Sifar

I was at the office pantry on the fag-end of the building to pick some high-calorie snack. A portly guy in his navy blue/black shirt and jeans was sipping tea in the lounge. That was probably one of my memories of Neeraj. We worked in different teams and conversed occasionally whenever he visited my team’s bay. There was this dreamy look about him as if his face would break into a smile anytime. Blame it on my enthusiastic curiosity, I thought he was in love for having that kind of happy look on him.

Facebook had clearly overtaken Orkut by then and almost everyone I knew in the company was on Facebook. We moved on to join different companies but stayed in touch on the social network. Over the years, we liked each other pictures, commented on each other’s statuses and eventually, even they became few and far between. 

Unlike me, many of my friends decided to live their passion. They left their promising careers and became entrepreneurs, creative artists and pursued higher studies in various disciplines. Some moved countries while others left bustling cities to settle in peaceful towns. I watched all of them with awe and longed to come out of my hibernation. Neeraj decided to go on a path too but his was not the beaten path.    

He was no longer the portly guy I remember from the bygone days. He shrivelled

up real nice, flooding his FB page with his cycling expeditions and the cool selfies. Once again, I looked at the lone elliptical in the drawing hall, standing quietly and humiliated for being used for drying clothes. I wondered what if only it could speak; it probably would’ve used every cuss word for the treatment meted out to it.

Well, I convinced myself with the stupid excuse that Neeraj fell into the trap of the in-thing. Like many of my friends, he joined the marathon runners. One more runner on the block, which means more pics on FB. He embraced a healthy life. No, I haven’t given up on myself yet. I will join them too. Don’t ask me when.

And then one day, I remember reading a cryptic status update. Something like giving up everything that defined him till that day, to embark on a journey of service of a different kind. He joined an organization that required his complete dedication. Unable to hold my curiosity any longer, I called him. By then he had already given up the corporate job and slipped into his new way life. It had been seven months since he drew his last salary. He lives in a shared dormitory. His meals are taken care of by the community members. So, basically, even he doesn’t know where he will get his next luncheon invitation from!

Still couldn’t comprehend what I heard and I remember asking him, “What about your parents?”

“I did everything that was possible as a son. Ensured they are well taken care of.” Laughingly he said, “they don’t need my help…..Look, it’s my journey. It would be difficult for any parent but they understood and now they have accepted.”

“What if you regret this decision later,” I asked, still not convinced with his transformation.

“I didn’t take this decision in the heat of the moment. I was preparing myself for this change for quite some time,” he said.

“I turned towards a simpler life like stopped using a car, walked and cycled; gave up everything that felt like a necessity but was a luxury. I’m not denying that life is tough but I will get used it.”

“So, does this tough life frustrate you,” I asked.

“Yes, I feel frustrated, not because life is tough but unable to make headways with the work I am doing right now. I have been working with teenage children from an under-developed area. My job is not to let them stray…it’s tough, don’t know how to break the ice with them.”

“Why this change all of a sudden? I thought you would also be one of those guys who would put up mushy pictures of spouse and kids and quote them with sugary captions, renew marriage vows and pledge to protect your children till your last breath…ahem….on the social media.”

I didn’t hide my disdain for the family dramas that unfold every day on my social media pages.

He laughed. “Well, I thought of that life but things didn’t fall in place.”

“So this is the outcome of a broken-hearted finding solace or distraction?” I asked (I swear, I can be a good interrogator!).

“Arey, no! that was a long time back. This is my life now and there’s no going back,” he reiterated.

I still think of that what he said before we said our goodbyes. “Just like others, I used to complain about the broken system, corruption and what not. I used to vent out during tea break chats or on social media. I realized this momentary anger was a mere waste of energy unless I did my bit to bring about a change.”

It is not easy to break the vicious cycle of existence. One need/accomplishment pushes for the next one, one want leads to the other, one obligation leads to the other. The game which felt simple at the beginning entangles us with more challenges, the high of achievements and the insecurity of losing them all. The sleepless nights, the meticulous planning, the risks taken should be safeguarded now. How many of us are prepared to start afresh from zero? How many of us can find contentment in not owning anything? Probably none or dare I say a few.

