Letters to love

She sat under the tree on the hill, took out the notebook and began to write. Another letter to him, about life since the last letter. Her hand flew over the paper, struggling to keep pace with her thoughts. She paused once, wondering whether he would really be interested in reading about the shade of yellow that she had painted her bedroom walls in, or the new herbs that she had planted in the kitchen window of her tiny cottage. No, he would want to know, the voice in her head assured.

She looked down at the small valley below the hill, taking in the small, colouful roofs and the winding roads. Tiny figures walked about, going to school or work, engaged in their lives completely unaware of her observant eye. We must look like that to God, she suddenly thought. Pleased with the thought, she proceeded to pen it down.

She wondered what he was doing right at that moment. He must be in his office, with his back to the huge window, shouting at some nameless minion who had displeased him. She remembered how, at the beginning, she had never heard him raise his voice. The beginning was a wonderful place. It was where they had explored these mountains together after meeting on a hiking trail by chance. It was where they had been enchanted by wildflowers, the crisp, fresh air, and each other. The idyll was perhaps even more beautiful in her memory now. She remembered his glib talent for weaving dreams, dreams of a future with a grand house by the sea, a life where there were no empty moments. It had seemed something worth leaving behind the peace of the mountains for. After all, he had already taken her heart with him to the city.

She had tried. At the job which killed a bit of her spirit every day. At making the small, airless house that they shared a home. At being alive, even a little bit. At first he hadn't noticed her struggling. He was always busy, his eyes and heart full of the city, its noises and rhythms. The crowds, the jostling, the daily struggle for survival only energized him. Unable to return his enthusiasm, she retreated into silence. The one-sided fights and remonstrations started, and became a matter of course. He could not understand her, her unhappiness with his growing success. He didn't remember the last time she had smiled. He was sure her malady could be diagnosed and cured. His inability to do so led to another round of guilt-fuelled fights.He was becoming someone else, someone she couldn't love.

So she came back to the mountains. To where she could breathe again. Where a house could be small but still filled with sweet sunshine. Where people didn't jostle because there was nowhere to rush off to. She had feared being lonely at first, which is why she started writing to him. She realized it was easier to talk to him, to love him this way. Where he was just a memory, full of youth and hope.

She finished her letter, put it in an envelope and sealed it. She got up and removed the rock in front of the small hole in the mountain's face where the other letters were kept. A lot of letters, with all the love in her heart over the last decade. After placing the newest letter there, she sealed it again with the rock before going home.

The mountains would keep her secrets, and her heart.

His True Story

He stirs slowly in his sleep, his body fully relaxed and entwined with hers. With the foggy vision of dream-filled eyes, he looks at her for a long time. The love of his life, lying asleep in his arms. It doesn't get much better than that.

He remembers the day he had first laid eyes on her. He had instantly recognized the soft vulnerability behind her mask of disdain. She had seemed cowed, afraid of the world. Her pride kept her back stiff, but he sensed the hurt that lay beneath. In this world that worshipped fair skin, her dark, glowing beauty had made her a target of scorn. The eyes betrayed the bewilderment that had hardened into anger; they spoke of the heart that somehow still held on to its softness.

She had been ill then, he recalled. Everyday she would have to undergo a ritual of cleaning and meditation that left her none too pleased. She knew that he watched her while all this went on; perhaps his gaze made her indignity worse. Whatever the reason, for a long time she had responded to his frank, open gaze with nothing but disinterest tinged with a faint whiff of hostility.

He cannot pinpoint the moment when he had tumbled headlong into love with her. It wasn't important anyway. He knew that she was the one he was destined for. He did not question these things anymore. He knew she was far from perfect. She would never be bound by notions like fidelity because she hadn't journeyed enough to realize that sharing bodies was also a form of worship. She would never be a good mother for their offspring: she was too wound up in her own fears, and wasn't fear another form of vanity? He  realized all her flaws, but they were just a part of the pattern that made her. He remembered, very dimly, once thinking that only perfection deserved love. He recalled, too, that perhaps, many lifetimes ago he had sacrificed love because the object of his affection had not proved worthy of the pedestal he had placed her on. Many lifetimes hence had cured him of these foolish human notions. He now knows that true love has no cause simply because it isn't an effect. He watches people around him still struggling with these notions. Most of them already know in their hearts whether they love or not. But in a world that prizes cleverness over honesty, most of them have forgotten how to listen to their hearts. Thank God, he shudders, thankfully at this stage of evolution he has left these things far behind.

