Myriad Reflections. Shastri Akella

Season of change
I sit in my caged balcony, staring distractedly through the frenzied patterns created by the grills that rise imposingly above me. I notice rare ripples of turbulence prance through the waters of Hussain Sagar, as gray clouds loom ominously over the waters that have successfully trapped the agitation of the oncoming monsoon. Realization settles rather later over my senses (that have been numbed by an overdose of somnolence), that I am in the season that crouches uneasily between two starkly different seasons. Yes, I am in the season between summer and rain, between despair and hope, between unshed tears and crisp, poetry-inspiring emotions. Summer had abandoned the pernicious gnawing at nimble emotions, sore feet, arid limbs, sweat-strewn backs, and disoriented gazes. And rain was yet to settle like a soothing blanket over eager faces that stared emptily into the unending layers of the heavens.
The moment of incessant change fluttered impatiently in the sky above in the form of the clouds that ambled uncertainty – moving a step ahead and then retreating back as if unsure of the itinerary chalked out for them by the deft hands of nature and the seasons. I uneasily shifted my gaze, not wanting to be trapped by the cloud’s allegories that had the deceitful face of change imprinted all over. My life itself lay splayed into a multitude of streams, the ruthless incisions of change so neatly etching themselves along the paths where destiny willed their presence. So a confrontation with such explicit change – even if it were nature’s lyrical tapestry, was the last thing on the agenda of my cluttered mind. The wanderings of my escapist eyes suddenly halted when the fell on a cage. The desire of my gaze to travel transformed itself into a desire to halt, as I watched a little bird flutter in the trapped confines of the cage with mounting interest. Flying in well-practiced circles, the bird seemed to sing an undecipherable song, which echoed from that apartment across the street like a fading dream, like a drowning elegy. Its chaotic flight reached a sudden halt, as it settled on the very end of the perpendicular bars, just below the point where the bars converged with the rusting, fading green roof of the cage. Its eyes rotated wildly within its sockets, and came to a sudden halt as they stared at the skies that appeared deceptively near. I drew in the finer details of the bird as it stayed still there, like a lively moment suddenly frozen in the camera of a dexterous photographer. The birds seemed white washed and streaked with thick, dazzling jets of lapis lazuli. Its brown beak shone with clarity as it curved into an aquiline dip, while its tiny head bobbed ferociously, much like how its eyes had a short while ago. I suddenly realized that the bird pined to embrace the infinite expanse of the skies. The longing gaze that leapt out of its little eyes pierced the sky, and seemed capable of compelling the clouds to shed their heavy tears. As I sat within the bizarre-looking cage like structure that jutted out of my balcony, it suddenly dawned on me, the startling similarity between my life and that of the bird. Both of us – procreations of freedom and dreams, both pinned down heavily by extraneous forces beyond our arena of control. Both sought the fructification of dreams – the bird the kiss of the wind, and I a hopeful letter from an eager publisher. I had been writing now for over three years, and yet, none of my writings have seen the light of the day. Like the bird, I roamed in seemingly infinite circles, never reaching he open door that finally declared the opening of the passage to my dreams – a published work to my credit, and perhaps, in more daring, bold leaps of imagination, a Booker and a Pulitzer. My initial writings were stilted and without life, almost like a stillborn baby. To my delight, over the course of many frustrating nights and feverish writing sprees, my writing has evolved into its own league, unleashing wafts of promise, even if they are minor ones at that. And yet, a concrete fruit of my labor is yet to fall into my lap, I derisively conclude.
