing start to a new day and returned to our respective mundane routines.

That 3:45 Night, the comedy of errors that had occurred made me see that life, after all does have a purpose. Yes, life is routine, it most certainly is mundane, but you never know how these prosaic actions can trigger off a most unimaginable train of events.
As I sipped off the last dregs of my tea, I smiled wryly and thought to myself that life most definitely wasn’t endlessly meandering. 

I don't know where I'm going but I like the direction.

Thicker Than Blood

“Table for four.”

My son and I smiled meaningfully at each other as my daughter took charge of conquering a table in the ever-congested “Pasta House”. The elegant pearl droplets dangling from her ears swayed furiously as she vehemently shook her pretty head at the poor manager’s justifications. My husband muttered sheepishly that he had forgotten to make a reservation in advance. The obstinate look in my daughter’s eyes and her trembling lips sent out a warning signal that if today, of all the days, we weren’t privileged enough to have her favourite table by her favourite window with her favourite view, we wouldn’t hear the end of it till her next birthday.

God must have really sensed the pressure I was under, as in the next five minutes we miraculously managed to covet our destination. My daughter beamed contentedly and my son purposefully reached out for the menu. This restaurant was a common favourite of ours and for as long as I could remember, a birthday in the family was incomplete without a meal here. We always spent ten intensive minutes arguing over a pre-decided menu and then ultimately settled for the standard dishes.

As we were contemplating on the dessert, a loud exclamation from the other end of the room diverted our attention. The children silently groaned as a voluptuous woman made a beeline for our table. I tried to maintain a pleasantly surprised expression as she approached us.

“Rinku! How nice to see you!” I lied politely as the woman enveloped me in a huge hug and then targeted my husband, who for once, looked petrified.

“What an amazing co-incidence, Vandana!” she said loudly, and continued, “We were just leaving when I saw you! After soooo long, soooo many years, missed you sooooo much, looking soooo lovely!”

As I tried to reply, she paused for a breath and continued, “Last time we met, Raghav was sooooo small! I still remember that he had scored badly in the math paper and I had tried to ask him his marks but he wouldn’t tell me! What fond memories! ”, she said looking at my son with what she considered an endearing expression.

I tried to put in a word yet again but by then she had fixed her eyes on my daughter. “Avantika! So bee-you-tiful! Your teeth have really come in line after those braces I had recommended”, she said proudly.

She paused again but by now I decided to keep quiet with the intention of wrapping up this conversation fast. She obviously didn’t get the hint and continued.

“I must say”, clucked Rinku animatedly, “Raghav has got your eyes Vandu, and Sameer’s smile! So much like the two of you”  She then glanced at my daughter and smiled but didn’t speak further.

My husband and I involuntarily exchanged glances and looked at our daughter. In a single second, the enthusiasm that had flooded her face had ebbed away and the familiar light that had sparkled in her eyes had died a little. She tried to maintain a casual expression as her nimble fingers played with the tissue paper and her eyes determinedly looked at the empty glass on the table.

It was then that my husband, generally an introvert, spoke calmly, “That is absolutely true”, he said steadily and continued, “My son is a mirror image of us and my daughter— my daughter is a reflection of who we are.” The quiet pride in his voice shone in his eyes as he looked defiantly at Rinku, who for once, didn’t know what to say. My daughter had looked up when he had spoken and I blinked back my tears as I saw that sparkle surge back into her pretty eyes. Her smile seeped into her cheeks as she subconsciously straightened a little and beamed at her father.

Rinku seemed to take the cue and after some effusive greetings, excused herself. As we watched her leave, my husband commented wryly, “I pity her new neighbours after we shifted. I’m really considering writing to them advising them to move out as fast possible.”

 We indulged in a hearty laugh at this suggestion. My daughter had now slowly relaxed back against her cushioned seat. When she had a tiff with her brother over the dessert, I could assess that she was fine and when she started dishing out her usual tantrums, I knew that my princess was back to normal. Throughout the dinner, there was a certain happiness diffused over her face.

