The Tank

Banganga

“…And then I saw you, and my soul whispered, ‘doesn't she look familiar’. I said, ‘she does’, but I couldn't place you from this time or place. So I asked my soul, ‘if it knew since how long back had we known each other’? And it replied, ‘since forever’.”  

“Since forever.”

That’s what he first thought when he saw this woman sitting on the jagged, moss-infested stone steps of the tank.

Her blue cotton skirt was partially inside the green pool of water so he didn't know where her feet ended. He gauged from the length of her back and the broadness of her shoulders that she was tall, probably taller than what was just normal.

The morning sun glistened and shimmered like sparkling stars on water. He saw it, even as he saw her observe it. She was smiling; beaming helplessly. It made her feel happy and he could not tell why.

They were at a considerable distance from each other – he standing and she sitting, both on different angles of the rectangle – enough for her to not notice that he was noticing her.

Rukshad was a photographer, an amateur one. He didn't love Mumbai, as much as his parents did. But today, at the tank, beauty had snatched hate off some of its glory.

Banganga - it was a beautiful place. Here, it seemed like another world from another time had not only been preserved, but had continued seamlessly, undisturbed and unaltered, even as everything changed or manifested into something new. The stoned stairways on all four sides led deep down to a bottomless pit from where a natural spring drowned each step as it rose, disappearing layer by layer. Legend had it that Laxman, the brother of epic hero Lord Ram, had shot an arrow on this earth, eons ago; water sprung soon after to feed the thirsty elder brother. Some claimed that the arrow was shot after Sita – Ram’s wife – had sought pure water for a temple offering.        

Rukshad’s friend had told him of the tank.  

“Very few know about it,” he was told. “Go visit it, you may get some good photographs that could land you that job,” the friend had advised.

He wanted to intern at the photography magazine desperately, so he came here. But now, he was more than just stunned by the magnificence of the place. And then his eyes fell upon her, and he did not know what had left him more spellbound - the tank or the girl sitting by it.

It was strange, this attraction he felt for her. She was ordinary to look at, not somebody anyone would take to on the first glance. Her hair was tied up messily in a hasty bun with strands falling carelessly on her face. There was something about her very presence though, that felt familiar.    

So while he toyed with his SLR, shooting aimlessly, his mind kept travelling back to the woman. But he parried his view the moment he thought she had become aware of his presence. She was still sitting there. And he realised that the water had risen a bit, because her skirt was now hidden knee deep.  

She looked at him, first casting him a nervous stare, but then smiled. It was a very knowing glance. Before he could pull himself together, she was waving at him, asking him to come hither.    

Rukshad didn't have time to think of what was happening, so he quickly walked to the other side, down the slippery steps, carefully towards her.   

“Photographer?” she asked.

He nodded, fumbling with his words, struggling hard to give a reply.

“You want to take my picture?” she asked questioningly.

If that was the excuse he would have to give for those stolen glances, he had no other choice. He sheepishly took the bait. “Yes.”

“Okay…go ahead,” she said, and pushed her hands behind, to hold herself back in a tilt, as if readying for a pose.

After fiddling with his lens, Rukshad took a couple of photographs. She smiled and posed without complaining.

“Thank you.”

“No problem,” she said. “What will you use this for?” she asked.

“Job interview.”

“Oh! I hope you get it then,” she said.

And, as if no conversation had happened between them, she went back to treating her eyes to the green of the waters. Her face looked calm, but lacked the curiosity that he had for her. There wasn't an ounce of emotion, to reveal what was on her mind. She hadn't even bothered asking if there was a way she could get hold of the copy.     

Rukshad moved back quietly, not knowing whether it would be polite to ask her, her name.

He left Banganga soon after, taking the steep stairway that was butted by old homes and temples on either side. It was only when he had climbed up to the exit that he realised he had forgotten his lens at the tank. It was an expensive zoom lens and he remembered asking the young woman to hold it, while he busied taking her pictures.

He rushed back to the tank. As he walked down, a slew of thoughts ran through his mind. Rukshad saw it as a sign; a sign that they weren't over as yet. May be, he would gather some courage, and ask for her name or probably, her number. They would meet again, and then...

Were they meant to be?

