Category: Love

Posted in Life and After, Love

7D

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: This story is part of my upcoming book: 7D: Tales from the Future. You can download my other books for free from here: Books by Shaily

The sun is warm on my skin and the air smells of pine and heather. Yume’s dark eyes gaze into mine mesmerizing me as he guides me by the elbow and urges me to touch the blue bird sitting next to the gurgling spring. Her glowing blue feathers call to me. There is a song in the wind with no words—only the music of the bubbling spring, singing birds and chirping grasshoppers. The dream like scene holds me still.

Yume is still touching my elbow; still looking at me with those dark eyes. I shiver as butterflies take flight in my belly. Half afraid that the blue bird would fly away shattering the magic of the moment, I touch her wings. She quivers but does not leave me. Her feathers under my fingers are buttery soft. Her two yellow friends sit alongside her unaffected by my intrusion. One of them is drinking water from the spring; the other one is singing in a voice that would remain with me forever.

With his perfect pointed nose, Yume resembles the birds: calm and serene. For a moment, I wonder if his team has used him as the model for these birds. The dark expressive eyes are certainly his. I am better off not knowing though if I want to keep reliving this otherworldly experience. I know it is just an illusion—a seven dimensional (7D) piece of visual art that allows me to see in three dimensions as well as hear, smell, taste and touch—but still…

It is a product of responsive technology powered by Artificial Intelligence, which means that when I interact with any element, it responds intelligently. My act of breathing is met with the smell of pine forest; the blue bird quivers upon my touch; and the water splashes against my hand, tongue and throat—wet without actual water—as I drink from the spring.

The best part is that there is no need for special glasses or equipment to run it—just a touch-powered, self-fitting ring with a button that Seiko is wearing on his little finger. Once you wear it and switch the button on, it activates adding certain elements to your surroundings, creating the illusion. This piece is an immersive one that has turned my entire room into my personal heaven.

Yume smiles at me knowingly. I will owe him forever for this moment.

Seiko touches one of the two rings on his finger. The scene pixilates and melts in the air bringing my office into view, and I sigh as I return to reality. Seiko is amused, “Engages all senses, doesn’t it?”

I nod wordlessly. Before I had experienced it, I was a little unsure of the sellability of the technology—it will be extremely expensive in the initial years due to the research and development cost, close to a vacation on a space station. So, I had wondered if people would be interested in buying it when they can have the same experience by traveling.
But now, I am converted. I would never have been able to touch a live bird in a natural setting.

And then, there is Yume still touching my elbow, which makes it difficult to think clearly. He has a way of making my legs jelly. Honestly, I would never approve of such a crazy fascination. I have never been so taken by any other man. Once a talk show host had asked me what it would take to tame the tigress and I had told her the vision of my perfect man: the perfect gentleman, strong with ideas, gentle in conduct, intelligent, capable of witty conversations, and not overbearing or jealous. I had also told her that I was sure he did not exist.

But then, Seiko and Yume had approached me at a Visual Arts conference last month. With his quick wit, amazing knowledge and impeccable manners, I was instantly drawn to Yume. Add to that the way he looks at me—like I am the only woman in the world—appreciates me for all the right things and the way his hand lingers in mine a second longer than necessary for a handshake, he had me purring like a kitten ever since.

But we are never alone. Seiko is always there. Both of them are always talking about this breakthrough in 7D technology—how their company has been looking for an investor to commercialise it. I have invested enough times in visual technologies to know that this one will be an instant success.

Right now, they are both looking at me expectantly for an answer. They know they have won already. Seiko queries, “So, will you invest in our organisation to commercialise the 7D techonology?”

“I’m afraid not,” I say, much to my regret.

Seiko looks crest fallen, but Yume is not even ruffled, “No? Not even after what you have experienced? It can allow the best kind of travel—no car, no gas, no walking, no insects and no sleeping outdoors in rain. Just switch on a button and you are there, living the moment like a real thing! It can also provide lonely people with a personal companion who would talk to them, empathise with them and convert into whatever they want them to be—parent, best friend, lover… I know you believe in it too.”

I know I must take a stand, even if I don’t like it. “Yes, and that is because the technology is far too believable. Once you are in, there is no way to tell that it is an illusion and not reality.”

“And that is a problem?” he asks with my favourite lopsided smile.

I suck in some air and try to remember why I was opposing him, “Yes. It is like drugs—something that takes people away from real life. Once they buy it, they will become useless, unable to leave all the dreams that have come true. It can be easily used to gaslight people—make them believe in the things and people that don’t exist and the events that never happened. They will never be able to tell the difference since it engages all the senses. It is like selling Schizophrenia.”

His face was close, eyes smouldering, “You can trust us. We will never allow misuse of the technology.”

I feel my resolve weakening but I must try, “I trust you and Seiko. But once other people realise what is possible, they are sure to find a way to do it—by buying your people, by spying on your secrets or by simply experimenting. And once the competition begins customising the visuals, not all of them would care whether it is ethical or not. We will not be able to control who sells it and how it is used. It happens all the time with technology. You bring in a new thing and people begin misusing it. But the kind of impact 7D technology can cause on people’s psyche would be too great a risk. I can’t have that on my conscience. If your organisation could reduce even just one dimension to ensure it was not so lifelike…” Even as I say it, I know how much I will regret suggesting it.

Yume’s face falls. He leans forward in his seat. His eyes are pained now, his face still closer, “I thought I could trust you to take the leap of faith. You want it too—I can see it in your eyes. Our team has worked for years perfecting the technology. It is the sole reason I exist. Take it away from me and I will perish. And I thought you liked having me around?”

His eyes are holding mine captive and I can feel his breath on my face—he smells like mint—heady, sharp and sweet. I can hardly remember there is one more person in the room. Like a mouse trapped in snake’s gaze, I can’t speak, so I just nod my head.
He takes my hand to his lips and plants a lingering kiss that holds promises for future. He never kissed me before. Still holding my gaze, he smiles, “See, I knew you would stand by my side. Will you sign the documentation now? We can then celebrate this evening, just you and me?”