Still wondering why I called my blog post Sifar? What is Sifar? It means zero in Urdu.

A love lost

When I decided to relocate to Hyderabad last August, I was looking forward to going back to the city that taught me so much though, in a harsh way. But I guess, it was needed for me to come into my own, a realization that came as hindsight. Most of my Hyderabad memories are occupied with the gruelling hours at a demanding job, the utter sense of loneliness as I searched for a familiar face in the crowd, and a lack of comforting hug when I was down and out. Often, I questioned myself if I needed this misery when I had the choice to go back and live an easy life. But, I stuck on.

This city gave me a taste of flavours of friendship and betrayal; never knew disloyalty would teach me to love thyself. Its conservative construct was suffocating and annoying. When I was hunting for a rented house, I answered some ridiculous questions from the house owners. They asked me about my caste, why did I choose a profession that had weird timings and how could my parents send me to a city where I did not have any relatives! I never understood these people. The days passed by and I made friends, all of them non-Hyderabadis though that was never the plan. I guess, our comradery was strengthened over our failed attempts to adapt to the ways of the city.

Twelve years back when I was leaving the city, I was sad because even though I still felt like a stranger, I was content in my tiny world and the people in it. The feeling of starting all over again felt heavy. I was eager to return after my three-month stint in Bangalore. But little did I know that I would be sucked into that vibrant milieu within a week. I was re-introduced to the feeling of belonging to a place after Khurda Road, a small town where I grew up.

It's been six months since I returned to Hyderabad, but still, the unsettling feeling doesn’t leave me. This city has changed so much that I don’t recognize it any more. The broad roads, tall buildings, numerous shopping malls and companies. Yes, the city has changed, cosmetically. However, people are still the same. The house owners still feel it’s their prerogative to barge into your personal life by asking questions with no relevance. The crassness of people irrespective of their exposure to corporate culture, their ignoble idea of being funny is to crack a personal joke, their judgmental nature of people (read women) influenced by the misogynistic outlook, amaze me. But, I met some nice people too. These days when goodness is a virtue that is fast disappearing, these are like the fresh breath of air and so much needed on a tough day.

Every place has a personality made by the people who live in it. I don’t get Hyderabad’s personality. Or perhaps, I have moved on, my preferences have changed. Or, maybe the only way I can explain this is when you visit your relatives, some treat you well and some give you a cold shoulder. Hyderabad, for me, is the latter kind of relative.

Whiskey and Her

Shruti and Amrita sat in silence at latter’s balcony that faced a line of silver oak trees. The night was drenched in the silvery moon rays. The gentle breeze carried the fragrance of season’s first roses that were in full bloom, while the dwarfed hibiscus plant stood like an admonished child at one corner of the balcony. The ice had almost melted in their whiskey glasses diluting the gold tinged drink; the tranquillity of the hour was enhanced by the raspy voice of Qurat-ul-ain Balouch crooning about an anguished heart.

The friends were on their third drink. “Do you feel the buzz yet,” asked Shruti. Amrita, who seemed to be lost in the song, said, “No.” Shruti smiled and said, “good” and after a pause added, “my Urdu improved listening to the songs you suggested. Thanks to Google.”

“Oh, I love Coke Studio, Pakistan; those guys make amazing music and by the way, you should thank me for improving your Urdu. Remember all the questions you asked?” Amrita replied, rolling her eyes.

What started as a carpool arrangement to office grew into friendship. The two women have known each other for close to a decade now. Life and professional commitments took them into different directions but they stayed in touch, witnessed each other’s highs and lows.

“It feels good to be back at your house, it’s warm…comforting,” said Shruti with a distant look.

“Are you sure it’s not the whiskey?” teased Amrita.