He now remembers with amusement the slow, almost imperceptible thaw in her eyes over time, as she plucked up the courage to return his gaze. By then he had been sure of his feelings for her for a long time, but he knew she was still too timid, too fearful to reach out to him. And he wasn't about to wait another lifetime. So one day, when her attendants had left the door open in the midst of her daily healing ritual, he calmly walked up to her, gazed briefly into her startled, beautiful eyes, and started licking her thoroughly. He cleaned her gently, washing out the sickness, the sadness and the pain. He infused her skin, her being with his deep, unchanging love. Once she was clean, he pulled her to himself and settled her into his embrace. They fell asleep together, the first time in many times to come. When he awoke to see the light in her eyes, he knew that they had found their happily ever after.

She's still sleeping. Their children are curled up nearby. He licks his paws clean, breathes in a sigh of complete contentment, and goes back to sleep.

Note: Thanks to Elbee for the inspiring plot, and for the real-life protagonists, D and K.

I Will Protect Myself

Being a woman in India is a compromise, a compromise that we accept at birth. We are taught lessons of acceptance, of shame, of fear. We are taught to keep our heads and voices down, never to 'provoke', either with words or actions. We are taught that all men have vicious animals dormant in them, and yet that they are better than us.

We perpetrate these notions in our sisters, friends and daughters. We demean other women by saying things like 'She looks like a slut' or 'Those shoes make her look like a hooker'. We teach our sons to disrespect women by saying 'Don't cry like a girl'. No wonder they think we're weak, that we will take anything they give us. We judge a woman's right to protest against assault by asking whether she was dressed appropriately, whether she was out late, whether she was drunk, whether she was the partying type. Those who refuse to live by our rules are asking to be brutalized. Even those who play by the rules are asking for it simply by being women.

Our political class knows us too well. They know that the best way to shut up a rape victim is to imply that she is a prostitute. They know that most of us do not believe that a prostitute too has a right to deny consent for sex, that she too can be raped. They know that our anger will abate the moment we leave the protest venue and go back to earning a living.

I have no faith in this government or any other because it is made up of men and women just like us. A government which is powerless even to make sure that auto drivers do not refuse female passengers hardly inspires confidence. A political class which passes resolutions to increase its pay with supreme efficiency cannot come to an agreement that women deserve to feel safe. I know that most of those six rapists will probably be hanged, because it's easy. Because none of them belong to well-connected families with political clout. I know that ultimately I'm the only one who cares about my safety. But I will do what I can to make things better.

I will not shame any woman for her clothes or her habits. Nothing gives me the right to do that.

I will learn to defend myself as far as possible.

I will learn to rely on myself as much as possible.

I will never do anything to put another woman in danger.

I will not teach my son that he is better than women.

I will not teach my daughter that she is less than a man.

I will not keep my voice down.

I will not be ashamed to be a woman.

To the girl who faced worse cruelty than anyone deserves, I'm sorry we all failed you.

Dear All, Fiction

Love is bandied around too much. The word, stupid. You don’t need to love to say the words. But I did. You remember that schmaltzy song, the one which said ‘Love was when I loved you’? I did love you, enough to know that you needed me. Even when you kept lying to my face.

Stop crying now. Don’t be a whiner. She’s gone, she won’t come back. Your tears are no magic elixir of life. I sent her away for good this time. I’m always the one doing the hard things to keep us together. But it’s nice that you need me that way.

No, you only thought that you loved her. How could you, when your heart was so full of me? I just had to make you see it. She kept getting in the way. Tenacious, I’ll give her that. Made me almost regret what I had to do to her. But then, I had to get you.

What d’you mean by that? Of course this is love. Yes, it’s vengeance too. What makes you think the two are different? Vengeance is just love gone bad. You know how love feels when it changes? Like a light inside you that suddenly turns into an inferno. You’re always burning, keeping it from the world, but smouldering  inside. Your heart turns black, but the love/vengeance keeps it alive till it consumes everything around. The weak ones let it destroy them. But you know how strong I’ve always been.

Yes I know you tried telling me that you didn’t feel the same way. At first I believed you. I actually felt my heart break. Spent a few days crying, thinking nothing was going to be the same. But then I realized that it wasn’t true, couldn’t be true. And the world righted itself again. Now look what I’ve done to you. I’ve turned you into what I was for those few days for which there is no forgiveness. Your tears, I’m actually enjoying them.

Let go of her hand, it’s cold already. Let’s sit here and enjoy the view. It’s the least you can do for me, after all I did for you. But then, my darling, you were totally worth it.

Making memories

I want to remember this time. Maybe words won't be enough, but they can try. I want to remember the endless whirlpool of nerves in my stomach at the thought of getting married. I want to recall the details of the trip to Benaras for the perfect saree. I want to remember serious jewellery decision-making via Skype. I want to hold in my mind the perfection of the moment when I wore the lighter-than-air green lehnga in a small Chandni Chowk fantasy shop.

