Merry Marry

25^th December is the time to say merry Christmas. But as Christianity has rightly enlightened us about the ‘original sin’, we the country with the most diversified ‘religious portfolio’ start a new yearly wedding season. The jingle bells sound like wedding bells for many wannables. And about the ‘sin’, Adam and Eve couldn’t resist the apple; we are hardly anyone to resist ‘shaadi ke laddu’.

It’s said about such laddus that “jo khaye wo pachtaye aur jo na khaye wo bhi pachtaye”. Meaning we are insects attracted to a tube light. For those who are less biologically inclined, insects are attracted to tube lights because they think they have got ‘available opposite sex’ there. Apparently there is some ‘wavelength locha’. Insects ready to mate and tube lights emit similar signals. Only that they end up in lizard’s stomach after a brief period of excitement.

This really sums up marriage. We are insects, tube light is the institution of marriage and lizard is our society. Needless to say, brief period of excitement is the honeymoon period.  

From where we arrived at the modern concept of marriage? Had our lords told so? No. Krishna was more interested in his Gopis. Lord Rama’s father had three wives. The five pandavas were married to one woman and they freely ‘dated’ other women. Hail Hindu! Had our national heroes told so? No. Gandhi’s marriage was based on the oath of celibacy. Nehru, well, we all know. Raja Ram Mohan Roy, the biggest reformer of modern India was married thrice. And still, we the faithful followers stick to one man one woman policy of perfect marriage.

Why marriage in the first place? Academicians suggest - because we cannot control. All other species have a well defined mating periods and they procreate obeying nature’s cycle. We humans on the other hand are ever ready. So we need a strong institution like marriage to stop anarchy in the society. Even with so many bondages, look at our population, we indeed are God’s best creation.   

For many of us who don’t like being compared with insects and being called ‘control freak maniacs’, let’s get into real ‘marriage business’. How do we choose mates?

For women, they have three different categories to choose from.

Type I is the NRI type. Those who were hot in the late 90’s in the marriage market. They promised of a future in a far away land, the ideal prince charming in the wonderland with lot of money. They meant an opportunity to break free from “saree-saas-sasural” triangle. But with the world economy taking a plunge, these potential grooms now lie grounded. They are out of flavour for ‘informed’ girls. The families are more sceptical in ‘giving their daughters’ to NRI husbands. Their fortune in marriage market is as sensitive as sensex.

Type II is the metro man. He is the company guy. He will spend all his life at one or two place. He will go office, remain there, remain a little longer, come back and sleep. He will speak the perfect words, thanks to high overdose of management slides. He is fair and handsome, not because of genes, but because he is confined to AC cubicles whole day and night and he is aware of the use of ‘guy-cosmetics’. In the present day marriage market, they are selling like hot cakes. Stability, money and presentable, they have it all. Girls are doing all in their disposals to catch such a ‘catch’. Parents are eager to consent. Perfect arm candies for modern day women.

Type III is the sarkari babu. Posted some place infected with abject poverty, they are opposite of fair and handsome, whatever that may be. Again not because of genes but because of Mother Nature and job nature. They still believe that writing is the ‘most in thing’ to do. Parents love such ‘damads’. Girls hate such ‘dumbos’. Such babus are ending up with perfect desi bahus. A complete family man for ‘praying women’.

For men, it’s the matter of being picked up. NRI types get picked up in colleges. Metro men get picked up in companies. Sarkari babus get picked up not by girls but by Godfathers – men with white kurtas and gold garlands for their ‘little girls’.

Going personal, its twilight for me. Lights are getting dim. I can sense tube light’s light. It’s my time to be the insect. And have a last laugh about it. Anyways I can’t control it. Quiet.

PS- This article is the best example of how to ruin your marriage-pickability. So, to keep my chances alive, here’s the disclaimer. This is a piece of write-art, describing a point of view. The views expressed are not really what I feel about marriage and its process. I will love getting married.

On the bus floor

It was like any other Sunday. Warmer perhaps. 19^th May evenings are like that only.

Tatanagar is a city abuzz with activities. Industrial presence means a large population of lower middle class and its surroundings confer to it. Vegetables are sold on the sides of the road, there are a lot of bicycles and yes, autos. Autos of different shapes and sizes are found all across India. In Tatanagar, ‘Piaggio’ types of autos predominate. It’s like a three wheeled, bicycle steering-ed, doors removed ‘Sumo’ whose steel body has been replaced by thick black cloth.

