The blank envelops - a mist, a cover, a ploy. I know
Reverberates into this place deep, dark, divided
The end beckons, lures, lurks
I hide from him
He is on the street by the window. I know
His gaze settles on the sill
The sounds from his steps hang by the curtain
I think of a voice
He is at the door. I know
I let his arrival crawl under my skin
The pleasantries scratch at my patience, tire me
I think of a smell
The minutes will take hours. I know
The evening folds in my arms
I will the light to go away
I think of a face
He is here now. I know
He opens the door, I shut myself
It starts, I end
I think of a last breath
He will never come again. I know
The knife under the bed glistens red
Friday, February 17, 2012
Sunday, November 20, 2011
New Love
Spreading out all my loves, I trace patterns
The poet’s love
That love so stifling, strangling with metaphors
The artist’s love
That love so consuming, killing with strokes
The musician’s love
That love so predictable, patterned with notes
The writer’s love
That love so forlorn, fettered with blocks
I am in the mood to cook a new love
Woman, don’t look at me with those greedy eyes
I didn’t care for others, but this one I won’t share
Sit you may, while I ready the pots and pans
Just don’t pry, though you may peep and peer
This one will be delightful, delicious, delectable
Marinated in warmth colored adulation
Neither overnight, nor instant like the noodles
This will take days, may be months and years
A pinch of envy, mixed with desire to acquire
Liberal loops of lust - enticing, entreating
Pressured with prettiness and pettiness in equal amounts
Roasted golden till oozing mirth and wit
A dash of devilry, cast in angelic halos
Garnishing of grave pronunciations-
I can do with ‘Till death do us apart’
Patience woman, it’s not ready yet!
It will need it to be served hot,
So let it stew, will you?
The poet’s love
That love so stifling, strangling with metaphors
The artist’s love
That love so consuming, killing with strokes
The musician’s love
That love so predictable, patterned with notes
The writer’s love
That love so forlorn, fettered with blocks
I am in the mood to cook a new love
Woman, don’t look at me with those greedy eyes
I didn’t care for others, but this one I won’t share
Sit you may, while I ready the pots and pans
Just don’t pry, though you may peep and peer
This one will be delightful, delicious, delectable
Marinated in warmth colored adulation
Neither overnight, nor instant like the noodles
This will take days, may be months and years
A pinch of envy, mixed with desire to acquire
Liberal loops of lust - enticing, entreating
Pressured with prettiness and pettiness in equal amounts
Roasted golden till oozing mirth and wit
A dash of devilry, cast in angelic halos
Garnishing of grave pronunciations-
I can do with ‘Till death do us apart’
Patience woman, it’s not ready yet!
It will need it to be served hot,
So let it stew, will you?
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Distance
She looks at him straight in that place that makes him squirm
She toys with the knives and the spoons, the bowls and the plates
She throws her heart where her smile is and twists it in the curve
She reaches for him across the air that occupies them.
She comes out holding a handful of nothingness called space
He looks at the sadness around the furrow near her smile
He toys with the table cloth and the napkin, the vase and the rose
He throws his confusion in place of the urge that holds her hands
He reaches for the denials that absolve him of all possible guilt
He comes out clinging to a bunch of things, amongst them excuses
He searches for big deals that may help explain the situation
He drinks heaviness as his friends order another round of being men
He promises himself ‘never to do this’ and ‘will remember that” again
He holds on to the way he has always been and the way he can never be
He yearns for her in the sunny yellow dress and the happy colored laugh
She searches for small deals, of promises kept and moments spared
She drinks disappointment as her friend tries on the dress that doesn’t fit
She promises herself to only look at the bigger picture, of things that matter
She holds on to chits from childhood, on how he would make her feel
She yearns for him to find her, to listen to things she hasn’t said
They haven’t talked in a while now, they have discussed things though.
Things about other people and stuff and situations
They skirt around the abyss and dump in their expectations
They hold each other and feel the pulse, the sound weakening each second
They press their ears and hold very still, it’s difficult to hear from where they stand
They are doing the distance.
She toys with the knives and the spoons, the bowls and the plates
She throws her heart where her smile is and twists it in the curve
She reaches for him across the air that occupies them.
She comes out holding a handful of nothingness called space
He looks at the sadness around the furrow near her smile
He toys with the table cloth and the napkin, the vase and the rose
He throws his confusion in place of the urge that holds her hands
He reaches for the denials that absolve him of all possible guilt
He comes out clinging to a bunch of things, amongst them excuses
He searches for big deals that may help explain the situation
He drinks heaviness as his friends order another round of being men
He promises himself ‘never to do this’ and ‘will remember that” again
He holds on to the way he has always been and the way he can never be
He yearns for her in the sunny yellow dress and the happy colored laugh
She searches for small deals, of promises kept and moments spared
She drinks disappointment as her friend tries on the dress that doesn’t fit
She promises herself to only look at the bigger picture, of things that matter
She holds on to chits from childhood, on how he would make her feel
She yearns for him to find her, to listen to things she hasn’t said
They haven’t talked in a while now, they have discussed things though.
Things about other people and stuff and situations
They skirt around the abyss and dump in their expectations
They hold each other and feel the pulse, the sound weakening each second
They press their ears and hold very still, it’s difficult to hear from where they stand
They are doing the distance.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Conversations on Anna Hazare
I have been called Anna's supporter (happen to be wearing black), an elitist, a corporate-type, leftist, moderate and an anarchist - all in the same morning. Its very easy to label - isn't it?
At Churchgate station today, a mass of people were shouting slogans - Anna hum tumhare saath hain, humare sir par tumhara haath hai, anna kee jai - bharat mata kee jai, atyachaar nahin chalegaa, lokpal bill nahin rukegaa. I stopped an 18 year old, who was falling on the side and the conversation went like this:
Me: Topee kaafee acchhee hai tumhari, kisne dee?
He: Anna hazare ke baare mein nahin suna aapne?
Me: Suna hai par topee kisne dee?
He: Hum log shaakha se hain
Me: Kaun see shaakha?
He: Shiv Sena
Me: Oh! Acchaa..ye naaraa kiske liye laga rahe hain?
He: Anna ke liye?
Me: Anna ke liye kyun?
He: Wo fasting kar raha hai na
Me: Kis liye fasting kar raha hai?
He: Bill paas karne ke liye..paper nahin padha? bahargaon se ho aap?
Me: Padha..par bill mein kya hai?
He: Wo nahin padha apun.. par anna ne likha hai..gareebon ke liye acchaa hoga..
Earlier in the local, in ladies compartment:
Woman 1 : Everyone's wearing black..
Woman 2: (Looking at me) You are supporting anna hazare?
Me: (quizzical expression)
Woman 2: You are wearing black no..so thought you must be a anna supporter
Woman 3: My daughter had the entire house on her head..said I want my black jeans. That I had sent for washing. I told her wear blue jeans..what difference would it make? Anna wont stop fasting because of her jeans no?