It was Shruti’s first visit to India after getting married to Satish Srinivasan, a known radiologist in the US. Let down by their first marriages, both Shruti and Satish wanted to give life a second chance and found each other. Initially Shruti was wobbly, unsure if it was a good idea to walk on the treacherous path again. A cheating ex-husband had left her shattered, filled her with self-doubt. When she decided to marry Gary Mathews a decade ago, her Iyengar family was rattled. Neither emotional blackmails nor angry outbursts from her parents failed to change her mind. Though grew up in a strict patriarchal environment, Shruti retained her free-spiritedness. The relationship with her father, Madhav Narayan, was caught between the crossfires of orthodox beliefs and rebellion. The father-daughter duo played this duel throughout Shruti’s growing up days; sometimes she won and sometimes her father. By the time, she was an adult, her father was only meant to meet her financial needs and she longed to break the final shackle too. She did it by finding herself a job in Bangalore and eventually deciding to marry Gary, the love of her life with whom she was eager to bring up a child with a happy childhood.

The day she walked down the aisle with Gary, her parents alienated her. Just when she thought she found happiness in her husband and a beautiful daughter, her rebellion against her parents fell flat. She was no longer Gary’s love interest; he started cheating on her with his ex. Burdened by humiliation and betrayal Shruti endured Gary’s philandering ways until one day she mustered enough courage to call it quits.  Gary and his parents were caught off guard; they never thought she could take the bold step. Unable to bear the insult that his wife had decided to walk out on him, he blurted, “What can I expect from a person who didn’t hesitate to leave her parents for getting married. It’s nothing new for you to walk out of a relation!” If that wasn’t enough to make Shruti realize the blunder she made in choosing a wrong person, his parents drove the final nail in the coffin. They felt betrayed. “How could you do this to us? Have we not taken care of you and your daughter well? Fine, Gary has found another woman but we treated you like our daughter. Gave a roof over your head and took care of your daughter when you went to work,” Shruti’s mom-in-law asked.

“I’ll always be grateful for what you did for my daughter and me but tell me, would you’ve given the same advice if it was your daughter Becky?” asked Shruti.

That was the last conversation the two women had.

It took a year for Shruti to steer her life back to normalcy. Things improved between parents and her. The age had mellowed Madhav Narayan. Even the middle-aged Shruti had matured enough to understand life from a different perspective.  

Still in search of her happily ever after and also as a social experiment, Shruti created a profile on a matrimonial website. She wanted to find out what kind of men would respond to a divorcee who was at the threshold of 40. And yeah, she was contacted by all kinds of men. Nevertheless, Satish was different. Born and brought up in the US, a doctor by profession and a rock music junkie disguised by his calm demeanour made him even more endearing. Father of two girls, he was back to being single four years back. When he contacted her online, Shruti was hesitant at the beginning.  Her life had finally hit the calmer sea after a choppy ride. Tired of meeting weirdos, Satish refused to give up on her easily. He was instantly attracted to her honesty and maturity. Within no time, the two started exchanging long emails on regular basis unravelling themselves. They took their time to know each other and Shruti didn’t realize when the charming doctor swept her off her feet. Love was in the air. Satish spent a fortnight with Shruti’s parents in India so that they could know him, their future son-in-law. Shruti travelled to the US to spend time with him and met his parents. There was a bounce in Shruti’s feet again. Their marriage was solemnised after few months with elders’ blessings this time. Shruti and her daughter, Joanna moved to the US to build their world again.

Looking at Shruti’s empty glass, Amrita said, “Why don’t you fill up your glass?”

“I was waiting for you.” Amrita waved her hand and said sheepishly, “Don’t wait for me. Let Mr. Glenfiddich work on you.”

Shruti filled her glass and decided against adding any ice. Toying with her wedding band she said, “From Shruti Narayan to Mathews to Srinivasan.”

Amrita raising a toast for her, replied, “That’s one hell of a journey and you seem to have covered a lot of ground!” Shruti acknowledged with a nod and raised her glass.

“Tell me about your Las Vegas wedding and honeymoon cruise to Mexico.”

