It was a cold winter evening, bare trees stood shamelessly as the wind blew, watching folks play delightfully with snowballs, and snowmen alike, slipping, tripping, ice skating over frozen lakes and ponds. The wind resonated with sounds of laughter and merriment, not very far away sat a slightly tense Tyson, today was his big day.

He knew he was going to do it, "no more holding back" he thought as he waited, rather paced to and fro, around that small wooden bench. Not very far away from the public view, yet had an amazing sense of privacy around it. Maybe that's why Alexis and Tyson loved this place, it was like a home away from home. they'd study, talk, laugh, cry, go crazy, and quite literally grow up around this place.

It was "their place".

Many were surprised at how these two 18 year olds could spend hours just sitting there, either engaged in an animated conversation, or enjoying the muted silence which lingered on between them. Tyson and Alexis had liked each other ever since they understood what they word meant. The feelings had always been pretty strong, but both rationalized it under the name of friendship. He could never forget how she laughed every time he did something stupid, or even the times when she fell and laughed at her own clumsiness.. never forget the twinkle in her eyes when he gave her a hand made bracelet for her 16th birthday, and how it never left her wrist ever since the minute he tied it there. She on the other hand never got past his beautiful green eyes, his chiseled jawline, the way he gesticulated when he was particularly enthused about something, the warmth of his reassuring hugs when she leaned on him for support, his scent, the strength of his character, his tender care.. they both loved each other, and never acknowledged it.

Tyson was struggling for the perfect words since the past 3 years, and yet nothing he could come up with would ever be close to perfect.

She finally arrived after what seemed like an eternity (which was actually only 15 minutes..!) there he was, dressed casually, and yet something about him was particularly attractive and it made her weak in her knees.

A little away from the bench was the shack they'd built together, it was their own little "lake house" as they called it. Both their parents knew where exactly to find the kids if they weren't home or at each others place. Only this time, Alexis' parents were out of town, and Tyson had his aunt come over.. perfect excuse to stay out of home. The minute he set his eyes upon her, he was never able to get them off.. she was her usual tomboyish self and yet exuded so much of feminine grace and beauty, that a combination like that was rather hard to let go of.

From a distance, she could see, the shack was lit up with small dim lights, was made very cozy, now especially during the winter, it was a must; to not have to do it herself, made her feel both relieved and slightly worried, she could only wonder what he was up to. Just as she was about to enter, he told her to close her eyes, and then slowly opened the door. She walked into something that looked like it came right out of one of those romantic beautiful-and-rich-princess-meets-handsome-and-brave-prince type of fairy tales.

There he was, down on one knee, with a ring in one hand and her hand in the other, he finally proposed, his words were simple yet messed up, just like his feelings for her and yet nothing could've seemed more perfect.

I may not be able to understand some things sometimes,

But I will always listen,

I may never be good with words,

Yet I will never tire of talking to you,

I may not know how many stars are in the sky,

But know how to put them in your eyes,

I may not be able to bring you the moon,

Because you shine brighter than it,

I may not know how many grains of sand there are,

Yet I know you wont make me count.

I don't know a thousand and ten things about life and society and how to deal with a girl when she's feeling blue..

But I guess I'll find a teacher and companion in you.

Today I ask you to be mine,

'Cause I know that together we'll be so fine!

MARRY ME ALEXIS.

All she could manage was a smile, as tears came rolling down her pretty cheeks, a very overwhelmed and almost choked "yes" escaped her.

It was snowing, and even in the dimness of the lights, one could tell, that they were both glowing.

Sangeeta beauty parlour does amazing business. It started out as a 100-odd sq. feet non-AC room and today, after over a decade, it's a two-storey AC parlour and has opened shop even in Lokhandwala.

I go to the 'parlour' only for basic services like waxing and threading, like most of us do now, thanks to the flourishing 'salons' for haircuts and 'spas' for more fancy pampering. Yet, Sangeeta aunty always seems to have become fatter like the gold chain around her neck. Unfortunately for us and fortunately for her, unwanted hair grows back quickly.

The place is always teeming with old, loyal clients but for some reason the beauticians are always new. Yet they're a homogenous lot. Something binds them so that despite a couple of them leaving every month and a couple of them joining, the staff seems unchanged, untouched.