Just him and me…

I have dreamt of it so many times…

Hypnotised, I nod again. Seiko mails me a contract right away.

All the details of the contract are fleshed out in perfection. I am agreeing to invest an unbelievable amount of money in his organisation. The organisation will request patenting of the technology and buy the state of the art equipment and software licenses to create the 7D illusions at a commercial level. My payback will begin once they start selling—half the profits. I am not sure if I am really reading the contract as Yume’s fingers draw lazy circles inside the palm of my left hand.

My breathing hitches as I sign the contract digitally with my other hand.

Seiko rises and shakes my hand. He takes off the second ring from his finger and puts it on the desk, “Consider it a gift.” The gesture is so sudden and unbelievable, I take a few seconds to respond and the touch powered illusion that is Yume starts flickering.

I quickly wear the ring. Yume is mine forever.

Consequences be damned!

Posted in Love

The Face in the Mirror

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

I touch the bedroom mirror groggily, more out of habit than hope. Suddenly, the mirror lights up green with magic, and I can see him. Across the open door of his bathroom, I see him sitting on a couch, reading a book. Which one is it this time—The Edge of Physics? Cosmos? I sigh! But then, I return to my senses and start shouting at him to get his attention. Nothing! Quickly, I turn to my right and grab the placard with my phone number that has been sitting on my bedside table for two months now and turn back to face the mirror again.

All I see is myself reflecting back in the mirror. The connection is already broken. Again…

All I want, all I hope for, all I desire in life has shrunk down into that mirror and that man who doesn’t know I exist.

I really shouldn’t have cooked that dumb cake! Why would anyone want to see their soulmate if they would still have to wait for them anyway? It is so painful to see the man destined to marry me one day go on with his life like I don’t exist.

Cooking a dumb cake on Halloween night is an ancient practice. It was also my last attempt to find my soulmate. With all the potential suitors hiding in the plain sight, it is too difficult to find a male witch now a days. It’s not that we are hiding because people might burn us at stake. It’s just that magic and witches are obsolete. Nobody needs our magical services when weather apps predict weather, daily horoscope apps tell the future, social media finds people, banks hold all the existing treasures, old recordings help commemorate dead people and fertility clinics are go‑to places for begetting children.

Technology has thrown us out of our conventional jobs. Hence, we have reinvented ourselves. Witches now use their superior intellect to secure higher education and obscene amount of salary. But we have to hide the reason for our abnormal level of talent, lest people accuse us of cheating, like sportspersons on drugs.

But because of all the hiding, our chances of meeting another witch are rather dim. Every single male witch I know is already either engaged or married to a prettier witch, while I, being a plain and nerdy scientist, am still single at the age of thirty-five. My family had set me up on dates with several men they know through family connections, but all of them seemed more interested in women with long legs and miniskirts than a woman with brains and an opinion. After I had run through what felt like all the eligible bachelors known to them, my family members stopped badgering me about my non‑existent love life.

But it is becoming difficult to attend family dinners—my brother and cousins bring their spouses and children. You’d think it would be crowded, but my heart never felt so empty before. All I need, if nothing else, is a hope that there is someone for me in the future.

Knowing this, my bestie and flatmate, Bree, keeps throwing around names of eligible bachelors,

“Why don’t you come with me to the party? There is this guy called Hans you would love to meet. He is an engineer.”

“Did you see the hot guy on the fifth floor? He’s a chef!”

“You know, Henry, our new neighbour? He was asking about you—saw you in one of my Facetime pics… Should I tell him you live right next door?”

My first response to all her suggestions is, “Is he a witch?”

I don’t mind marrying a regular guy, but honestly, will a regular guy want to marry a witch? And they will find out soon enough—we may have shunned magic, but magic hasn’t shunned us. We have magic of nature, and it runs in our veins with our blood, making them green. Closer to our heart, we are too green to ignore. We hide it with turtlenecks and dresses with sleeves. The only person outside my family who knows my secret is Bree because I wear tank tops at night.

I’m not ashamed of my colouring. But if a guy sees it, he will take flight. My bestie feels people don’t care anymore but I don’t want the issue to come up later, once I am in too deep.

So, rather than taking a 10 percent chance with a non‑magical person, I resorted to a dumb cake, which was a sure shot in finding a future husband. It is a family tradition that my great‑grandmother had used to meet my great‑grandfather for the first time, just like her mother and grandmother before her.

If a non‑magical woman makes a dumb cake, she dreams about her spouse, but she can’t speak to him. To make the Halloween magic strong enough to make contact at that moment, you require a certain amount of magic yourself—something that witches possess and practice. It felt like a really dumb idea at first but, with nothing to lose, I decided to take the drastic measure.

Well, it wasn’t really drastic, just desperate…

What’s the worst that could happen? Nothing. With no practice in magic whatsoever, there were pretty high chances of me seeing nothing. So, I reminded myself not to put any hopes on a cake even though I was giving it a shot.

On All Hallows eve, when Bree went to the Halloween party in the society’s club house, I cooked the dumb cake. She wanted me to come to meet Henry, but I lied about a headache. She left looking suspicious as if I was hiding a boyfriend in my closet. I wish!

The basic instruction of making a dumb cake is that I must work in complete silence standing on something no one ever stood on before. Well, I am no baking pro, so I asked Alexa for step‑by‑step instructions. As it droned in the background, I worked in complete silence while standing on something no one had ever stood on—my brand new, super‑pricey sofa. As I wobbled in the softness, I was scared I would burn holes in the material. I ground the flour, prepared the batter, shaped the cake, pricked my initials on the top and put it inside my microwave oven. Ideally, it should have been a fireplace instead. But, like witches, fireplaces are obsolete too.

Once the cake was ready, I pulled it out of the oven, trying to balance myself on the sofa. As I continued wobbling, it occurred to me that I could have simply bought a new rug to stand on instead. Stupid me! Then, I took a single bite from the cake, tried to chew it (a painful process) and walked backwards to my room, slid the rest of the cake under my bedding and tried to sleep on the now lumpy bed.

