The following love story titled The Memory of Love is a part of a novella (tentatively titled Lost Days of Glory) I am hoping to write.
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| Arindam Moulick |
List of Principal Characters:
1. Preeti Ranautra (Preeti)
2. Arpan Monalic (Arpan)
3. Pommy Candel Fishsketcher (a.k.a. Pom)
4. Manpreet Jogi (Manpreet)
5. Papita InTears (Papita)
6. Padmini Srinivasan (a.k.a. Puma)
The Memory of Love
For the entire period of my association with Satyam as an employee, I had never - not even for a day - missed sticking my pen into the front pocket of my shirt. My romantic crush Preeti gifted me a pen - a silver Parker - and since then it became a much-loved, well-cared-for badge of love that I had, admittedly, loved to show off.
Preeti Ranautra worked for a financial company dealing with credits, foreign exchange, accounts and sales, and the whole nine yards. By virtue of her being a management graduate in Finance, her job necessarily entailed her to keep browsing loads of forex and securities files daily; dealing with money coming in and going out; files of individual account holders, and small and medium enterprises/businesses (SMEs) and the whole nine yards.
1998: A Personal History
My name is Arpan… Arpan Monalic and my courtship with Preeti literally began on the telephone. The romantic year of 1998 bears testimony to that fact. Preeti used to call our office to speak with Papita InTears, who was one of her mutual friends, on the direct line. On several occasions, when Papita was not in office yet, I got to inform her:
“Papita hasn’t come in yet and she’d be fashionably late again to the office! But as soon as she pops in I promise that I shall entreat her to call you first thing…and by the way, my name is Arpan”.
She’d at first laugh at the breathlessness with which I blurt out on the phone and say “and my name is Preeti”. And before hanging up, she’d say “thanks”.
Papita joined Satyam at TSR Towers along with me and Manpreet Jogi. I, Manpreet, and Papita shared an enlarged cabin with three computers inside it - two at the front and one at the back. Most often, whenever someone called on the phone, Manpreet’s hands always rose first to get it. His quick reflexes were seen to be believed! If his ‘Hello’ is quickly boomed into the phone it only meant the conversation from the other side of the line better be clear and to the point! Everybody knew Manpreet’s hard-boiled booming yowl very well compared to my yell or Papita’s foxy howl. On occasions when he passed on the phone to me smiling his trademark cheesy smile it only implied that Preeti Ranuatra, my chui-mui (shy princess) girl, was online for me. Manpreet, a blue-blooded sophisticate that he is, would never eavesdrop on our coochie-cooing, nope! And this way began one of the loveliest chapters being written in the storybook of my life.
Ms. InTears was also believed to be friends with the great Pommy Candel Fishsketcher (a.k.a. Pom), who worked with Preeti at her financial securities company situated on SD Road. Both Pom and Preeti were thick-as-thieves, always together, conjoined colleagues; only Papita (with her self-centered American dreams) was like a detached feather of the same flock, who, I presume, couldn’t possibly dare to handle a ‘Finance’ job and so scampered off to join a desi IT company instead. To me, this very fact was no less than a God’s blessing (actually Papita’s accidental irony!) as it bequeathed in me my close companionship with Preeti. But, thankfully, that blessing stops there.
Strangely, my office colleague Papita, a tall and ghostly predator, flinched outright at the idea of Preeti and me getting romantically involved, and now this was completely unlike her chubbier and far more cheerful friend Pom who was absolutely cool about it. To me, Pom came across as a frank, candid, and amazingly fun-loving human being. Her self-esteem was pretty impressive to get appreciative of, but she was highly pompous in her everyday life! That personal characteristic of Pom's - if you wear your thinking cap on and give it a second longer to think about it - will at first come across to be as crass, but, in course of time, you will get appreciative of her sonorous pompousness!
She had an exuberant beehive of a soul in her that basically throbbed with fun and lively humour; she’s delightfully pompous, solipsistic, socially gregarious, well-cushioned in appearance, forcefully animated, follows what her conscience says, and a little too chirpy in nature. At other times, Pom seemed like a plus-size Mother Superior who took it all on herself to throw in pieces of good-humoured “advice” our way - never mind whether really required or not! Her voice had a tonal groan that carries into your ears an echoing, squirming intensity that can easily make you feel as if someone is orating away in all glory at Delhi’s Ramlila Grounds. Such was this original Delhi belle’s prodigious reputation. Undoubtedly, such select cognoscenti go on to become true friends, opposite to what Papita had been to anyone ever.
When Papita happened to know the previous day that Preeti and I are meeting up, she turned a beetroot red on her face and reprised her at once over the phone with her ill-bred caution. She chided Preeti: “Kya karr rahi hai tu...!”, only to be met with a burst of bemused laughter. I never knew Papita was so wary of my friendship with Preeti until her clandestine phone call that ominous evening when I came in to relieve her from her shift ending at 3pm. She had made it all so rudely obvious for me to figure. It seemed that Papita had an acute attitudinal malfunction that was most akin to the sly characteristics of a well-known, modern-day Lalita Pawar.
