The forgotten year

She felt a twinge. He did not want her. Really he could have had her anytime he wanted. She wasn’t just his prisoner. She was his. Over the last year in Lanka, she had lost her heart to the man the world presumed had kidnapped her.

Yes he had never kidnapped her. Nothing half as fancy or bizarre had happened as what that Valmiki had constructed. In truth, she and Ram had had another one of their squabbles. In anger she had walked out of the hut.

This time for good.

Sia couldn’t take any more of him. Him with his high principles. As she crossed the jungle clearing, she saw the tiger Sia decided this was the best way to end her life. All those years spent following a man who was nothing but an empty shell of what she had imagined. All his words, morals, principles, everything was meant for the other life.

Nothing for here and now.

But she was here. And her needs needed to be fulfilled now.

She stood before the ferocious beast and made an impassioned speech for it to take her away, deliver her from her misery, and make a meal of her. At least then there would be some purpose to her vagabond life.

The tiger roared. It almost sounded like a laugh. And then she realised it was a laugh. Before her very eyes the tiger with his roar morphed into Ravan with his bellowing laughter.

Sia had never seen Ravan before so she thought he was some pagan jungle God. He wasn’t breathtakingly handsome, but when he stood before her, she knew she had met a ‘force’.

He politely introduced himself. In the most casual manner he said, “Ravan, you may have heard of me”

She blinked.

“Oh the ten heads are metaphorical, if you are looking for them” said Ravan.

She stood there gaping at him. Everything that had happened before this moment seemed to shrink in comparison. She, Sia, wife of Ram, whom some said was born to rid the world of evil, was facing The Ravan all alone defenceless.

Only, Ravan didn’t attack her.

In fact what he did was advise her to return to the hut because the jungle was unsafe. And she poured her heart out to him. She was just a child when she married; everything seemed glorious then, the swamvar, Ayodhya, Ram, and even the Vanwaas. But now as the years had passed she wanted none of the glory, nobility or her acquired ideal wife status. Sia wanted a home and children.

She spoke, like she had never spoken before. After all there was no one who would listen, in this forest. Ram was to busy handling the cosmos and Lakshman he couldn’t see beyond his brother. For the first time she had met a person who, although not on her side, was definitely not going to side with Ram.

Ravan patiently heard her, well ranting. When she finished she was on the verge of tears. He waited till she had composed herself. And then Ravan said.

“You are more woman than Devi. Perhaps born a few million years before or after your time. There was a time and there will be a time when your views would be the norm. But not know. A woman can’t leave her husband weather he is Ravan or Ram. You will have to return.”

Sia knew he was right. But she did not want to go back. She threatened to continue her journey into the forest. He requested her to wait, he’d think of something. After all, he did not have those 10 heads for nothing.

His solution was quite an ingenious one. Sia would go with him to Lanka. Live there as a guest, she’d be safe there he guaranteed. Ram would ultimately find out and follow. Not for love but for his pride in always doing the right thing and to protect one’s wife was the right thing. Even if that wasn’t what she wanted. Later a battle would ensue. Ram would win and take her home like a prize trophy. It won’t change much but it would give Sia a year of freedom.

She was the bait, that she knew. But it was odd that Ravan wanted to draw out Ram, not to kill him, but be killed himself. While she was still thinking about the problem, Ravan answered.

“It’s part of the cosmic cycle. It’s my turn to die. I’ve been waiting for the last 14 years. But Ram is a reluctant God who has a large role to play and is unsure of himself. Whatever his move, this time the dice has rolled against me.”
She was surprised at his ability to read her mind. Later it seemed almost natural. She’d think of a question. He’d answer it.

They flew over the forest and ocean in his wind craft. No Jatayu attacked them, but they did have a bird hit. Many years later when she would think about this journey she’d wonder if all legends were born of truths so mundane.


Lanka.

Lanka was an embodiment of her ruler. Not splendid like Mithila, her home, or ostentatious like Ayodhya. It was a powerful fortress, made of natural volcanic rock. Set amidst the most unique shade of emerald green grass and surrounded by the might grey ocean, it was so raw and natural that it evoked a gasp from Sia.