The last thought struck him when he just reached the tank. He immediately looked in the direction where he saw her last. But there was no one there who resembled her. He glanced around the tank, assuming he probably got the spot wrong. She had just been here five minutes ago.

For a moment he thought that she had followed him to return the lens. But he knew deep down that she never really would. She had appeared to be in a daze, not to be disturbed or stirred. 

From the distance though, he could see something cylindrical, a few steps above where she had been seated. His lens had been waiting there, beside a pair of red sandals. She was nowhere around. He sat there till dusk, hoping she would return to take the shoes that he presumed were hers. She did not.

He got the job the following week. It was her picture that did the trick.

He would remember this woman “since forever.” 

The Bay

Marine Drive 

Her laces were worn out, duller than the pale blue of her shoe. She looked at them in disgusted haste, reminding herself that she needed to save up to buy a fresh pair soon. This time she would opt for a black one, so that she wouldn't have to bother spending on a new one again.

The darkness of the black would hide the harsh wear and tear that her shoes were being put through each day. If life could reveal anything blacker than black, it would have to be hell. And Lekha wasn't going down there yet.

Yes, she was ageing with day, had retired years ago and currently, found it hard to make ends meet; but unlike her friends, who had already suffered a handicap or two, she could still walk. And that’s what she did every morning, sharp at 5.

Lekha would leave home daily, skipping the ginger tea made by their Maharaj (cook). She loved tea, but giving up on what she enjoyed most, seemed like a piecemeal offering to her son, who would time and again remind her that she owed him for the roof above her head.

They were a rich family, but not her. She lost everything when her husband died. Now, it was just the measly pension that kept her going. Lekha never asked her son for money, he never bothered giving. He fed her twice a day, and his job ended there.   

She rushed out, just five minutes before 5. In October, the sun rose a little later than it did in August. It reminded her that winter would be here soon.

A few hurried, rapid steps and she would get there. Their home was just a stone’s throw away from the bay. They couldn’t see it from their window, but its salty breeze found a way inside always, corroding their cast iron shelves. It was a nice home, she thought; it had come down to her husband from his father, and all these years, she had nurtured it well.

It barely took ten minutes to get to the seaside. The flailing waves of the Arabian Sea were welcoming, more welcoming than the home, she had once cared for.

When she reached the asphalt stretch, she persevered, dragging her feet with quickened pace. They would be waiting for her opposite the monstrosity of glass and concrete – the InterContinental, an odd spectacle on the stretch of simple, yet telling buildings from Bombay’s past.

She wasn't late. They were still there when she came. They wouldn't go anywhere for the next one hour. But it always felt good to be on time. One of them - Kerson - was in a wheelchair and his servant brought him here everyday; the others could walk fairly well, though Shradha complained that arthritis was getting the better of her. And Domnic wore knee pads now; every time they asked him why, he would say in his typical Goan English accent, “Looks cool men. Don’t you think?”

When Lekha arrived, the circle was complete. They didn't ask her much and instead joined hands. Shradha, who lead the group, chanted something, and they all bent forward; soon enough they were all howling, laughing heartily.

The passersby looked unperturbed. It was a regular scene, played out at the bay daily: Old people having a merry time.

The constable had picked on them the first time they did it. But Shradha had interrupted, “Laughter yoga…you can’t take us to jail.”   

An hour later, they were done. Some left for home, while a few like Lekha would head down for a walk on the same stretch. She would only go back home at 8, after drinking tea at a stall near their house.   

Today, Kerson stopped her.

“Lekha, can you drop me home. Raju won’t be coming, so I would need help.”

Kerson, a 75 year old Parsee, lived in her neighbourhood. They rarely spoke at the yoga sessions and even otherwise, so Lekha was amused that he asked her for help.  

“Please,” he requested again.

Since they lived in the same compound, it would just seem wrong to say no. So, she agreed. 

The drive by the street was smooth, though she had a feeling that people were throwing them curious glances. Two old couple, one on a wheelchair, the other one happily driving him along. She was probably just conscious, so she ignored them.

“I see you drink chai at the stall daily,” Kerson said, breaking her thoughts.