One afternoon while having electrically-overheated wax smeared on an arm, I was involuntarily, unwillingly eavesdropping on their conversation which was actually rather interesting. The girl who was reverse-whipping me with a waxing strip was complaining about her bhabhi who apparently can give Lalita Pawar a run for her money. An older woman who was bleaching someone's face 'Shehnaaz Gold' consoled her for a moment and then immediately started to curse her father-in-law's illness that ate into their modest income. The young girl politely interrupted the woman and asked another young girl to take up my idle arm so they could get rid of me faster and in the meanwhile they'd get to catch up. As she opened her mouth to moan about her 'Lalita' bhabhi, her friend began her own laments over her cheating boyfriend. And so they were simultaneously jabbering and simultaneously reverse-whipping me.

The problems keep piling up. Husband problems, children problems, parent problems, Sangeeta aunty problems, landlord problems, crowded train problems, client problems, health problems, financial problems... Like layer upon layer of hot wax, the problems keep piling up in the air-conditioned room, and the women keep pulling them out like hair. They massage their stressed-out lives in circular motions like the back of a semi-nude aunty. They paint their aspirations a bright scarlet like the pretty toes of a teenager. In a place that has beautification as its motive, they try desperately to lighten out their scars. They joke and they fight and they sing and they advise each other to use eggs for their hair and turmeric for their skin and they exchange recipes and they ask each other to bring them things from near their homes because they're cheaper or 'exclusive'; things like peppered banana chips, mobile phone covers, water bottles, padded bras. They bring all their troubles to the parlour and squeeze them out of their hearts like zits. And that, I guess, is what makes them a homogenous set.

Each one of them returns home every evening feeling light, temporarily relieved of their maladies, but alas, like unwanted hair...

The sun is in its prime, young children throng to the Ice Cream Van, the smell of wet grass and lime juice fills the air; a rhythmic tune of the typewriter initially interrupts the sound of chirping birds and laughing children, but soon becomes one with all around it, encompassing every sound, every detail within itself. Inflicting on paper, a subtly enjoyable torture, a permanent tattoo.

He types away furiously, fingers never pausing to rest. The typewriter, irritates at first, but slowly turns into a lullaby. Hector falls asleep at his master's feet, there's no leash or anything of importance to retrieve. His master sits by a piles of sheets, some tattooed, some not. Fascinated by this solitary heaven, I look up from my book to smile at him. His face is blank, it says nothing, it sees nothing. It remains lost in thought, remembering, recollecting, re-living. Then as though possessed by an invisible power, he types away, with fervor and passion, stronger than his body can sustain, younger than his appearance will allow. Hours go by, in a similar fashion. It is time for me to leave, and I do. Not thinking much at all, about this strange man with a dog by his feet and a typewriter across his lap, not thinking for the hungry dog's patient loyalty. I live my life, and see him the next morning. Same place, same clothes.

He has not gone home.

Once again I try to establish eye contact, once again the vacancy of his expression rejects me. I go on with my life. The day has grown older, I return home, he is still there. I fight the impulse to go over and ask him what his business is. A fortnight goes by before I ask him what he wants. "Nothing" he says, and types away. "Do you have someplace to go?" No response. I try to sneak a peek and Hector objects, with an unfriendly bark, miffed by the distraction, I'm greeted with the embodiment of physical agony and irritation in the eyes of this man. I walk away with an apology so sincere it stings my own eyes.

He has still not gone home.

The next few days go by with no interaction, though Hector and his master look weaker, paler, but never morose. I go over, the next afternoon, not to impinge, but to unhinge - myself from this growing feeling of ruthless observation, and overpowering rejection from this strange man and his dog. I bring a portion of food over, leave it by their side. I'm once again greeted with those same eyes, but confusion shrouded the agony of irritation. I smile and walk away wordlessly. The next week flies by in this fashion.

All this time goes by, and he still never goes home.

I catch a glimpse of him now and then from my kitchen window, never stirring from his place, unless an emergency presents itself. I live my life, but now this man and his strange dog are a small part of it. There is no relation but a strange connection. Summer is coming to an end with the cool breeze grazing our skins. I'm on my way, across the street, into the park where this strange friend, and his dog sit. I place the food where I usually do and turn to walk away. A breeze teases him by running along with a few recently tattooed pages. I offer to help, but I'm shunned away. Just like I was, the very first time, all those months ago. I try to walk away, but turn back around. He's too busy typing. The papers around him are collected, and haphazardly placed under the weight of the food container I just left there. I walk away. Once more, restrained by unfamiliarity, to ask of him, the meaning of his actions, or the lack of them.