After this whole exercise, a regular girl would dream of her future spouse. She wouldn’t be able to communicate with him though. So, she would still have to wait until this certain person would meet her. Being a witch, my situation could be better. In theory, when I would rise from my bed at midnight, touch the mirror closest to me and chant the magic words, I should seen my future spouse who, of course, would be a male witch. Because who else would want to marry a witch? Then, I would leave a message with him. In theory, at least…

In practice, most witches waking at midnight are so confused that they can barely concentrate on the mirror, let alone remember the magic words to create the highly advanced magic for leaving a message for an unknown entity whose whereabouts are also unknown. With no practice in magic, I knew I was doomed from the moment I started.

So, I woke up at midnight (Phone Alarm), and walked to my bedside mirror, touched it and incantated the magic words (Google Notes). For a minute, nothing happened. So, I tried again, and yet again, willing to reach someone, anyone…

I never realised until that moment how much I wanted this whole thing to work; to have a chance at love just once in my life.

Suddenly, the screen lit up with a green light and there he was, standing in front of the mirror, looking dishevelled, like he had just returned from a party. His eyes were wide in surprise, and I think mine must be too. I fidgeted in my old tank top and shorts, knowing they weren’t really appropriate for the first meeting. I should probably have worn something fancier. Also, I should say something so he would know why we were here but before I could recover, the connection broke and the mirror started reflecting me again.

He was gone, taking with him my only chance at love. He probably mistook me for a trick of light, an alcohol‑induced hallucination or a ghost. But I knew I had seen a ghost—one that would haunt me for the rest of my life. After seeing him, knowing he was meant to be mine someday, I would never be able to love another. Because love it was—at first sight.

He wasn’t exactly handsome, but he had an intelligent and likable face—someone you could strike a conversation with on the subway and exchange numbers with, just to stay in contact. He was a little chubby and he wasn’t hiding six‑pack abs under his shirt for sure, but the crow’s feet around his brown eyes showed his love for laughter. There were marks on his nose where his glasses must have rested on his face, and his cheeks and chin had a one‑day stubble. He was real. And now that I had seen him, I could not un‑see him.

Anxious, I touched the mirror, and it lit up again. But he wasn’t there anymore. I wasn’t sure if my voice will go through, but I gave it a try anyway. “Hello! Anyone there? Hellooooo!” But nothing stirred on his side. I tried several times, but with each subsequent try, I felt increasingly more stupid—because every time I said those words, Alexa asked me what I needed, while rephrasing the question in a different way every time.

When I started feeling like an utter moron, I looked in the room, trying to get a clue regarding his whereabouts. He could be anywhere in the world. I realised I was looking inside his bathroom. The door to the next room was open and its lightest yellow wall was eerily like mine. From what I could see through the opening, the wall on the other side was adorned with a huge wooden shelf decorated with cute little things and sections of it were overflowing with books. Beneath it, a couple of comfortable couches sat behind a small coffee table. The room was meant for quite comfort in books and company.

I looked for something that would clue me in regarding his country. The decoration was regular stuff providing no clue. The lighting seemed low and artificial. And he had looked sleepy, so it was probably night where he was too. So, around the same longitude. Good! That left around one billion people to search from!

Running out of ideas, I wrote my phone number on a huge placard in an overly large handwriting and placed it in front of the screen, hoping he would read it when he returns to the mirror. At that moment, the light in the mirror dimmed and started reflecting me again.

After that, I tried many times, but the screen didn’t light up. I had a restless night, leading to a restless day.

The next few days, Bree kept talking about the Halloween party I had missed, bringing up different guys over and over, “You missed a blast, you know. And there was this very handsome guy who was dressed as a vampire. His canine teeth were so real! By the way, are vampires real?”

“You should have seen Henry’s face when he realised you weren’t coming. He didn’t even dance or drink. In fact, he left before the midnight blast. I really wanted to tell him that he could find you next door!”

“The party anchor was pretty brainy, and he seemed interested in beauty with brains too. Do you want me to set up a ‘chance meeting’ with him?”

But I was only half listening, my mind still on the face in the mirror.

For the coming weeks, I kept touching the mirror every now and then but only succeeded a few times. Once, he was touching the mirror too, looking lost, and twice, he was just fixing his tie. Once, he had looked into the screen with an intensity that gave me hope that he was looking at me. And during these few seconds of contact, I was surprised and unprepared, and before I could gather my wits and try sharing my contact number, the connection broke.

And then, a couple of times, I saw him sitting on his couch reading something. He read The Universe in a Nutshell with a smile that wanted me to tell him that it was my favourite book too. Looking closely, his shelf also had The Theory of Everything and loads of other books about science and stars…

They say you can judge a man by the book he reads. A man who seeks quiet comfort in stars and science on a Saturday is a match made in heaven for me. I can see us sharing books one day or sitting on those couches discussing them or even just sitting together over coffee…

The thought of the future comforts me. I just stand there looking at him, willing him to see me, waiting for him to acknowledge that I exist. But I can never make a contact.

When I finally spoke to my mother about it, needing advice for the first time ever since I moved out, I was sure she would be thrilled that I finally found the man I would love for the rest of my life. But all she said was, “Dumb cake? Well, you probably saw a neighbour.”

“What?”

“When the magic isn’t strong enough and you are desperate to see someone, you end up seeing a neighbour. I once saw Mrs. Briggs flossing her teeth; and on another occasion, Father Mathews washing his hands; and once I even saw somebody’s cat swatting at her reflection in the mirror.”

I hung up feeling crushed. Why would my mother not believe me. I had finally fallen in love, and all my mother had to say is that it is not my soulmate but a clueless neighbour! While I was never a people watcher anyway, I am actively avoiding looking around at my neighbours now, afraid I would see him and know that my mother was right.

Once, Bree cornered me, “Henry was asking about you again. At least let me give him your number…”

She has been talking about this guy non-stop for the past few days. I nearly blurt out to go date him herself. But deep down inside, I know I am being unkind and unreasonable because I am itching to go back to the mirror. “I’m not interested.”