Shruti still looking at her wedding band said, “It was okay.”

Since evening Amrita noticed that, Shruti was lost in her world of thoughts. She waited for Shruti to open up. She sensed that Shruti was resisting as if waiting for her to take the lead.

“What’s bothering you? What happened to that excited bride I spoke to a few months back?”

“I don’t know, Amrita. I feel like history is repeating itself!”

Both went silent.

In the background, Farida Khanum, in her mesmerizing voice, was pleading her beloved not to leave. Her agony seemed to have filled the vacuum, suddenly created by the night.

“Why do you say that?” asked Amrita, breaking the silence.

“I read his text messages he sent to his ex-wife. It’s not that he is drawn to her but longs to be with his daughters. So he is testing the waters with his ex if there’s a chance of getting back with her.”

“What! Is he serious?” Amrita didn’t bother to hide her shock and anger anymore. She went on with her rant, “He is thinking of reuniting after divorcing her four years back! What was he doing all this while? Does it all look like a child’s play to him? Does he realize that you have uprooted yourself and, Joan’s life and moved with bag and baggage just because he assured you of a lifetime commitment?”

Shruti was silent, sipping her drink as her eyes brimmed with tears.

“Did you talk to him?”

“What do you think?” replied Shruti curtly. “In fact I asked him to get the girls with us if that’s possible.”

“And?”

Shruti raised her shoulders and hands in dismissal.  “I wonder if I did the mistake of getting married again,” her voice quivered. “Apparently after seeing my equation with Joan, he started missing his daughters!”

Shruti started laughing, almost uncontrollably.

“What’s so funny?” Asked an irritated Amrita.

“I’m laughing at the irony of my life. It’s not the other woman who is a threat to my marriage but two young girls!” She went on dramatically, “My bridal henna hands haven’t gone dry yet and I’m already fighting to save my marriage.”

Amrita couldn’t stay angry anymore watching her friend’s histrionics.

“Listen, I am not going to tell anything clichéd but let me remind you of a situation you were in, a few years back. Remember the time when you were in Miami for your higher studies and your cousin lost all your money in business. With no money to pay for your rent and food let alone your tuition fee, you survived on pittance for weeks. You didn’t give up then when you were left helpless and penniless on a foreign land with no backup. According to me, that moment was when your life hit a rock bottom and the only way out was to move up. You did that and how!”

Looking at Shruti, Amrita continued, “Often I wondered how you keep on going, not giving up. If you can deal with a mess like that, what you have now is nothing. Give your marriage some time; you’ll know what to do.”

Shruti resting her head on Amrita’s shoulder, slurred, “Mr. Glen is working just fine…you know what’s good about light-headedness?”

“What?”

“It makes big problems small,” Shruti replied, her eyes closed and head still rested on Amrita’s shoulders. “…..I have to deal with this situation, don’t I?” She asked.

“Yes…..you have no option,” replied Amrita.

Shruti started humming along with Farida Khanum, though fallen far off tune. In contrast to her name, her singing skills were worse than that of an amateur.

“Have I ever told you that you should stop singing even in the privacy of your home? You may end up spoiling the mood.”

“Yeah many times,” said Shruti smilingly and started singing loudly.

The friends broke into hysterical laugh drowning the voice of one of the revered singers.

…and Sambi Reddy became rich!

“Happy birthday, pataka!” I screamed into the phone.

I heard Dave’s hearty, unabashed laugh and he said, “Only you can come up with such words.”

He has an infectious laugh, similar to those who make us feel hungry instantly just by the way they eat. And that’s not all. He is an amazing storyteller and knows how to add humor like a seasoned cook who adds just about enough spices to get that zing on your tongue.

Just when I thought our phone conversation was drifting towards the boring “what else?” kind of brain-freeze talk and my whining about my financial obligations and how to wriggle out of it, he told me about Sambi Reddy’s story.