Summer has passed, and the rains reign over with their scintillating blows. I'm constantly pushed away by this strange man with a typewriter and dog. I don't see him in the park anymore. It seems he's moved away to a better spot. But of one thing I am sure, he's never gone home. Not once since that afternoon in the early summer. The rest of the year goes by. My life goes by. Unaffected by the change in routine; no more daily trips to the park with food for a strange man with a typewriter and dog.

...

Summer comes around once more. The world is warm with happiness again. I'm at the park with my book again. But the strange man with the typewriter never returns. I go home to find a parcel at my door. It seems a bit too heavy to just lift off the floor. I let myself in, throw my belongings at the couch and reach for the parcel and set it upon my table. It bares no indication of the sender, yet the wrappings are untidy and hurried.

...

Reader, it was a Typewriter.

And with it a small typed note (with several muddy paw prints) that read as -

"This typewriter, has written of and witnessed many phases in my life. I have very little memory of the person that you are, but your kindness of spirit is etched deep into my heart.

Thank you,
J."

I was both surprised and moved to tears. How did he know where I lived? When had he delivered the package? Why did he have to send me anything at all?

The only thing I knew him by, was now sitting atop my table.

...

Several months have gone by since. I heard a strange knock on the door one afternoon. A strikingly beautiful young woman stood before me and said with quiet disbelief, "you are exactly as he described you." 

...

She was J's daughter. J was an aspiring writer and an Alzhimer's patient. He could never finish the any of his works because he often lost track of the plot. He was always too stubborn to seek treatment and left home without a word. He'd traveled too far and had no means to find his way back, he was too afraid and obstinate to ask for help. So he did what he knew best - observe and document. 

The last interaction I'd ever had with him, was the same day the search parties found him. Took him to a hospital and started treatment unsuccessfully and forcefully.

His last words - " she'll know what to do, just tell her, I'm going home."

Jessica and Melanie, two twin sisters, met at a coffee house, after 16 long years, which followed a separation and fallout between parents after their biological mother died when they were very young. Their father sent Melanie to the care of their relatives. He was far too busy leading a life of luxury with the “other woman” and his “favorite daughter” thought Melanie. But what she didn’t know was the kind of hell Jessica went through everyday. They were both told that the other didn’t want to keep in touch and thus there would be no letters. Their bond was although well established, but it changed with changing times. Where Melanie, was allowed everything that she wanted, Jessica grew to become a subdued although rebellious teenager, where as Melanie blossomed into a self assured individual, sure of what she wanted and where to draw the line.

At 18 they both sat face to face. But it wasn’t like two sisters meeting each other after 14 long years, it was more like a mirror, and the person was so much more different from her reflection. They both had their own set of apprehensions, their own set of grudges, and both of them waited for the other to speak first. None of them spoke, and both went their own way.

One morning of their 20th birthday, both Melanie and Jessica received an email. Melanie, from her father, and Jessica from her aunt who took care of Melanie.

The email read :

Dear Melanie,

I know you must be very mad at me, but there is something you need to know. Your sister and I love and miss you a lot. I’m sure you have your own set of reasons to believe otherwise, but I did try. Try to win both my daughters. You both were 4 when it all happened. 

Before mom left us, I was out on a business trip, with my assistant Kate. When I got a call from my mom’s lawyer, stating that she’d filed a divorce. Mom and I had our share of issues, but we always knew how to get our way around them. But it was this time that your aunt Martha, yes the same one who died three days after mom, she really crossed the line. 

She’d never approved of your mom and me getting married, and did for a major part of the time create a lot of fights between us.You must have heard a very different version from Melissa, but she never really lived with us to sense the gravity of the situation.Melissa and your mom were the best of friends. Mom told Melissa everything, which enraged me to a great extent then, but in retrospect, it seems like a good move. 