“Look, he doesn’t care if you are a witch.”

“And how would you know that?”

“I told him because I know it is the only thing holding you back. He said he didn’t care as long as you would have him.” Well, at least she is looking properly ashamed.

“He will care once he sees me in a V-neck dress. It is not easy to accept the alienness of our colouring.”

“Is that the only reason here? You have been acting a little odd lately—too lost and too quiet. Is there something you are not telling me?”

Not sure how much I can tell her, I decide on a half‑truth, “I’m seeing someone, but it is too early to talk about it.” It is technically true, but my conscience pricks me. It is as much a lie as anything else. But it makes her happy.

“Is he someone from work? When can I meet him? At least show me a picture.”

“As I said, it is too early to talk about it. But once I am ready, I promise you’ll be the first one to know.”

In the coming month, I wouldn’t go out except for work. And when I do go out, I am not paying attention. I just itch to go back to my mirror. Mom and Dad even tried a locator spell, but the locater kept coming back to our building confirming my mother’s theory. Or maybe, their magic is not strong enough too. At least that is what I am rooting for…

Noticing my absent‑mindedness, my manager has reminded me a couple of times that I have to up my game at work. But I am too obsessed to concede defeat. My life had come to a standstill the day I fell in love with that man who still doesn’t know I exist.

It is weekend and I am home yet again, touching the mirror at regular intervals. Bree is out, trying to give me space, thinking I have a boyfriend I am chatting with. Suddenly, she sends me a text, “I just had a really weird chat. Help me make sense.” There is a screenshot of the conversation.

Henry: Hey! We need to speak.

Bestie: For the nth time, she is seeing someone!

Henry: I know. Can you just tell her that, sometimes, I see her in the mirror too?

Mom was right! I had seen my next‑door neighbour! It was all just an accident! He is not my true love or spouse, just a clueless neighbour.

We were not fated to be together…

All my hopes and dreams had been for nothing…

My mind is reeling. I had been holding on that last straw so tightly that now I am drowning with it. Someone is squeezing my chest! It is difficult to breathe…

I need air…

I walk dazedly out of the door and down the building corridor. Tears are blinding me. I can’t see the next door open and slam into someone’s chest.

“Hey, are you alright?” A familiar face gazes at me with concern; his expressions quickly turning into recognition and then delight. “It’s you! Bree just told me where to find you!”

I am both too glad and too sad to find him. While my skin still tingles where I slammed into him, I know it is just stupid, misdirected magic. “Henry…Uh…You are Henry, right? I need to apologize. I had cooked a Halloween cake, you know, to see my future spouse in the mirror…and something went wrong. We are not fated together,” I finish lamely.

There is a stunned silence at his end while he processes what he heard. When I am sure he would turn around and walk away from my life, he just smiles, “And how would you know that until you give us a chance?”

His eyes are understanding, but they also hold something close to adoration. I’m speechless. “At least, let me take you out on a couple of dates before you reject me?” He smiles and his eyes crinkle the way I love.

He still wants to go out with me, and I have to turn him down, “I’m a witch.”

“I know. Saw your green skin in the mirror the first time. It looks cool on you. Can you turn me into a frog?”

“What? No!” I choke out, horrified that he would think so.

“Good. In that case, are you free for dinner tonight?” He gives me a sunny smile and hope returns to the world.

Author’s note: This story comes from my new short stories collection, The Bracelet and other short stories (available for free on the Free Books page: https://fishinthetrees.home.blog/free-books/)

Picture credits: Photo by Julia on Unsplash

Posted in Love

Matters of Heart: Act 8

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

P was the most popular girl in the class. Boys were often falling over themselves to impress her while she basked in the light of their attention. Face shining, open laughter, plucked eyebrows at 15, I was awestruck by how she carried herself confidently among our classmates. When she sat on the desk to talk to me between classes, she looked like the queen of hearts, while I was a Knave, complete with a light dusting of a mustache.

Not that minded it. (I mean, I didn’t mind her being the queen. I did mind the mustache and removed it later that year.)

Inspite of being popular, she was pretty nice and happy to help. Her grades weren’t impressive, but she managed to scrape through High School somehow. In fact, she got her Bachelor of Arts degree too later.

She was one of my closest friends at that time and my mother often worried that her influence might derail me.

I wouldn’t say so. I had quite a few other things derailing me those days. Maths had never been my best friend. But ever since Algebra was introduced, I was struggling. Once I joined this school mid-semester, Trigonometry joined the ranks, and I gave up completely. History I could trudge through but, with an ever-absent teacher, Civics, Geography and Economics were quickly turning into mystery. Biology I understood but Physics and Chemistry were beyond comprehension. So, I solely concentrated on languages that did not give me hives. It meant that while I would pass English, Hindi and Sanskrit with merit and an A in Drawing, I would probably fail in all the other subjects, ending any future ambitions that I might have.

But, as I said, it wasn’t P’s fault. She had similar worries herself about studies, but she wasn’t a worrywart like me.

In fact, nothing seemed to worry her at all…except once, when she told me that one of our male classmates now had a caller ID on their home phone. I wondered why it should worry her. Later, she told me that his mother has explicitly told her not to try calling him again. I wondered why his mother would say that.

But as I said, generally, nothing really seemed to worry her.

Honestly, I liked her for what she was. While she wasn’t particularly attentive in studies, she was a well of information on some topics that seemed to miss my attention.

P had introduced me to blank calls. A couple of years into our friendship, she made a blank call to my brother (on whom she had a mighty crush) right in front of me. I was completely in awe now. Honestly, I would never blank-call my brother–he had learnt Marshall Arts and could break a brick with a single flick of hand. I had held that brick he broke, so I knew not to annoy him while living in the same house. So, I warned P, considering she visited my house pretty often. But she assured me that she has been making those blank calls for an year now, and my brother had always been polite.

As I said, nothing seemed to faze her.