Sambi Reddy was a simple, quiet guy who enjoyed his anonymous status in the gang. The sorts who would hang out with the gang in the college canteens, enjoy his chai and samosa and listen to the talks without much to contribute. Belonging to the mighty Middle Class of this country who are plagued with herd mentality, he too joined MBA in a local college in Guntur. You know, the kind of college where one is sure to get a seat if the entire world turns you down?

The friends scattered owing to their “higher studies” but they made it a point to meet at least once a year. Again, while everyone had some funny anecdote to add (mostly exaggeration), Sambi Reddy listened over his cup of tea and samosa. After all, what fun can one expect in a small town other than watching a first day first show.

Two years went by like that. Friends met again after the studies. Most of them got placements and looked excited, at least they pretended to be. But Sambi Reddy was yet to figure out what next.

At the next reunion at the same tea stall at the street corner….

A smartly dressed Sambi Reddy got down from his new car, waved at his friends while busy talking over the phone. There was an awkward silence among the friends. But Sambi Reddy, still the simple boy but no longer quiet, embraced his friends. “How did this happen?” Asked one of the friends, unable to believe the transformation his friend went through.

Sambi Reddy’s father bought three acres of land in the interior of Guntur some light years away at a very low price as that’s all he could afford. With the new capital coming up in Andhra Pradesh, Sambi Reddy, the only son is now worth Rs 15 crores, if not more. Sambi Reddy sold one acre, set up his business and has built a good network of who’s who in the area.

No, the money has not messed up his brain. He is still the simple, down to earth guy who hangs out with his college friends.

If somebody asked me if I wished a fairy tale ending to my life. Hell yes! I want the Sambi Reddy kind of fairy tale…no, not some rich guy coming in his shiny car. I want to be the Sambi Reddy of my story. .

A house overlooking the vast blue ocean with waves singing the same song again and again.  I will continue to dream about my “happily ever after”.

A journey from 6th to 16th Century

The Gol Gumbaz

The temples at Pattadakal, a UNESCO Wold Heritage Center. 

It just took me little over 2 hours to cover the 100 odd kilometers from Badami to Bijapur. But it wouldn’t be wrong to say that it was a journey from 6^th to 16^th century. The landscapes remained the same with a medley of contrasting colors exploding all around you; the lush greenery on both sides of the meandering road, the freshly ploughed brown earth and the clear blue sky with piercing sun. It would be a crime to roll up your car windows and switch on AC. What’s the fun if you don’t hear the various noises on the countryside with wind softly patting your face? While I enjoyed my morning drive from Badami to Bijapur, rechristened as Vijayapur, I was hit by jealously looking at the bunch of villagers sitting leisurely as the golden yellow maize ears were spread on the roadside for drying. I waved at them and they waved back. While I was still fascinated by what I just saw, my driver told me to expect more such views on the way. And he was right. On the way I was greeted by loads of onions, sweet potatoes and other seasonal harvest crops drying on the roadsides. Though it’s a common sight in the country side in India, it still amuses me. A group of villagers sit together chatting away to glory while they watched over their harvest from the passers-by and the animals. Such sights make me nostalgic and make me take a trip down the memory lane when I chased the crabs perched on the golden yellow beach at my village, when I climbed the lighthouse and watched the blue Bay of Bengal that seemed closer than it looked, and how I soaked myself playing with the waves, building sand castles…ah! the simple pleasures of village life.

While the landscapes remained same from Badami to Bijapur (I like calling it Bijapur), the centuries old architecture changed. It was like travelling in a time machine as the 6^th Century old temples, built in the rich Vimana and Nagara style, disappeared slowly and I found myself in a city that housed palaces and tombs built in the Persian and Indian fusion architecture. Both Badami and Bijapur were the capital cities of two dynasties – Chalukyas and Adil Shahs, separated by 10 centuries that ruled northern part of Karnataka and the adjoining states during their times. 