When I got back from the trip, I realized that your mom was terminally ill, she told me she’d prepared a will and that I should read it only when she was gone. So the day she left us, I opened that envelope and picked up those printed papers, they read that, both of my daughters would be under the care of Melissa. And that if I wanted custody, I would have to apply for it.. which I did, but I could really only get only one of you, and I couldn’t decide who, for both of you were a beautiful amalgamation of your mother and me, more like your mom though, and I realized how much more I missed her with every passing second after our separation. The court ordered to give me custody of the older of the two, which is how Jessica came to live with me. I would never choose between my two lovely daughters.

Your mother was truly beautiful and so are her two little girls. Your aunt Martha told your mom that I was having an affair with my assistant, which was a lie, because I was never unfaithful.

I write to you to ask of your help. Your sister is falling apart, and it was time you knew the entire truth about your family. I never did cheat on your mother. And I don’t love this woman I’m married to. One might think I had it easy, lost his wife, got married again, still has the money. Only I know the kind of anguish I go through every single moment, living in the same room as the one who killed my wife and forced my children away from me. 

She does terrible things to Jessica as well. 

A sense of closure is something you both yearn for, and I think that if the two of you met, it’d do you both a lot of good. 

On your 20th birthday, I can only give you my love and ask for a lot more in return. I can only hope that you will give your sister a chance and agree to meet her.

Love,

Dad.

Melanie, did. After reading a similar mail, Jessica waited outside a coffee shop in the rain, wondering if Melanie would still be the same. When she saw the same pretty girl walk towards her, she smiled, without even realizing it. They both wanted to hug the other and never let go, but somehow exercised a great amount of restrain. Both stood uncomfortably before, by a sudden sound and jerk were thrown into each others arms. Their hands suddenly felt wet and their stomachs really hurt, looking around them, they saw people were falling, somewhere there was the sound of a fast bike screeching down the lane, and the voices of loud roaring and mean laughter filled the air.

 Mass Shooting.

Their hearts were full, and their eyes welled up. The rain kept washing the blood as it came, but it couldn't wash away the brutality of life. It couldn't wash away the pain. The floor they fell upon was hard and wet, and yet they found comfort in each others arms. The only words that escaped them were, "I've missed you so much" and with that the rain washed away every drop of life within them.

It continued to rain heavily after that, but it was never enough to pour life back into their dead corpses.

It was a dimly lit, dusky saffron sky, the sun was in its last few stages of setting, and with each passing moment as the breeze gently blew, dried leaves fell to the ground, birds chirped their way back to their little nests, children ran around crushing the dry leaves; a happy time for everyone around. The sweet wind carried with it, the fragrance of blossomed flowers, it resonated with the sounds of nature, she sat there quietly smiling, watching her life unfold before her eyes, slowly yet fast, blurred yet distinctly clear in her reflection, her shaky wet reflection which smiled back at her from the white marble base of the water fountain on circumference of which she sat.

Soon she saw the face of the one she waited for, her wait had come to an end.

A new life, a new beginning was in store for her, for when all of nature was slowly preparing to sleep and rest, within her heart was fire and zest. Sure enough she knew about her cheating husband, and no she wasn't plotting his death or anything even remotely close to that. They'd never been separated officially, but they were living apart for almost a year now. Both quite comfortable with the arrangement in some ways, and yet they were dying to be together, just like old times. He was too guilty to face her, and she was too hurt to let it all just go by.

So they both took their time to let it all sink in. He told her it was a mistake, and she believed him, only after 12 long months of separation. Everything about the world was preparing to go to sleep, coming towards the end of a long day's work, only that her time had just begun. On a dusky Autumn sunset, she decided that she needed her husband more than she needed her pride to be intact. Sitting aimlessly, looking undecided in the waters, she made her decision.

When the birds were asleep and so were the children, among all other things alive, she lay awake in an over-sized gown, planning her next day.

It was a little cold outside, but she could feel only the warmth within her heart.

"That's beyond the point!" he spat.

"The point is beyond you!" she hissed.

They were beyond hope.

Whenever two people from the canine or feline family fought real bad, the onlookers would plead, "Stop fighting like Aloks and Janvis for dog's sake!"

Their neighbours Mr. and Mrs. Mehta prayed their daughter Sweety grows up to become a music composer so they can finally get the chance to sound-proof their apartment. But alas, she was only four, and they came to terms with the idea that in the meanwhile they'd better get used to this background score highlighted by name-callings such as 'Miss Bhindi Bazaar' and 'Monkeyface'.

