One rainy night

Dafaq. The first thought that crossed my mind when I walked towards the exit gate of the Metro station. The winds and rain came down on us like they were at war. I could hear the loud 'thud thud' echoing from the cars parked outside the station. Crowd started gathering around the exit, no one dared to walk outside in the rain. No umbrella, raincoat or a sudden sprint towards safer shades could save anyone from being drenched to the skin. I like the rain, I do. But this feeling is relative. In any other city of this country, I wouldn't mind walking, strolling and smiling in the rain. Rains do bring back beautiful childhood memories.

But at night when it is raining. In Delhi. Walking on the streets alone. That, is a different feeling altogether. That, is neither a happy feeling nor does it induce nostalgia. All you're thinking is - a. I hope I'm not transparent. b. I hope I get an auto. c. I hope the driver is not a creep. I stepped out of the station seeing that the rain would go on for at least an hour. Within five minutes, my umbrella was ruffled by the wind. It became a flower. I had to throw it away and walk towards the auto stand.

Not a single one in sight. Through the haze I could see a few bystanders pacing up and down the street to catch or jump into a running auto. Not a bus, not even a tempo was in sight. The stretch of road was eerily deserted with just rain and the night for company. I shivered as the winds blew without a care, a sense of foreboding took over me. Tonight, if I reach home unscathed, it’ll be a miracle.

Just then an auto came and stopped next to me. I jumped in and the man drove without a word. I kept looking around the place, hoping to see signs of people to feel psychologically safe. Through the mist and the faint street lights,I did see someone.  I saw a silhouette of a man hailing down my auto. I was immediately irritated and asked the driver to go faster. For one, who can guarantee the intentions of the auto driver. And then another passenger. NO, this auto is MINE. How many men can a single, drenched girl handle.  As we crossed the man, I saw his face. It was reproachful.…I cursed under my breath and asked the driver to stop. Great, I have just increased my chances of getting raped tonight. But his face, something about his face made me take the chance.

The man hopped on. He sat on the corner of the seat. He didn't look at me. He seemed shy but I had my guards on. Along the street we rode together, the three of us silenced by the rain screaming in our ears. There were no streetlights, the driver had to stick his head out to see where he was going. Suddenly, as luck would (not) have it, the auto broke down. There I was, stuck in the middle of I-could't-figure-out-where,  with two potential rapists for company. Even though, up till now, they were decent with me. I prayed to at least 56 Gods within those 15 minutes. I was mute while the two men were busy figuring out what went wrong with the auto. Cars and trucks were zipping past us. Not one stopped. The guy never once looked at me and spoke to the street while directing his assurance to me, "Koi baat nahi, shuru ho jayega (Don't worry, it'll start)."

Finally, after what seemed like an hour, I could hear the promising purring of the auto engine. Saved. We rode ahead, all three of us wet and cold. The guy spoke to me while again looking at the street, "Appko kahan utarna hai (Where do u need to get off)?" I answered without looking, playing it cool and confident, "Sector 56." He said, "Uhh mujhe toh sector 22 mein utarna hai. Mujhe chaurahe pe utar dena (Uhh. I need to get off at 22. Just drop me off at the intersection.)" My mind immediately thought, yeah that sounds cool. Who wants to go all the way to drop him home. I chanced a look towards him. He still had a reproachful face. Screw you, I thought. I can't handle the guilt. Hating myself I said, "Bahut baarish ho rahi hai, aapko ghar he chord denge (It's raining a lot, I think we will drop you home)." Perfect. Sector 22, shadiest sector in Noida. A plan to drop him to the door step, laying the bait for my own rape. I swore loudly in my mind. But his face, something about his face made me take the chance.

We rode into his sector, drove inside the narrow lanes. It was almost pitch dark, the auto headlight was the only light providing us hazy visibility. In the middle of no where, the guy asked the auto driver to stop. I gulped. It was a lone bungalow, the only one on the street. If he makes a move, I'm going to rip his face apart. Such violent thoughts make me confident.

The guy got off and paid the driver full 100 rs. He told the driver not to charge me. I looked at him suspiciously. He looked straight into my eyes for the first time and said, " Bahut dhanyawad auto rokne ke liye. Aaj meri wife aur baccha pehli baar ghar aa rahe hain hospital se. Aaj late hona nahi banta! (Thank you so much for stopping the auto and giving me a ride home. My wife and baby are coming home tonight for the first time from the hospital. I couldn’t afford to be late today)." I was completely taken aback. I smiled. All I could say was a weak, "yeahh....."