The Adil Shahs came from erstwhile Persia which is today’s Iran and made Bijapur as their capital in their times. Today Bijapur is a bustling town. People from nearby villages flock here to buy/sell goods other than an impressive number of tourists who visit Bijapur every year. Just like any other Indian city or town, it’s an organized chaos on the roads as people seem to deal with it easily. But my eyes wandered to the old buildings peeping from behind the newly built ones. Though the brownish façade of the old structures looked pale compared to the freshly painted new building, their curvy bends, the self-designed motifs on the walls and window panels were charming. Since long I’ve associated Bijapur with Gol gumbaz. I was yet to come face-to-face with its sheer size but its huge dome could be seen from a few kilometers. I decided to save the best for the last.  One can’t ignore the numerable small tombs all around the city. According to the historians, they were the tombs of soldiers who died, mostly during peace times. Most of these tombs were built by the fellow soldiers whenever anyone among them died. Today, there are roughly 200 tombs across Bijapur city!  My guide joked that during peace there wasn’t much work for a soldier! Hmm....I chose to ignore that.

You can view photographs from Badami and Bijapur along with captions here. 

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A happy place called Khurda Road

At my Alma mater with classmates.

The house I called home.

Reliving the childhood days is like eating comfort food. The food that reminds us of home and one can never get over it in spite of eating it every single day. This post is long due. More than a year back I visited my alma mater in a town called Khurda Road, the place where I left a part of me two decades back.

For most, Khurda Road is a railway junction to board the next train. However, for me and most of us who lived there and studied at Kendriya Vidyalaya, Khurda Road, this was the only place where we felt belonged. Even today I keep saying that I grew up in a small town unaware of the hustle-bustle of the big cities. This was a place where everyone knew everyone. Be it pandal hopping during Ganesh Chaturthi or Dussera, or at a marriage reception or buying hot samosas or aloo chops at the street corner, it was impossible not to bump into your teachers or school mates. 

It became all the more difficult for me and my siblings as my father enjoyed almost a rockstar status. A teacher by profession; loved and respected by the students, colleagues and the people just because of his persona. My house witnessed a continuous flow of visitors including students, parents, teachers, my friends, my siblings’ friends, and mother’s friends. It was a small house with a beautiful garden in the front and at the back. However, it had enough space to accommodate everyone. We all had our own corners to spend time with our groups.

Our lives were centered around the school. We played with the same people at school and outside of it also. The only difference was at school we played in school uniforms and outside, in civil dresses. But I must confess we looked better in school uniforms. The roads on Sundays were deserted just during Ramayan and Mahabharat serials. After that we used to invade the playgrounds. The winter holidays were spent sitting on the portico basking in the winter sun chatting with our neighbours or at times chasing the butterflies. Our tanned bodies were further shone by the application of coconut oil. There were days when the mist wouldn’t lift for a long time and I remember riding into it on my bicycle singing a song or running gleefully with my siblings on the road outside my house. 

The junior and secondary sections of the school were located at two different places. While we waited for the school bus, we used to embark on little adventures – invade nearby houses for plucking guavas, Indian berries and raw mangoes, most of the time without their permission. The days we missed the school bus, we used to simply get back home walking either through ‘pahad rasta’ or ‘jungle rasta’. Our parents never panicked as they knew we would get back home in soiled uniforms and at times, barefoot with shoes in our hands. That only showed we climbed trees while on our way home; especially jungle rasta which had lot of mango trees. As if the days’ activities were not enough, whenever there was a power cut in the evening, we used to run out of the house and play ‘All India Radio Cuttack’ or ‘anthakshari’ under the moonlit sky. Friends from nearby streets used to join us within no time.

A decade passed in a jiffy between school and home. Days were spent finishing projects, preparing for CCAs, practicing dance sequences for annual functions and closing ceremonies of sports meets, and of course, the exams. Life seemed like a never ending picnic as we busied ourselves shifting from one activity to the other and yeah, in between studies happened too. Life was simple and stress-free.