Ever since that day, I couldn’t help but think of her as a wretched human being. I distanced myself from her – just in case, it pricks me to a needless confrontation with her, which I wanted to avoid by all means (because she wasn’t worth to be dealing with in the first place). Her droopy left eyelid, which flutters ominously at you, surely is indicative of a mindset typically Machiavellian in nature. If one ruminates further on her aforementioned personality one would evidently find that she is an undisputed drama-queen of chugalkhori (sycophancy). Not having anything to do with questions of morality even when sometimes finding herself in judgmental positions is crushingly depressing for her. One finds her a crafty old slithering eel, and bitterly distasteful is her cunning appetite for indulging in unabashed sycophancy.
Why was she hell-bent on misunderstanding me on some headless account or the other? Why was it so inordinately necessary for her to be so fiercely vampish about my affair? Is it in her nature to live her life the way she lived – in accordance with the kind of social class and background she happens to represent? Is it her disheveled upbringing that kicked in? I never got around to answering these ugly questions in my limited feeling of things. At first, it was not quite apparent why she was being vainly jealous of me - she gradually was beginning to come across as a little cantankerous individual - but what I figured is that it triggered a vapid botheration in me about her crude conduct. Afterward, when I was still none the wiser as to what her “issues” were with me, I dropped it like a hot coal and drew comfort from the age-old premonition that: Time will take its own course. Foxy Papitas of the world do not bring the luxury of friendly encouragement nor do they appreciate the thought of love and its reassuring finality in Providence. They simply have villainous appetites for sycophancy - may be a genetic defect carried on from millions of years of evolution - that makes one cringe in revulsion. To think of such people as mind-numbing pain and a big turn-off definitely rings true. I got wizened a bit and conclusively realized that it’s none of my business to put it all out with this tall and snaky colleague of mine, when, on that ominous evening, she was, in her own touchy-feely way, striving hard to forbid Preeti to have anything to do with me. But that day, it could have been a day of frank pejorative outburst in full discourse for her to see had she wanted to get candid with me then and there.
In fact, only after almost a month and a half of our dilly-dallying did we meet in person. We often postponed our first meeting because we didn’t want to break the charming spell we were enjoying while talking on the phone or do away with the fine sense of ignominy which was worth its while. Preeti once told me she found my voice sweet or am I trying to impress her? I had said “both” and cackled indulgently. I understand that Pom, her fast friend, was supposed to have constantly mused on behalf of Preeti as she remarked: “voice toh sweet hai, dekhne mein kaisa hoga?” I did not meet Pom until I met Preeti. When Preeti used to call me, Pom liked to barge into our phone conversation and share a word or two. I got to know her first this way.
Those days were the happy days of my life. It made me realize that Preeti was probably the one true reason why my life was being led to a world full of delightful anticipation and happiness. Our phone calls were so frequent and engaging that we felt like keeping our ‘on-phone’ relationship agreeably prolonged. Before making up our minds to see each other in person, we gave our relationship a little more time to mature. I guess we decided to make the best for last.
I remember oh so well watching Falguni Pathak’s chartbuster love songs on MTV: “yaad piya ki ane lagi” and “maine payal hai chankayi…” and thinking about Preeti all day and night. Humming Pankaj Sarawgi's beautifully picturized song: "Mujhe pyaar hai tumse..." brings back those memories again. I'll never forget this song.
"Mujhe pyaar hai tumse..
Ke jab bhi koi..
Aahat hue toh lage...
Ke tum aaye....
Sawala salona haye chehra yeh tera...
Aankhiyon mein basa hai yeh palko ki tarah..."
My days were literally filled with the tender fragrance of my jaanu (beloved) and her sweet voice on the phone. Life was so much worth living. Consequently, our telephonic tête-à -têtes started to gain a hue of assurance and expectation and we decided upon a date in September to meet. I grew restless and jumpy and so did she. I went home early on the day when our rendezvous was set up. In fact, after I have had my share of toiling in the office, I was almost a spent force to be game for a date with whom I had regarded as ‘someone special’. I was obviously impressed with her because my apprehensions got the better of me and I felt freshly energized to meet her. The joy of meeting a person whom you’ve never met before is something to be experienced to be believed. I had all kinds of ticklish butterflies in my stomach fluttering about. Time just flies by in such an event of delectable expectations. Small fears and trepidation in the form of what will happen if…? what will she…? will she…? is it ok to…? are enough to make you go tizzy. And likewise, one finds oneself spending copious amounts of time on one’s toiletries and dressing than otherwise would have done in other ‘normal’ circumstances. That was our first ‘blind date’ and I wanted to make it count for both of us.
This is how I made it count: I finished my harrowing scheduled shift at 3 o’clock and headed straight home to give myself some shringaar. I knew the day will come when I would meet her. I bought an assortment of personal care products. First on my list was Denim perfume (my favourite, but they don’t make that perfume anymore) and I reckoned that it’s perfectly okay to indulge a little now that I’m going on a date – an important event of my life no less. I ensured that my new shirt (maroon checks) was ironed well and had just the right creases for the sophistication I had intended to exude! (I still have that old shirt and I wear it sometimes to the office; sentimental value you see.) I had a slow dream-like shave and dappled my cheeks with Denim after-shave lotion and felt fresh and manly. When I was tip-top ready, I rode all the way to the venue humming “aye kaash ke hum hosnh mein ab aane na paye…” a delightful song from the Hindi movie Kabhie Han, Kabhie Na.