 From the gate he called out to the driver, shouting directions for the best way out of the sector. I think he might have waved too.

The ride home from there was a really pleasant one.

Past Perfect

A short story I wrote for a contest once. The topic was love letters. Here it is

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"Where are you going?" she asked him softly, like it was practice, knowing very well where he was headed. He did not answer; he usually never did. A blank, dazed expression had made room in his eyes for some years now. They saw everything but reflected nothing. "Posts..." he said, trailing towards the door.

He was gone for a few minutes but Lata wasn't worried. This is a drill he will follow for a while now, she thought. He came back from the postbox, with the second envelope, addressed to him. He sat on the living room couch and leafed through the pages. She watched him read for some time and walked away.

"Dearest Sunil,

This is my second letter to you.

Do you know you have the most beautiful eyes? It's just the right shade of light brown. I loved looking into your eyes; they reassured me. Today was our second meeting. I was still shy but you seemed composed. Of course I knew it was just an act—your hands betrayed you. Never before did I ever find it so endearing to shake a sweaty hand. I loved the way you spoke. Every moment swept me towards our future together. You spoke of your travels, I thought of our home. While you told me about your past, I imagined us aging together. It pained me to say goodbye to you that evening. The more I knew you, the more I was convinced that we were meant to be. Many prospects had come my way but what did they even mean to me? While the elders spoke about our union, my heart, I knew, was already yours. Every meeting made me think of the next.You were addictive.

As you got up to leave, we didn't shake hands. This time, you just held mine.

You have a scar on your left foot, did you know? It's a birth mark. I think it's beautiful.

I love you, Lata
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The next day flowed lazily. White noise was a neighbour now. Nothing had changed. He spent the day watching the birds and the trees, and never emoted. He ate his meals while she watched him from a distance. Loneliness was now a friend.

Next day, he opened the third letter in a slight hurry—as if his life was rewriting itself.

Dearest Sunil,

My love and admiration for you grew the day you put your foot down in front of my father and said, "Lata will study as much as she likes. After she graduates, we will tie the knot." You waited while I drowned myself in notes and books. On the night of my graduation, you bought me a beautiful yellow silk sari. I got your name embroidered on the blouse sleeves. So silly of me! I still have that sari. It reminds me of our youth.

You got your wisdom tooth during our courtship days. But it was extremely painful. You had to get it extracted.  With a swollen mouth, you went mute for two days. Those two days, time stood still. During that time when conversations were the foundation of our relationship, silence didn’t do us any good.

I love you, Lata.

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He walked around the house, today a little more dazed. He sipped his coffee while looking at Bindu, the sparrow, his beautiful evening companion. Today she was building a nest. Lata asked him, "Isn't it fascinating?" He looked at Bindu and whispered in his frail voice, "Bindu is a big girl."

He walked a little further outside the house today. Should I go after him? Lata thought. Many minutes went by. He came back with an envelope in his hands. He walked towards the dining room. Pulled up a chair and read.

Dearest Sunil,
We danced the whole night; the entire universe was celebrating. One night before our wedding, our families put up endless performances. While waltzing across the floor, we whispered sweet nothings to each other. I buried my face in your coat. I wasn't nervous about the next day. Getting married to you was everything to me. It was like freedom, my soul felt light. From the day I first met you, I knew one thing—this fits. As I smiled to myself, you whispered in my ear."We will have a daughter. Her name will be Bindu."

You burnt your wrist that night when you insisted on cooking. That was my first day in the kitchen. You still have a mark on your wrist.

I love you, Lata.
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When she walked into the living room after her bath, she knew immediately that something was new today. He was bent over, looking inside the fridge. He looked around but it did not seem he wanted anything. She walked over towards him and asked him, “What do you want?” He didn’t answer as usual. His movements seemed confused, yet he pulled out the ice pack with the surety, with purpose. 

The next day the letter read.

Dearest Sunil,
You were made the Vice President of your company. A big position with multiple perks. Your parents were extremely pleased and I was beside myself. You were the pride of your family. In almost every family gathering, most conversations started with, "Sunil this...Sunil that." I was proud, of course. But I never said it. Because you knew it.

Good days continued but then came the grey ones. You became busy, I saw you less. You travelled more and you stressed a lot. Normal food was replaced by medicines. You started losing weight, you became careless about yourself. Things changed slowly but surely. But I mostly never complained. You mother always told me, "A good wife only supports, she doesn't question." But you still gave me answers. You were always guilty.

Your hard work did pay off eventually. Your company gave us a penthouse. A house that came right out of our dreams. The first day we entered it, it almost felt like the first day of our marriage. We laughed, we ran around the house, we sang. The world had suddenly brightened up. You and I were newlyweds again.  