I’m sifted out of my ponderous rumination by the bird that has bolted into another round of fanciful flight. I cast my lamentations aside, and observe with mounting interest as that bird settles on the door that leads of the cage. Its look is that of intense concentration as it considers the wooden plug that joins the hole on the door to the hole on the cage. It gives the door an uncertain push. Stubborn rigidity. Impassive solidarity. It then cranes out its head, and holding firmly onto the wooden plug, gives it a slight tug, so that the little mass of wood inches slightly out of the hole on the cage. Drawing its head in, the bird gives the cage door another jolt with its head. This time the door quivers gently, the creek that it unleashes almost reflecting the fear of defeat. The motion of the door fills the bird with fresh streams of ambrosia, and with eyes alit with renewed hope, it tugs at the plug determinedly till the plug is released from the grip of both the confining holes. Spitting the plug onto the floor, the bird gives a confident kick to the door, and the door swings open, as if offering a salutation to the determined, never-say-die attitude of the bird. The bird steps out of the cage engulfed by an almost regal air. And then, flapping its wings, the bird takes off into the air of earned freedom. The scene vividly etches itself into the depths of my heart – the blue tinged bird, with wings billowing in flights of fantasy, as it flits across a skyline that had now rid itself of the melancholic clouds to reveal a deep shade of burgundy. As it roved above my roof, it sang a melody of hope that it had learnt from distant lands before losing itself to the safe confines of the cage. In its hearts, the realization that life was not going to be a fairy tale perhaps dawned grimly over the joy of the acquired jewel of freedom. In the cruel world of beasts where only the fittest survived, it would have to fend for not just its very existence. At the very least, under aegis of the bird owner, safety and food were assured treasures. And yet, it hummed joyfully, for it knew it was in the embrace of the infinite arms of the sky, and in its bounty, it felt at home, just as how a child feels secure in the warm proximity of her mother. What hardships the upcoming days held, the bird really did not care. For now, it arrived to where they truly belong – to the vast immense of the skies – its home; it had regained the lost melody of life, and that’s all that mattered to that little, beaked creations of wonder and beauty.
As I lay surrounded by my observant thoughts, suddenly, in that infinite season of change, an aspiration rose from the ocean of my heart, like a graceful, inviting wave. The bird had discovered its freedom, its destiny. Perhaps, one day, I too will discover my destiny, perhaps I too will live to embrace my dreams, and bury my head in their warm, familiar bosom. The sun was now out, bright as the flicker of summer, and through his light, he blinded out all traces of monsoon that lingered a few minutes ago. Perhaps, trapped freedom will not be the only pitiful cowry thrown in my direction by my diffident fate I surmised hopefully, in that season of incessant change.

Cappuccino
Languid, never-ending afternoons and sleepless nights interlaced with fitful sleeping patterns and dreadful nightmares. Both stained a neat brown with unending cups of cappuccino. Plopping sugar cubes into the thick, gooey liquid (reminiscent of sepia images of the past), I watch little swirls of vapor rise from the ceramic cup and disappear into the air above in elegant, leisurely curves. Swishing a spoon through the cup, I create frenzied ripples in that ocean of silence, and watch with considerable candor, how the sugar cubes disappear into the eager folds of the coffee ripples. The act of coffee-making done with, I return to my work at hand – invariably involving the glaring, poker-faced screen of the computer. And in an instant, the doors of the mind are shut on the vivacious world of images, color, smell, and sound, the disappointment of their countenance heightened to a conspicuous reality just before the door closes rudely on their face. The web of melancholic words envelops me like the tight embrace of a shawl on a frigid winter morning – warm and yet suffocative.