That day, on my daughter’s birthday, that sparkle that lit her eyes reminded me yet again that one of the best decisions my husband and I had ever made was to welcome her into our home, our family and our lives by bringing her from the adoption home on this very day, twenty-one years ago.

Yes, she is not a blood relation, but every drop of blood in me thanks God every moment for giving me the privilege to call her my daughter.

Happy Friendship Day

The road was steep, the path was rough

The winds were wild, our journey tough                                                                     

The silence stung and the clouds were grey

A raging storm was on its way

My fears had blocked the way ahead

I was rooted there but my heart had fled

I closed my eyes and turned to leave

When a firm strong hand tugged at my sleeve

I looked at her, she faced me too

Her hand held mine, my fears flew

The start was here, where was the end?

I walked ahead on the strength of a friend

The path was cold, her hand was warm

With her, I could walk through a furious storm

 The howling winds, the thorny road

The clouds had burst, their wrath just flowed

The thunder struck, the dust storm rose

My friend knelt down, her eyes just closed

 No sign of hope, a dirth in grit

 There are times when a warrior wants to quit

I bent and knelt down by her side

Her eyes were red, her tears had had dried

I firmly made her stand once more

Her eyes were shut, her feet were sore

I held her hand and led her through

With a newfound strength I never knew

Her trust so strong, she never opposed

She walked ahead with her eyes closed

We reached our goal, the journey done

We finished what we had begun

The truth was what we had long known

We couldn’t have walked this far alone

Friendship is a two way thing

You need two hands for a clap to ring

You’ve won a treasure if there’s a friend for you

But you’ve earned a fortune if you’re someone’s friend…too

Happy Friendship Day

Thank you for always being there

…And I Had No Answer #4

What a downpour!

I gazed out of the glass wall that ran across the entire length of the colossal office floor. Working on the fifty fifth floor of a high-rise did have its advantages. The view was—breathtaking.

I could hardly see outside as a smooth curtain of water continuously kept slipping down the glass. The army of headlights in the traffic below appeared like a graceful chain of gold droplets that had adorned the the entire stretch of the Marine Drive. Heavy rains combined with a hectic quarter end could only mean that there was no way I was going to be leaving office anytime soon. I glanced wistfully at the empty cabin at the other end of the floor and a small voice deep in my heart whispered that I might not have minded waiting late if the cabin had not been empty. The inhabitant was currently in London for a month long session and the month just wasn’t ending.

Aaryan Raheja. I could define him in several ways. He was the most important person sitting on the floor, arguably the most handsome too.  He happened to be my boss and mortifyingly, the man whom I had the slightest, and strictly the slightest, crush on. He was smart, witty, amiable when he chose to be, and had been blessed with generous doses of pure unadulterated attitude. Too many things to handle in one personality.

The soft beeping of my phone neatly cut through my train of thoughts. I glanced at my Whatsapp and the name that topped the list made me wonder if my silent complaint had caught a flight to London.

Aaryan: Hi

I looked tentatively at the text and after a pause, texted back.

Me: Hey.

Aaryan: How come you’re online, Ms. Smartie?

Me: Why shouldn’t I be?

Aaryan: Just curious. I mean, quarter-end +office-hours-not-done+ your-boss-is-a-kameena. Quite enough reason to be busy, I trust.

An unwilling smile crept up my face as I replied.

Me: Boss is in London—for a month.

Aaryan: Too long na….missing him?

Just what did he think of himself.

Me: No way

Aaryan: That was a shade too quick.

Me: And heartfelt too.

He took some time to reply this time. But he did.

Aaryan: Liar

Me: Now why in the whole wide world would I lie!

Aaryan: I can think of quite a few reasons you know

As my cheeks turned a dull red, I was fervently thankful that this was a text conversation.

Me: So when are you back?

That was too direct, I decided and immediately added before he could reply.