“Yes, I like the tea there,” she said, sounding more than just curt. 
Kerson realised that he was infringing upon some unspoken territory. They did not speak after that.

When they reached his building, she saw Raju stand outside anxiously.

“Sir I was worried,” he said. Kerson beamed a calm smile.  

Raju politely took over from Lekha, and pushed the chair up the slope that had been specially built for Kerson. Lekha stood there awkwardly, not knowing whether to say bye or just leave.

When Kerson made it to the platform, she silently moved ahead.

Noticing her leave, Kerson called out, “Lekha, wait.”

“Raju’s made piping hot ginger tea…” he cast a knowing look at his servant, and hesitantly added,“…for both of us.”   

And we moved on

On the night you came to my house, I thought something really bad had happened. My sister opened the door, and told me you were standing outside, crying. 
I rushed to the entrance and when our eyes met, you held my hand and I remember you saying something very silly.
“I got married...,” you said, stammering, “...today”. It sounded silly because I obviously refused to believe that. I was right. You were drunk and so drunk, that you imagined you had attended your own wedding, instead of your friend's. 
We laughed about it the next day. But even as I was pulling your leg about the incident, you interrupted and said something sweet.
“You know why I cried?” you asked.
“No.” I was still laughing.
“I couldn't have imagined marrying anyone, but you.”
That's what you said, or that's what I thought I heard. We were still just friends then, so I couldn't hide how shocked I was. But I ignored you because it just seemed like the right thing to do.


Months later, I remember us sitting at your table, playing a game of scrabble, and you looking perplexed.
I asked what happened, and you said, “I don't have great letters.”
“Yay! I think I have my dibs on a win here,” I said.
You were very engrossed though, either staring at your letters, or at the board, going back and forth, refusing to give up.
Minutes later, you smiled. You threw one glance at me, and then back at the letter board. You added a “Y” above my O, and “U” below my O. My letter was LOVE.
“I still beat you to the score,” I said.
“But I managed to Love You.”
I can't for the life of me remember who won the game, probably that's how lost I was. Never until then, had scrabble blown me away. 


After that game, nothing of real consequence happened. Seasons came and went. Three summers just died, so did the winters, one bitter and many bland. I had forgotten about that incident and even about you. 
You went somewhere, and said you were not hoping to return. I was with somebody else, and he really wanted to marry me. He was probably waiting for me to say “yes”. But, despite all that, we were going fine. 

And then I saw you at the supermarket one day, scanning through pickles, along with a friend. She was petite, but had surprisingly broad shoulders. Your long hands wrapped her arms as she picked up some bottle. Her face was pleasing and beautiful, and she did not look anything like me.
Your presence riled me, and I could not tell why.
I was about to walk away, when you happened to see me from the corner of your eye.
It was stupid to behave like we didn't know each other, so despite feeling awkward, I came towards you.
“Hey…long time,” you said.
I did not think you deserved a Hi, so I instead blurted, “I am getting married.”
I lied. And that was such a shame.
“Oh!,” you muttered.
You reached out for my hand to congratulate me, but as soon as you held it, I realised that you weren't letting go.
“Your palm feels so cold,” you said looking intently into my eyes. “Are you okay?”

I released my fingers from your grip and tightly held on to my dress as if trying to hold on to the lie, wary of being exposed and stripped naked of this farce.

Suddenly, my eyes welled up with tears. I wish I had held myself together because your friend or may be your girlfriend was looking at me. She gave me a reassuring smile, so I did not feel too bad.

I walked out of the store, thinking of what you had once said:
“I couldn't have imagined marrying anyone, but you.”

Arranged affair

Bijith Nair furtively tossed a sugar cube into his insipid tea, and tilted his head towards the right, from where he could get a clear view to the door of his kitchen.

He could see the slouched back of his wife; her round figure taking up every inch of the viewing space that the doorway allowed. The way her arms and elbows moved in measured swings, he predicted she was chopping something.

Noticing she hadn't been keeping an eye on him, he quickly added another white lump to his tea and stirred it delicately, ensuring that the spoon didn't hit the bottom or the circular-frame of his ceramic cup. The clanging would draw her attention.  