I drove at a speed of 50-55kph (nothing great about the speed, I know!), reached early, parked my bike, combed my hair, and took my position! I sat on a sit-out parapet railing and looked down the road I thought she would come riding astride her bike. For over three-quarters an hour, I waited like a Majnu, but when Her Highness was still not turning up I decided to call her from a nearby telephone booth. She got my call after the first ring and when I said “Hello” she knew from my voice I was on the line.
“Hello…? Arpan…? Give me just 10 minutes na please and I’ll be there”, said she.
I said laughing: “Sure. Come soon, Mademoiselle. Um waiting… see ya byee.”
At last, come she did and the song I was humming “kab se kare hain tera intezar, kab ayegi meri jaane bahaar…” froze, as if set automatically on a pause button. One nice glance at her…whoa! and I knew she was the one, my ‘special someone,’ with whom I had shared almost every little detail of my life in our endless telephonic conversations... is right there. By all accounts a blind date it was, with someone, I already knew telephonically but never had up till now seen her face. So now I know who I was talking to all during the enchanting season of August and September months of our eager courtship. Preeti wore a pastel-hued virgin pink (her favourite colour) Salwaar and I instantly noticed that she had an exquisite stance about her which was really so attention-grabbing. She was riding a Kinetic Honda. The spike holding the right-hand side mirror was wrapped with a red perforated holy scarf (laced with shiny golden borders); apparently, it was tugged there as a reminder for her to drive safely. A nice thing to do really. She was a splendid and incredibly pretty lady, just like her name. I was stunned into thinking that she looked no less than a pariyon ki rani (Angel Princess!); certainly not of this mortal world. Quite evidently, Preeti has a strong closeness in appearance to an actress by the name Preeti Jhangiani (her namesake), and it never goes unnoticed even at the first glimpse.
Now, people should have laughed watching me doing what I could, yeah, to the best of my knowledge, trying to put up some sort of a brave front to meet her.
I descended down the short marble-tiled steps (for a moment I thought I would trip and fall on the pavement and break my teeth! but I didn’t) and stood confidently in the parking lot in front of the Aditya coffee shop. A ready glee frolicked on my face and almost absent willpower to meet ‘a girl’ had muddled my mind into self-consciousness. I don’t know how but I just about managed to be up and about. I didn’t know how I could muster up that kind of insouciant confidence to go on a blind date. But I did it, you know. Basically, I was happy about the fact that Preeti turned out to be what I had imagined her to be. She looked up tossing her coy tresses and tending them back in place; she clutched her bag and dashed a meaningful glance at me smiling warmly and then our evening rendezvous was well set to roll.
After we got a corner table, I ordered a couple of coffees with house-special cupcakes. Our conversation took off on a free note which really surprised us at first. I mean, normally, meeting someone whom you haven’t seen or met before - except of course one might have talked endlessly with the same person over the phone day in and day out - how is one supposed to react or interact without getting self-conscious or nervous? I didn’t know, and neither did she I believe. In contrast, what I did sense in Preeti’s cool appearance is her easy-going, well-honed confident persona; her subtle countenances were at once very pleasing to behold. Not only was I bowled clean but also it made me feel uncomfortably conscious of my humble self.
Thankfully though, it came as a big relief to me when she coolly began talking without much ado or gumption as she sat across me with a smile on her lips that I bet was like that of Angels I read in the books or saw in the movies. What had actually assailed me up to the brim of my soul is the fragrance of her floral beauty. She was a woman of substance. I marvelled at her art of conversation which struck me as deeply fascinating. Her conversational subjects knew no bounds. She indulged in it copiously. One naturally expects a finance graduate to somehow come round talking about “finance” not bothering to see whether the person in front of you likes it or dislikes it, but luckily she was far removed from such a mercy-killing.
Her compelling allure of beauty combined with her intricate artwork of a smile frolicking all over her lipstick-lined thin lips and her face lighting up the whole corner of the room – all this had kept me possessively enchanted throughout the course of that thoroughly dreamy evening I spent with her at the coffee shop.
Ever since our first blind date went all good, we always met over coffee at Aditya Coffee Shop, an exclusive underground coffee shop meant for lovers or soon-to-be-lovers, and had exchanged quite a few pleasantries. Time and again she found me marveling at her eyes! Preeti’s elegant black eyes were naturally a good conversation starter for me. I gaped in wonder at those luminous black eyes and have written copious poetry in my mind and sang romantic songs in my heart – all for her. (I dabbled in poetry in those days and my muse was right in front of me.) Let God be in heaven; she was a great looker.
The reason, apparently, why she thought of gifting me a Parker is that she sensed what better gift but a pen for a scorching pen-pusher cum first-time (first time?) lover like me!
[Personal disclaimer: I, Arpan, am not one of the all-seasons jholawalla brigades. Never could be one, alas! It’s a different story that these days the jholawallas turn up in smart prêt-à -porter lines and are more technologically savvier than the usual pen-wielding fella like me. No, I don’t mean to say this in an unkind way, for…er…journalists/writers are far more intellectually advanced than anyone who thinks can wield his/her pen (or even hammer away on the keyboard) and write as effortlessly as the way the journalists do. Journalists are conscience keepers of the world; a superior species of life-changing opinion-makers and pre-eminent writers. I, who can only aspire to be a lowly poetaster at best, lay my pen down to that because it is so goddamn true, and I have miles to go before I sleep.]