Me: Not that it matters. Today, Rohan happened to ask me so I just decided to enquire. To tell Rohan obviously.

I had a sinking suspicion that I had messed up things even more and his reply just confirmed that.

Aaryan: Then you can tell Rohan that I’m back next Monday. Thank God it’s an evening flight. Will be back around 6.

For a few minutes I just allowed his reply to sink in. I must not have replied for a long time because he texted again

Aaryan: Are you there, Miss Rohan-helper?

I replied stiffly.

Me: I’m flying to Chicago on Monday.

Aaryan: Next Monday?

Me: Yes. We had decided, remember? Two week trip.

Aaryan: Hmmm

I was too upset to continue, so I replied,

Me: Listen, I have a meeting right now. Talk to you later.

Aaryan: Hang on! What time is your flight on Monday?

I looked at the screen and smiled faintly.

Me: Why?

Aaryan: Because Rohan was asking.

I just couldn’t stop smiling now

Me: 10:15 pm.

Aaryan: So you should be inside the airport around 8?

Me: Yea.

Aaryan: Fine. Go for your meeting but do me a favour before that.

Me: What?

Aaryan: Tell Rohan I will be at the food court at 8. So if any of his friends have time, they can join me for dinner.

I could  see my reflection in the glass window and I never remember blushing as much as I did then.

Me: You’ll have to wait for two hours before you meet me Aaryan. Be practical.

Aaryan: Two hours sounds better than two weeks.

I smiled softly at the screen and texted

Me: Too long na…..missing me?

Aaryan: No way.

Me: Liar.

I could almost see him smiling as he replied.

Aaryan: Big time. Just like you.

…And I had no answer.

…And I Had No Answer #3

“Is there something special today?

A hot flush invaded my cheeks as I faced the handsome man sitting opposite me. I unnecessarily glanced at my saree and commented casually, “Not really.”

“Then—why the saree?”

“There was a family function, so the occasion demanded we wear traditional.”

“Hmmm.”

No comments. No compliments. No reaction. Just a silly frustrating ‘Hmmm’. Today, from the very moment I had stepped into the office, absolutely everybody had complimented me for carrying off a saree so beautifully. Everybody except the man sitting across the table— and what an irony it was that his compliment was perhaps the only one that mattered. After spending almost the entire day with me, he had never once mentioned what I had wanted to hear. Now that he had finally raked up the topic, my heart coaxed me to continue the conversation but my bruised ego commanded that I didn’t and after all, in matters like this, ego always won. Therefore, I smoothly changed the conversation and said, “Your meeting’s been scheduled for tomorrow, by the way. I hope Shikha told you.”

For a fleeting moment, it seemed as if he didn’t want to give up the saree topic— but that moment went as fast it came and he remarked, “Yes she informed me. I have  spoken to the department about it.”

Slightly miffed, I was in no mood to speak to non-complimenting people and I determinedly directed my attention towards my laptop as I continued with my work. He obviously didn’t get the hint as he said mildly, “I bought a new phone.”

I suppressed the massive temptation to roll my eyes and without looking up, said coolly, “You already told me.”

“Android Version 5.0.2 Lollipop. Snapdragon 810 Processor. Internal memory 64 GB, 2TB expandable. Supports 4G network—AND most importantly, 21 mega pixel camera.”

At this I looked up. “What? Are you crazy?” I said incredulously, and continued, “I never heard of a phone having 21 mega pixel resolution.Just not possible.”

“Of course it is!” he said steadily and showed me the phone.

I glanced at the model and told him candidly, “This model has a 16 Mega pixel camera. I have the same phone.”

“21 mega pixel.”

“16 mega pixel.”

“21, Nivedita.”

“16, Aaryan.”

“21.”

“16.”

“21.”

“My answer’s not changing!”

The argument was becoming so silly that I just couldn’t help smiling at his stubbornness. At that very instant, he took his phone and before I realised, he clicked my picture. I immediately became stiff, but he had already captured that moment.