Woman 1: All are going mad at this..first make basics right no..this train is so crowded, they should start more trains..
Woman 2: Who has time for all this..i don't have time even to die ("marne ke liye bhee time nahin hai)
Woman 3: Yes..it looks like a fashion statement..anna hazare has become a hero..
Conversation with my maid on the phone today:
Me: Aaj aa nahin rahe ho phir se?
Maid: Traffic boht hai..anna hazare ka wajah se
Me: Tum to chal ke aatee ho
Maid: Haan par idhar bastee mein sab udhar hee jaa re hain..main kaise aaoon?
Me: Matlab?
Maid:wo morcha nikala hai..nashta veestaa hoga..udhar ko jaa rahee hoon main..
I am not against Anna Hazare or the Lokpal Bill. Am against the sheer ignorance that is going into this. What is Lokpal Bill? What are the revisions in the bill? How will it be implemented? Why haven't previous provisions put into the constitution/ laws to curb corruption worked so far? How will Lokpal address the loopholes of these previous provisions? What are the other ways that need to go into the system or form a part of the system that will aid an anti-corruption drive? Can this mass uprising be not about Anna Hazare but about the cause? Can we stop blaming the Govt. and own 'anti-corruption' at an individual level?
The above are just some of the questions that we need to be asking, answering and discussing. For anybody who is really interested in making a difference, I would urge you to make yourself aware and also others around you.I am not talking about intellectiual masterbation. Just plain and simple what, how, when, where and why of corruption, of lokpal bill, of the movement that is. And as a friend rightly said - lets talk about this not only amongst us but also with people who might not have access/ inclination to the information that we have.
Lastly, do go light a candle - but do so with a complete awareness of what it stands for.Else, its just another charade really.
At Churchgate station today, a mass of people were shouting slogans - Anna hum tumhare saath hain, humare sir par tumhara haath hai, anna kee jai - bharat mata kee jai, atyachaar nahin chalegaa, lokpal bill nahin rukegaa. I stopped an 18 year old, who was falling on the side and the conversation went like this:
Me: Topee kaafee acchhee hai tumhari, kisne dee?
He: Anna hazare ke baare mein nahin suna aapne?
Me: Suna hai par topee kisne dee?
He: Hum log shaakha se hain
Me: Kaun see shaakha?
He: Shiv Sena
Me: Oh! Acchaa..ye naaraa kiske liye laga rahe hain?
He: Anna ke liye?
Me: Anna ke liye kyun?
He: Wo fasting kar raha hai na
Me: Kis liye fasting kar raha hai?
He: Bill paas karne ke liye..paper nahin padha? bahargaon se ho aap?
Me: Padha..par bill mein kya hai?
He: Wo nahin padha apun.. par anna ne likha hai..gareebon ke liye acchaa hoga..
Earlier in the local, in ladies compartment:
Woman 1 : Everyone's wearing black..
Woman 2: (Looking at me) You are supporting anna hazare?
Me: (quizzical expression)
Woman 2: You are wearing black no..so thought you must be a anna supporter
Woman 3: My daughter had the entire house on her head..said I want my black jeans. That I had sent for washing. I told her wear blue jeans..what difference would it make? Anna wont stop fasting because of her jeans no?
Woman 1: All are going mad at this..first make basics right no..this train is so crowded, they should start more trains..
Woman 2: Who has time for all this..i don't have time even to die ("marne ke liye bhee time nahin hai)
Woman 3: Yes..it looks like a fashion statement..anna hazare has become a hero..
Conversation with my maid on the phone today:
Me: Aaj aa nahin rahe ho phir se?
Maid: Traffic boht hai..anna hazare ka wajah se
Me: Tum to chal ke aatee ho
Maid: Haan par idhar bastee mein sab udhar hee jaa re hain..main kaise aaoon?
Me: Matlab?
Maid:wo morcha nikala hai..nashta veestaa hoga..udhar ko jaa rahee hoon main..
I am not against Anna Hazare or the Lokpal Bill. Am against the sheer ignorance that is going into this. What is Lokpal Bill? What are the revisions in the bill? How will it be implemented? Why haven't previous provisions put into the constitution/ laws to curb corruption worked so far? How will Lokpal address the loopholes of these previous provisions? What are the other ways that need to go into the system or form a part of the system that will aid an anti-corruption drive? Can this mass uprising be not about Anna Hazare but about the cause? Can we stop blaming the Govt. and own 'anti-corruption' at an individual level?
The above are just some of the questions that we need to be asking, answering and discussing. For anybody who is really interested in making a difference, I would urge you to make yourself aware and also others around you.I am not talking about intellectiual masterbation. Just plain and simple what, how, when, where and why of corruption, of lokpal bill, of the movement that is. And as a friend rightly said - lets talk about this not only amongst us but also with people who might not have access/ inclination to the information that we have.
Lastly, do go light a candle - but do so with a complete awareness of what it stands for.Else, its just another charade really.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
अंग्रेज़ियत
कल जब दिन में दसवी बार 'hey wassup ' सुना और सुनाया तो लगा
मुझे अंग्रेजियत से कोफ़्त होने लगी है
ऐसी बात नहीं की मुझे गैर-ज़बानी शब्द पसंद नहीं हैं
shakespeare और milton जैसे पराये मर्दों से भी मोहब्बत है
ऐसा नहीं की मुझे cappuccinno से प्यार नहीं है
ऐसा भी नहीं की pizza exotica देख मेरी लार नहीं टपकती
ऐसा भी नहीं है की mexican dishes के नाम लेते लेते
मेरी ज़बान खुशी से औन्धी नहीं हुई जाती
पर वो कहते हैं न, बिस्कुट जब तक खौली हुई चाय में डुबाओ ना
जब तक गरम फुल्के पर घी और गुड का लेप लगाओ ना
जब तक तरकारी को उसके नाम से बुलाओ ना
तब तक स्वाद तो कहीं फसा ही रहता है
सबेरे जब दादाजी ने ठहाका लगा कर
"grand -daughter ' कहा , तो बड़ा अजीब सा लगा
उनका कुर्ता पकड़ पगडंडियों पर चलने वाली
उनकी पोती कहाँ गयी आखिर?