In fact, prior to our first meeting, we had been exchanging emails profusely and chatting away on the phone as if mesmerized to the point of no return! No amount of office work could make me refrain from writing her emails and likewise, no amount of office work could stop her from reading my emails. I loved writing to her every single day before I logged off my computer and called it a day. She would call me back the next day and talk about the things I wrote to her and her plans to meet me at the coffee place we frequented. Preeti once quipped about my writing that it is so “detailed”. I very well remember writing about the movie I liked very much; it was Dr. DoLittle. Writing about the story of the film gave me such joy that for the simple love of sharing it with Preeti I ended up writing a huge email of several bytes in length which ultimately reached her erratic office email box in two or three installments! There was another movie by the name of Patch Adams (one of my favourite movies) that greatly moved me. A couple of days later when I wrote about Patch Adams she replied back saying that she saw the movie solely on account of my florid descriptions of the movie in my email! Carrying me on the wings of her appeasing compliment, I had soared high to the heavens and back!
Sweet girl; she liked to agree with everything I said or opinionated on in my emails, and I adored her - almost obsessively and self-centered-ly - for everything she was and what she used to talk about while sipping coffee. Our ‘feelings’ for each other were deepening, slowly and naturally. I confess I never knew how to hold an approving girl's hand or look in the eyes and say the three magic words. But all that changed instantly, as if by some magic! Cuddling her hands in mine for a long while - sometimes almost to the point of breaking a sweat - till the closing hours of the coffee shop, was my way of obsessing about my perfect meetings with her. Coming home every day with an ‘expression’ dancing upon my face and keeping awake till the small hours of the morning thereafter was my daily routine. I had no way of knowing if anybody used to notice (except Papita) when I danced to Preeti’s love - I was pretty curious to know. The ‘expression’ on my face said: “Oui ma...I am in love…so totally in love... yeah yeaah yeaaah!”
I, Arpan Monalic, do hereby affirm that I have totally fallen in love, so deeply, with a manchali Himachali, Preeti Ranautra.
Pompous Pom
Ms. Pommy Candel Fishsketcher joined Preeti and me at Aditya Coffee Shop once and talked about wanting to see the film Kuch Kuch Hota Hai. Apparently, they had been planning to make it to the Manju theatre, and one fine day they went and saw the mushy film. It was the festival month of October when the film was released and Navratri and Dussehra were not far behind. Finally, I went to see it with one of my university buddies Praveen at Manju. I liked the film so very much that it led me to think of Rani as Preeti! At one point during the interval, swinging his share of a plastic bag of chips and a bottle of Thums Up, he urged me not to criticize Hindi flicks like this one, especially with Rani Mukherjee in it, and I should take it easy.
Oh well, I wasn’t overly critical of the film; I simply opinionated that I liked Rani Mukherjee’s serene beauty (Praveen didn’t know that I was actually thinking of my doe-eyed girlfriend Preeti) in the song “tum pass aye yun muskuraye…”. The song “ladki badi anjani hai…” picturized on ugly-pugly Kajol and Shah Rukh was another chartbuster song that had us hooked. Lo and behold, he warns me at once from doing so. Yeah…yeah… you got it right, his heart went aflutter on his sweet Rani and so I have no business in her whatsoever! Even as harmless as appreciating Rani was objectionable to him! Kya zamana ah gaya, bhai! (What has the world come to, oh brother?)
In fact, on account of Pom’s standard break-ins during my lovey-dovey phone calls to Preeti, she got to know that my favourite curry is Fish curry, and the more jhaal jhaal (spicy spicy!) it is the better. So she sketched a big torpedo-shaped fish (with prominently drawn fish scales, pectoral fins, pelvic fins, and all – probably macher raja (King of Fish), a Rohu variety! on a wonderful paper-cutting shaped like a big fleshy scrumptious fish and gave it to me. (Ah! Hah! I didn’t have to cast a line or hook a worm to catch it! I told my Ma to cook it but she laughed!)
The free-hand sketch was so endearingly good to look at, as though of a lovely presentation from a friend to another friend. Preeti appreciated Pom and her delicate paper Fish sketch, profusely. I was so damn pleased with Pom’s gift sitting on my lap that it made me agape in deep certitude. That evening Preeti kept smiling her million-dollar smile even as Pom got to her evening best in the coffee shop with such jovial aplomb that as if all the Lilies and Roses and Lotuses of the natural world were dilly-dallying on her lively round face.
Emails of love and longing
I used my newly-opened Hotmail account to send emails to my obsession Preeti. I had also occasionally dropped in a line or two to Pom. Every day, before logging off, I wrote to Preeti without fail. I pounded on my keyboard and wrote lengthy emails. After office hours I had all the time in the world and I loved writing whatever came to mind. (I am a regular little literary snob just like anyone passionate about literature and books and warm tea/coffee). Preeti cast her beautiful eyes on my prolific emails and read them with much keenness. I’d afterward call her and talk to her about them. For us our developing relationship mattered more than anything else; perhaps, with the sole exception of my emails making her day and mine alike.