Somehow, today, he did not want her to know that he was finding it difficult to resist this sweet temptation that diabetes had long denied. Sugar reminded him of love and may be that’s how he felt now, but she didn't need to know that, not yet. 

He was about to reach for his cup, when she called out to him, “Biju! Should I give you porridge or cornflakes for breakfast?”

“They both sound hmmm…,” Bijith struggled for a word, and after a few seconds of vacuous thinking, came up with “…very delicious! I can’t decide. Why don’t you choose my poison?”

It was meant to be sarcastic, but it almost, came across as complimentary. Why else, would she mutter a polite “Thanks”.

Krishna never got his sarcasm, but even after 42 years of marriage, Bijith hadn’t stopped trying. It made him feel accomplished and more involved in the decision-making at home. If Krishna ruled the house with an iron hand, Bijith liked to believe that he ruled the house with sarcasm, one that was mostly lost to her and his kids’ untrained ears. Nonetheless, he had made his point, and to Bijith that seemed more important. 

Now, sipping into the sweet concoction, he was reminded of the heady days of his youth, when love was not singularly bestowed on any one woman. Though most of them had either ended tragically or comically, except for the arrangement his parents had fixed with Krishna. Their marriage had always seemed like an amicably agreed upon deal. Nothing of real consequence, especially romantic, had ever been exchanged between Krishna and him. Suresh and Shiva happened to them during those rare occasions when they were overcome by passion or call it lust. Love was a word only hanging in the air; it all felt more like comfort. And yet in all these years, she had been the only one who mattered. Though, something always felt amiss. And until yesterday, he had never figured out what.

He smiled and got up from his dining seat, moving towards the large French window, which opened to his balcony.

Bijith never drank his tea at the table; it was always outside from where he could see the compound. And because his building shared space with a school, the ground was always home to children running amok either during PE class or recess.   

“What happened? Why exactly are you smiling to yourself?” Krishna asked, interrupting the string of thoughts running through his head.

“Nothing…just remembered something amusing,” he said, his mind straying again.

“Since yesterday, I have been noticing you…suddenly behaving strange.”

Krishna was sly, he knew. She could read him easily, or probably, he gave out too much. This time around, he had to act with caution or he’d risk letting her know.

“Stop over-thinking,” he said, “Breakfast ready? I need to step out in a while.”

Walking on the jagged pavement of Mumbai’s Fort area, inside the arched stone-walled gateway, Bijith thought of what happened yesterday. He met Sharda right here, while he was out on a stroll, like he was today. Sharda looked just like she had when he last saw her over 40 years ago. They had dated briefly, before she was married to an Army man. Though it had been a long time since, meeting her hadn’t felt strange at all. It all still seemed so familiar and fresh. It was hard not to draw comparisons with Krishna. Especially since the two women had once been close friends in college. Unlike his wife, whose skin fell into lose folds on her face, Sharda’s was still taut. The passing years had barely done her any damage. Only the silver strands that intermittently emerged from the long black of her hair, told the story of her ageing. She had been widowed five years ago, and lived alone in the city after having lost her only son in the battlefield.

They had promised to meet again today. He had been anticipating this moment since last night. She would come. They would smile. Somethings would be exchanged. An untold story would bloom again.

Sharda hadn’t disappointed; in fact, she had come before time.

“Hi,” he said. She could make out that he was nervous; Bijith was toying with his own hands. “I have been thinking about us since yesterday,” she said.

“So have I,” he muttered.

“Strange…we met again.”

“There’s always a reason,” he interjected.

She handed him a small note.

“This really helped me,” she said, “but I don't think, it was meant for me.”
"Thank you Sharda.”
They hugged awkwardly. “Hope to meet you again,” he said, before they parted one last time.

That afternoon, when he got home, he slipped the note into a book that his wife had been reading. She would find it later; he cared little about her reaction. He just wanted her to know something that he himself had forgotten.

It was dated July 19, 1971. It read:

Dear Sharda,

Thank you for the wedding invitation. Am glad you are moving on, and marrying that Army guy. I hope you have forgiven me for breaking your heart. I was so foolishly infatuated with you, that I had forgotten what it was to love. It’s funny how my wedding was eventually fixed with a friend of yours, who I didn’t bother to give a second glance while in college. We have been married for a month now and for once, I think am really in love. 
Am just saying that love happens, and mostly when we least expect. It doesn’t need to happen the way we would have wished it to happen, nor does it have to feel like how we want it to feel. I am so comfortably in love that Krishna doesn’t even know. May be, she might never know, but does it matter. I hope the same for you and your husband.   