I came out of Tatanagar railway station and took a shared auto to ‘Mango’. Its not pronounced like ‘mango’ the fruit but ‘man’ is pronounced as in ‘hanuman’. So, its ‘m-aa-ngo’. I sat on the back side of ‘Piaggio’. Remember, Sumo’s back, the seats facing each other. Piaggio back seats are like two iron seats kept over engines at back to stuff two more people in the auto. Journey on the back seat can be enjoyable. You can stare at a biker behind the auto and annoy him. The first speed breaker reminded me that auto has iron rods beneath the cloth body as my head banged on the auto ceiling. The ‘fatt-fatt’ of the engine created a rhythm and the diesel engine spurted smoke out the back side at regular interval. The bumpy, ‘fatt-fatt’, smoky, biker-staring, hip and head wreaking and utterly enjoyable auto ride ended at ‘m-aa-ngo’ bus stand.

I quickly spotted a ‘non-stop’ bus from TATA to Ranchi. The customer friendly approach of west is still an alien concept for bus operators, conductors, drivers, agents in this part of the world. A bhai-type person with a red towel on one shoulder looked at me as if anticipating begging. I begged for a seat. “Full ho gaya, nahi milega”. “Ek bhi nahi?!” I prayed again. His face said, “Go to hell!” He said nothing and banged his palm on the bus body. Bus started leaving my sorry soul behind.

I searched for other buses. One of the buses was ready to leave the bus stand. One more conductor, a more modern one, as the red towel was kept across the shoulders around the neck in the same manner as kept by most of the heroes of daily soap operas. Sometimes I wonder if my knowledge of fashion is too little or Indian women have really pathetic choice of men fashion. The beard was again grown to ‘hero-length’.”Ranchi?” He looked sternly at me and then at the bus where it was written ‘Saharasa’. It is a place in Bihar, a 15 hour journey. I looked back with a sad face emphasising that I know it will go to Saharasa but it will cross Ranchi within 3 hours. “Chadh jao magar seat nahi milega.” “Khade jana hoga?!” He frowned at my monumentally stupid question. “Jana hai??”. I made a sad smiley sort of face and shrugged my shoulders in ‘yes’. “Paise do”. “Kitna?” I said while opening my wallet. He paused a little and awkwardly peeked into my wallet and said, “Aassi de do”. I gave him a 100 rupees note. I waited for my 20 rupees. He frowned at my stupidity. “De denge, abhi khulla nahi hai”. I got into the bus.

I searched for a place to stand. Towards the back side of the bus, in the passage between seats, an iron bench was kept. Few people were sitting on it. “Lagan ka season hai” said a person sitting on bench in an explanation of over-crowdedness. Buses to Bihar are usually over crowded. And during ‘lagan’ (marriage season), strain on public transport rises to disproportionate levels. I searched for a space to keep my laptop bag. Since it was a ‘sleeper’ bus, there were no luggage carriers. On the bus floor, nearly at the middle of its length near the bottom of one of the stairs for sleeper seats, I kept the bag. But still the bigger problem remained. Where will I sit? A boy came to me and stood by my side. “Babu, Ranchi ja rahe ho?” {I will not explain why a boy called me ‘babu’ L } I said “haan”. “Bola tha seat denge per diya nahi”. “Humko to bola tha ki khade jana hoga”. “Kitna liya?” he enquired. McDonald’s ad came to my mind. He felt relieved by my answer.

By the time bus started, few more people got into the bus. It was around 6 pm of a hot windless summer day. The idea of journeying three hours standing in a packed bus in such heat was not so comforting. But isn’t comforting a vague concept? I consoled myself. Who said being cold is more comforting? Didn’t human population started, evolved and flourished more in warmer climates? Isn’t idea of human extinction always associated with cold climate?

Anyway, no one has related standing or sitting with human extinction. So, with no other options, I sat on the bus floor in the passage between seats near my laptop bag. Towards my back side were people sitting on the iron bench and towards the front side, people were standing. A man sitting on the iron bench offered me his travel bag to sit upon. I humbly declined. A man in late 50’s was sitting at the right side seat and a woman in early 30’s was sitting on the seat towards my left.     