आज कल जब मैं बड़ों को प्रणाम करती हूँ तो
एक तुच्चा सा hullo बेटा, ही मिल पाता है
जब मैं आप कहती हूँ किसी को
तो वो बगली झाँकने लगता है, बुजुर्गियत के डर से
बड़ा मन करता है की किसी से
आत्मीयता में बात करून , ना इंग्लिश में ना हिंगलिश में
जब मैं कहूं की बहोत दिन हुए गप्पबाजी किये
तो कोई lets chat का उसपे रोलर ना चला दे
जैसा मैंने कहा, ऐसा नहीं की मुझे अंग्रेज़ी से परहेज है
ऐसा भी नहीं की बिना सर पैर बातें करना मुझे अच्छा नहीं लगता
मैं भी यहीं की हूँ, इन सब की आदत तो है ही मुझे
बस बात ये है की मुझे अंग्रेज़ी से नहीं, अंग्रेजियत से थोड़ी अनबन है
थोड़ी अनबन इसलिए कह रही हूँ क्योंकी
मैं खुद इसकी ग्राहक हूँ
हर रोज़ ही mornin से दिन शुरू करती हूँ
और mwa and hugs से खत्म करती हूँ
पर जब मैंने पाया की
माँ को mom बना दिया है और उनके 'इस्मार्ट' से चिढने लगी हूँ
वो जब दाल में घी डालने की बात करती हैं तब मैं उन्हें fat -free के भाषण देने लगी हूँ
बस तब से मुझे अंग्रेजियत से थोड़ी कोफ़्त होने लगी है..
मुझे अंग्रेजियत से कोफ़्त होने लगी है
ऐसी बात नहीं की मुझे गैर-ज़बानी शब्द पसंद नहीं हैं
shakespeare और milton जैसे पराये मर्दों से भी मोहब्बत है
ऐसा नहीं की मुझे cappuccinno से प्यार नहीं है
ऐसा भी नहीं की pizza exotica देख मेरी लार नहीं टपकती
ऐसा भी नहीं है की mexican dishes के नाम लेते लेते
मेरी ज़बान खुशी से औन्धी नहीं हुई जाती
पर वो कहते हैं न, बिस्कुट जब तक खौली हुई चाय में डुबाओ ना
जब तक गरम फुल्के पर घी और गुड का लेप लगाओ ना
जब तक तरकारी को उसके नाम से बुलाओ ना
तब तक स्वाद तो कहीं फसा ही रहता है
सबेरे जब दादाजी ने ठहाका लगा कर
"grand -daughter ' कहा , तो बड़ा अजीब सा लगा
उनका कुर्ता पकड़ पगडंडियों पर चलने वाली
उनकी पोती कहाँ गयी आखिर?
आज कल जब मैं बड़ों को प्रणाम करती हूँ तो
एक तुच्चा सा hullo बेटा, ही मिल पाता है
जब मैं आप कहती हूँ किसी को
तो वो बगली झाँकने लगता है, बुजुर्गियत के डर से
बड़ा मन करता है की किसी से
आत्मीयता में बात करून , ना इंग्लिश में ना हिंगलिश में
जब मैं कहूं की बहोत दिन हुए गप्पबाजी किये
तो कोई lets chat का उसपे रोलर ना चला दे
जैसा मैंने कहा, ऐसा नहीं की मुझे अंग्रेज़ी से परहेज है
ऐसा भी नहीं की बिना सर पैर बातें करना मुझे अच्छा नहीं लगता
मैं भी यहीं की हूँ, इन सब की आदत तो है ही मुझे
बस बात ये है की मुझे अंग्रेज़ी से नहीं, अंग्रेजियत से थोड़ी अनबन है
थोड़ी अनबन इसलिए कह रही हूँ क्योंकी
मैं खुद इसकी ग्राहक हूँ
हर रोज़ ही mornin से दिन शुरू करती हूँ
और mwa and hugs से खत्म करती हूँ
पर जब मैंने पाया की
माँ को mom बना दिया है और उनके 'इस्मार्ट' से चिढने लगी हूँ
वो जब दाल में घी डालने की बात करती हैं तब मैं उन्हें fat -free के भाषण देने लगी हूँ
बस तब से मुझे अंग्रेजियत से थोड़ी कोफ़्त होने लगी है..
Monday, June 20, 2011
The wheel chair
I wasn’t sure if he hated me or just didn’t care. All that I could gather was symptomatic of his opinion of me. One, he never looked at me when we spoke on rare occasions. He would look in another direction while we made a monosyllabic conversation. Two, he would invariably find a reason to get away, just in case a situation threw us together. Like at Nikita’s place last month, we ended up being in the same team, while playing a game. As luck would have it, just the two of us remained in the end. In the very next round, he got out purposefully. That I was shocked at this is a no brainer; that everyone else was shocked too, made it evident that for a change my brain wasn’t spinning crazy stories. Three, we knew each other for two years now, but he didn’t have my number. I got to know this last week. I ended up being late for this ‘do’, because he was the one in charge of letting everyone know of the change in plans. He gave an excuse that because he didn’t have my number, he couldn’t call. Yes, a very lame one. Lastly, he never smiled at me. He smiled often and readily but I was very sure that no special occasion in the last two years had warranted a smile meant for me.
He was confined to a wheelchair – a case of polio since birth.
****
She made me feel inadequate. In the last 30 years of my life, inspite of what people expect, I have always managed to overcome the challenges that life has thrown along the way. I have had my share of difficulties, but nothing that has made me think about my ‘condition’ for so long and at such constant intervals. While completing my MBA from Stanford, there were many opportunities that could have been mine, had I played the ‘limp limbs’ card. I never did. I had gotten through the course on my own and was made an offer by Google - the only one that year. Though I wasn’t the life of the party, I had my fair share of friends and lovers. I had moved from California to New York for the job, after my graduation. It had been seven years since I had been away from home in Mumbai. I stayed on in the U.S for two very simple reasons. One of them was the sheer convenience of mobility that all the places provided. The other, while most people noticed my wheel chair, they were either too polite to make it evident or it didn’t matter to them anyways. Back home, the sounds of pity and offers to help used to irritate me. I decided to come to India after a call from Nikita announced that Dad had a stroke. He passed away within a week of my arrival. I stayed on because I was all that Nikita had for a family.
The first time I met her, I found her staring at my wheel chair.
****
I could have ignored him. I tried doing that in various ways. By completely avoiding him, by not talking about him and at times even hearing about him. The problem was that he refused to fade in the oblivion. I noticed him, all of him. His absence was as powerful as his presence. His looking at someone else was as disturbing as his looking away from me. His ease with others was as much a source of discomfort as his stiffness with me. He repulsed me as much as he attracted me. He unsettled me.
The first time I met him, he was lost in a leather bound Rebecca. The book was on his lap, one hand ready to turn a page and the other brushing away a stubborn lock of hair on his forehead. I remember looking at him and the book for several seconds, before I said a ‘hi’. I was still trying to confirm the title of the book, when he looked at me. I saw him wince and then stare. I am not the stuff for beauty pageants but I am no plain Jane either. Most people would describe me as attractive. It was the start of many things that made me realize that he wasn’t most people.
****
The first time I spoke to her, I wasn’t friendly. I seldom am, to people who give my confinement more attention than me. But I did try. I had asked her, if she would like to have some tea while she waited for Nikita to reach home. I didn’t introduce myself, because she looked uncomfortable around me. She had asked who I was. I had told her I was Nikita’s brother. “From the U.S?” She had enquired. I nodded as I watched the play of shadows on her face. She was fascinating to look at.