It was a surreal feeling when I got down at the Khurda Road railway station a year back. Little seemed to have had changed from the inside though the entrance got a facelift. I was received by Rauf, a quiet guy with whom I interacted very little at school.  He took me through all the familiar places, asking me if I remembered this building or that place. Most of it had changed, there were too many houses, less of greenery, better roads and in between I saw few old buildings still held their ground like a trooper. All the efforts of holding back my tears failed when I stood in front of the house that witnessed my growing up years. Eyes welled up as I stood outside not knowing how to react or what to think. The façade of the house was extended to build an extra room. Much of the garden space where my mother spent years nurturing the plants was gone. It was a far cry from the one it used to be. Yet, it didn’t matter. I resisted walking past the iron gate of the fencing.  Leena, my classmate from ‘B’ section kept calling me to check how far I’ve reached. Her mother, checked with me what would I like to have for breakfast and lunch. I never met her mother before but Leena’s (Sasmita Mohanty) parents knew my dad very well.  It was heartening to see Leena after so long and absolutely loved the way her mother received me.  A warm embrace and a peck on my cheek, a quick enquiry about my parents and the best part, “go freshen up. I made gogni (dry mutter) curry and poori.” Yeah, that’s how home feels like, right?

Later in the morning I met many of my classmates at the school.  Contours of expanding midriffs, a bit of flab here and there, grey sideburns, receding hairlines, spectacles – we met amid laughs, warm embraces and tight handshakes. Now, the entire school is housed at the same place. The erstwhile senior section had been converted to the junior section. It was a working day and the school was assembled for morning prayer; we had close to 15 minutes to ourselves when we walked from one classroom to other trying to remember who was our neighbor and where we sat.  The principal sir invited us to his chamber, where we had a brief interaction over a cup of tea and biscuits before we bid our goodbyes.

Traversing through our childhood in those forgotten alleys, this unassuming place called Khurda Road, taught us a very important life-hack - how to appreciate the simple things and light up a mundane life.

The Closure

Prashanti looked at the wall clock impatiently and then at her phone. “What’s taking him so long today?” She wondered. That’s when the phone screen flashed the familiar name. She gleefully picked up her phone, winked at her friend, Suma and ran towards the stairs leading to the terrace. “Are you going to come back tonight,” asked Suma as she shook her head with “I know that” smile.

It’s been close to a month since Prashanti has settled in this new routine. Gone are the days when she waited patiently for an empty bus to get to the 1BHK apartment she shared with Suma. Standing tall at 5.7”, Prashanti fit the favourite “slim, tall and fair” requirements in the matrimonial ads. With girl-next-door looks, she was eyed with envy by women in her office and men with admiration for her long silky hair.

Hailing from a village in East Godavari district, Prashanti had an elder brother who stopped studies after 12^th and decided to help his father in farming. But she earned a bachelor’s degree in Commerce from a nearby town. Determined to make something out of herself, she stayed back in the town during holidays and picked up additional skills in Computers and Accounting. 

She moved to Hyderabad a year back and joined as an Executive Assistant to the MD of a small IT firm located in Khairatabad. That’s where she met Suma, an engineer by profession. They became good friends within no time and rented an apartment together. Prashanti continued to upgrade her skills as she was not planning to be an EA forever. Looking at her perseverance, Suma helped her in improving her communication skills and prepared her for job interviews.

Prasanthi had an aunt in Hyderabad who was given the task of finding her a marriage proposal by her parents. Her aunt gave Prashanti’s photograph and other details to a local matrimonial agency. A month had passed since then and yet no response from the agency. This got her family impatient and then one fine evening, Prasanthi was informed by her aunt to expect a phone call from Bangalore. The guy was working as an F&B manager at a five-star property in Bangalore. Prashanti wasn’t keen on settling into marriage yet but owing to family pressure, she obliged and decided to make the conversation quick and curt.

What was supposed to be a 15-minute call extended to an hour. She felt good, liked his sense of humour and his easy-to-talk-to approach. To her surprise, she was already waiting for his call the next day which he had promised. The phone conversations became longer with each passing day. The families were eagerly waiting for these two to give their final approval so that they can go ahead with other formalities.

October being the peak season for hospitality, his Hyderabad visit kept postponing. Prasanthi had made up her mind already and meeting in person was just a formality.