The people standing in front of me included that Ranchi going boy, a middle aged woman and three other men. Encouraged by me sitting on the bus floor and with the idea of long journey ahead, they got a blanket and spread it on the bus floor in front of me. The spread of the blanket was not good enough to accommodate five people, but somehow they scrambled and sat. The last person, on the blanket in front of me, was that middle aged woman.

And this blog is all about that woman sitting on the bus floor.

There was a tiny bit of space left on the already overcrowded blanket. She looked at me, looked a little longer and then smiled with a tilt of her head and tapped that tiny bit of space on the blanket beside her. I smiled back in ‘no’. Not only because I was not so small to sit in that tiny place but also because I didn’t want her to suffer in the journey due to my encroachment of her space. Her smile showed the triumph of anticipated response.

Ah! The smiles and emotions, so rare! It’s not uncommon to see security-walas scolding ‘useless poor kids’ peeking into mannequins from outside the shiny glass windows of big shops. Probably the mannequins get offended. In a world where people are judged on ‘what they have to offer’, we rarely find pure human emotions in work.  

I looked at the woman. She was wearing a dull red sari. Her hairs were tied in old style ‘judda’. Slight wrinkles were visible in her forehead and cheeks. Her earring was nothing more than a golden drop. Nothing in the neck. She was thin. ‘Envy’ thin.

The woman in her 30’s sitting on the seat towards my left asked her where she was going. “Saharasa” and then added “kya karein, hum bhi aap hi ki tarah hain, bas seat nahi mila.” “Haan” replied the woman in 30’s.

“Haan” I thought. People are like this. Every one going to the same place, some get seats, some sit on the bus floor.

There is not much difference among the people in the world. People claim intelligence as the aspect bringing difference. Intelligent people get better job, they do better, they get more money. Have you a child from a decent family ending up as a rickshaw puller? Have you seen a child of a rag picker ending up as a millionaire? Rare. In almost all cases, living conditions of next generation is relatively same as the last generation. The womb matters not the brains.

“Ranchi mein kitna ghanta lagega?” asked the woman in 30’s. “3 ghante” I replied. She gave a sympathetic look. I noticed that the bus was not moving for quite some time and people were getting restless. Passengers started to get out of the bus. We, the floor sitters, had to stand up to give way to back ‘seaters’. The woman in dull red sari woke up from her siesta and just shifted a little bit on the floor.

We got out. Bus was experiencing some ‘engine’ trouble. It was already dark outside. Various types of headlights were rushing through the highway. Slow high beams of trucks, fast high beams of buses, fast low beams of cars and single beams of motorcycles. Lights were twinkling from the few roadside dhabas. One of the ‘gumti’ (small raod side shop) was selling cold drinks, guthka (tobacco) and cigarettes. Biscuits for ‘kids’ too. Its ironical that cold drinks and tobacco have better reaches than medicines and lentils. I wandered around a little. Then I don’t know why but I returned back in the bus.

The woman in dull red sari was sleeping on the bus floor. I sat nearby. Her legs were folded to the level of her chest. Space constraint or habit, I was not sure. Her heels had cracks. Her bare stomach vibrated in sync with her breaths. It had birthmarks on it. The whites in her hair ran parallel to the wrinkles on her face. I kept watching her, my thoughts going blank.

The engine trouble was sorted out. People started getting back into the bus. The woman in dull red sari woke up as people started taking back their previous positions. Engine trouble had consumed a lot of time. People were tired. They soon fell asleep.

I rested my head on the seat next to me. My eyes closed, and it remained so for an unknown period of time.

I heard the woman in dull red sari’s voice in my dream. No, I can’t be so obsessed with her. It was real. She was saying something to the uncle on the seat. I saw his foot had slipped beneath her hips and she was asking him to keep his legs ‘within limits of his seat’. Uncle grudged on her and other fellows sitting on the floor who had occupied unnecessary space. The woman in dull red sari saw that I had woken up and seen the whole ‘scene’. She looked at me, this time a lot longer with straight head, with a look that conveyed it all. A look that showed disgust towards society, a look that told me that she didn’t want me to have witnessed that and a message that I shouldn’t be like ‘this’ in future. I picked my laptop bag from the other side and placed it in the space between her and uncle’s seat. She gave a dry smile.