Once the wind craft descended, Ravan took her straight to the palace. He made arrangements for her stay, ensured that she was comfortable and then left. Initially, Ravan visited her at the Ashok Vatika just to play his part as a gracious host. But gradually these visits increased in frequency and duration.

When Sia was with Ravan time flew. As she got to know him better, she understood Ram a bit more. For Ravan, was an absolute anti thesis to Ram. That was perhaps the only thing scriptures of the future would get right. Where Ram was constrained Ravan lacked restraint. The words moderation and temperance had no meaning for him. Yet this did not make him a rakshas. In fact it made him almost super human. He wanted what no man ever dared to desire. And acquired it.

His biggest sin, or achievement, depending on where you stood, was the war against the Gods. Ravan counter argued that it was a king’s duty to extend his kingdom far and wide. There was no limit to that, no territory marked off. He had merely followed his duty when he extended his dominion over heaven.

There was in him an over arching desire to constantly test the limits, outdo himself and challenge the norm. This was his flaw. And it enraged the Gods so they had decided to send one of their own to punish him.

This reminded Sia of something she had heard at her father’s court. During a discussion on literature a Greek emissary had described the pattern of Greek tragedies. In every story the hero was man of great character, who rose to enviable heights, yet he suffered from one tragic flaw. This flaw often enraged the Gods, who then engineered his downfall.

If a Greek literary were to write his story, Ravan would surely be a hero, Sia said.

He laughed.

And with that he introduced her to the ‘other’ point of view. Grey he felt was a truer reflection of things than black and white, good or evil. When Ram would win the war, it would be called the victory of good over evil. However if Ravan was the victor and lived to tell the tale the picture would change colours. It would be the story of how a king deeply in love with his people protected the land and its culture from a foreign invasion.

Often they sat for hours discussing things. She knew Ravan saw in her an intellectual worth his time. After all he was one of the wisest men of his age, and to have him give her his time was the best compliment she had received. It made her proud.

Sia saw in Ravan a infectious zest for life and living. Yes it came with its excesses wine and women. But Sia was ready to overlook them. Somehow Ram’s 14 year of denial and austerity did not compare well with a man who could enjoy every moment knowing that it brought him closer to certain death.

Once while travelling in the wind craft Sia heard Ravan give instructions to begin a new project. Her wistful look told him what she was thinking. He’d never be there to see them complete. Ravan answered the unasked question.

This life we have been given is the envied even by the Gods. Only because of the myriad emotions we can feel. Joy, sorrow happiness, pain, love, anger, lust. To deny myself any of these would be a foolish waste of this human life.



Slowly Sia had begun to fall for the Demon king with his gentle manner and tremendous strength. The revelation first came to her when he was away to another sphere and could not meet her for 10 days. At first Sia thought she was just bored. But as the days passed and there was no message from him, she began to panic. Had something happened to him? Was he alright? Had Ram found him and killed him?

Sia was almost delirious with joy when he returned. She flung herself at him with relief. He laughed and said, “It’s not time yet.”

The little interlude made her realise that someday when they would actually part ways she wouldn’t be able to bear it. She wished she could do something to prevent it. But she couldn’t even pray. For whom would she pray to? The God who was going to kill Ravan.


Although he spent all the time he could with her, showing her his palace, his inventions much as she wished Ravan would touch her, he didn’t. She was sure he could feel her desire, but he chose not to mention it.

Sia knew she was pretty. Almost beautiful with her slim spritely figure, clear skin, brown eyes and heart-shaped face. She often wondered what kind of a woman would Ravan like. And in reply came Mandodri.

The queen herself. She was everything Sia wasn’t. Yet she was enchanting. Dark, well endowed and she wore the deepest red Sari. She looked like one of those exotic tribal women who came to her father’s court. Just not tribal. But royal.

Mandodri glared at Sia. For 10 minutes she studied Sia’s every feature as if she were a subject. Finally Mandodri said “You are not his type.” Sia knew that already from experience.