But today is different. Rain – the icy tears of the clouds, batter the earth with forlorn ferocity. A thick, surly gray defines the color of the Saturday afternoon, and the normally amicable moment seems unfriendly and intimidating, like a friendship gone sour, like a sibling estranged. In the battle between the two worlds of inebriated electricity – natural and man-made, the latter withdraws into a pitiable defeat, and I am subsequently drowned in a cloak of darkness. My ally of grief, my companion of ecstasy – the computer having gone into a forced slumber, I have little else to do but to observe nature and its little handiwork that spells both havoc and creativity simultaneously. Brewing myself another cup of cappuccino, I amble casually back into my room, enjoying the thick, heady smell of coffee that laces itself deftly into the air around me. Leaning on to the sill, I peep through the glass window, scrubbing with my hands in slow zigzag motion to efface the misty haze that has settled on it. Awe. That’s the word that most accurately defines my feeling in that moment of rapt observation. Rainwater approaching in piercing, splenetic sheets fills me with awe, not so much for its sheer tapestry, but for the realization it brings about. The realization, that splendor of nature can strike you in the most casual of moments, in the most familiar of environments. Not a plush guesthouse obscured in the deeper folds of the Himalayas, but the familiar little window sill of the house I have lived in for a decade is where nature has decided to unfold its poignant opera. And what an opera it was – thunder echoing the voice of an able tenor, breeze sauntering wildly and singing like a soprano in the highest octave, and sheets of rain striking the earth in a state of trance, deftly slipping into the role of a befitting orchestra. That little window elevates itself to embody the role of a kaleidoscope, and fills my vision with images snatched from a wild Himalayan setting, a lush play of the Opera House, and a lush valley of Switzerland captured in a prized picture postcard. All the while I gently remind myself that the iridescent, vivid images when culled together create nothing more than the picture of the pond street and the horizon hovering fixedly over it. As a writer I pride myself on my ability to observe and absorb foreign terrains in rich detail, and as a human, I am appalled by the dexterity with which I can take for granted the splendor that constantly surrounds me. I dig into the somber worlds within with ferocity to spell out the sadness that has streaked my world with thick eloquent strokes, but I do not raise my gaze to notice the presence of divinity that is waiting right there, a heartbeat away, only to cheer me. It is only when the manmade facilities (that I so deftly used to express my anguish) crumbles, that I am compelled to undo the laces that I have strongly knotted with them. It is only then do I notice the sparks of divinity that float around me. In the rain that tumbles eagerly onto a parched earth, in the clouds that so happily give up their impregnated existence to fructify the earth life, in the thunder that streaks the sky in eclectic beams. I sip my coffee in that state of keen cogitation, and my being is instantly filled with rhapsody. The thick taste of coffee as it journeys from my palette, down my gullet, and into my tummy, is electrifying energy. Each sip that I drawn in fills me with shots of ecstasy, and I observe the little beads of water that have appeared at the rim of the ceramic cup with strange fondness. I reflect: How many cups of coffee have I guzzled down whilst feverishly working at my latest tragofictitious saga? Endless. And how much of the taste that has now spread its long fingers all across my heart can I recollect? Nothing – I conjure a lackluster blankness. But I don’t regret. Lost moments cannot be reclaimed, but an awakened consciousness certainly can prevent the yet-to-sprout moments from the clutches of banality. I’m suddenly filled with the unbearable lightness of being, and I scuttle into the kitchen, my coffee cup empty, my heart aching for another engrossing odyssey of cappuccino through my system. As the milk brews, and I look at the eager cup, I feel excited at the prospect of filling my hours of sainted rumination with another shower of dazzling cappuccino.

Love
The mythological manifesto etched in the tales of yore is enlightening, echoing the irrepressible truth of our splayed lives: love is often veiled by the cloak of feeling colored in an emotive iridescence, and the brightness of the luminosity that rises thereof often blinds us to the gross, at times startlingly simple reality called love. Indeed, love is not as complex as we make it out to be. It is the reality we guzzle throughout our lives, and yet are impervious to its taste, much like how the neophytes of life lot are impervious to the taste of life-engraving water. And yet, just like how the parched gullet echoes appreciation for the taste of water, the one who has unveiled the many hues of nimble emotions gone awry, the beauty of true love becomes stunningly eloquent: it is a vivid beauty of on ocean thats there and not there, and drowning into which fills our being with mists of ecstasy.