Bus stopped again after some time. The engine was giving regular troubles. People again got down. I too got down. This time it was taking a lot longer. ‘Why shouldn’t I catch other buses from the road?’ I thought. I took my laptop bag from inside the bus and got down. I was watching out for buses on the road when the woman in dull red sari came out of the bus. She went towards one of many gumtis on the roadside. She unfolded one knot at end of her sari and took out a folded currency note. One bus had stopped before me and the conductor was shouting, “Chalna hai?” I looked at the conductor and then towards her. I ignored the bus conductor’s call and returned back towards my ‘original’ bus. The conductor grumbled some words behind my back.

I spent the time staring the sky. The stars seemed to have moved away from the earth. Probably expanding universe, probably too many falling stars, probably too much pollution. I shifted my attention to mechanical parts of the engine. People were gathered around the mechanic. A few expert comments from passengers, heated debate between driver and mechanic and few bolts opening and closing later, the bus was ready to move.

People went in and back to their original positions. How much humans love system and rules! It’s convenient, I suppose. We love rules and when we break one, we make a new one!

I started talking to her. How easy it is to converse with a woman twice your age! With girls of similar age, you have to weigh every word you speak against all possible ‘odds’. With her it was easy, I was a kid and everything was excusable.

I asked her a lot of questions. Questions not like – ‘Where is my shirt kept?’ ‘How much time left to prepare breakfast?’ ‘Has my trousers been pressed?’ ‘Why is dal so salty today?’ But questions like – ‘What you wanted to become in life?’ ‘Do you always wear saree?!’    

It was new to her. All her life she had been a daughter, a wife and a mother but never had anyone tried to see her as an individual. The woman in her was lost somewhere.

Her father was a farmer. She was born to his second wife. First wife was found drowned in the well. Probably slipped. Two daughters from the first two years of marriage and no child for the next five years. Probably drowned. Woman in dull red sari was the first child to second wife. Next three were brothers.

Thanks to two elder stepsisters, her childhood was better than most other girls of her area. She was only in the charge of ‘cow business’. Except milking, which was prohibited for females, she did everything for the cow. She loved making various designs out of cow dung. Once she had made a ‘shivlingam’ from cow dung and her father had given a special pat on her head. The second time, she received such a pat on her marriage. She was fourteen.

She wanted to marry any important man, like the tahsildar. Her wife had more jewellery than other women. Her home had two floors with a balcony. People looked strange when seen from top, she had observed while repairing the thatched roof of her cow shed. She wanted to be a woman married to an important man, a woman with lot of jewellery and a woman watching people’s strange heads from balcony.

She was married to a clerk in government office. He retired as an office superintendent last year. She realised her dream of a balcony in 15^th year of her marriage. Her married life was, well, a married life. Food, clothes, utensils, tiffin boxes, vegetable market, local grocery, ironing, more food, more tea, more worship, next morning.

She hadn’t worn anything other than saree after marriage. She hadn’t worn anything other than frock before marriage. Earlier she used to copy Shabana Azmi’s hair style. Now, she doesn’t care.

After marriage, she had moved to Tatanagar. A city of dreams, money, good schools, people with cars, modern people. Compared to her ‘under developed’ village in Bihar, it promised a brilliant future.

The happiest moments of her life were when her children were small. Raising a boy and a girl was exciting, they kept her busy, kept her live.  

The kids were given the best possible education. They studied in good English medium schools. She learned to tie a ‘tie’. She understood the meaning of putting ‘greens’ and ‘proteins’ in food. Her husband earned everything in ‘black and white’ to meet the growing ends. Children needed new dresses, computers, tuition classes. Children needed time to study. They couldn’t be disturbed by asking to do household works, by asking to bring milk and vegetables, by asking to help when she felt ill. No, children needed time to succeed.

They did indeed. The elder son got a job in a reputed software firm last year. His initial setup in Bangalore was made easier, thanks to huge retirement benefits of his ‘sarkari father’. The younger daughter was in 2^nd year bio-tech course of a reputed Bangalore engineering college. The parents wanted that the siblings should live together at Bangalore to cut costs. The boy needed ‘IT’ related atmosphere at home and the girl wanted friends to discuss ‘studies’. Hence, two different set-ups. Last, they had come home in December for a week. They were busy now.

They had succeeded now. Parents were proud. The woman in dull red sari was travelling on the bus floor.

I looked at her sari intensely; its dull red colour appeared paler. The colour was red but the fabric was weaning and weak.  