During their courtship period, Alok and Janvi often went to the movies, and most often they saw Shah Rukh Khan films. They'd come out of the cinema hall, dazzled and twice in love. These days they only frequented Sunny Deol movies and then bought the DVDs, too, to secretly practise the yelling techniques and tonal inflections in private.

What did they fight about so much, one would wonder. The topic was almost always profound. Like this one Sunday when they went to the zoo and all the animals gaped with amusement and bemusement (alternatingly) as the two quarreled about the 'which colour's striped on which colour' of a zebra.

Then one fine day, Alok's mother came visiting. As she witnessed them bickering about whose head had sprouted the first grey strand first, something struck her. After Janvi requested Alok to go climb a tree, Alok suggested she should go make him a sandwich. This was followed by her asking him to go wash his mouth and finally he advised her to go jump out of the window. The third tip was delivered with such passion, thought mummyji, that a fleeting look of enlightenment crossed her face, and her experienced locks of grey shined and sparkled as in the ads.

As though by miracle, after mummyji left, things became perfectly harmonius between husband and wife. The usher at Maratha Mandir was shocked to see them after ten years; the garbage collector was thrilled at having found thirty-seven Sunny Deol DVDs in the trash (the couple immediately stepped out and picked up a few DVDs of another Sunny ;) Mr. and Mrs. Mehta enrolled their Sweety at the Tiny Tots' Engineering Prep School to erase completely the memory of the possibility of the career of a music composer; the zebra was disappointed to suddenly stop being the center of all the attention; and the canine and feline communities were outraged at having lost an idiom.

That night while eating dinner, mummyji popped into her mouth some Chlormint achaar that she'd made for her son with so much love.

Bombay mein bhagwaan mil sakta hai. Us se bhi mushkil hai uss bhagwaan ko aur khud ko rakhne ke liye makaan milna. Woh bhi chalo mehnat aur qismat ki jugalbandhi se shaayad mil jaaye. Kuch mushkil se hi sahi, zara ghoom-phir ke hi sahi, kuch pyaari si sadakein mil sakti hain jinpar dono or ped lage hon.

Lekin! Kisi bhi sadak par, kisi bhi waqt, aasaani se ek rickshaa milna - naa-mumm-kinn!

Image Credits - Somesh Kumar
somesh.kumar.blogspot.in

In nakchadhhi rickshaaon se behadd bezaar thi Nupur, jo aadhe ghante se beech-raste par kabhi iss bhaiyya se toh kabhi uss bhaiyya se “Versova?” poochh rahi thi. Aakhir mein ik chahcha ne badi nazaakat se apni rickshaa dheemi ki – rukaayi nahin – dheemi ki, jaise koi ladki kisi ladke ki feelings ke saath khilvaad kar rahi ho.

Nupur ka gussa iss waqt tak itna badhh chukaa tha ki ki woh tez raftaar mein jaati hui Rajdhani Express bhi pakad leti, to iss chacha ki dheemi rickshaa kya cheez hai! Teen-chaar kadam daud kar woh uss rengti hui rickshaw mein ghuskar aise baithh gayi, maano seat uska sinhaasan ho, aur rickshaa-wale se gurraa kar “Versova!” kahaa jaise apne naukar se chai maang rahi ho.

Chacha apni chaturaayi ka chaupat hote dekh naa paye. Aise binaa poochhe unki Dhanno-samaan rickshaa mein baithhne ki himmat kaise hui uski! Dono aise ladey, maano gaaliyon ki raas-leela ho rahi ho. Nupur ne faislaa kar liya. Who jaayegi bhi issi rickshaa se, aur dunyaa ke tamaam rickshaa-waalon ki harkarton ka collective badlaa lete hue, iss chacha ko binaa paise diye bhaag jaayegi!

Haan haan, yeh ladki aisi paagalon wali harkatein karne ki poori qaabiliyat rakhti thi. Ek baar shart jeetne ke liye ussne cold-drink van se ek Pepsi churaa li thi. Film dekh kar binaa ticket ke baazu wali screen mein ghus jaana uski favorite cheating thi! Yahaan tak ki uske bachpan ki bell bajaakar bhaag jaane wali aadat aajtak durust thi!