From her, I found out about an infamous park where willing boys and girls went to make-out, as she rebuked one of our other friends for going there with her boyfriend and kissing him on first date. “What else would you expect if you go meeting someone in such a place? First, you should have gone for a lunch at—” Apparently, the park was also notorious for Police raids because of obscenity in public areas. Though I never visited it due to want of company, it was a good-to-know information as places to avoid in future.

A well of information, as I said earlier.

P also had a better aerial connectivity than me and seemed to know when boys were interested in her. She once told me how some boys seemed to follow her everywhere she went. I wondered if she was delusional until I saw it with my own eyes.

This particular incident stands out to me. One day, the two of us had gone to watch a movie. The plan was that two more female classmates would join us there directly and we would all leave together for home in evening. But they ditched us, and we arrived alone. It wasn’t much of a worry because it was a day show. Also, in small-town India, the cinema hall (and everything else) was within city limits on rather crowded streets.

We left the hall around six in the evening. It was still light outside. We took a rickshaw home. Soon, she told me, “Don’t look back but a bike is following us.”

Being the worrywart, I wanted to look back but I couldn’t now since I have been expressly forbidden. It could be someone I know but I was scared that it wasn’t. Suddenly, I saw a PCO (A public phone booth that survived solely by feeding on the fears of anxious females and new lovers; declared extinct due to the invasive species of mobile phones).

“Let’s call my brother.”

Checking her hair in her hand-held mirror, “Naah! Don’t worry. They are harmless.”

“How do you know?”

“The guy who is driving has been following me around quite frequently. Always on his bike. Never does anything!”

I didn’t understand. If a stranger had been following me on bike quite frequently, I would have called the Police. P was merely amused.

“But what if he means to hurt you?”

“You don’t know their kind. He is just trying to get my attention.”

Now I was curious, “But if he is behind you, how will he get your attention unless he calls your name, which he isn’t doing? Does he even know your name anyway? Shouldn’t he probably try coming in front and talking?”

P rolled her eyes. As if answering my question, the bike revved and shot from our left and overtook us like a bullet in the narrow street. And then, suddenly, it became very slow, almost idling. The riders let our rickshaw overtake them at a snail’s pace.

“See, attention-seeking behaviour…”

I was unused to such stupidity, never having encountered such a species before (or maybe I just missed it due to aerial issues). I wondered if they knew normal speech like us lesser humans. “Are you sure they won’t crash in our rickshaw at some point? This is quite a narrow road. If their bike so much as touches our rickshaw on that speed, it will overturn.”

“You are hilarious, you know!”

The bike revved again and overtook us. Some people on the road in the direct hitting range jumped to the sides to take cover. It happened two more times and I wondered why no one was calling the Police.

We almost reached the corner where we would take the turn. It looked pretty wide from where we were, but I had been on the road on bicycle before and knew what lay ahead. The engine revved again. “They aren’t planning to overtake us here?”

“Of course, that’s their grand finale before they make their exit.”

“Are they foreigners? Don’t they know what’s around the corner?”

“Are you worried about them now?”

I took a second to decide, “Yes. But I will not carry them to hospital. I have homework.”

We had almost reached the corner now.

The engine revved again, and it was too late to stop them anyway. The bike overtook us at the highest speed it could muster. It took a wider cut to avoid our rickshaw, which was now turning the corner too.

I could see the bike drivers’ eyes go wide as it entered the huge nullah (a large open drain) with a resounding splash!

For a second, I was worried they had died. But then, two black, lumpy, smelly ghosts were rising out of the nullah, staggering with the weight of muck and impact on their bones, helping each other stand.

I could hear peals of laughter and realised they were coming from the both of us. Both P and I laughed all the way home.

Henceforth, this particular pair never followed P again and this event marked the end of this tale of unrequited love, cut short severely due to the local Municiple Committee’s failure of cover the nullah. Since the drain remained open for several coming years, I wonder how many other boys without the skill of human speech lost potential opportunities at love.

I also wonder whether these boys forever resorted to the language of engine revving or if they ever learnt human speech, like, “Hi, my name is XYZ. Would you like to come on a date with me?”

But what would I, who never had a boyfriend, know about the matters of heart?

🤣🤣🤣

Posted in Love

Matters of Heart: Act 7

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

As discussed in the previous Matters of Heart post, my close friend X was having difficulty in decoding the language of Indian love. Of course, you need to learn Morse code to understand the language that relies completely on reading body language and crooked pick-up lines. (“What a wonderful weather for a long drive!” means “Will you join me for a long drive and go to places unknown so your family can’t catch us snuggling?”)

So, even after I happily supplied the explanation (a rare accomplishment), she remained incredulous. She was sure that if Y has wanted to take her out on a date, he would have said so. He didn’t need to resort to this round-about way of showing interest in me first.

I could only sigh!

One day, she came to college in a really foul mood. Apparently, Y had told Z (another male friend) that she was engaged. He had been very detailed about the ceremony and Z was sold on the idea. Z had then told his aunt who knew X and she called on her family phone to congratulate her.

Since family phone offers no privacy, she was having a difficult time in keeping it from her parents. If they found about this prank, they will obviously ask the most obvious question: Who are Y and Z and how come she is friends with them and their relatives without telling her parents?

You see, in small-town India of early 2000, no girl spoke to a boy without parental supervision. X had just struck a friendship during extra-classes in a co-ed institute and kept it under wraps to avoid any parental obstruction. It was a regular practice in those days. No girl in her right senses would talk to her parents of all the boys she was acquainted with.

Boys, however, could boast about all the girls they had befriended (or claimed to befriend). No pointed questions were asked from the male counterparts. Girls, however, were usually grounded.

Now that the conversation had happened on the family phone (no mobile phone in those days), she had to lay it very thick to avoid detection. Pointed questions were asked. Her standard answer–“a friend (obviously female) called”–was not sufficient. She had to go through the details of the call ensuring that all her facial reactions on the call matched the explanation without revealing the truth. Not satisfied because the conversation was whispered but finding no reason for open hostility, the parents had dropped the matter. Obviously, the next few days would involve close scrutiny.