“If you will be alright on your own, I need to go out for a stroll”, I said following a long silence
“Sure! Do you need any help with your…?” She did not complete the sentence.
I turned away. I didn’t feel like responding to the question and the underlying assumption it carried with it.
****
It had been pouring furiously all weekend and continued on Monday morning as well. There had been a text from the authorities urging people to stay indoors unless absolutely urgent. I received the text after I stepped into the office. The floor was almost vacant except a couple of people, who seemed oblivious to the world around them. I liked the silence. No one from my team had come in to work that day. I poured myself a cup of coffee, and was just settling in for the day when Nikita called
“Richa! Don’t tell me you are at work!”
“Well! You must be psychic, that’s exactly where I am”
“Are you crazy, woman? The trains have stopped. All the roads are flooded. How are you going to get back?”
“Oh! The trains were delayed but still working when I came in. Didn’t think they would stop. Now what?”
“Why don’t you go to my place? At least it’s closer than your home and not flooded yet”
“Go to your place meaning? Aren’t you at home? ”
“Nope! I stayed over at a friend’s. I am still here. But Jai is working from home today. He will open the door for you”
I felt strangely excited and petrified at the idea of seeing Jai. Though I told Nikita that I would leave for her place right away, it took me all of one complete hour to actually make a move.
****
She was the last person I expected to find at the door and definitely not looking like that. Loose curls from her hair were plastered over her shoulders, dripping water. A few drops glistened on her eyelashes. Her lips trembled, perhaps with cold. She was saying something.
“I can go back if it’s inconvenient. I will find a cab”
The edge in her voice brought me back to reality.
“No. Please come in”
I opened the door wide and pulled myself aside to let her in. She hesitated, guiltily looking at the puddle she had made on the floor. Her lost puppy expression had me grinning. Or I may have even chuckled. I saw her startle a bit, and then look at me as if for the first time in two years. She smiled and then laughed nervously. At that moment, I wanted to be the funniest man alive, just to hear her laugh again and again. The thought vanished as soon as it had appeared and I turned to get to my room. After all, she saw me as nothing but a wheel chair.
****
I felt warm all over, in spite of my rain drenched clothes. His smile felt like home, comfortable and inviting. It felt like we had always laughed this easily. And then he stopped. As if I had dreamt it all up. I felt bereft. I wanted to snatch that moment and make it last. I did the next best thing. I stopped him in his tracks.
“Nikita tells me that you make amazing ginger tea. Would you please make some for me?” My voice sounded nervous to my own ears. Any moment I expected him to block me out as he always did.
“Ok” he said gruffly.
I was elated. At least it was a start.
I went into Nikita’s room to change into dry clothes. I heard him humming, as I came near the kitchen. The aroma of cardamom and ginger mixed with tea made me happy.
“That’s my most favorite smell in the world”
He turned towards me and said, “It does smell nice but it isn’t my favorite”
“Then?”
“I can’t describe it. Here hold the cup and let me take you to it”
Holding my cup of tea, I followed him to the window in the living room.
****
Nikita’s clothes were a couple of sizes too large for her. She kept pulling at the t-shirt to prevent it from slipping. I had never been more intrigued. I noticed the way she cupped the mug with both her hands. The way she inhaled deeply before sipping the tea. The way she looked at me and made me feel like there was no else she would rather be with.
“The smell of earth when it rains is my favorite”
She closed her eyes, smiled and took a deep breath. She nodded and opened her eyes.
“Yes. I am fond of it too. But this tea is heaven. For this you must excel in the art of tea appreciation though” she said, looking at me.
I laughed.
“And where and how does one learn this art?” I asked
She smiled and bent down while pushing my chair back. She sat down on her knees, keeping the tea mug on the side table.
“Right here and I shall teach you how”, she said.
She brought herself closer to my chair, and then held my hand. Her slender fingers entwined with mine and in that moment all that I could feel was the warmth of her palm in mine. She picked up the tea cup with her other hand and held it in both my palms, wrapping her own fingers around mine. She then raised the cup to my nose.
“Now, close your eyes and breathe in. Like you wanted to inhale it all in rather than drink the tea”
Her voice was soft as a breath, musical. I did as she said. I felt her nearness. I hardly breathed. When I opened my eyes, I found her gaze fixed on mine.
****
I held my breath as he continued looking at me. And then, just like that, he leaned over and closed the distance between us. His hands grazing my face, he tipped my chin up. Then he brushed his lips gently across mine in a kiss. I never wanted to awaken; I never wanted this dream to end. It was so real. I could actually feel the warmth of his breath as he sighed against my mouth before deepening the kiss.
We were jolted back to the world with the ring of the phone. We both were a little embarrassed at what just happened but neither regretted that it did.
While Jai attended to the call, I wandered through the house. I came by his study. As always, there were heaps of classics spread all over the table in the corner of the room. Rebecca with its red cover and the golden emboss beckoned me once again. I found something popping out from between the pages. It looked like an airline ticket. Something warned me to not take it out. But I did.
It had Jai’s name on it. It was a one way ticket to New York. A previous conversation with Nikita made its way to my consciousness
“He is planning to settle in New York”
“I thought he had decided to be in India”
“Yes. I thought so too. But one of these days he will just pack his bags and leave. I know the way he is”
The ticket was dated for Friday that week
****
As I finished the call, I saw her walk back into the living room. Something had changed. I felt my heart fill with fear
“Are you alright?” I asked
“Yes. Never been better” She smiled. It was a fake
The kiss. She must regret it now. It hadn’t registered then but it struck me now - the look of embarrassment on her face. She was ashamed of me.
I felt a knife sear its way through my being. I couldn’t bear to look at her
“The rain has subsided. Perhaps you should leave now”
I heard the door bang shut behind my back
****
I had never felt worse. I fought tears rolling down my cheeks. I cursed my fate at having fallen. Fallen so deep that I never thought it was possible. As I walked on the road, the smell of earth around me made me choke. It hit me then that I had been in love for two years. In love with a man who chose convenience of being in another country without as much as giving me a thought. The kiss was an indulgence, a whim. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to pour away like the rain. I wanted to stop breathing.
****
The truck driver wanted to get home before the rains started again. The roads were slippery. The girl turned on to the street. She did not hear the horn. The driver couldn’t apply the brakes soon enough
****
She stopped breathing
He was confined to a wheelchair – a case of polio since birth.
****
She made me feel inadequate. In the last 30 years of my life, inspite of what people expect, I have always managed to overcome the challenges that life has thrown along the way. I have had my share of difficulties, but nothing that has made me think about my ‘condition’ for so long and at such constant intervals. While completing my MBA from Stanford, there were many opportunities that could have been mine, had I played the ‘limp limbs’ card. I never did. I had gotten through the course on my own and was made an offer by Google - the only one that year. Though I wasn’t the life of the party, I had my fair share of friends and lovers. I had moved from California to New York for the job, after my graduation. It had been seven years since I had been away from home in Mumbai. I stayed on in the U.S for two very simple reasons. One of them was the sheer convenience of mobility that all the places provided. The other, while most people noticed my wheel chair, they were either too polite to make it evident or it didn’t matter to them anyways. Back home, the sounds of pity and offers to help used to irritate me. I decided to come to India after a call from Nikita announced that Dad had a stroke. He passed away within a week of my arrival. I stayed on because I was all that Nikita had for a family.