Haar maankar badbadiye chacha ne rickshaa chaalu ki aur meter down kiya. Agle signal par jab rickshaa ruki, tab Nupur ki nazar right-side wale aaine par gayi aur uska mood fatt se achha ho gaya! Baaki dinon bedhhangi ghoomne wali Nupur, aaj full Eid Mubaarak ban kar nikli thi – pink salvaar kameez, gold kolhapuri chappal, uski badi si black bag, jismein who apni saari qaaynaat lekar ghoomti thi, aur woh white wallet jo usne Varun ke saath khareeda tha. Unke rishte ki doosri saalgirah thi uss din, aur Varun usse woh wallet gift kar raha tha. Select karte waqt waise unki pasand mein fark aaya tha, as usual, aur as usual, Varun ne usse chidhhaate hue kahaa, “Haan haan, tumko jo thheek lage. Waise bhi tumhaari hi toh chalti hai hamesha!” Aur phir salesman ki taraf muddke, “ Kyun bhai, sahi hai naa?” Aur salesman bhi kum nahin! Bola, “Haan bhai, auraton ka zamaana hai. Unke saamne kahaan apni koi majaal.” Agar Filmfare mein over-acting ke liye nomination hote, toh Oscar pakka uss hi ko milta!

Aaj uss din ko thheek ek saal hua tha, aur aaj subah bhi Varun ne phone par usse sataate hue kahaa,“Haan meri maa! Meri kabhi chali hai kya?” Aaj ka masla yeh tha, ki Varun ko apne favorite director ki nayi film ‘Ek Chaandni Raat’ dekhne jaana tha, aur Nupur ko ghar hi par kuch achha waqt bitaakar celebrate karna tha. Lekin nahin, aaj subah usne thhaan li thi ki woh Varun ko surprise dekar galat saabit karegi aur usse apna mannpasand dialogue phirse maarne ka mauka nahin degi. Isliye woh theatre gayi, aur naseeb uska ki usse aakhri do tickets mil gayi! Lekin naseeb uska ki usse wahaan se rickshaw milne mein itni der ho ho gayi. Varun kabse intezaar kar raha tha uska... magar usne socha, koi baat nahin, tickets dekhkar bahot khush ho jaayega.

Chidchide chacha ne gusse se “yahaan se kidhar?” poochhkar Nupur ke khayaalon ko disturb kiya aur usse apna bhaag jaane wala plan yaad dilaa diya! “Umm.. right lekar pehle uss gate pe zara ek minute rok dijiye, main ek kaam niptaakar aati hoon, phir yahaan se aage chalna hai.”

Naa toh aage chalna tha, aur naa hi Nupur ka waapas aane ka koi iraada tha. Building ke andar jaake seedha Varun ke ghar chali gayi. Waise, iraada toh apne chacha ka bhi nahin tha rukkne ka, kyunki aaine mein unko Nupur ka wallet dikh gaya jo who bhool gayi thi - Woh wallet jo gift tha! Woh wallet jismein gift thi! Sham ke show ki do aakhri tickets.

Phir kya! Un dono ne gharpe saara din ek-duusre ke saath waqt bitaaya, aur Varun Nupur ko chidhhaata raha ki hamesha ussi ki chalti hai. Shaamko jab woh dono balcony mein khade sunset dekh rahe the, tab balcony ki do seat mein baithhe apne chacha apni chachi ko ‘Ek Chaandni Raat’ dikha rahe the.

"Chai par milte hain?" he finally managed, drawing all the courage he didn't know he possessed, like sucking water from the depths of an almost-emptied coconut.

He often saw her in the bookstore that he manned. For years he had believed his to be the happiest job in the world, but as her visits became frequent, he made it 'happiest and luckiest'. He loved to watch equally the joy on her face when she found dirt-cheap a book she'd been wanting for ages, and the dejection that clouded her as she put back a book on the shelf after checking the price. They always exchanged silent smiles for hello. The only conversation they ever had was books-related, and isn't that all one needs? That day as she was paying for her second-hand Faulkner and Faiz, he asked her.

"Main chai nahin peeti," she half-teased.

"Ummm... Coffee par milte hain?"

Dragging in one Chhotu to fill in for him, he walked to the nearby Sakina dairy that evening, and found her sitting on one of the two tables it boasted of. Tea and coffee arrived, but they drank from the cup of silence.

Next day as she dropped by ostensibly to look for a certain title, he asked, "Silence par milte hain?"