While it was uncomfortable, X was mainly upset because of the loss of trust. She was clueless why Y would lie about her. She wanted to confront him. But she had to play the good girl and go home on time after college to avoid any further issues.

I offered an insight yet again based on my previous assessment–“Y was deleting competition. Once Z heard of the engagement, (having no way to contact X to confirm the news because he would obviously not call X on home phone), he would have bowed out. But, Y had not counted on relatives being involved.”

X was not satisfied with my assessment because it now implicated two male friends–Y and Z– and suggested that they “liked” her.

But she had run out of all possible excuses for Y’s odd behaviour. Unfortunately for Y, no matter what his reasons were, X now wanted revenge. She was angry enough to take my advice and I let my inner vamp take over.

A couple of weeks later, X came to college wearing a heavy gold ring on her ring finger that belonged to her mother. Two of us went to meet Y after college hours. She was still unsure how it would act as revenge (engagements were usually happy events) but I insisted her to try. There were no relatives involved at Y’s front so there was nothing to lose.

Once there, she declared she was engaged–that her parents had found her the most amazing husband and marriage is due in three months. (To learn how the process of finding a husband for a daughter works, please look at I do: The Indian Way series.)

To make the charade more believable, we carried a box of chocolates as a “gift from her fiance’ ” and offered him a piece as celebratory sweets. We discussed a whole lot of believable lies coming from my experience from my cousin’s recent engagement–the families being in touch discussing the matter for a long time, the sudden visit of boy’s family, quick arrangements and engagement on spot.

We also gave him the details of the amazing ‘boy’–looks based on my brother and education, job, family and other details of my cousin…

For a Home run, I thanked him for the joke from earlier, and assured him that his words had acted as a prayer and have landed X with a such a wonderful future.

As expected, Y congratulated X and we took his leave to “further spread the news”. I am usually not a sadist. But as I sat in the auto for home, I laughed all the way eating the “celebratory chocolates”.

Later that day Z, who was already in on the plan, informed X that the news had hit home and Y had called him to tell him about the “real” engagement; that he had consoled him with the standard “it was bound to happen someday” statement; and that Y had assured him that “he was usually quite happy these days” with a tone akin of a funeral.

Z didn’t tell him the truth for a month. Considering they were best friends and spoke every day, I would say, it was needlessly cruel…

But what would I, who never had boyfriend, know about the matters of heart?

🤣🤣🤣

Picture by Kelly Sikkema

Posted in Love

Yakeenan | Urdu Poetry

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Ye Waqt yakeenan meri saut hai.

Tere aane aur chale jane ke beech

Jo mauhalat hai,

Ek lamha hai;

Tere ja kar wapas aane ke darmiyan

Jo fasla hai,

Ek zindagi hai;

Tere ja kar laut ke na aane ka dar

Har pal maut hai.

Ye Waqt bazaahir meri saut hai.

Translation:

Waqt: Time

Saut: A merciless co-wife (translated as rival here since it clarifies the intent)

Time is a ruthless rival.

A second’s respite once you arrive

And then you leave.

A lifetime stretches when you leave…

.

.

.

Until you arrive.

Every moment wondering if you’ll return

To me is death.

Time is a ruthless rival.

Posted in Love

Matters of Heart: Act 6

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: My Matters of Heart series is about Indian dating culture and my failsafe ways of dealing with it. This is the sixth part. To look for the rest, just search for Matters of Heart in the Search box.

India may be the land of many languages but regarding the matters of heart, it is pretty much the same–vague! At least, small town India in my teens was like that. You needed to learn Morse code to be able to receive a signal.

That could be because if a guy didn’t hit the mark with 100% accuracy at the correct time and in the correct place and correct company, he might spend the rest of the month in a hospital ward with both hands and legs, and skull in bandages–if he was lucky!

If he was unlucky, he might land up in jail for eve-teasing, harrassment and obscene behaviour in public, or even end up starting a full-scales riot spread across several Indian states–especially if it was a Hindu-Muslim union he was looking for.

As I had mentioned in one of my earlier posts, until the age of 20, I never got a proposal. But honestly, I probably never recognised an attempt to propose. Many of such incidents were due to the vague language signals, which relied solely on reading body language and breaking code words (such as, “I am going for a movie alone.” means “Do you want to come for a movie with me?”).

Considering that I am rather thick in that department, it took me several years of quiet contemplation to understand the full meaning of a lot of these conversations.

Thankfully, I wasn’t the only one. My friends were equally befuddled. Most being bookish-nerdy-artist variety girls, they all had similar unyielding conversations. Surprisingly enough, I was sometimes able to break the code for them (but never for myself). Unfortunately, my decoding style used to put their hackles up and they would start avoiding the guy making the moves.

So I had a close friend (let’s call her X). Once one of her close friends (let’s call him Y to rhyme with a “guy”) told her that he “liked” me. Now, in those days, “liking” in India was the code word for “kind of crazy about and wish to take on a date”. Note that I had met him only once for 15 minutes in an office setting. When X expressed her surprise, he added, “Yeah, there should be somebody to drive around on my new bike!” And then, when she offered to pass the message to me, he said, “No! No! Promise me you won’t tell her I said that.”

So obviously, X told me. It is the girl’s code to share everything that is expressly forbidden.

Technically, this was the first non-proposal I had received, or I should say the first time a guy had clearly shown any interest in me. It didn’t get me interested. It got me curious. I had to dissect this conversation to see where it came from and where it was going.

Because the three statements together did not make sense: while it is natural to “like” someone and want company on a new bike, you need to tell the concerned person to get that company. Why expressly forbid?

Also if I was a guy, I would never want someone like me just to drive around on a new bike. Men LOVE bikes. They are their equivalent of a lover. (I have a colleague who has the name of his bike tattooed on his arm.) So, if they want a girl for a new bike, that girl will have to be a new-bike equivalent: shiny and polished-to-hilt girl with red glossy lips, eyelashes that are thick enough to be braided, plucked eyebrows, manicured fingers and pedicured feet, and fitted in a dress that shows it all.