The irrepressible twine
There is perhaps something about pups that makes them ideal allies of grief. Limpid eyes overflowing with pity, a soft, pink tongue peeping out of their mouth, and their downcast gaze oozing with sympathy. As Tuffy walked up to Grace and stared intently at her – offering an assortment of evocative expressions so typical of a pup, Grace’s lips broke into a smile, and she took Tuffy in her arms. The comforting cuddling of her black Pomeranian brought her back in touch with her world of realities, and she became aware of the loud music that roared in her hall. The party was over an hour ago, and yet the music continued to linger like an unwanted guest. She frowned, walked up to the stereo system, and switched it off with a quick jerk, her desire to cast away the unwanted guest, intense. The presence of the frown persisted on her brow as a thought crossed her mind. “The music continued to play for a good hour after the party was over, and yet I failed to realize. Oh Lord! What am I doing with my life” And then she quickly turned around, as another thought occupied the spaces of her mind. She leaned against the wall for support, sank to the floor, and ran her fingers through her long, wavy hair. Her drawing room lay strewn with used paper plates, crumpled paper napkins, broken plastic glasses, and blots left by cream – reminders of the party that had just concluded. A half-eaten lobster stared at her in the face, while a broken beer bottle lay carelessly in a corner, its contents creating a small, yellow stream. “What a mess”, muttered Grace, as she slowly raised her head and surveyed the state of affairs her hall lay in. That was not the thought that inspired the birth of the party. Grace had recently purchased this spacious apartment. With a desire to show off her new acquisition that she prided on, she decided to host a party at her new residence. Her heart throbbed with excitement as she went about making the arrangements for the party – ordering for the food, buying little decors to do up the empty walls of the house, handpicking aromatic candles to light up the occasion with the glow of softness, and selecting fresh flowers that would fill the spaces of her house with scent and beauty. But all the while, a doubt nagged her mind constantly. “Will Brian make it to the party? I reminded him so many times, but there’s no saying with him until he actually shows up.” A flower that had withered with the passage of time fell into Grace’s lap and brought her out of her reverie. Grace picked up the rose and examined it. “Ah! This was part of the bunch that elegantly graced the TV top.” She threw a glance at the other lot of roses that still stood together in the vase, exactly the way she had arranged them, though the passage of time had wilted their sheen. Looking at the withered rose that desolately sat in her lap like an orphan child, Grace twitched her lips and thought sadly, “I purchased these roses only for Brian, he just adores them. If only he had bothered to turn up…” Brian’s absence from the party was conspicuous, and throughout the loud ongoing, inquisitive colleagues queried, “How come Brian has not turned up? You guys fought or something” As they laughed at their own banter, Grace turned a deep beetroot red, and quickly dialed his number. Brian, however, remained inaccessible, and refused to take her call. After her persistent attempts, when he finally did, he let out a violent fume. “What is the sense in calling me repeatedly when I’m not taking your call? My phone has registered sixteen missed calls from you in the last six hours? Have a heart for Christ’s sake! Anyways, I’m not going to make it to the party, caught up with some work. I’ll catch you later.” Click. Even before Grace could as much as utter a word, he was gone. The proud woman that she was, when Brian hung up on her, she quickly gathered herself, turned around to face the expectant glances of her guests, shrugged her shoulders, and said, “Said he can’t make it now. He’d rather come over after you guys leave.” As the collective, mischievous “Oooo…” of her guests enveloped her, Grace congratulated herself, for being able to pull off a façade so flawlessly.
The guests reveled and danced in total abandon. They gorged on the butter chicken and pastries as if there were not going to be a tomorrow. But the host remained desolate, grossly missing being beside the man she loved so much. When she watched the couples hold hands, and dance cozily, her heart pined to hold on to Brian, place her head on his shoulder, and move to the rhythm of the symphony, her hands neatly tucked under his arms.
The sudden whimper of Tuffy filled the air, and Grace bent forward with a start. The little pup had skid over the stream of beer whilst trying to prowl for food. “Aw, my little munchkin. Hang in there, let me clear the mess, and I’ll get you something to gobble.”