The first time I met her, I found her staring at my wheel chair.
****
I could have ignored him. I tried doing that in various ways. By completely avoiding him, by not talking about him and at times even hearing about him. The problem was that he refused to fade in the oblivion. I noticed him, all of him. His absence was as powerful as his presence. His looking at someone else was as disturbing as his looking away from me. His ease with others was as much a source of discomfort as his stiffness with me. He repulsed me as much as he attracted me. He unsettled me.
The first time I met him, he was lost in a leather bound Rebecca. The book was on his lap, one hand ready to turn a page and the other brushing away a stubborn lock of hair on his forehead. I remember looking at him and the book for several seconds, before I said a ‘hi’. I was still trying to confirm the title of the book, when he looked at me. I saw him wince and then stare. I am not the stuff for beauty pageants but I am no plain Jane either. Most people would describe me as attractive. It was the start of many things that made me realize that he wasn’t most people.
****
The first time I spoke to her, I wasn’t friendly. I seldom am, to people who give my confinement more attention than me. But I did try. I had asked her, if she would like to have some tea while she waited for Nikita to reach home. I didn’t introduce myself, because she looked uncomfortable around me. She had asked who I was. I had told her I was Nikita’s brother. “From the U.S?” She had enquired. I nodded as I watched the play of shadows on her face. She was fascinating to look at.
“If you will be alright on your own, I need to go out for a stroll”, I said following a long silence
“Sure! Do you need any help with your…?” She did not complete the sentence.
I turned away. I didn’t feel like responding to the question and the underlying assumption it carried with it.
****
It had been pouring furiously all weekend and continued on Monday morning as well. There had been a text from the authorities urging people to stay indoors unless absolutely urgent. I received the text after I stepped into the office. The floor was almost vacant except a couple of people, who seemed oblivious to the world around them. I liked the silence. No one from my team had come in to work that day. I poured myself a cup of coffee, and was just settling in for the day when Nikita called
“Richa! Don’t tell me you are at work!”
“Well! You must be psychic, that’s exactly where I am”
“Are you crazy, woman? The trains have stopped. All the roads are flooded. How are you going to get back?”
“Oh! The trains were delayed but still working when I came in. Didn’t think they would stop. Now what?”
“Why don’t you go to my place? At least it’s closer than your home and not flooded yet”
“Go to your place meaning? Aren’t you at home? ”
“Nope! I stayed over at a friend’s. I am still here. But Jai is working from home today. He will open the door for you”
I felt strangely excited and petrified at the idea of seeing Jai. Though I told Nikita that I would leave for her place right away, it took me all of one complete hour to actually make a move.
****
She was the last person I expected to find at the door and definitely not looking like that. Loose curls from her hair were plastered over her shoulders, dripping water. A few drops glistened on her eyelashes. Her lips trembled, perhaps with cold. She was saying something.
“I can go back if it’s inconvenient. I will find a cab”
The edge in her voice brought me back to reality.
“No. Please come in”
I opened the door wide and pulled myself aside to let her in. She hesitated, guiltily looking at the puddle she had made on the floor. Her lost puppy expression had me grinning. Or I may have even chuckled. I saw her startle a bit, and then look at me as if for the first time in two years. She smiled and then laughed nervously. At that moment, I wanted to be the funniest man alive, just to hear her laugh again and again. The thought vanished as soon as it had appeared and I turned to get to my room. After all, she saw me as nothing but a wheel chair.
****
I felt warm all over, in spite of my rain drenched clothes. His smile felt like home, comfortable and inviting. It felt like we had always laughed this easily. And then he stopped. As if I had dreamt it all up. I felt bereft. I wanted to snatch that moment and make it last. I did the next best thing. I stopped him in his tracks.
“Nikita tells me that you make amazing ginger tea. Would you please make some for me?” My voice sounded nervous to my own ears. Any moment I expected him to block me out as he always did.
“Ok” he said gruffly.
I was elated. At least it was a start.
I went into Nikita’s room to change into dry clothes. I heard him humming, as I came near the kitchen. The aroma of cardamom and ginger mixed with tea made me happy.
“That’s my most favorite smell in the world”
He turned towards me and said, “It does smell nice but it isn’t my favorite”
“Then?”
“I can’t describe it. Here hold the cup and let me take you to it”
Holding my cup of tea, I followed him to the window in the living room.
****
Nikita’s clothes were a couple of sizes too large for her. She kept pulling at the t-shirt to prevent it from slipping. I had never been more intrigued. I noticed the way she cupped the mug with both her hands. The way she inhaled deeply before sipping the tea. The way she looked at me and made me feel like there was no else she would rather be with.
“The smell of earth when it rains is my favorite”
She closed her eyes, smiled and took a deep breath. She nodded and opened her eyes.
“Yes. I am fond of it too. But this tea is heaven. For this you must excel in the art of tea appreciation though” she said, looking at me.
I laughed.
“And where and how does one learn this art?” I asked
She smiled and bent down while pushing my chair back. She sat down on her knees, keeping the tea mug on the side table.
“Right here and I shall teach you how”, she said.
She brought herself closer to my chair, and then held my hand. Her slender fingers entwined with mine and in that moment all that I could feel was the warmth of her palm in mine. She picked up the tea cup with her other hand and held it in both my palms, wrapping her own fingers around mine. She then raised the cup to my nose.
“Now, close your eyes and breathe in. Like you wanted to inhale it all in rather than drink the tea”
Her voice was soft as a breath, musical. I did as she said. I felt her nearness. I hardly breathed. When I opened my eyes, I found her gaze fixed on mine.
****
I held my breath as he continued looking at me. And then, just like that, he leaned over and closed the distance between us. His hands grazing my face, he tipped my chin up. Then he brushed his lips gently across mine in a kiss. I never wanted to awaken; I never wanted this dream to end. It was so real. I could actually feel the warmth of his breath as he sighed against my mouth before deepening the kiss.
We were jolted back to the world with the ring of the phone. We both were a little embarrassed at what just happened but neither regretted that it did.
While Jai attended to the call, I wandered through the house. I came by his study. As always, there were heaps of classics spread all over the table in the corner of the room. Rebecca with its red cover and the golden emboss beckoned me once again. I found something popping out from between the pages. It looked like an airline ticket. Something warned me to not take it out. But I did.