A girl who new knew make-up and is a walking ad for “Just Books” wouldn’t fit into the image of the “bike” girl. Besides, I owned a new scooter and would never ask a lift from anyone anyway. So, the statements were not making sense.

Naturally, I wanted to ask Y directly to save me the decoding effort. But X told me that it would look like a breach of confidence to him. And I would move mountains for X. So, I had to solve this mystery on my own, trying to join the dots but always coming back in circles.

What did Y mean by…

Could he seriously consider sharing his new bike with me? I mean, I could take it for a drive…not with him in the back though…

What if he didn’t mean it and was just saying for the sake of conversation…a very dangerous conversation with a potential of public beating?

And why would he bluff to X?

Then inspiration hit–Dil Toh Pagal Hai (One of Shahrukh Khan’s movie–the god of Romance in India)!

Y was testing waters. He was checking X’s reaction to see if she would be jealous, like Anjali in Dil Toh Pagal Hai when she saw her best friend show interest in another girl?

If he was actually meaning to ask her out, he would draw her attention to his intention of getting a girl (and to the fact he had acquired a new bike). Since she was a close friend, it would switch on her jealous-friend track and (considering she wore her heart on her sleeve) it would show on her face.

But the plan backfired because X was truly disinterested. She offered to pass on the message, leaving him scared that I might walk in with my brother and he would have to be admitted in a hospital for broken bones (if he was lucky!).

I offered this explanation to X, telling her that she had a secret admirer who was wondering if he should ask her out. But she was as thick as me, “Naah, if that’s the case, he could have simply asked me.”

Yeah, right!

Posted in Love

Mellifluous

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: Thank you, Beetly Pete and John Melon for the story ideas.

He was mellifluous. Not his voice–I hadn’t heard it yet. I am talking about the person himself.

As usual, I was late and had to run from my office with my backpack on my shoulders to catch the last bus to my town. I preferred Fridays to visit my parents when it was relatively spacious, as compared to Saturdays when, apparently, the entire world was travelling home.

After a lot of running and jostling, I finally managed to get on the bus. I was still trying to catch my breath at the door while searching for an open seat when I saw him…

…and never looked away.

It was the peace on his face that drew my eyes–a peaceful ship in the sea of turbulent waters…

He wasn’t a regular or I would have remembered such a face. His skin was light brown, and the dimples made him look rather ‘pretty’–if a man can be called ‘pretty’ without being offended.

As I slowly walked forward in the aisle, I realised he was in a deep sleep–how he managed to sleep amidst all the honking and sweltering heat was a mystery to me. But the way his chest rose and fell gracefully with each breath left no doubt that his lights were completely out. His hands resting in his lap looked fluid, even though there was no movement. His black hair flew gently with the wind from the open window and he seemed completely oblivious of my scrutiny…

…or my existence. Somehow, the thought bothered me.

I sat down a couple of seats ahead of him. I would have sat next to him, but the seat was taken by another female. She sat looking rather bored, consulting her watch often, as if wishing for the time move faster. She seemed completely unaffected by his presence.

Was it just me, then, who felt the tug towards him? I wanted to offer her my seat, so that I can sit with him–afterall, she didn’t seem to care either way. But it would be very conspicuous, completely irrational and totally unlike me. Why would I want to sit with him? I didn’t even know his name! Also, I wasn’t a big town girl. I was never friends with boys and my dealings with them were strictly on need-to-know basis. Dating was unheard of in my family and going after a boy made me feel like an overachieving fool.

Not that it stopped me.

I tried to think of other things, like my favourite food waiting for me at home; my father waiting at the bus stand (since it would be dark by the time my bus reached there); my mother waiting at the door, worried why I hadn’t turned up yet (even though I always reached at the same time)…

But it didn’t seem to make a difference. I kept looking back at him–intent on making introductions once he woke up.

Finally, the girl got up and got down the bus and I took her place in a flash.

I was blushing now because people had noticed how I had hurried to get to him. A lot of these people have seen me ride this bus for an year now. We had exchanged gossip on the way to our various destinations. Now they watched my walk of shame back to my seat to retrieve my backpack that I had forgotten in my hurry to secure this seat. They looked at me with me interest, some of them raising their eyebrows in obvious questions with knowing smiles.

I was also blushing because, as I sat back, our shoulders were touching. A small-town Indian girl that I was, I never had a boyfriend, and the only other boy I ever touched was my elder brother–to get piggyback rides. Of course, I sit next to other people in the bus and in office. But it never felt like this–like I was stealing a moment. Pathetic!

I didn’t like sitting next to him though. It was difficult to look at him properly now. But I could tell his profile was even more interesting. The crow’s feet around his eyes reminded me of happy times; of hikes and dips in the river; of lemonades and jokes; of shared family tales and good-natured ribbing…

It was still light outside and he slept on. His closed eyes were peaceful amidst the various traffic jams that our bus was stuck in. Even the sunlight falling on his face didn’t seem to bother him. His breathing was even and restful–like soulful music meant only for my ears. It made me drowsy. I wanted to talk to him but I didn’t want to disturb his peace. Surely, we can talk once he woke up…

An old fellow Friday traveler woke me up at my stop. The seat next to me was empty except for a gun wrapper. I felt my stomach drop as collected my backpack.

“He waited for you to wake up for eons. Kept stealing glances but didn’t want to disturb your sleep though. So, when his stop came, he jumped over the back of the next seat.”

Sensing my disappointment, she gestured at the gun wrapper with a smile, “I saw him scribble on it right before he left. I think he left his number for you.”

Posted in Love

Mulaqaat | Sher | Urdu poetry

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Milti nahi thi ghadiya jinhe ashique se milne ke liye,

Rote hain ghanto se wahi intezar me dafeene ke liye.

…

In rukhsar ke moti kafan pe chamak chhod jayenge.

Chali ja! Zamaana haazir hai ilzam dene ke liye.

Translation:

Who couldn’t find seconds for love,

Is here crying for hours at my funeral.

…

Pearls from your cheeks will leave a sheen on my shroud.