Resigning to the task she had at hand, Grace sighed, collected herself, and set to work.
Fetching the bin from the kitchen – Tuffy following her like a faithful friend, Grace began culling the remains of the party – waste that put her house in disarray. Colleting paper plates, soiled napkins, leftovers, and the works, she shoved them into the bin, walking slowly in a backward motion as she went about her rigmarole. Suddenly, she let out a soft gasp. She felt her feet step onto something smooth, and the noise of a muzzled crack followed immediately. She knew what had happened, and she quickly turned around to confirm her premonition. A broken glass stared at her dejectedly. As picked the pieces together and held them in her hands, their hazel tinge and sharp cuts shimmered in the glory of the glass chandelier that dangled from the roof. As tears flooded her eyes, she recollected the day when Brian had so fondly gifted her with this set of cut glass wine glasses. The trail of incessant thoughts had begun, and there was nothing that could stop them now. Thoughts, that led her into the alleys of the past and softly reminded her of the warmth of romance that that had set her heart and home aglow with the mush of first love.
It was Valentines Day last year, when life was a beautiful lyric, that danced to the percussion of the heartbeat, and swayed to the lilting tunes of romance. As she waited for Brian at Eat Street, drumming the table with her fingers, she suddenly felt a pair of palms veil her eyes. The warmth of the touch swept her heart with a feeling of unerringly familiarity and love, as she smiled, placed her hands on his, and said, “Love you sweetheart” Letting out a dejected sigh, Brian took his cupped hands off her eyes, pulled out a chair, sat in front of her, and asked admonishingly, “You could have feigned unfamiliarity, at least to keep my heart. What was the necessity for such an instant recognition?” Her eyes twinkling with the warmth of his touch and her voice oozing with love, Grace looked at Brian and said in a tender voice, “Because the faster I recognize you, the faster I get to see you – your endearing face in front of mine.” As Brian threw his head back and drowned himself into peels of laughter, Grace had her gaze fixed firmly on him. “Oh my! What a handsome man. His perfectly etched, pointed nose, the luscious curves of his lips, those large, twinkling eyes, the beads of hair that appear around his upper lip. I can just die for one gaze of him.” As Brian controlled his laughter, had a sip of water, and wiped his wet lips with the back of his hand, he spoke in his characteristic, baritone voice. His word interjected with giggles, he said, “Left to you, you’ll declare me to be the most handsome man on planet earth!” Clasping his hands that rested on the table, Grace kissed them and said, “But of course you are the most charming man on plant earth. You know, when you smile…” Brian cut her short by pulling his hands away and waving them dismissively. “Come on now, don’t start off all over again. You know I can’t bear this maudlin talk.” Looking at the tinge of disappointment that accompanied her downcast look, he quickly drew open the black coat that clung onto his burly chest, and withdrew a box wrapped in a cherry colored paper. When he softly said, “Happy Valentines day” Grace looked up, and the shimmering object in Brian’s hands instantly arrested her gaze. Letting out a slight shriek, she clasped Brian’s hands again. When he winked his eyes, nudging her to take the gift, she picked it from his hands, where it loosely sat. As she undid the wrapper carefully, Brian chuckled impatiently. “That wrapper is not made of gold for Christ’s sake. Just rip it apart and take out the gift already!” Grace retorted, “To me, this wrapper is priceless. I shall keep it with me for life. My Brian gave me my first Valentine gift, and everything associated with it is for keepsake.” As Brian let out a resigned sigh, Grace carefully removed the tape that held the wrapper together, and folded the bright paper neatly. She then opened the box, her heart fluttering with excitement. But the moment she set her eyes on the gift within, a wave of disappointment swept her, something she instantly hid. As Brian looked at her expectantly, she looked up at him with a smile on her lips and a flirtatious flutter on her eyes and said, “What a lovely pair of glasses! I just love the hazel.” As Brian’s heart heaved with pride, and he