It had Jai’s name on it. It was a one way ticket to New York. A previous conversation with Nikita made its way to my consciousness
“He is planning to settle in New York”
“I thought he had decided to be in India”
“Yes. I thought so too. But one of these days he will just pack his bags and leave. I know the way he is”
The ticket was dated for Friday that week
****
As I finished the call, I saw her walk back into the living room. Something had changed. I felt my heart fill with fear
“Are you alright?” I asked
“Yes. Never been better” She smiled. It was a fake
The kiss. She must regret it now. It hadn’t registered then but it struck me now - the look of embarrassment on her face. She was ashamed of me.
I felt a knife sear its way through my being. I couldn’t bear to look at her
“The rain has subsided. Perhaps you should leave now”
I heard the door bang shut behind my back
****
I had never felt worse. I fought tears rolling down my cheeks. I cursed my fate at having fallen. Fallen so deep that I never thought it was possible. As I walked on the road, the smell of earth around me made me choke. It hit me then that I had been in love for two years. In love with a man who chose convenience of being in another country without as much as giving me a thought. The kiss was an indulgence, a whim. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to pour away like the rain. I wanted to stop breathing.
****
The truck driver wanted to get home before the rains started again. The roads were slippery. The girl turned on to the street. She did not hear the horn. The driver couldn’t apply the brakes soon enough
****
She stopped breathing
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Matters of Principle
I would like to believe that I have the makings of a star in the world of all things literary. Each word I put to paper fulfills its goal of existence before breathing its last and proving futile for further usage. If I peer a little harder into this reality, I can see faces crumbling, smiles dazzling and hands, well – clapping, at the mere mention of my name. I believe that my writing has that deep dark sort of flavor, potent enough to put even chocolates to shame. I love chocolates. I think they are one of the five most useful creations of the Universe. The others are: nail cutter, disposable razors, coffee and books. I attribute books with such usefulness because they make even the most dumb witted amongst us appear interesting. I call dimwits with books ‘showcase’ intellectuals
It had been twenty one days, 10 hours and thirty minutes since I completed the novel. I thought it was rather, as the Brits put it - fetch. Why do they call it fetch? If one has to use the word in that sense of optimism, one could just say ‘fetching’ instead of implying a meaning meant for dogs when one says to them – ‘go fetch the ball Brownie’. And Brownie or Blackie are very racist as names. Ever heard of a dog named Whitey? I am not a dog person at all, just in case it crossed your mind that I am. I am also not a cat person. I am clarifying this because the world seems to be divided between dog and cat persons. That’s a little unfair to the rest of the animal kingdom. I think I am a cow person. It’s rather docile, comes in all colours and makes itself useful unlike its more popular cousins who only follow you around or laze under the sofa.
Now, before you think I have forgotten all about my novel due to my digressions on Brits and Cows, I will get back to the story. The story has me, my novel, a man named Richard Monteiro and a woman named Paula. I need no introduction and my novel is yet to hit the stands. Also, since this novel is my first completed piece of work, I wouldn’t want the word to get out and thrifty publishers making a beeline in the hope of taking advantage of a ‘nouvel écrivain’ – a new writer. I am not new to writing, and neither is writing new to me. The only things new in the scheme of things are Mr. Monteiro and Paula.
I was to meet Richard on the morning of the twenty second day of my completion of the novel. A friend, who frequents the publishing circles, recommended him to me. According to him, Richard is a critic and a literary agent whose opinions have launched and bombed many a careers. Richard stopped working with a leading daily on matters of principle and started out on his own six months ago. Now, I have always been wary of men with principles. Not that I have a thing for unprincipled men, but men with principles do pose a challenge for a free spirited woman like me. I once went on date with this guy who had quit his job because his boss asked him to misrepresent some information. It was a highly rewarding job – house, car, servants and the works. I questioned his sense of ‘practicality’ in matters like these and he answered saying, “I am a man of principles. I am alright not being able to afford this dinner we are having, but I will not stand exchanging my scruples for a pay-cheque”. The restaurant we were dining in was of a rather expensive variety. Since I wasn’t and am not successful monetarily, I saw his scruples standing in my way to surviving the month without any beg, borrow or steal involved.
I had used my friend’s reference and written a mail to Richard a week back. I am producing it here verbatim so nothing is lost in translation. I quite like that movie. I am fond of the part where Charlotte says, ‘I tried taking pictures, but they were so mediocre. I guess every girl goes through a photography phase. You know, horses... taking pictures of your feet’. I went through that phase too, when for a whole month I only clicked my toes. I had thought they were potential exhibition material. After all, anything sells in the name of art these days. Paintings with a square and a hole in them, movies with octagonal love stories and books in which vampires don’t do their thing but go for humans minus the sex and the blood. This brings me to the mail I wrote to Richard, for an appointment about my novel.
To: Richard Monteiro
Cc: Shipra Mishra, Mishra Shipra, Shipra100, Mishra500, MishraShipra5000
Sub: About the next bestseller
Dear Richard,
I got your reference from Rafeeq, who is a good friend of your ex-girlfriend Paula. Paula and he are dating now. I met them last week. They didn’t look terribly happy or sad. Paula mentioned your name and said that you knew a thing or two about books. I looked you up on Google. You definitely seem to know more than a thing or two about everyone. I saw you being quoted on so many authors. Most of the quotes are not to my liking, though I do understand that one has to be pragmatic about these things. Some of your words about supportiveness to new writers did strike a chord. I am unable to remember other things
I’m 28 and am a freelance writer opinionating mainly on health, psychology, nonprofit management, and, lately, excelling in fiction. I practice yoga and meditation pretty regularly, love to hike, cook, eat, travel, listen to music, read and learn about people (despite a shy streak) and why we do what we do. If I had to choose a few adjectives to describe myself, they would be curious, sensitive/intuitive, compassionate, independent but loyal, passionate, unconventional and, I’m told, courageous. I’ve talked my way out of a police station in Dubai (expired visa, nothing too terribly illicit), and watched a shaman do a smoke clearing (uninvited) in a bungalow in Delhi. My achievements include, writing a book that will be the nest bestseller , starting two businesses (shut down one) and mending a couple of important relationships with relatives.
There have been plenty of humble moments too—so many that I’m now flushed just thinking about the first one or two that came to mind. The stacks of guilt-inducing bedside reading include Dojo Wisdom for Writers, a few books from the library about psychology, a couple of self-help titles and an embarrassing number of unread magazines—from Reader’s Digest to Cooking Light, and Natural Health.
Now that I’ve rambled, for all I know I could have deciphered your email address incorrectly (someone’s probably getting a big kick out of this if that’s the case), or you may have moved to Timbuktu—and forgotten to change your id. I am told all ID’s in Timbuktu must have timbuktu.in at the end?
I am writing to know if we could meet to discuss the various paths to success for my new book? I can make myself available next Friday.
-Shipra
p.s. I have marked Cc to all my I’ds just in case I forget your name and would like to trace this mail to send it to another agent.
Richard replied within an hour. His mail was rather short for a guy with a new business.