Slowly but surely Ram had arrived on the shores of Lanka. He had collected a huge army of the most terrible beasts. They made the demons of Lanka seem docile. The war began. The two forces from either end of the spectrum had assembled on the battle field In the middle of this great cosmic upheaval was she, Sia. She had spent almost 13 years with a man she no longer loved and one with a being who never loved her. Every righteous woman believed her husband was a God. Being married to a God, Sia wished he was a man.


On the 18th day of the war Ravan gave up his life to an ill aimed arrow by Ram.

Her year of freedom was over. And Sia had reached a decision. She didn’t want to leave. So committed Sati along with the other Lankan women. Later guised as the Agnipariksha.

In order to save himself from the disgrace that his wife had chosen another over him, Ram took a tribal woman as Sia. People change in 14 years and some say she did have a striking resemblance to Sia.

However, the woman was a constant reminder to Ram of the one area he had failed. So finally, he sent her away on some trivial pretext of a dhobi’s complain.

Zoya

The kids were after Zoya again.

Sitting in the drawing room he could hear nothing. See everything. How little Zoya stamped her feet. How she was answering them. How their heads bobbed as they chanted the harsh truth of her life as if it were a rhyme learnt at school.

“Zoya is adopted. Zoya is adopted….”

Zoya’s eyes welled up. She pushed some of the boys and ran away. How could someone her size have so much courage, Sagar wondered.

“Like mother, like daughter” replied his head.

He always wanted a boy. Not because of some medieval tradition of carrying forward the name or something. But simply because he did not know what to do with a girl. Their house had always been full of boys. 3 brothers and 5 cousins who fought and played with each other.

How the heck do you deal with a small girl?

But Naina wanted a girl, so they brought home Zoya.

He found Zoya sitting amidst the plants. When she shook her head while crying, her curls bounced up and down. Naina would have loved her curly hair.

He sat there beside her. She looked at him waiting for him to say something.

He didn’t.

Finally she spoke.

“I’m not yours”

He sighed. She was five and already ‘impossible’.
None of the arguments that would placate someone her age would work here. No sir, he had to say something…something more … more honest. That’s what Naina would have done.
When Sagar and Naina had begun courting, Sagar would steal lines from obscure Japanese love films and quote them to her as his own. They made him sound ‘deep’.
Naina would say something very ordinary and mundane. Like how their love did not give her butterflies in the stomach or weak knees. But just a deep sense of calm like she was home. It sounded so unromantic yet he knew that it meant a lot more than the Japanese dialogue because it was true.

A little wiser, he knew, today, none of the emotional ‘dialogues’ would do just one honest true admission that would convince Zoya that she was theirs.

He searched his memory for something.

And found a diary.

It was amongst the few belongings of Naina’s that he had saved.

His mind turned the pages till it reached an entry on September 28. The first time Naina had dreamt of a little girl with curly hair. There was nothing extraordinary about the dream. Yet something had made Naina write it.

Sagar remembered the next dream. He was in Bombay. Naina had made an STD call to tell him she had dreamt about the little girl again. In this dream Naina had sent Sagar away shopping with a hot seductress because the little girl had invited her for a tea party.

They had laughed about it.

The little girl continued to visit Naina in her dreams. A little more frequently now. So Naina christened her Zoya. Finally, she told him they had to invite Zoya home. A few tests at the hospital revealed they couldn’t have a child.

On December 23 they visited the Hope Foundation.

And 5 months after Zoya had first come in Naina’s dream, she came home.


Zoya looked up at her father. Her eyes dry.
“I’m really yours. Mummy knew me”

It had worked.

How could it not. The truth always works.

The Unborn

It was the fifth week in a row when he had to travel. He didn't mind the travel really though. It was what it did to their relationship. Or rather to him.
Meethi had been clinging to him more and more. At first he had thought it would get better with time. it got worse. each time he was out she got lonely. And then the STD wars would begin. She'd quibble and fight over the smallest things, issues that existed only in her imagination. His patience was wearing thin. He had begun to use the D word in their fights.