There were the days we spent checking bed linen in every hotel in Shillong. The hurried decision over which colour suits whom in the extended family, while sipping cups of tea in a shop from a hundred years ago in Benaras. The moment when the sparkle in the 150th pair of shoes I was trying on suddenly seemed to work. The living room debate over curries and cakes. Every moment, every detail, every little thing was driven by one desire: to make sure that nothing was less than it could have been. No regrets.

Maybe you don't get everything you thought you would. Maybe you don't need to. But you can make a lot many dreams come true with a little bit of time, a little bit of love and a lot of good people. For those who would've been very important in this whole affair in another lifetime, but can now do no more than look on from above, all I want to say is this. The very best you could do, you have done through my hands. It's time, for you and me both, to be happy now.

Spring Again

I love this time of the year because the air feels like silk over your skin. The wind still retains a little bite, and the nights are perfect for long-winded stories and remembrances of a softer time. This year feels better, because there's a backyard to experiment with, plants to water everyday and birds to chase away.

I remember my mother being good with plants. Putting down new roots, adding here, pruning there. Organic fertilizer, and lots of love. Chrysanthemums and snowballs, forget-me-nots and dahlias, gladioli and daisies. Homegrown tomatoes and mint leaves, flat beans from the terrace garden. Fragrance in spring; sharp and piquant, mellow and soothing. Bursts of colour amidst seas of green, celebrating life in the only way that mattered.

Life turned brown for so long in between that I stopped looking for spring. The seasons mattered only in as much as whether to complain about the heat or cover up against the cold. There was no space to plant a bit of me, and no will to either. And then, in the year where everything else seemed to be going wrong, spring showed up. I have a backyard, with a lemon tree, a papaya tree and a pomegranate tree. There are plants which are beginning to sprout the first flowers of the year. The guava tree is loaded with beautiful young leaves, a mixture of dew green and red. The front yard is filled with potted plants, all crowned with the most beautiful blooms. My fingers are itching to get some mud on them.

In so many ways, professionally, this is the worst year I've had. Looking for the ideal job is always less interesting than it sounds. And the only people who know your awesome work ethic are those you already know. And yet, I can't seem to get too worried about it just yet. Someone will hire me to do something I love, someday soon. Till then, the world is green again, and that will do.

A Love Unlike Others - II

Around Seema, people bustled, busy with the million details that made weddings such a complicated affair. Her mind, however, was at another, very different wedding: one that belonged to another time and another person.

Zoe's wedding was far from the lavish extravaganza that Seema had always pictured for her friend. Zoe's gloomy prognosis about Rajiv's parents had been correct. For a month after the marriage was registered, they staunchly refused to believe that their son could have taken up with 'such a girl'. It was only the prospect of social humiliation that had prodded them into organizing the world's unhappiest wedding reception for their only child and his wife. Even now, they stood on the sidelines with fixed smiles and hard, flinty eyes that watched as their daughter-in-law effortlessly charmed their extended family and legions of friends.

Seema barely knew how she had managed to get through the last month. With a resolve she barely knew existed, she had called her mother and agreed to consider the colourful brochures her mother had collected, each promising more and more idyllic visions of an education overseas, far away from the pain that kept her awake at night. She had no illusions: this was an escape, a retreat and nothing more. She packed her bags, refusing to give her hostel room the honour of lingering in its memories. The month that she spent at home, she was careful to mask any sign of unhappiness from her mother. The constant strain of watching every word she spoke took its toll. She spent the first twenty hours after her arrival in the US in a deep, dreamless sleep.

But maybe she was built with sterner stuff than she gave herself credit for. She did get out of bed, eventually. She refused campus accommodation and found herself a tiny apartment that was utilitarian enough to discourage any attachment. She enrolled for as many classes as would fill up the day. She barely spoke to anyone. The recluse in her was familiar, safe, a protective blanket that kept her going. Till one day, she looked up from a book she was reading on her bus, and lost her heart to Boston.

It was fall, and the sky was just crisp enough, the colours of the leaves on the trees sharp enough for her to draw her breath with pleasure. She spent hours just walking up and down the streets, looking at the houses with the beautiful shrubs, feeling each crunch of every leaf under her foot, savouring the crisp autumn air as if she were breathing again after a long time. She was helpless against the smile that curved her lips upwards. She didn't even realize she was grinning till she noticed a few people smiling back at her.

She went back home, drew the curtains till all light was vanquished, and got back into bed.