ribbed the bridge of his nose with his index finger, Grace thought, “What on earth would I do with wine glasses, I’m a teetotaler. And I hate hazel, or any dark color for that matter. Does he not something so simple about me?” Meanwhile, he outstretched his hand and raised his eyebrows expectantly. Grace smiled, and confidently took out a small box. She was sure of her decision. “He is definitely going to like the gift.” Grabbing the box from her hand, Brian quickly tore apart the cover, muttering, “I don’t have your kind of patience, so don’t mind me ripping apart the cover.” The moment the wrecked gift wrapper fell to the floor, he let of a shriek of joy. “Wow! Its a Titan” He looked joyfully at the watch that sat comfortably in its glass case. As Grace outstretched her hand, wanting to fasten the watch on his wrist with her own hands, he opened the glass box, took out the watch, and wore it in a hurry. As disappointment stung her heart again, Brian looked at his wrist and said with the excitement of a child, “Ah! Doesn’t my wrist look so manly with that hot watch sitting on it?” He pressed his lips against the watch, kissing it again and again, and Grace smiled to herself and thought, “Big deal, at least he loved what I got for him.” As she saw his eyes swoon under a spell of joy, she felt a surge of love for him again, and looked at him, her limpid eyes brimming with love. Suddenly, Brian said in a tone of shock, “Holy cow! We are getting late for the movie. Let’s get going.” As Grace got up in a hurry and followed him, she asked, “Which movie?” She was hoping to hear, “Black”, but instead heard, “Murder”.
Indeed, the undercurrent of differences between the two could not be denied. It remained an undercurrent when the relationship was in its fledgling stage, when there was a bounty of love that caused their togetherness to blossom and swept away the differences.
For Grace, it was love at first sight. As a voice and accent trainer at ‘Speak well’, she typically went about her work with a business like attitude, paying little heed to issues not in the purview of her work. But when she saw Brian enter the training room along with the other new recruits, she was swept away by his charm. As he sat at his desk, drumming the table with his fingers and looking around confidently, his handsome visage was a perfect picture of poise, of someone so sure of himself. A quality rare for a fresher, as experience told Grace. She went through the first session of the induction in a state of daze, and approached him the moment a break was announced. Stretching out her hand hesitantly as he sat at his desk sipping coffee, she said, “Hi, I’m Grace” Raising his eyebrows and smiling in an irrepressibly charming way, the young man clasped her outstretched hand and said, “And I’m Brian. A pleasure to meet you Grace, again.” As he winked his eye mischievously, she bit her lip realizing her folly. Why, she had just introduced herself to the batch! She plopped herself beside him, and began talking. Undeniably, the conversation between the two flowed easily. So they met up again in the next break. And in the next one. Rising at a feverish pace, their meetings gave them a chance to explore each other. Sure, they were as different a chalk and cheese. But they loved soaking themselves in each other’s company, in their togetherness, and that’s what mattered. Grace would go out of her way to dress, feel, and sound in ways that pleased Brian. She would shower him with gifts, and swell with joy to see the glee on his face when he saw his prized gifts. She had studied him with great concentration, and knew his every like and distaste. She knew the smells that irked him and the music that put a smile on his face. She prided herself on the amount of knowledge she had about him – a prized possession she protected fiercely. And he on his part was flattered with the amount of love and attention she showered him with. Being clamored for, and being the cynosure of the most popular woman at work, was an undeniable high for him. The waves of first love had taken them away in its swift sweep, and like willing cohorts they went with the flow. And then, as it often happens when one blindly rushes forth into a wave just to enjoy its frosty embrace, without realizing its capacity, they made a vital mistake. A mistake, that Grace never forgot for the rest of their life. On the spur of the moment, they made a sudden decision one evening, to plunge into cohabitation.