The phone beeped. It was her. He excused himself from the room. This was going to be long. He took a deep breath and picked up the phone. Meethi was surprisingly, fine. Not happy. Not ecstatic. Fine.
He waited for it to get worse. Any minute now.
It didn't.
In fact what did happen, was a nothing short of a minor earthquake, measuring 4.76 on the Richter scale.
She wanted to have a baby.
Meethi wanted to have a baby.
Now while it may be normal for any 29 year old woman to make this decision, coming from her it was unthinkable. For the 4 years that they were married and the 3 years before that he had never known her to even mention herself and a baby in the same breath.
She had had a long talk with him before they got married. She never wanted a child. and if he did they couldn't marry.
He had weighed it in his mind. Not carefully. For the initial rush of passion never allows for careful introspection.
He agreed.
Now here he was in the sweltering Mumbai May listening to her.
She told him they would begin stuff in December after their anniversary. But in the next 6 months she wanted to live her entire life. Do whatever. Go wherever.
"So that you have no regrets when the baby comes", he asked her.
"No regrets and never satisfied" She giggled. Shane Warne from the IPL semi final 2008, she informed him.
The next 6 months. They were, well bliss.
She was happy, he knew. Each morning she would jump out of bed, kiss him and go for a long walk. How could anyone ever jump out of bed at 6 unless they were missing a flight, he couldn't comprehend.
Morning person, she answered.
When the boss stole her film. She still sang.
How, he asked.
I was born under a happy star, she answered.
They laughed a lot those days.
Goa and Ranikhet. two holidays. Despite his hectic schedule.
they did not fight. not even when he worked late every single day of the week in November. In fact barely made it for dinner on her birthday.
She stayed in office with him. Typing away furiously at the keyboard. With spectacles slipping off her nose, ever so often.
Those were the days. they lived as if there was no tomorrow. not reckless but carefree like kids.
Perhaps he had just been worried once. When he noticed how much weight she had lost.
"i have to gain my figure before I lose it" She cried.
"Crazy" he replied.

Their anniversary came. The days had not flown past. It hadn't been a whirlwind 6 months. But a gurgling brook. that tripped, fell and danced down a mountain.
They spent the afternoon with a few friends over for lunch. she insisted on cooking everything herself and served only wine. It was almost evening when the guests left.
Buzzed by the sweet port wine, Meethi slept in his arms all evening. When he saw her face he silently wished for a daughter just like her.
Two days later, she took him to the hospital. Counselling for the father to be.
She sat outside while he went in.
The counsellor showed him a file. She had visited them a few months back in May, complaining of regular headaches. A chance test had revealed a rare strain of cancer. they had given her 6-8 months.

She had promised him a new life. But when she left, she took his away.

If we never meet again

Dear M,

If you’ve found this letter, chances are, I am no more.
I guess you are surprised to find a letter addressed to yourself that’s never been sent to you. Well it was never meant to be sent. Just found like you’ve found it now.

I sort of believed that my things will remain here, as I had left them, after I go. (just can’t get myself to say ‘dead’) Till the day you decide to sort them, and me, out of your life. Then you’ll find this here.

And you have.

Hello my love.

I love you. Still do. Always will

I just don’t ever want to go away without telling you this. Although I hope I’ve said it a million times to you by now.
But like a smoker the last one is the most important. And can’t quit without it.


Hence the letter.

Love
Divya

Mohan (name changed), read the letter once again. He had found it amongst her clothes. Carefully kept under the old newspaper that lined the shelf. It was inside a white envelope addressed to him. At first he was startled to see it there. Naturally, curiosity took over, he opened it.

Why had she written it? Was it some kind of an intuition? She was always very particular about goodbyes. Especially, after their fight. That particular fight.

It happened long ago. They were seeing each other and had a fight in office. Later in the evening, he had dropped her home and sped off on his bike without saying a word. Without saying bye.

They did not make up that night over the phone. Each too proud. And each too secure in the knowledge that there’s always tomorrow.

The very next day he left for an outdoor assignment. They could not meet. Not for ten whole days. A grain of sand in the sea of time. But when you are in love, every moment apart seems like eternity in a dry dead desert.