 “Are you sure about him? He is nowhere closer to the kind of person you wanted and he doesn’t earn that well?” Asked Suma looking at his photograph.

“Yeah, he is no way closer to the person I was looking for. But you know, he respects me, my dreams and promised that he would support me in realizing them. What else does a girl need from her partner? Not to stifle her dreams but be the wind beneath her wings, isn’t it?” Prashanti replied.

“And you believed him?” Suma asked; her tone gave away her exasperation.

Prashanti stared at her with an expression of confusion and annoyance. 

“Look I am just asking you to be careful,” Suma added and decided not to broach this topic anymore.

Finally, the rendezvous weekend was round the corner.

“You’re going to meet a sleep-deprived and tired person with eye pockets as deep as his jeans’ pockets,” He said.

“Where did you learn to talk like this,” Prashanti asked midst her giggles.

 She went to a beauty parlour the previous day and got her already gleaming skin polished.

“This is your fifth dress since morning! I’m getting late,” Suma shouted looking at the closed bedroom door. She was pacing impatiently in the hall looking at the wall clock.

Prashanti came out smiling wearing a pink and blue salwar-kameez. “Why did you take so long to wear the right dress?” Suma said smilingly; her anger vanished in a minute.

“I’ll be late,” She said hugging her friend and rushed towards the door.

The front door was ajar when Suma returned in the evening. She saw Prasanthi staring outside the window in the bedroom with her back towards the door. She was still in the pink and blue dress she wore in the morning.

That evening her phone did not ring.

It’s been ten days since that evening and the two friends had hardly spoken to each other.  The chirpiness of the girls, the constant teasing of one another seemed to have lost; replaced with an uneasy silence and formalities.

Suma finally decided to break the status quo and waited for Prasanthi for dinner.

“I can shift to my friend’s house for few days if you need some space,” Suma said at the dining table.

“Did you make the dinner today,” Prashanti asked.

“Yes, the cook didn’t turn up. I could only think of egg bhurji for a quick meal,” replied Suma. “Why is it so difficult for me to talk to you these days? First it was those unending phone calls and now your stoic silence.”

Prashanti stared at Suma and continued eating.

“There’s new restaurant opened at the street corner. How about trying it this weekend?” Suma kept nudging her with talks.

“He was very quiet that morning when I met him. He seemed like a different person from the one I was talking to all these days. I thought he was tired due to the overnight journey. We planned to spend time till lunch and then meet again in the evening. But he excused himself soon after breakfast and left in a hurry,” Prashanti said, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears.

Suma listen without interrupting her. She didn’t reach out to hold Prashanti’s hands when she saw her friend trying to compose herself.

“I waited for him at the theatre for two hours, kept calling him; left him messages but he neither called back nor replied to my messages till now. He just vanished,” she said holding back her humiliation and unyielding anger.

“Why? Did he die?” asked Suma perplexed.

Prashanti shook her head in dismissal staring at her empty plate.

“You know whenever mom ran out of veggies, she would make egg bhurji, rasam and rice. It has always been my favourite combination,” Prashanti said and added, “my aunt called in the evening, it seems his parents’ asked the agency to continue with their search for a bride for their beloved son.”

Though Suma was shocked but skillfully hid her reaction. Prashanti was drawing circles on her plate with her eyes fixed on them. Tears rolled down her cheeks, wetting the parched plate.

She kept looking at her friend concealing her sadness and anger towards the phone guy who was yet to know how to treat people with respect.

“Yeah, he died the moment he decided to crawl away like a spineless worm.” She said smiling at Suma though her eyes spoke of immense sadness.

“…and yeah, “let’s try that restaurant in the weekend.”

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A closure is important to move on and it takes a great effort when one must find it on their own. There is a reason why a period is used to end a sentence, why the music slows down at the end of a song. Not everything has to have a perfect ending but an end is must because there can’t be spring without winter.

Goodbyes are not bad but it’s the way they are said make the difference