Those days, I had a kind of dedicated approach towards writing and literature, books, and soirees; I still am dedicated, but I feel that old spark is somehow missing. I have a passion for books and writing gives me some solace from the maddening world I live in. In my writings, I confess, every single detail is left to suggestion; I describe a lot almost to the point of overdoing it, use long-winding sentences, words that are normally not used or found in the daily lexicon of a person – all of them find a berth in the much-harried pages of my stories! And as a result of that, I have suffered deep pangs of guilty pleasure generated from my natural inclination towards writing so many words that suffer from what I call deep claustrophobia. I never think of taking into account whether or not the person I am writing to really does have the time and inclination to read my laborious stuff.
Many a time and oft I used to feel sissy about the whole thing and abandon my curious, stuffy enterprise. But yet, you know, I preferred writing globe-swallowing stories no matter whether or not I stopped in my tracks and listened to a better opinion or two on how to do it the way it is meant to be done. To disengage from the vocation I am indulging in will never be on my To-Do list. Not yet. As far as writing emails to Preeti was concerned, I didn’t know when to stop my rambling, self-conscious prose and so I never did. I loved writing to her as much as she did reading it. Of all things that matter, writing straight from the heart was important. It is a time of plenty; blogging, tweeting, and SMS-ing are just a part of the big picture. And I am bumbling with fantastic enthusiasm and energy to write, write and write, and hopefully, get read.
[Note: Getting someone to read your stuff (or anything at all) is a monstrous challenge, almost to the size of an untamed Dinosaur. I mean you can get some people to see a T-Rex in a man-made Jurassic-era-like park, but to tell them to also read the swashbuckling Michael Crichton novel on which the film Jurassic Park is based is like committing some kind of hara-kiri...! I prefer being eaten by a Dinosaur then! Problem solved! In a day and age when people have no doubtless and less time at their disposal, they have inadvertently become more and more adept at some kind of self-effacing tactics (often at no fault of theirs) - preferring instead the cushy pads of cellphones and getting stuck in traffic jams, and watching TV. The universal excuse is: We hardly get time to read a good book or two. I say it is just not done.]
A lifesaver was my sweetheart Preeti who always got very anxious if the daily treat of my thesis-like emails didn’t reach her inbox. She never could think of giving them a miss, come hell, or high water. That act of love was not only inspirational but a sure blessing for me. So I kept up my seriously indulgent writing as it is. I distinctly recall once when she had attended an official luncheon at Ramada Hotel. Pom and Padmini also were invitees there.
All throughout the day in my office, a torrent of apprehensions kept beleaguering me even as I had wanted to hear her voice just once over the phone and my day would have been made. Back in 1998, there were no mobile phones and so immediately calling her up was beyond question. I remember, I sat displeased in my office cubicle on the 5th floor of TSR Towers and was getting deeply anxious about her promised phone call. At last, Preeti called my office post lunch and I got talking to her. Great feelings of gratification had assailed me from head to toe. By now I had known her intimately. Accustomed feelings of love and longing filled our pleading, embracing hearts. She teased me at first and narrated the fabulous spread of Chinese, Indian and Mediterranean dishes: Chicken Manchuria, American Chopsuey (one of her favourites), Greek Salad, Butter Chicken, Chicken Tikka Masala, etc. - with the usual salvers of Dal Makhni, Tomato Rasam, and Tamarind Rice. We planned for a visit sometime.
In the following week, she called me to say she was going to a pub with her office buddies. Somebody wanted to give a treat, apparently. The same night when she called back to say that she was safely back home and propped on the sofa watching the movie The Marrying Man on cable television she seemed a little drunk, and for the first time in our relationship the ‘three magic words’ were expressed.
Now, let the truth be told, anything to do with Chicken usually revs up my craving and this incidentally had had me yelping away at Preeti and Pom when they called me from the restaurant on my office phone, and I gurgled: “baar aarahi hai mu main…!” (My mouth is being flooded!) The Hindi slang bemused them like crazy and a fit of super-duper girly laughter stormed my ears and in consequence of that, it led me to double-up in laughter too in my office cabin. (I couldn’t help but give a sideways glance at our very own omnivorous cicada called Papita InTears, who sat cross-legged in the chair behind me breaking her heads off on the computer, turned a beetroot red (her trademark peculiarity) in her notoriously big spade-like ears! I sensed that she was getting unstoppably scandalous and continued snooping on my lovey-dovey telephonic conversation with Preeti and Pom like an enthu cutlet).
Nevertheless, I felt so acutely funny of myself and wet behind the ears: you know the inexperience of a baby, so recently born as to be still wet! Duh…!
I wrote to Preeti about plenty of things - my bike, breakfast, English flicks, office people, friends, books, restaurants, actors, and Hindi movies. She nostalgically talked about Himachal Pradesh - her native, her love of pastel-hued salwar kameezes, chiffon sarees, coffee breaks, office people, long drives, and plenty of other things. Once when the Patrick Swayze film Dirty Dancing was being shown at Sangeet, she went to see it escorting her office pal Ms. Padmini Srinivasan (alias Puma), who later became my friend too. Preeti loved my signature style ‘byee’. I always mentioned that at the end of every email I wrote to her.