As a young man, you had a problem of nose bleeds. Every summer your nose bled at least twice. Your mother and mine spent most of their time advising about various concoctions and natural remidies that would prevent the bleed. You just smiled and waved them off. "I'll be fine," you said. So every evening you came home looking for the ice pack kept in the fridge. I laughed seeing the same drill every day. You would sit in front of your files, with an ice pack on your head, diligently doing your work. You said this was the best solution. You made me laugh.

I love you, Lata

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She saw him walk towards his room. He carried the three envelopes in his hand. She walked behind him, curious. He looked around the room, confused but slightly certain of something. She wanted to help, to go in and ask him. But she knew this was not the time. He was in the process of discovering something significant.

He walked towards a suitcase kept next to the window sill, camouflaged with her shawls, bed sheets and packets of incense sticks. He opened it and dropped those letters in them.

The next morning, he slowly tore the new letter.

Dearest Sunil,
You remember that amazing trip we took together to Rome? Bindu was 10 that time. You bought a beautiful suitcase from there, I remember. You said, "This will be my dear diary. You will remember me by the contents of this bag." Years passed by and you kept many souvenirs, letters and Bindu's broken toys here. This bag is truly a reflection of you.

You started losing your hair during your mid thirties. I always thought you looked handsome even with scanty hair.

I love you, Lata.
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"Chinki," he said in his frail voice. She came running out of the kitchen. "What!...What did you just call me?" He looked blank, his eyes were vacant. Minutes passed by, they became painful. She cleared the table and walked away.

Dearest Sunil,
We lost our son before he came into the world. We were heartbroken but you hid it, as you always did. A year went by and I remembered our still son every day. You got me out of my thoughts—I thought I would always be lost there. You kept reminding me, "But Chinki, we still have Bindu."  You called me 'Chinki' when you wanted to console me, reason with me. It always worked like medicine.

You have mole on your palm and a mole under your left foot. Both signs of prosperity, the pundit always said.

I love you, Lata
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He sat in the verandah today, and yesterday. He would sit and and watch nothing.
Today, he cried. She didn't go outside to wipe his tears. She let him heal. Maybe my letters are healing? she thought.  

Dearest Sunil,
Our daughter got married today. You were a picture of calm while I stifled my emotions. You held me while I bade her goodbye. A lifetime of happiness awaits her, you said. Smile, don't cry, you said. I buried my face deep onto your coat. I smelled the same cologne you wore on the night before our wedding. I felt reassured.

A month after Bindu's wedding, we got into a car crash. We were saved but your spirit was crushed. It was then that you realised that death was always very close. At all times. Roles were reversed. I became your emotional anchor.

You have a problem squatting, did you know? We always had to choose WC’s for our bathroom!

I love you, Lata.
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They sat together in the veranda the whole evening that day. A year had passed, some letters were hidden inside his suitcase, some others forgotten on the veranda table. Their 60 years were captured in words, but did they find their source, she wasn't sure.

The evening they sat in the veranda. Something was different today or was it all the same. She couldn’t tell. She sat with him, watching the trees, the birds and the bees. She too, today, looked at nothing. The evening wrapped its wings around, and left the two alone in the dark. She kept dozing off in between. He never once closed his eyes. Somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, she felt a tingling sensation in her hand. She felt she was still dreaming. Slowly as she opened her eyes. The movement was gentle but not confused. He slid his shaking, wrinkled hand inside hers. Their fingers intertwined. For the first time, he wasn’t looking towards the vast nothingness in front of him. He was looking into her eyes, she was sure. She wanted to see those brown eyes looking back at her, but it was all dark.

A few moments passed. And then, the sun rose.
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Dearest Sunil,

This is my first letter to you.

Happy birthday my love. Today is your 90th birthday. As your wife I have no more worldly gifts to give you. I have nothing beautiful to offer. I do, however, have a lifetime of memories that I would like to gift you today.

The slate of your mind has been wiped—you may have forgotten the world. But for me, you are my world.

The day you walked inside my house with your parents, I was too shy to look up. I saw your hands. That was the first thing I fell in love with. Your hands. We spoke inside my room while our parents outside exchanged prolonged pleasantries. You spoke and I just listened. Everything you said made me respect you, made me admire you. When you got up, you shook my hand. I knew I wanted to never let go. This was our first meeting.

I miss us. God has willed differently, I know, but my belief in our love is unshakable. I know one day you will come back. You are lost in your own mind, but your heart still belongs to me.

I love you, Lata.