Best wishes,

Bijith (and Krishna)

Love magnet!

Sometimes, love outsmarts you. Or rather, the people who love you, outsmart you. Especially, when you feel that there is only this much "love" that you could possibly receive in this lifetime, (may be a little less or more) and then suddenly "Love" comes knocking at your door and won't leave until you realise that love in itself is limitless and that "people who love you" will ensure that you always have an appetite to receive more love, regardless of how much you think you can hold.  

Okay, so much said about love. (Already repeated the word eight times in one paragraph). Sigh! I am so overwhelmed that I think am going loony. 

Cutting my 27th birthday cake with baby Adya. If mom saw
this, she'd have some "wise words" for me.

But sweet things have happened over the last couple of weeks and the ones who have gone out of their way to make me happy (they know who they are...am not dropping names) probably realise why I am writing this particular post. Yes, because they were the source of all this love! And now that I have turned 27 - my number "9" year - it just feels like I owe them so much more than just a "thank you". So, I shall pen down all that is running in my head because this influx is making my brain go numb.  

Well, it all started on July 24, the morning I was to arrive in Mumbai for a week-long break from Muscat. Two of my really close friends and my brother, welcomed me with hand-made garlands that they had meticulously stitched together while waiting for my predictably-delayed Air India flight to reach base. Since that day on, I've had little reason to not smile...thanks to all the wonderful and special people I met in my home city. It all seemed magical till it lasted and I really owe them for that.   

And yesterday, my friends in Muscat sealed this state of mine and gave it a sense of permanence. So, no matter what happens, I will never forget this day. I finally have an amusing "birthday story" to tell my kids, of how an "entire mall" conspired to wish me on the eve of the 27th year of my birth.    

The August 8th - one friend called it Jane Jayanthi and strangely, it turned out that way - surprise began with my close friends cum colleagues, asking me to join them at a mall to shop for an impending baby-shower of another co-worker. So I headed to the retail outlet at the mall with my lovely friend (the lady in red), and we were scanning through baby items while waiting for the rest to join us when a nine-year-old boy approached me from nowhere, asking: "Are you Jane?" 

I nodded, confused. The next second, he popped out a rose and an envelope: "Happy Birthday," he said and sneakily escaped. 

I read the letter tucked inside the envelope. It said: 

"Jane is gonna go crazy...Seek the store where creativity meets cocoa. Linda and Elaine have something for you."

With the surprise party, after the surprise

I looked at my friend; she stared at me blankly, trying so hard to look shocked and feign ignorance (great actor, must say). 
By now, I realised this was no "baby shower shopping". "Well, you are on a trail birthday girl," she warned. 

What followed was me hopping from a chocolate shop to a coffee house, then an Italian-stationery store and cake shop, before finally landing up at the food court, collecting clues, gifts and birthday wishes from store keepers on my way. 
At the end of it, I looked like a walking-talking goodie bag with a "Happy Birthday" balloon in tow, making all the kids at the mall envious of me. (For a change, someone was checking me out, even if it were babies...okay, very cougarish...sorry!)

The icing on the cake quite literally was the Irish coffee cake that was waiting for me, along with the "baby shower shoppers". Apparently, the boy who handed me the rose recorded my entire treasure trail on the Nikon camera. I know now that he'd do a good job, when he has a girl friend. All in all, it was such an incredible day that it needed to be saved for posterity on this blog. 

To top it all, I received a message from "Notes from The Universe" (Read: www.tut.com) in my inbox last night; it read:  

"See, Jane? 
I told you everything was lining up for you; that the right people were headed your way; that the right things would be said; that you'd become a total love magnet; and that very little of this would be apparent as it was unfolding, yet in hindsight you'd see the stunning perfection. 
It's just that right now, you're mostly in the unfolding part. 
All is according to plan"

P.S. At the back of my head, am thinking, well...I think I am a "love magnet" after all!