I realized that I was in a sort of elite company nicknamed Chaar Saheliyan, Chaar Paheliyan! From the gang of four like-minded girls like Pom and Papita I had befriended by virtue of my courtship with Preeti, Padmini (alias Puma) was the last one. (Their names all begin with the letter P – Paheli no. 1 is Preeti, Paheli no. 2, 3, and 4 are Pom, Papita, and Puma respectively). Preeti introduced me to Puma at her birthday party which was being held at a small jaunt located somewhere near YMCA; the venue was not far away from their office on SD Road. I remember I had gate-crashed into that all-girls birthday party; I didn’t mean to but I had gifts to be given to Preeti on her birthday on 10th December. How could I miss her birthday! Two days before, I had visited Walden and bought two paperback books: The Diary of Anne Frank (by Anne Frank) and No Greater Love (by Danielle Steel) for her and fervently wished that my girlfriend would read them. So I dashed in to gift her with my presents.
A few days before, I drove with Preeti all the way to the south of the city to attend our alma mater’s convocation ceremony conducted at Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan. The auditorium was crammed with students, ex-students, coordinators, administrators, and parents. We went onto the stage shook hands with Dr. Sugata Mitra, an eminent Physicist, and received our convocation certificates from him.
[Not many people know that the book Slumdog Millionaire (also known as Q&A) written by Vikas Swarup was inspired by Dr. Sugata Mitra’s “Hole in the Wall” (HIW) experiment.]
My broken love
Much later, when our vastly-complimented affair of love and longing began inviting envious stares and glares from the jealous people, it felt suddenly abandoned as if falling on the wayside – yes, all thanks to the misgivings, misjudgments and back-stabbers and my own unintentional glowering at some despicable people of miserable gumption. It was tough fighting to keep the world of the antagonistic crowd like Papita at bay. Open indignation and insufferable crudeness on the part of our own friends had become noxious for us to bear. My sudden and frequent lapses from my friends' lives had led them to believe that as if I have been transformed into a sort of organism of deceit and self-flagellation to boot; that I have no other concern except Preeti, Preeti, and Preeti. That was so very true but it was my business, not theirs! What a world we live in! Hah! Thankfully, Puma had unwittingly become a person with whom I had my emotional bereavement shared for some measure.
The unforgiving realm of remembrances and memories began to tug at my shattered heart after we broke up. The truth is we never did really 'broke up' per se; we simply did not pursue each other anymore. Neither of us could 'unbreak' his/her heart to make amends. My relationship with Preeti - my ‘special someone’ - had ended abruptly. Needless to say, Papitas of the world were up and about throwing kitty parties to celebrate the end of my relationship with her. Yes, it’s no doubt true. What use is a war of words with a loveless fawn-like Papita would be? Nothing! But it really breaks one’s heart to even think of such a thing when one is face to face with grief that is no less than a personal tragedy in itself. Satanic elements like Papita shouldn’t have been a problem to deal with. My little love story was fed to the unkind ferocity of misunderstandings that leaped up, with fangs bared, devouring our relationship wholly and completely – all thanks to the Resident Evil who shredded it at the first opportunity she got.
For one last time when I wrote to her, unloading all my heart’s contents onto the spreadsheet of my email, I found myself reasoning with her that if I had to take umbrage at anybody in the world for our love to have resulted in this end, then it would be me, just me and my forsaken fate, and no one else but me. I have no doubt that I may have sounded a little duplicitous then. The truth is I had no way of telling her what I had actually gone through after all that had happened between us, but to shut my mouth and get lost was a better escape route. I had come round to concede that the onus was on me and not her; it was I who could not judge any potential damage slithering into our relationship slowly and ever so slowly; until it couldn’t hold and gave way to falling apart. I got no reply from Preeti ever again. All throughout the last parts of the last millennium, particularly the romantic year of 1998 so to speak, I had been yearning, more like a loser, for those glorious days that I had spent at Satyam to come back just for one last time; but I know they never ever will. God bless her… I knew there could nothing be amiss about Preeti choosing not to reply because stating the obvious was not her flair: our relationship has obviously ended, and what was I thinking.
One last strand of memory: Rarely but when I have to go towards the SD Road or towards the now-defunct Sangeet cinema, my heart remembers to tug at my chest and unfailingly craves to have just one last look at the much-familiar long staircase leading up to her 2nd-floor office at O. Plaza. So many times have I been there to her office climbing up the flight of stairs to meet her. So very often have we stood on the marble steps and talked for long periods of time before I had to drive away burning rubber and breaking all speed limits on the way to my office on Raj Bhavan Road. And those gorgeous eyes that looked down at me from her position of one flight of step up. I can still remember very vividly: holding her hands in mine, tickling her chin, feeling each passing moment as if sent from heaven, amidst the fragrance of our love, and not wanting to leave her there and go away... I never went there ever again. Those memories will never be forgotten even if I want to.
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[Note: The good old single-screen, 35 rupees balcony, Sangeet theatre has been razed to the ground; it is no longer there! (That's reasoning enough for me to continue hating expensive multiplexes.) The last time I had been to Sangeet to see a film was probably in the year 2005. Back during my college days, I and my friend Armstrong once saw two movies there back to back. The first one was Sleeping with the Enemy and the next one was Pacific Heights. We both liked Sleeping with the Enemy better, although Pacific Heights was a good movie too. (That was only the last time I ever saw two movies one after the other in a cinema theatre!) Many memories are associated with this much-loved theatre on SD Road. I remember it used to feel so special and a warming experience altogether to visit it with friends and college buddies and see English movies there, often with a bottle of Coke or Thums Up in hand, and munching on chutney sandwiches, sometimes on egg puffs or onion samosas bought at the stalls - just too good to be true. Those days will never come back, ever again. I still can’t believe why do they have to demolish such a historic landmark and build a stupid multiplex there? A clear case of greed I suppose.]