Go away! For the world will see it and blame you aloud.

Author’s note: Sher in Urdu poetry is a couplet with a central idea that can standalone as a separate piece.

It also requires a certain word balance, somewhat like syllables in English poetry but much more complicated since each letter has its own weight. It is clearly outside my range of abilities. 😊 I just try to balance syllables where I can.

Posted in Life and After, Love

The Bouquet

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

I was expecting her at our neighbour’s wedding, being her first cousin. But still, it is a punch in the gut. Closing my eyes, I breath deeply to avoid doing something foolish–like grabbing her hand and running away before anyone can react…

It is a stupid thought though. Her brothers are on high alert. I can see them giving me dirty looks, like daring me to take a single step towards her. I am not going to, of course. She is off-limits now that she is married. She is tied to that man for seven lives–that mountain of a man with a huge chest and a large moustache…

Didn’t she tell him she hates moustache?

I sneak another look at her. She doesn’t seem to have noticed me. She doesn’t look any worse for wear anyway, like she is doing fine without me. So, it seems only I was holding out the candle for her.

She looks lovely, like a proper indian married woman sporting a red salwar suit, large traditional red bindi on her forehead, red and white chuda adorning her arms and a red embroidered dupatta covering her head…

She used to hate red. She was against girls being typecasted into reds and pinks. She had once made me swear that I would never ask her to wear red or cover her head after our marriage…

Our marriage…well, it doesn’t seem to be on her mind anymore now. She seems serene, smiling politely as she nods at something her aunt is saying…

She used joke that married women act all grown up in public and don’t laugh because they are not free to laugh anymore; that I should never expect that of her…

She used to be a wildflower, not ready to fit in the social bouquet.

I don’t know what to expect of her anymore.

But somethings never change. Anyone knowing her would see that she is already bored of the conversation. She was never the one for small talk. But she is trying to be polite. But her gaze is already drifting away from her aunt, looking for an escape.

Suddenly, her gaze falls on me and her entire being lights up. She starts to take a step towards me…

But her husband asks her something. The realisation returns and the light dies out of her eyes. She smiles a fake smile at him reserved for people she can barely tolerate and returns to acting like a grown-up..

She is one off the bouquet now.

Muskurata toh ab bhi hai,

Bhale gairo ke sath hi,

Us guldaste me ab wo

Gulistan si khushbu nhi.

Posted in Love, Nature

My Neighbour: The Earnest

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: This post is based on a real incident…well, more or less. I was looking out of the window and witnessed what looked like a clear case of eve-teasing. I am just trying to look at it from the victim’s perspective.

Jeez! How many times do I have to say ‘No’ for someone to understand it? Here I am pecking quietly on the tin shed, eating the grains supplied by the human working below, when this jerk flies down and lands close to me.

So, I think, “Oh! He wants to share”. I move aside and make space for him.

And what does he do? He scoots closer…so close, I can smell the enticing smell of peppermint leaves on his breath.

So, I move further away. And his trots closer.

Sheesh! I jump on the closest low wall, and he follows like he is stitched to my shadow.

I run on the wall, and he follows calling after me, “Hey! Wait up. You are too fast! I can’t keep up!”

I am like, “Dude! That is precisely the point. I don’t want you to keep up with me.”

And he’s like, “Huh?” And he flies and lands too close yet again.

What the heck! Can’t he just go and eat some wheat grains, groom his feathers or sleep on a rooftop somewhere else…far, far away? I can’t be caught talking to him. I’ll be a laughingstock for a lifetime! So, I take flight this time. And he stupidly chases me in the air!

Can’t he see I am not interested? There are better things to do in life than date a stupid pigeon who goes by the name “Rapunzel”! I mean, what woman would ever want to date a guy named Rapunzel!?

I don’t want to be mean, but he leaves me no choice. So, I sit down on a stone archway to the next-door temple and say what sounds like the greatest cuss words ever known to the pigeon-kind, “Rapunzel! Go away!”

He sits a little farther this time, “Not you too! I am NOT Rapunzel!”

“What do you think I am–a chick-just-hatched? I have heard that human girl call you ‘Rapunzel’ at least a dozen times.”

“How do you know that? Have you been keeping tabs on me?” He asks, looking smug.

“I am not keeping tabs on you,” I hope I am not blushing like stupid human girls. “I live here. I hear things.”

“Well, then you know that she calls all pigeons ‘Rapunzel’.”

“Liar!”

“Well, I am a bit wrong there. If you sit on her windowsill in a group, she will probably call you Rapunzel and the rest of the group will be Ella, Snow White, Elsa, Bella and other Disney princesses in that exact order. She can’t tell that some of us are Prince Charming!”

I am intrigued now, “Are you ‘Prince Charming’ then? I mean, it is nearly just as bad!”

“Ugh! No! I don’t have a name. You can just call me ‘Hulk’!”

Eww! “I think, I’ll pass.”

“So, will you come out with me? I know a really cool place with loads of fresh grain and an amazing view of the river,” he says as he carefully moves closer to me on the top of the stone archway, looking a little unsure of himself this time.

Good! I like him better when he is not being haughty…

I mean, I don’t really like him like that…

Well, at least not yet…

Sigh! Who am I kidding? I have been keeping tabs on him…

Still, I roll my eyes, trying to play hard to get, “You really don’t know when to give up!”

He has probably sensed I am giving up, because he stands up a little taller, “I know exactly when to give up, which is why I am not giving up on you yet.” He tilts his face to a side inquisitively, which makes his neck shine in a multitude of colours. “So, are you coming with me before all the fresh grain is gone?”

“Well, lead the way. I will probably dump you after we have eaten anyway, Rapunzel!” He rolls his eyes and smiles, and we take off to the nearest fields I have already visited alone this morning.

I know it will be better with him by my side, smelling minty and looking like Prince Charming. But I am not telling him that. At least, not yet!

Author’s note again: To learn more about how my daughter named Rapunzel (poor dear), you can go through my other posts here: Meet Rapunzel and Rapunzel 2.0