The initial euphoria of the drastic move was tremendous. Grace had the man she loved with unbridled passion in front of her eyes every single waking moment. And in the nights she slept unabashedly in his arms, her head nuzzled onto his hairy, masculine chest. She knew every hair on his chest, the way they curled in, and embraced her hair. For Brian, it was the most euphoric phase of his life. If he ever went out to shop and set his eyes on an object of desire, he could be sure that it would be neatly ensconced in his cupboard the next day. The price was never an issue; his liking was all that mattered. Every night, he had an opportunity to live out all the wind fantasies that he cravingly spoke of as a teenager in hushed tones. He was a dominating man, demanding attention and his way of things, and she, a willing companion, relenting to every demand of his.
And then something happened. Not overnight, but gradually, over a period of time. The sheen of the initial rapture began fading, and the disparities that lay safely undercover, began brimming to the surface. If he loved cricket, she detested it with a passion. If she poured her heart over soap operas, he couldn’t stand being in the same room where their drama unfolded. Candle lit dinners in a room abounding with heart shaped balloons was pretty much her idea of romance, while trekking or any activity that created a shared sense of adventure defined his idea of romance. Bhansali’s sensitive dramas were what she looked forward to, while sleazy thrillers were what he reveled in.
With the passage of time, many more differences boiled to the surface. Grace reacted by making desperate attempts to adjust her lifestyles and outlook to make them seem in accordance to his liking. Brian on his part, resigned to silent withdrawal to shield himself from the discomfort of facing the differences. To the many questions that she excitedly poured forth in front him, he responded with a silent nod or monosyllabic replies. A disappointed Grace would turn her head away after unsuccessful attempts at striking a conversation, and with a look of disappointment writ across her face, she would wonder, “Why on earth is he punishing me with his silence? He continues to remain talkative and jovial with other friends, then why am I the only to be made an exception?” After the question troubled her unendingly for days, when she found the torture excruciating, she her query a manifest form and stood in front of Brian, demanding a reply. Brian continued looking into the newspaper and replied in a deadbeat tone, “It is just your perception. Nothing has changed.” She burst out – her voice reaching a shrill crescendo, “Yeah right. I am hallucinating and imagining things. Is that what you are trying to suggest?” Brian shoved the paper aside, and begin walking away, whilst muttering, “If you stop being so possessive, always expecting me to talk to you, and behave the way you want me to, then things can be better.” She in turn screamed from behind, “Don’t tell me that someone like you who doesn’t shut his mouth for a single minute when he is with his other friends, cannot utter a single word with me. And you have the gall to tell me that I expect too much from you. Come back and speak to me, you escapist!” But he did not come back. Not on that day. Never again. The cracks were transformed into chasms, too big to be bridged.
Brian moved out of the house, and moved on with life itself. He had collected his bearings quickly, and continued with the proceedings of life as if nothing had ever changed. Perhaps, he was never particularly attached to the relationship. He enjoyed the togetherness as long as it had something to offer unto him. But the moment the time for adjustment emerged, he backed out, preferring the comfort of old habits to the oppression of change. “She never gave me enough breathing space.” he complained to some of his older lot of friends. Of course, all the many times when she went out of her – sacrificing her own desires, just to see a smile on his face, were never mentioned. They were comfortably forgotten. He unabashedly wore the clothes and accessories she gifted him, and continued to whine about her misgivings.