He looked at the photo for a while and during those few seconds, I could hardly describe the gradation my cheeks underwent from pink to a flaming red hue. He finally turned the screen towards me and showed me the picture. I was too embarrassed to say anything.

After a pause, he looked at me and said quietly, “Definitely 21 mega pixel. Can’t you see? You look just as beautiful in the picture.”

…And I had no answer.

...And He Had No Answer #2

“Are you crazy?”

I looked incredulously at my companion as he glared back defiantly. It had been three weeks since my friend and I had started our trek. Our friendship of ever so many years was a result of the one passion we both had in common—trekking. The terrain had been rough and craggy during our trip and my friend had injured his foot rather seriously. Being the stubborn individual he was, he had insisted we continue the journey instead of heading back. I had reluctantly agreed. We had now reached the final lap of the journey where we were supposed to climb upto the local temple which was built overlooking one of the most breathtaking landscapes.

We had heard that the journey was cumbersome but what we had not heard was that we had to climb precisely ten thousand four hundred and twenty seven steps to witness that magnificence. I had flatly refused to continue with the trip but my friend remained obstinate.

“There is no way you are going to convince me to climb” I declared.

“There is no way you are going to stop me from climbing” he said heatedly.

“Why are you being so difficult and silly? It’s okay if we don’t finish the trip!  You shouldn’t be climbing steps with that injury.”

He looked at me and I could tell he just wasn’t convinced. “I will never be able to accept the fact that I couldn’t finish a trek because of a menial injury” he stated and continued, “Besides, it is a temple we are visiting and you know the faith I have in God. I must visit the temple.”

I had now seated myself shamelessly on the road at the foot of the flight of steps. I looked at my friend and said to him, “Give me one solid reason why you should be climbing those steps in this condition and I will come without saying a word.”

He exclaimed, “What faith can I flaunt if I turn back now and not see the Lord in the temple!”

I replied simply, “And what faith can you flaunt if you think you can see the Lord…. only in a temple.”

…And he had no answer.

….And I Had No Answer

There are few things as pleasurable as watching a ribbon of white frothy waves kiss a sandy shore.

I had just finished walking the entire stretch of the beach. I could hardly describe the way the hues of the skyline had changed during the walk. It was like watching a motion picture with the sky as the screen. The beach was really clean and the sand was almost white. My toes sank comfortably into the sand. I had never known that I could enjoy silence so much as I did now, for the only sound was that of the calm waves that occasionally reached my toes. The sea breeze played with my open hair, I knew they would get terribly knotty later but I really didn’t care. I felt as if I was treading into a most beautiful picture postcard.

I had reached the point where one could see the entire shoreline curving gracefully. I decided to stand awhile and savour the breath-taking view before me. Further down the beach, I saw a young boy pacing frantically to and fro. He looked very preoccupied about something and there was a hint of stress on his face. In such a calm location I couldn’t imagine anyone being worried.

I decided to walk back along the beach after a few moments. As I reached closer, I could see that the young lad was searching for something. His small nimble fingers were swiftly raking the sand as he rummaged through the grains. I stood awhile watching him before asking him what it was that he was looking for. He had apparently lost his ring on the beach last evening and had come searching for it this morning. He seemed quite confident that he had not dropped it near the sea as he had mostly been walking towards the other end of the beach. I did feel slightly sorry for him but I really couldn’t imagine how he expected to get his ring back.

After a pause, I spoke, “I’m not really sure you’ll find that ring of yours, kid”

He had been peering into the sand all this while, but at this he looked up and asked, “Why would you say that?”

“Well, the beach is huge! The tides have come and gone! How can you ever expect to find it?”

The boy looked at me for a moment and then answered with an innocently questioning look, “If a sailor on the high seas can expect to find his way to a shore he hasn’t even seen, I can surely expect to find my ring on a shore I can see.”

...And I had no answer.