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After almost a year had passed, I called Ms. Padmini Srinivasan (alias Puma) once in the month of July 1999 and shed copious tears. I remember the exact month because the Hindi movie Mann was released that month. I saw the film and thought the story was mostly similar to my own doomed love story, except of course Manisha Koirala lost her legs in the movie (that was really preposterous if you ask me). Puma persevered to say: “nazar lag gayi…Arpan” So true. Her understanding of my puppy-love confusion and her perseverance and thoughtful reasoning was right on dot.
I, a late-bloomer of sorts, always been so, had been told that in the quest of my passion for Preeti Ranautra, I forgot to be “rational” and “properly sensible” and a little “radical in approach”. While one can make out words like “rational” and “sensible”, but “radical”? I still have no clue about that one. All that I read in books and saw on TV and experienced myself is that love knows no bounds, no religion, no caste or creed, and even no purport of words from the dictionary of Human language is required to define what Love is. What is required or one hopes for while in love, is simple, just, and pure unconditional god-like love - the meaning of love which is propounded by the Gods and Goddesses themselves for the human hearts to take an everlasting shade under. Yeah, right! (See I grew up, guys!) People would either be in splits or wouldn't really hesitate to asphyxiate me with their bare hands if I try to talk about love ever again. Shoo!
Richard Marx has been “right here waiting” for his love to come back and so have I replaying the song - “where ever you go, whatever you do, I will be right here waiting for you…” – over and over. Is there an iota of truth in waiting for someone whom you once loved to come back? Let's say it is true. Hope floats.
Whatever Love is…
Shakespeare said “Love is not time’s fool”, Virgil exclaimed “Love conquers all”, The Beatles suggested, “All you need is Love”. According to Saint Augustine, God is the only one who can truly and fully love you, because love with a human lets in flaws such as jealousy, suspicion, fear, anger, and contention. Euripides declared “He is not a lover who does not love forever.” Take your pick. Sure all of that is so damn true. Isn't it?
Whatever Love is; I felt like I was breaking inside. I was blown into pieces, disintegrating. I could not hold on to the stark truth that Preeti is no longer there. Oftentimes, I had thought of going away to someplace else than here to see if I can come back and make amends with her. What was I thinking? I could do no such thing; for it wasn’t entirely up to me to do so. Neither did she I believe was able to come round. So many years have withered away ever since I lost my one saving love. I may as well go back to the days I spent with her, but I can do that only in my memories now.
The desire to fall in love again is dead. Or have I lost my mind completely? If not, then how do I get a handle on such suicidal ideation? It’s better to rot in hell than fall in love again. It’s hard to keep on going this way; with no hope of an absolution even. Memories keep on replaying endlessly in my mind. How many times of some “Therapy” would get me out of this morose situation? Thank you, God, for not answering!
The course of true love never runs smoothly; if I had truly loved her, I should set her free - such oft-repeated banalities have however become a soul food for me to survive on. I missed her so greatly that very often I ran up to the terrace of my building and cried my heart out. After being abandoned in love what could you possibly do? Except, of course, pontificate? And hold it all out on the monstrosity of the seemingly merciless world you have to inhabit it! Or do I indulge in some meandering psycho-babble for my attendant friend who had come to stand by me to console me? And who, not knowing whether to make head or tail of it, acknowledges your rush of emotions as “a kind cruelty of the surgeon’s knife!”
To be a man strong enough to see this thing through was very hard for my hurt soul to endure – which was already hard done by her. Whenever my imagination had a free run, I took her into my arms and never let go. Now, my thoughts reflect the loving hopes of my heart and whenever they wander they always take me to her. There was nothing more worthwhile in my life than purely loving her. I realized that she is on my mind more often than any other thought; from the time I wake up till I close my eyes. Many a time, in the dazed afternoons, I have heard songs of melancholy that brought back unforgettable memories of the past. A sigh or two somehow managed to escape out of my world-wearied soul even as my eyes betrayed tears of passion.
It is only now that I have learned what Sir Elton John always knew: that “it’s no sacrifice” because it is “just a simple word” and “it’s two hearts living in two separate worlds”. Can’t help feeling wasted away without the one and only love I had sacrificed…
Moving on
The pompous Pommy Candel Fishsketcher’s (a.k.a. Pom) pieces of “advice” and her Ramlila-like voice were no longer there (they were really required then!) for me to partake of; she withdrew and hurried away to the US and never looked back since. Meanwhile, Papita InTears drooled nonstop. There was no stopping it. This crude hourglass silhouette kept nipping away and tucking away and tweaking away at her well-preserved, properly dried, salted, and pickled feathery mane of American dreams so that she’d be able to discard her desi life in a jiffy like old rags and fly away to…er…oblivion! She was never missed again.
Manpreet Jogi continues to foster his life good-humouredly and prudently. He keeps Life’s all trump cards well within his reach; that is in most parts fascinating and in other parts interesting. His sense of humour as always is well-endowed and proper. As for me, I moved on to someplace else; I had to. Manpreet and I kept in touch perfectly fine. We call each other off and on to share our individual lives ’ feats and triumphs. Later when I returned back, we invited ourselves to some “jimmings” (his pun cum pet language for buffet meals) and went to see big-ticket movies at a lavish multiplex.