The pride died pretty quickly thereafter. And like lovers often do, they called each other to speak till wee hours. Later they laughed, that month MTNL must have announced an unscheduled bonus.

Whrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!
An aircraft passed overhead.

It was 3 pm her plane must have taken off for Mumbai. She had called him to say bye. He was in a meeting and had promised to call back. But forgot.

Khajuraho

Office trips are the birthplace of lunchroom stories. This one however, had stories even before it began.

Khajuraho, the place itself spelt mischief. “Who thought of it?” “Whose popular choice????” “Who’s going to sleep with whom?” (Curtsey management) “Can we do an award -winning idea on it?” (Hanif Qureshi did, with the T-shirts).

With the office abuzz, we all boarded the train at 6.30am. An achievement, considering advertising timings. The journey to Jhansi witnessed the unraveling of quite a few juicy tidbits. First the positions. Creative Director downward, of course. Soon, everyone was wrapped in the romance of gossip.

The bus trip was a bit of a dampener because of the heat. But the happy Ogilvyians revived with a splash at Taj Chandela. At sunset everyone had their ‘peak-a boo’ of the famed temples. The romance created by the Light and Sound Show sparked desire for the next day’s guided tour. After hectic parting, at night where everyone let their hair down, we were already feeling the lure of the temples.

The seductive sculptures, erotic art had their own strange effect. The photographs, prove this. The temple visit set everyone in a frenzied search for ‘erotic key chains’. Positions were hunted for, prizes shown off, exchanges and bargains sought.

Those who weren’t too exhausted by the temple visit set off for the Rane Falls. And the evening’s highlight was the Awards. The titles seem to have stuck on. Since it was the last evening the merrymakers continued till wee hours of the morning. Leaving few enthusiasts for the sanctuary. The journey back resounded with requests, cribs and pleas for the next day off. Unfortunately it did not lead to the desired outcome.

In short, Khajuraho was, as someone in the office aptly put it, “A sexy trip”

A walk in the clouds

It’s strange how a stroll in the mountains and a few drops of rain can change you.

I seriously recommend travelling to anyone caught in the web of urban life. It’s therapeutic. Put a little distance between yourself and your daily routine. Viola! The dull, dreary walls of dead habit come crumbling down. A recluse, introvert, weary of strangers; on a recent trip to Sonapani, a village in Kummaon, I met my schizo opposite.

Sonapani resort is located in a bowl of lush green vegetation. A good rainfall had drenched the valley in a glistening shade of green. As far as the eye could see, there wasn’t another colour. It was green everywhere. Everywhere except a spot of red on the adjacent range. A tree that stood out. Proud and distinct as a peacock amongst fowl. With each passing hour, it changed colour. Bright orange in the morning light to burning amber in the afternoon to brick red in the evening.

By next morning I knew I had to get a closer look. After a late breakfast, I set out. Unprepared,
umbrella-less and directionless. As long as the flaming tree was in my view, I guessed I was on the right track.

After an hour and a half, I reached someone’s estate entrance. Without a moment’s hesitation or fear (a charging Bhutia, mad cows or a psycho owner, the possibilities seemed endless) I jumped across the barbed wire fence and marched to my tree. Much like a homing pigeon, if I may add.

20 odd steps later, I was confronted by the estate’s owner. A no-nonsense ex-army colonel. Without a word I knew I had trespassed. Instantly I felt the bhutia dog might have been easier to handle. Before he could begin interrogation I blurted, “this tree I had to take a closer look.” Taken aback, he replied, “oh yes one of the first my great grandfather planted when the British gifted him the village.”

I don’t know if it was my 5 foot nothing, drenched; dishevelled frame or the colonel’s pride in the kind of admiration I had lavished on his tree or simply the rain but I was taken into the house. We spent the evening over endless cups of tea and fresh-off-the-tree apples recounting tales of the first gurkha regiment that set foot in Sonapani.

Once the rain stopped, the colonel escorted me safely back to the camp. Later that night, huddled around the bonfire, my husband asked if the trek to the tree was worth it. I smiled. It sure was.