Grace too had become familiar with his behavior pattern – of viewing her as a means to achieve his desires – both physical and material. And yet, for reasons best unknown to her, she found it impossible to move on with life, attempting to embrace newer horizons that give her life a sense of meaning. She kept convincing herself that the relationship was going to work. She made repeated attempts at trying to please him, to bring him back to the relationship. She showered him with more gifts. Gifts that he was very willing to accept as long as they did not come with the tag of her company. So she would leave gifts at his doorstep, at his desk, or in his mailbox. He in turn would leave thank you notes at her desk or door, with his signature and a smiley neatly etched on the Post-it. Those were more than enough for her lovelorn heart, and she collected all of them and stored them in a big red envelope. Every time the realization that the relationship was no longer meant to be dawned on her, she would settle on her sofa with the red envelope in her hand, and patiently read all those little yellow slips. And she would successfully deceive herself, just like how she deluded the world around her
A sudden, seething pain swept through her, and her face grimaced. Little, red droplets fell on the marble floor, and Grace realized that in reminiscing the blooming and gradual fading away of the relationship, she had forgotten the present moment, when she was standing all alone in her hall, with a broken glass in her hand – the very same glass Brian had gifted her. She held his gift rather too forcefully, till it dug into her skin and sucked up her blood.
After an hour’s effort, she found a certain sense of semblance in her home. The broken beer bottle, paper plates, and plastic glasses were in the dustbin, the excessive food was stacked in the fridge, the cushions and sofas were back in their place, and the floor was mopped to efface all signs of beer, blood, and celebration. Tuffy hungrily gorged on her chicken, and Grace settled on her sofa, the music system filling her room with soulful soufflé of the santoor. As Grace grabbed a cushion and hugged on to it tightly, in a moment of rare, objective reflection, she thought, “Why am I trying to hard? Why don’t I just realize that Brian and I are just not meant to be man and woman? To save that one relationship, I have lost and sacrificed everything else. How long has it been since I have called Mom and Dad?” She tenderly looked at the picture frame that sat on the side table that and showed her clasping onto her parents, her arms around their necks, their smiles reflecting the joy of togetherness. As she made a mental note to call up her parents’ first things in the morning, her eyes fell on the sitar that stood in a corner. A look of despondence overwhelmed her, and she lowered her gaze in shame. “The only thing Dad ever desired of me was that I play the sitar well, a dream he could never pursue because he was busy eking out a living for all of us to live in comfort. Why, I myself derived so much pleasure and peace in playing the instrument.” The look of dejection was suddenly replaced with that of determination. “I will no more let a dead relationship effect my present and the people to whom I’m so intimately connected. Yes, Brian is now a man of the past, and I’m going to live for myself, doing the things that matter to me.” She spread herself out on the sofa, and switched off the light with the remote. Tuffy let out a squealing bark, complaining about the darkness that caught her without warning. “Come here baby”, said Grace feeling bad for her pup – it had been such a long while since she took her for walk. When Tuffy came and licked her outstretched hand, she tickled the nape of her pet and said, “We’ll go for a walk tomorrow morning, ok little fatso? Of course, only after I give Mom and Dad a call.” This last thought jostled her to sleep.
It was seven in the morning, and the sun was out – nice and bright. She had a fitful sleep, and woke up with a sudden start, soaked in sweat. She franticly searched for her phone. Finding it on the center table, she grabbed it and dialed out the number. The phone rang. But no one picked up the call. After dialing the number over a dozen times, a groggy voice complained into the phone, “Why have you disturbed me so early in the morning? Have a heart, it’s Sunday morning.” Grace spoke at a feverish pace, “But I had a dream that you met with an accident. I was so scared. I anyway wanted to call sometime later. Please meet me, even if it is for two minutes. I beg of you.” The voice on the other side said, “I am not able to hear you, I’ll call you back.” Grace rushed out into the balcony, hollering into the phone, “The signal is crap, but I’m going to the balcony, it should be better there. Hello! Are you still there my sweetheart? Brian?” As she rushed into the balcony like a possessed woman, two things happened: First, she unmindfully hit the side table, and the picture frame went crashing down, and the glass cracked at two places: the points where her hands were wound around her parents. Second, Tuffy walked aimlessly towards the sitar and sniffed, and almost instantly, began sneezing – the instrument was dust laden. Sneezing, little Tuffy hoped that her mistress would come back soon, to feed her, to dust the sitar and use it more than just as a showpiece, and perhaps, to repair the broken picture.