“Aap khush hain?” She looked at me and said, “haan, ghar ja rahe hain.” “Jis ghar mein aap abhi rehti hain, wanha khhus hain?” She looked at me a lot longer and said, “Haan”. The eyes were stale.   

The bus was entering Ranchi. The lights were looking bright outside at night. How no longer we were dependent on natural light! 

A tribute

My grandfather, Shri Bachchu Singh Shastri passed away last November. He was a freedom fighter (revolutionary), an author of few books, a socialist, a social worker, a teacher. In those times, my grandmother was a working woman, salute to him. He was a person who commanded respect in life and went into the pyre covered with the national flag.

I have translated few portions of his play ‘Manzil Dur Nahi’(Destination not far) written in 1951. I have tried to pick various aspects of his deeds and thinking. It is interesting to know what were the priorities and mindset of people some sixty years ago. He had written with the pen name of Suresh.  

Few lines from the foreword done by Shri Ramvriksha Benipuri (one of the legends of Hindi literature)

My friend Bachchu Shastri had actively participated in the do or die movement of 1942 and I am happy that he has given his experiences a form of a play. Not only this, he has also shown us the direction in which society will move in future based on the incidents of the movement. There is a poem by Rabindra – the sun was setting, world was stunned, who will now give light; even stars and moon were afraid. The small ‘diya’ then came up – till then this burden on my small shoulders. This creation of friend Bachchu jee must be seen in this way.   

Few lines from preface

We are not concerned whether we are independent or subservient. The only thing we know is that we are hungry, we are bare and we are dying in suffering for lack of grains. Not only this, we are looking with our shrunken eyes, a bulldog’s puppy feasting upon milk-rice in front of a big bungalow, and beside it two living skeletons standing with stretched hands.

Living skeletons! People may say whatever they want, but nobody can deny the fact that these living skeletons have stopped considering themselves as human. They are ready – to sell their self-respect for few juggling coins, to strip their dignity, to destroy themselves. Because demonic politics have made these structures of bones to drink strong venom of frustration and have pushed them from hope of life towards deep ocean of depression.

Background of scene one

The arms room of mandapam police station is locked. An armed constable is dozing at door. Two other armed constables are walking in front of the door. A sign board of ‘mandapam police station’ is hanging in front. Suresh wearing the clothes of constable enters and attacks a walking constable. Diwakar attacks another one. The sleeping constable suddenly gets up to shoot Suresh. But Suresh is quick and kills that constable with revolver and blows whistle. From the other side five other revolutionaries enter running. The two constables are tied up. All revolutionaries then vanish. The tied up constables and a dead body remain there. By the time, SP and collector enter the scene.

From Fifth scene

Special court. Judge, two lawyers. Few onlookers including Suresh’s mother. Suresh, Lila and Prema standing in front of judge.

Judge – (1)You killed a constable at mandapam police station and looted its arms room, (2)killed SP, (3)helped escape of Lila from house arrest, (4)helped Prema to escape jail, (5)tried to overthrow a government of justice and law, (6)burned three stations and (7)blew 6 railway bridges. The punishment of these crime is ‘kalapani’ and death penalty. Do you want to say something?

Suresh – Why will I acknowledge a court of the government whom I want to overthrow? I have nothing to speak.

On death

Universe is a sum total of all changes. The processes of creation, development and destruction carry on every moment. Movement is the only truth in this fragile world. What is life? Slowly moving towards death is life. Then why to be sad for the compulsory death? I will not be there tomorrow, but my works will remain forever.

Conversation of Lila and Suresh over love, lust and marriage

 Lila – What is the relation of love with revolution?

Suresh – The relation among humanity, beauty and revolution can be termed as love.

Lila – What is the relation between love and lust?

Suresh – Even great intellects are divided on this matter. Great like Freud considers lust as the prime motivator of human efforts. There are such intellects also who find no place for lust in pure love. But this is the ultimate truth that lust is satisfied in our life in some form or other.

Lila – Is marriage necessary?

Suresh – Man is social being. A system developed to protect basics of the society as well as to satisfy lust took the form of the institution of marriage. Marriage is not necessary but satisfaction of lust is necessary. And being social while satisfying lust is even more necessary.

On socialism

We can produce more crops when land belongs to people who till it. There should be cooperative farming, advanced farming tools, better seeds, fertilizers and scientific methods of agriculture must be adopted. Drought can be managed only when means of production are socialized. The rebuilding of the country must be based on socialism.             