Sweet Revenge

                                                                    

The noon had receded, the dusk had arrived

Commotions had died out, the whispers survived

The dust storms had risen, how arid the air

The rains were awaited in many a prayer

That morning it was, when I’d entered the town

In a coat that was black, on a horse that was brown

To them I was a stranger, to me they were strange

The town had been sleepy, but something had changed

The gust of the winds, the flight of the birds

The flaring of rumours, the cautious words

A tension was born and the silence was broken

Few doubts, few questions, spoken yet unspoken

The scathing weather, my parched dry throat

Compelled me to shed off my thick overcoat

My eyes searched in earnest for a solitary inn

To quench the fiery thirst that burned but within

I entered the inn, I searched for a seat

A single remained, the last of the fleet

I strode to the chair, I spoke out aloud

“Where two makes a company, will three make a crowd?”

“Certainly not, do join us, dear Sir.”

Invited the men, for drinks on the spur

I ordered a treble, I gulped down my drink

I spoke out too fast before I could think

“I may be mistaken, but I may just be right

Why is the town in such a great fright?”

“Dear me, didn’t you hear what happened this noon?

In a town like this, news travels so soon”

“I didn’t dear sir, I’m a stranger by name

People may differ, but curiosity’s the same.”

“The Sheriff who lives in the heart of this town

On the hill that stands solo, near the brook that flows down

The one who drinks too much, the one whom we dread

Was found dead this afternoon, shot in the head”

“A murder in town!! What a rotten disaster!

Who is the killer? My curiosity grows faster.”

They glanced at each other, looked carelessly about

And said they were not sure, but they had their own doubts

One of them spoke with a meaningful look

“I think it’s his wife while he bets it’s the cook”

His friend interrupted in a whispered little voice

“I hate this suspect game, but we have no choice

The cook had her motives, she wanted his gold

His wife was asleep with a frightful old cold”

I solemnly asked in a tone that was low

“Did your Sheriff know anyone he considered a foe?”

The men rolled their eyes, and sipped at their gin

“The list is so long, where do we begin?”

“The Sheriff of south was a rival for life

With the mayor of north, he had a great strife

The merchant who sold him the silk from the east

Loathed him completely to say the very least

The bard, his butler, so many undercover

Among them was even his wife’s long lover!

I said,“Well, these enmities seem so very old.”

They said, “Revenge is a dish which is best served cold.”

I played with my glass while they played with their words

One said quite unsurely, “Well, tis something I heard”

Whispering softly, he told us, “In fact

The murderer left the house wealth intact!”

“The only thing missing is an ancient old cent

With their family crest bearing noble descent

I heard that his milkman and the baker downstreet

Had plotted against him, their plan was discreet.”

His friend interrupted, “That’s not true for sure

The baker’s my cousin, innocent I assure.”

I looked at the window and exclaimed aloud

“The night sky is clear, no trace of a cloud!

My home route is cluttered with many a thieve

So Gentlemen excuse me, I must take your leave.”

“Pleasure to have you” they went on to say

We’ll pay for the drinks, you be on your way.”

I smiled and said “Thank you, my wealth’s at a brink

But I still have enough to afford a drink.”

I put down my share, I bid them adieu

And walked out to start my journey anew

I pondered over the words the man had just told

“Revenge is a dish which is best served cold.”

The older the tale, the longer it lives

The deeper the wound, the more pain it gives

The older the revenge, the sweeter the taste

The deeper the thirst, the greater the haste

Revenge hits hard when it hits in disguise

To watch the light flash out from the Sheriff’s eyes

Back in the inn, the men thus resumed

Dividing their shares for drinks they consumed

They stared at the coin the stranger had shared

A cent with a family crest on the head.

The Fragrance Never Fades

Time has so many a story to tell

A hint of a smile has its own charming spell

Some feelings are there which no words can convey

But the smile in thy eyes tells just all there’s to say

The leaves of a banyan, the stones of a fort

The sands that were rocks, and the walls of a court

Are silent spectators to moments that play

The time may have passed, the beauty will stay

An age may be gone, a new one is made

But the fragrance of a blushing rose will never really fade                

1964

The Rain Gods had decided to drench the bazaars of Rajkot after seven years. A stupendous downpour clogged the entire traffic around the market. I delicately pushed aside the curtain that hardly protected me against the showers outside. Immediately my wedding bangles were adorned with the rain drops as I peered outside from the tonga. 