To: Shipra Mishra
Sub: Re: About the next bestseller
Dear Shipra,
Did Paula give you my personal I’d?
As for your book, please send the manuscript of the first three chapters to my assistant. We can discuss further, should I see any merit in the same
-Richard
I wrote again and was rather short for myself.
To: Richard Monteiro
Cc: Shipra Mishra, Mishra Shipra, Shipra100, Mishra500, MishraShipra5000
Sub: Re: Re: About the next bestseller
Dear Richard,
Do you really want to sacrifice your next big opportunity at the altar of bureaucracy and a rude assistant? I know that this could be your first big break.
-Shipra
p.s. Could you please hit a reply to all, so am able to save this for other correspondences?
I did not hear from Richard again. On the mail that is. Since then, I had gotten rather pally with Paula. Paula is the kind of woman who loves to talk, walk and buy fashion. She could rattle off brands like a pro and that earned her a fan in me. Not that I am obsessive about brands. But my novel is about a woman who divorces her husband because he doesn’t understand her. Understand her preference for shoes over him that is. When Paula heard about this, she was completely taken in by the idea and even empathetic. That’s when she started talking about Richard and how he cared two hoots about her new Jimmy Choos or the new Prada she had sold her engagement ring for.
When I did not hear from Richard till the next day, I rang Paula to take her opinion on a future course of action. Paula was agitated on my behalf and assured me that she would get Richard to meet me, even if it meant taking him to court. I was rather curious about this piece of information. I really wanted to know about the ammo she had on Richard that could send him to court. I decided to save it for another day.
The very next day, I got a call from Richard’s assistant, informing me that Richard would meet me at Costa Coffee at 10:30 A.M on Friday. Needless to say, I was overjoyed. While I knew that my book would occupy the shelf of fame in all libraries and bookstores in the future, for now I needed Richard’s help in getting it up on any shelf.
I called up Paula to thank her for the help, but it was answered by an annoying couple’s voicemail, wherein Rafeeq with his nasal twang and she in her shrilly voice were saying, “we decided to go on a holiday in the middle of the night. We will call when back. Ciao.”
On Friday, the alarm on the phone did not ring but my mother did. She was calling in to suggest a meeting with a nice, homely Brahmin boy. Hence, you will not judge me when I say that I prefer alarms to my mother in the morning. I find it difficult to put my mother on a snooze once she has started on the epic of the quintessential eligible bachelor. I put the phone on speaker and rushed for a shower. It was ten thirty already, by the time I was ready to leave my house.
When I reached the coffee shop at eleven, I saw three haggard looking men sitting on their own. I knew Richard had to be one of them. I am intuitively right about these things but I decided to use my cell phone to give my intuition a pat on the back. That’s when I realized that my phone and my mother on it were left home alone and I had no other way but to randomly pick a Richard. I loved Home Alone part one, but the others were very unoriginal.
Just then, a waiter walked to me and asked if I was Shipra. When I acknowledged my name, he pointed to haggard looking man number two and said that he was waiting for me. I fixed my brightest smile on and walked towards Richard, and said a very loud hello. I am not sure but I think he flinched a little. I introduced myself and occupied the chair opposite him. I started to take out the manuscript from my bag, when he waved his hand and said, “No need for that. It will be done. I have these papers for you to sign the contract with the publisher”. He looked a little intimidated and I did not want to hand over the script to sacredly cat. I wondered if the contract was a fake. I pursed my lips, traced three lines on my forehead that mean danger and began, “Richard, now you see- am here only on the insistence of Paula...” Before I could even finish the sentence, Richard pleaded, “Please Ma’m.Don’t tell Paula anything about this. I promise that I will do the best I can for your book. Give me one chance.” The man of principles looked well intentioned and so I handed over the 780 pages of my manuscript, made him promise that not a page could be modified or deleted and that I will need the first cheque within a month. Richard agreed only too willingly and almost ran away.
I learnt from Paula later that Richard had been charged with faking identities and asked to resign. That is why the previous company had sacked him. Paula had threatened that she would go public if he did not publish my book. I asked Paula, what was the stolen identity about and she in her usual ‘toss the hair, look at the nail-paint, narrow the eyes’ style said, “He relied on me to write all those critiques dearie. And you know I never read a book. I always judge it by the cover. Obviously they found out”
For once, I had no words to put to use. I only heaved a sigh of relief that I was dealing with a man definitely devoid of principles.
It had been twenty one days, 10 hours and thirty minutes since I completed the novel. I thought it was rather, as the Brits put it - fetch. Why do they call it fetch? If one has to use the word in that sense of optimism, one could just say ‘fetching’ instead of implying a meaning meant for dogs when one says to them – ‘go fetch the ball Brownie’. And Brownie or Blackie are very racist as names. Ever heard of a dog named Whitey? I am not a dog person at all, just in case it crossed your mind that I am. I am also not a cat person. I am clarifying this because the world seems to be divided between dog and cat persons. That’s a little unfair to the rest of the animal kingdom. I think I am a cow person. It’s rather docile, comes in all colours and makes itself useful unlike its more popular cousins who only follow you around or laze under the sofa.
Now, before you think I have forgotten all about my novel due to my digressions on Brits and Cows, I will get back to the story. The story has me, my novel, a man named Richard Monteiro and a woman named Paula. I need no introduction and my novel is yet to hit the stands. Also, since this novel is my first completed piece of work, I wouldn’t want the word to get out and thrifty publishers making a beeline in the hope of taking advantage of a ‘nouvel écrivain’ – a new writer. I am not new to writing, and neither is writing new to me. The only things new in the scheme of things are Mr. Monteiro and Paula.
I was to meet Richard on the morning of the twenty second day of my completion of the novel. A friend, who frequents the publishing circles, recommended him to me. According to him, Richard is a critic and a literary agent whose opinions have launched and bombed many a careers. Richard stopped working with a leading daily on matters of principle and started out on his own six months ago. Now, I have always been wary of men with principles. Not that I have a thing for unprincipled men, but men with principles do pose a challenge for a free spirited woman like me. I once went on date with this guy who had quit his job because his boss asked him to misrepresent some information. It was a highly rewarding job – house, car, servants and the works. I questioned his sense of ‘practicality’ in matters like these and he answered saying, “I am a man of principles. I am alright not being able to afford this dinner we are having, but I will not stand exchanging my scruples for a pay-cheque”. The restaurant we were dining in was of a rather expensive variety. Since I wasn’t and am not successful monetarily, I saw his scruples standing in my way to surviving the month without any beg, borrow or steal involved.
I had used my friend’s reference and written a mail to Richard a week back. I am producing it here verbatim so nothing is lost in translation. I quite like that movie. I am fond of the part where Charlotte says, ‘I tried taking pictures, but they were so mediocre. I guess every girl goes through a photography phase. You know, horses... taking pictures of your feet’. I went through that phase too, when for a whole month I only clicked my toes. I had thought they were potential exhibition material. After all, anything sells in the name of art these days. Paintings with a square and a hole in them, movies with octagonal love stories and books in which vampires don’t do their thing but go for humans minus the sex and the blood. This brings me to the mail I wrote to Richard, for an appointment about my novel.