Romantic Ranchi

{ I had written this short story for the contest 'Romantic Ranchi'. The subject was the same as it is evident from the topic title. Word limit was 1000 words. Needless to say, I didn't win it. :( . So, I have decided to force it upon you people. :P }

It was a lazy afternoon class of chemistry. The organic reactions written on the blackboard were looking like a Picasso painting. In such dull periods, the human mind becomes the most creative. I decided to draw a cartoon of my chemistry teacher on the desk. I searched for space; the desk was scribbled at most places. But, there was something new written on the desk. “F/17, boring classes L”. I was excited. I wrote back, “M/17, totally booored! Eco, science, u?”     

For the online-chat-illiterate junta, ‘F/17’ means ‘Female, 17 years’. And this message written on the desk was from some girl from the morning session of my school. DAV Shyamali, Ranchi held classes in two sessions and I was a student of the afternoon session in science section with economics as my chosen subject.

Thus started my story of ‘desk-dating’. Every day we left a message on the desk for each other. I wanted to meet her in person and the filled up space of the desk came as a good excuse. “No more space. Can we meet? At 12 at gate”. It was a big step. I dreamt of being run over by a train at night. Next day I went straight into my class and hugged my benchmate as soon as I saw, “yes J tomorrow”.

For the first time in my life, I pressed my school dress. I re-knotted my tie after seven months and polished my shoe after a month. I cleaned my spectacles too. I started earlier to the school and reached 11:30 sharp at the school gate. For half an hour and five minutes more, it felt like I was the heaviest thing on the planet earth. She came at 12:05 pm. I had wondered earlier how I would recognize her. It was not hard. Only two people had completely pale faces at school gate and we knew.    

“Hi”, I murmured. My God! She was beautiful. She shied a little, smiled a little and said in the sweetest voice I had ever heard, “Hi”. I felt like the lightest thing on the planet earth.

We decided to walk through the Shyamali colony. She said she would bunk her two tuitions. I would have eaten raw grass to be with this girl! I said I would bunk my school. We walked side by side, but no hand in hand as I had always dreamt. All the trees planted alongside the road made the February sun even more pleasant. We talked about classes, school and tuitions. I proposed to go to Church complex. She agreed with her that intoxicating little smile. We walked unto AG more.

We got into a vikram, a type of 6-seater. The bumpy and noisy ride of vikram and she sitting beside me felt like heavens. We didn’t talk in vikram, due to noise or due to other people staring at us, or due to both, I didn’t know. We alighted at Kadru more. From there, we walked upto Church complex. I told her a story of my childhood. Myself and my friends used to steal chickens from neighborhood and kept them in a diwali’s gharonda. I told her how we got caught and thrashed. She laughed and laughed.

We spent some time in Church complex. She told me about her mischief in childhood. We were bonding. With afternoon dying, she started to feel hungry. I suggested we should eat chowmein at firayalal chowk. With sixty four rupees in pocket, I had no other choice also. We took a rickshaw. The congested road and feel of a girl sitting beside on a slow moving rickshaw made those moments memorable.

When we got down at firayalal, I took out money to pay to the rickshaw wala. Suddenly, she caught hold of my hand and said she will pay. Her touch had a paralyzing effect on my body. I couldn’t do more than just shyly nodding. She paid the money and again the same mesmerizing little smile.

We ate vegetable chowmein, 15 rupees a plate. The crowded firayalal chowk, the smell of chowmein being fried, a beautiful girl eating in front of me, life wasn’t more fulfilling ever before.  

We then walked upto Gopal complex to enquire about some test series. In between, we talked about taste of chowmein and how we both loved to cook Chinese food. I asked her to take the spiral staircase outside the Gopal complex to reach upper floor. She was reluctant to climb it. I took her hand and pulled her gently onto the stairs. She obliged and again the same engrossing little smile.

She kept her palm pressed against mine. I did the same. Now, we were walking hand in hand as I had always dreamt. We reached the top floor of the complex and looked out at the dimming evening sky. The February cold air was still. After we had held hands, we hadn’t talked. Silence between us and in the empty corridors of Gopal complex top floor was so resounding in our pounding hearts. Unexpectedly, she hugged me. I ran my fingers in her hairs.

We promised each other a lot of things that day.  Like any other teenage promise, they were broken one by one in months to come. Even today when I sit anywhere, I look at the table for any signs. Because, you never know.