Women dressed in simple cotton saarees were hurriedly putting aside the wares they had placed on display. The fruit vendors’ voices had risen even higher so that people could hear them above all the din. The enthusiasm in a bunch of young girls was not diminished due to the rains as they continued to try bangles of all sizes and colours that the bazaar displayed. The trinkets swayed about wildly in the rain, their sound oddly melodious. 

I sighed to myself as I leaned back against my seat. Despite being the daughter-in-law of one of the wealthiest families of Rajkot, I did not have the privilege of travelling in a traffic-free zone. I could discern a vague outline of my destination a few yards away and I pressed the driver to hurry a little. As the tonga finally drew up in front of the stall, I unhesitatingly jumped out paying little heed to the vehement protests of the driver.   

I knew it was outrageously impolite to step out in such weather, I even knew that my husband’s family might be appalled at this lack of decorum and I was well aware that my family status demanded that my pretty feet should not grace the muddy ditches that traced my path. But off late, my heart hardly listened to my mind. 

Brushing off the drops that covered my face, I walked toward the florist. He immediately folded his hands and bowed respectfully. I returned his gesture with a smile and said in chaste Hindi, “Namaste. I was wondering if you have one of those beautiful red roses that were kept on display yesterday” The vendor’s face sank apologetically as he replied “Hukumsaah, I just sold the last dozen that remained to the customer who came just now.”

I could hardly conceal my disappointment. My eyes searched for a red rose—just a single red rose but my heart knew it was in vain. The vendor enquired politely if no other flower could please me but then, what other creation could replace the beauty of a rose? I tried to brush off my disappointment as I replied, “Well— today is the 14^th of February and my husband had told me that when he was studying in England, this day held a very special meaning there. They called it Valentine’s Day and a person gave his beloved a red rose on this day. I just wished to gift him one.”

The vendor shook his head apologetically and replied, “I am terribly sorry Hukumsaah, if you had only informed me yesterday, I would have had the whole stock delivered at your doorstep. In fact the customer who bought the last lot just left. I can still see him. I turned instinctively and saw a glimpse of a black coat and the bouquet of red roses which disappeared as a group of people walked by. I excused myself and walked towards the tonga. 

My feet were filthy, to say the very least and I was wondering how I would walk into the hallway with my hair unruly and my ruffled appearance. As my mind waded into a pool of thoughts, I hardly registered the soft pat on my shoulder. I turned to see a young man dressed in a black coat. The bouquet of roses in his hand told me that he was the reason I was being denied the pleasure of a single rose.

As I made no attempt to speak, he stated politely, “My apologies, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with the vendor. I’d hate to deny a lady any flower she wishes and though I need to keep this bouquet, I do hope you would accept this rose from me”  Before I could refuse, the gallant young man withdrew the largest rose from the bouquet and handed it over to me. I blushed at such chivalry as I embarrasedly accepted the flower. My slight annoyance had not stopped me from noticing that he was a very handsome man and a small voice in the corner of my heart whispered that if I had not been married, I might not have grudged him all the roses in the world. 

Though I genuinely wished to thank him, my voice wasn’t obliging me at that point of time. The gentleman however, seemed satisfied with the smile in my eyes and excused himself with a bow.

That day was the first time I celebrated Valentine’s Day. Ironically, I don’t remember my journey back home and I don’t really remember my husband’s reaction as we had much more elaborate Valentines celebrations in the future years. All I remember is standing in the downpour in the Rajkot bazaars, my hands gently playing with a red rose as my eyes followed the black coat that gradually blurred into the jostling crowds and I have to admit— I have yet to smell a rose as fragrant as that one.