To: Richard Monteiro
Cc: Shipra Mishra, Mishra Shipra, Shipra100, Mishra500, MishraShipra5000
Sub: About the next bestseller
Dear Richard,
I got your reference from Rafeeq, who is a good friend of your ex-girlfriend Paula. Paula and he are dating now. I met them last week. They didn’t look terribly happy or sad. Paula mentioned your name and said that you knew a thing or two about books. I looked you up on Google. You definitely seem to know more than a thing or two about everyone. I saw you being quoted on so many authors. Most of the quotes are not to my liking, though I do understand that one has to be pragmatic about these things. Some of your words about supportiveness to new writers did strike a chord. I am unable to remember other things
I’m 28 and am a freelance writer opinionating mainly on health, psychology, nonprofit management, and, lately, excelling in fiction. I practice yoga and meditation pretty regularly, love to hike, cook, eat, travel, listen to music, read and learn about people (despite a shy streak) and why we do what we do. If I had to choose a few adjectives to describe myself, they would be curious, sensitive/intuitive, compassionate, independent but loyal, passionate, unconventional and, I’m told, courageous. I’ve talked my way out of a police station in Dubai (expired visa, nothing too terribly illicit), and watched a shaman do a smoke clearing (uninvited) in a bungalow in Delhi. My achievements include, writing a book that will be the nest bestseller , starting two businesses (shut down one) and mending a couple of important relationships with relatives.
There have been plenty of humble moments too—so many that I’m now flushed just thinking about the first one or two that came to mind. The stacks of guilt-inducing bedside reading include Dojo Wisdom for Writers, a few books from the library about psychology, a couple of self-help titles and an embarrassing number of unread magazines—from Reader’s Digest to Cooking Light, and Natural Health.
Now that I’ve rambled, for all I know I could have deciphered your email address incorrectly (someone’s probably getting a big kick out of this if that’s the case), or you may have moved to Timbuktu—and forgotten to change your id. I am told all ID’s in Timbuktu must have timbuktu.in at the end?
I am writing to know if we could meet to discuss the various paths to success for my new book? I can make myself available next Friday.
-Shipra
p.s. I have marked Cc to all my I’ds just in case I forget your name and would like to trace this mail to send it to another agent.
Richard replied within an hour. His mail was rather short for a guy with a new business.
To: Shipra Mishra
Sub: Re: About the next bestseller
Dear Shipra,
Did Paula give you my personal I’d?
As for your book, please send the manuscript of the first three chapters to my assistant. We can discuss further, should I see any merit in the same
-Richard
I wrote again and was rather short for myself.
To: Richard Monteiro
Cc: Shipra Mishra, Mishra Shipra, Shipra100, Mishra500, MishraShipra5000
Sub: Re: Re: About the next bestseller
Dear Richard,
Do you really want to sacrifice your next big opportunity at the altar of bureaucracy and a rude assistant? I know that this could be your first big break.
-Shipra
p.s. Could you please hit a reply to all, so am able to save this for other correspondences?
I did not hear from Richard again. On the mail that is. Since then, I had gotten rather pally with Paula. Paula is the kind of woman who loves to talk, walk and buy fashion. She could rattle off brands like a pro and that earned her a fan in me. Not that I am obsessive about brands. But my novel is about a woman who divorces her husband because he doesn’t understand her. Understand her preference for shoes over him that is. When Paula heard about this, she was completely taken in by the idea and even empathetic. That’s when she started talking about Richard and how he cared two hoots about her new Jimmy Choos or the new Prada she had sold her engagement ring for.
When I did not hear from Richard till the next day, I rang Paula to take her opinion on a future course of action. Paula was agitated on my behalf and assured me that she would get Richard to meet me, even if it meant taking him to court. I was rather curious about this piece of information. I really wanted to know about the ammo she had on Richard that could send him to court. I decided to save it for another day.
The very next day, I got a call from Richard’s assistant, informing me that Richard would meet me at Costa Coffee at 10:30 A.M on Friday. Needless to say, I was overjoyed. While I knew that my book would occupy the shelf of fame in all libraries and bookstores in the future, for now I needed Richard’s help in getting it up on any shelf.
I called up Paula to thank her for the help, but it was answered by an annoying couple’s voicemail, wherein Rafeeq with his nasal twang and she in her shrilly voice were saying, “we decided to go on a holiday in the middle of the night. We will call when back. Ciao.”
On Friday, the alarm on the phone did not ring but my mother did. She was calling in to suggest a meeting with a nice, homely Brahmin boy. Hence, you will not judge me when I say that I prefer alarms to my mother in the morning. I find it difficult to put my mother on a snooze once she has started on the epic of the quintessential eligible bachelor. I put the phone on speaker and rushed for a shower. It was ten thirty already, by the time I was ready to leave my house.
When I reached the coffee shop at eleven, I saw three haggard looking men sitting on their own. I knew Richard had to be one of them. I am intuitively right about these things but I decided to use my cell phone to give my intuition a pat on the back. That’s when I realized that my phone and my mother on it were left home alone and I had no other way but to randomly pick a Richard. I loved Home Alone part one, but the others were very unoriginal.
Just then, a waiter walked to me and asked if I was Shipra. When I acknowledged my name, he pointed to haggard looking man number two and said that he was waiting for me. I fixed my brightest smile on and walked towards Richard, and said a very loud hello. I am not sure but I think he flinched a little. I introduced myself and occupied the chair opposite him. I started to take out the manuscript from my bag, when he waved his hand and said, “No need for that. It will be done. I have these papers for you to sign the contract with the publisher”. He looked a little intimidated and I did not want to hand over the script to sacredly cat. I wondered if the contract was a fake. I pursed my lips, traced three lines on my forehead that mean danger and began, “Richard, now you see- am here only on the insistence of Paula...” Before I could even finish the sentence, Richard pleaded, “Please Ma’m.Don’t tell Paula anything about this. I promise that I will do the best I can for your book. Give me one chance.” The man of principles looked well intentioned and so I handed over the 780 pages of my manuscript, made him promise that not a page could be modified or deleted and that I will need the first cheque within a month. Richard agreed only too willingly and almost ran away.
I learnt from Paula later that Richard had been charged with faking identities and asked to resign. That is why the previous company had sacked him. Paula had threatened that she would go public if he did not publish my book. I asked Paula, what was the stolen identity about and she in her usual ‘toss the hair, look at the nail-paint, narrow the eyes’ style said, “He relied on me to write all those critiques dearie. And you know I never read a book. I always judge it by the cover. Obviously they found out”
For once, I had no words to put to use. I only heaved a sigh of relief that I was dealing with a man definitely devoid of principles.
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