Thankfully enough, Puma’s kindly assertions and well-endowed reasoning had worked well like a balm. She said, “we don’t love to be loved; we love to love.” Being extremely grateful to Puma’s agile sense of things was something of a saving grace for this brooding Devdas to recover from the accident of love. And to be innately thankful to her was my duty. Shortly afterward when I was salvaged from going completely wrecked: I was brought back to life, and slowly as I began to regain some sense of proportion the grave dark smudges that had settled around my eyes began to fade away, Puma was not there anymore. She couldn’t announce her goodbye as she preferred without anything formally uttered.
The world has become a little more precarious place to live in. Everything has changed here. Even this city where I live has changed (almost) beyond recognition; so many people (we are approaching a world of 7 billion people!), so many cars, bikes, rickshaws and so much air, land, water pollution, and rampant heritage destruction. Old giving way to new and how! The city is dotted with precarious flyovers that obstruct your way and ease your daily commuting problems. Traffic is permanently haywire. Flyovers have already become redundant. They don’t ease traffic anymore. We all are leading a life in the fast lane now with access to all kinds of moral-degrading, conscience-killer electronic junk. I am aghast at the way the world has moved on or moving on unmindfully of so many problems it faces. Aghast because no one stops to find a remedy to the problems, but carries on regardless. I am not complaining because I too am part of the same mad mad world; an eager-beaver descendant of Adam & Eve's family heirloom, who was, let's face it, famously kicked out from the Garden of Eden!!! The point is why do we have to live the way we live? No, not like Adam and Eve back again perhaps! But can we change for the real better? Is it a valid query to be asked? Or have I gone bonkers and hopelessly sentimental? Maybe; but I better give this argument a quick burial. Nonetheless, I had becalmed myself with knowing that it doesn’t matter whether my heart is still beating its beats for Preeti or not. She too had moved on and why wouldn’t she. No point wallowing in self-pity.
Goodbye, my dear...
The Hallmark cards and email printouts were strewn around my cupboard, and even Pom’s masterpiece: The Fish Sketch, was shoved away. I had carefully preserved them for many years but did not dare to look at them again until many years later in ’06/’07 when I had somehow persuaded my defeatist mind to see all the physical memories gone. I read and re-read all the cards and email printouts before clutching them in my trembling hands and surrendering them to the flames. I was greatly unwilling to do such a thing, but one day I really had to come to such a pass. That night in the backyard, on the veranda, I stood and cried staring at the querulous flames engulfing the stacks of my much-loved letters and souvenirs. I hid them, stored them for many years and now they are gone. Except for three things: the old silver Parker, the maroon woollen sweater, and the tiny brown teddy bear, which she gave me after we’ve exchanged the ‘three magic words’, nothing remains. For the life of me, I couldn't toss them into the flames. With the fires finally burning out I sat and wept inconsolably hoping for an absolution that I know will never come. Am I the only one looking for absolution, is she not hoping as much? Months passed away to become years and memories became immortal. Memories never go away; I have them safe in my heart. Goodbye, my dear...
~~~~~~
My sagacious friend Sridhar Dali chided me one day out of the blue: ostensibly to steer my heart into a helpful perspective.
“No matter how intense or honourable your love is, Arpan, in the end, it comes to rationality and reality part when things go wrong. And they go wrong all the time!
“Look at me, baby…I had been in love too… I was once a certified full-blown Majnu!”
(Hmmmm… Now I know.)
“In the present day and age, if you have a love-like thing going then surely the world will find no place for you if you fail in it.
“So brace up for reality... Let it sink in. It counts more than the utopia of love that these present-day gals carry about themselves! Ok… Umm…we boys are shoddy too. Give it a visharjan, now, will you!
"Girls don’t think the way boys do, yaar. Mark my words!” continued my Ph.D.-in-Loveology pal.” (Maybe, but I’m not into genetics and psychology.)
“Many people fail while very few succeed in love… didn’t you know?”
(I know, Bebo; after all, I am not a machine or a robot not to know.)
“No point wallowing in dejection and despair unnecessarily, Arpan. Dabur chawanprash khao mast ho jao!” admonished my rationality-personified friend Sridhar Dali.
I thank him for all those mood-uplifting words. They worked on me very well.
~~~~~~
Moving on to seek a fresh lease of life seemed a calming possibility, an escape route for the battered soul. A safer suggestion to pay heed to. But, yeah, that was something my heart never could approve of, initially. I never ‘moved on’ until the passing of many agonizingly sodden years when I finally did 'move on’ to start afresh. Only after a lot of time and space and wallowing in self-pity did my heart relent to a new usher of life. Everybody moved on; one had to, and perhaps one way or the other Life finds a way ….
I Arpan Monalic, would like to hereby affirm that I have survived the failed drool of love, and thanks to my family and friends I have been able to move on too, finally.
The End
By Arindam Moulick
- I dedicate this short story to A. N.
No matter where in this crazy world we live, I'm glad I don't have to live a single day without your loving memory. Thank you for touching my life in ways you may never know. At this moment I remember you, my friend.