2015

“This is BOOOOORING” said my granddaughter moodily, as she made no attempt to camouflage her opinion. The fact that my granddaughter had chosen to lounge with me when more than a hundred young men graced the party made me realise just how bored she was. 

Though a grandmother is hardly the right person to consult in such matters, I genuinely believed I knew no other lady as beautiful as she. Our family’s closest acquaintances had thrown a lavish party on the occasion of their son’s birthday and though I attended very few parties, my attendance in this particular occasion was a necessity. My granddaughter Geetanjali had been receiving a little too much attention from the heir of this family and we were naturally curious to know her response.

“I hope you wished Aaryan, Geet” I enquired caustiously.

 “I am not risking that Naani— he has been gifting me so many presents that I really wont be surprised if he gifts me something on his own birthday” she said  glumly.

“My my— what airs sweetheart!!” I said laughing as I continued, “If I were you I would be impressed you know”

“Oh I’m impressed too, but not enough” she said winking at me as she added, “If you know what I mean” and we shared a private laugh at her statement.

“Take your time darling” I said as I patted her fondly.

“I cant keep sitting like this Naani— I’m getting myself glass of wine” she said smiling. After a pause, she looked around carefully and leaned forward to whisper in my ear, “Do you want a shot too? I will tell Nanaji it is a cold drink”

Being 74 did not stop me from grinning shamelessly and replying, “Yea do that” and as she got ready to get up I added, “On the rocks”

 “You’re just too much” she said laughimg as she walked away.

Dancing really didn’t tempt me now and I sat quietly scanning the room as youngsters danced to the blaring music. I could hardly relate to that songs that were in vogue these days but the fact that they were in vogue meant something. As I carelessly glanced around the room, a man suddenly arrested my gaze.

51 years. 51 years since I had last seen him and I was immediately transported back to that rainy day in the colourful bazaar. He too had naturally aged with time, but he was just as handsome. He was standing arm in arm with a young man who so obviously had to be his grandson. My family was well acquainted with all the eminent families of Rajkot and I was faintly surprised that after all these years I had still not had honour of knowing him. Just then, he happened to look in my direction. I realised that he too had recognised me after all these years as he smiled and nodded slightly and this time, I returned the gesture.

My attention was slightly diverted as I saw my granddaughter returning with the “cold drinks”. As she made her way towards me, the glass stiletoes I had strongly prohibited her from wearing slipped onto the marble flooring and she might have faced a terribly embarrassing moment had it not been for the young man I had been admiring a few moments back. He had so heroiecly caught her hand that I was really thankful she had worn those stiletoes.

 Geetanjali immediately straightened herself and replied curtly, “Thank you”

“My pleasure” replied the young man smiling at her as he handed over the wine glass back to her. As she was excusing herself, he suddenly removed the rose that adorned his breastpocket and handed it over to her. “Happy Valentines Day” he said smiling.

I could see my granddaughter trying her best not to blush. She didn’t attempt to accept the rose as she replied airily, “You’re not my Valentine”

“But you most definitely are mine” he said disarmingly as he placed the rose in the gap between her fingers and the glass. I didnt know who was blushing more, the rose or my granddaughter. 

My eyebrows were now permanently raised as she made her way towards me. We both silently sipped our drinks for a few minutes before I commented casually, “I hope you’re finding the party interesting now.”

Geetanjali grinned at me and replied, “Well, I will only say this— people might be impressing me but someone just had me floored. I have never smelt a rose so fragrant you know.” After a few minutes, Geet remarked casually, “Handsome and chivalrous”

I sipped off the last few drops of my wine, smiled and commented wryly, “It runs in the family, sweetheart, it runs in the family”

Two women, two generations, two different mindsets. I wear sarees and she has never worn anything longer than a dress. I prefer writing whereas she types faster than she writes. I love classical music while she lives on pop. But after all these years, a single rose makes her smile the same way it made me smile so many years ago. Truly, the fragrance never fades.