Posted in My life

Matters of Heart: Act 7

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?

๐Ÿคฃ๐Ÿคฃ๐Ÿคฃ


Picture by Kelly Sikkema

Posted in My life

Matters of Heart: Act 6

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 Fiction

Mellifluous

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 Nature stories

My Neighbour: The Cocophonix

Author’s note: Last year, when we shifted to our new house, a welcoming party of six Jungle Babblers came for a visit. This is the tale straight from the horse’s mouth.


I was sitting on that wire when I realised the window was open…finally! I was so excited to meet the new neighbours, so, I just hopped on the ledge. And what did I see? All asleep!

Lazy bones!

It was 6 o’clock. My bretheren and I had been awake for the past two hours already–had breakfast and a flight across the river…

These city people must understand this is not how things work in our countryside.

But you can’t really go around delivering sermons to new people…the best way is to welcome them and then, politely, show them how things are done.

So, I decided to begin our association by giving them a song of welcome–the best way to introduce them to the delights of the early morning country music. I began with my favourite: The Aeroplane. My bretheren joined me as well.

It came out so wonderfully refreshing that the woman woke up right away, jumping to the window where I sat. Her eyes were wide and looked at the street in bewilderment. I was amused. She must be wondering where all that energy came from.

Smiling, I introduced myself. She looked me with her jaw dropped open. A fan already!

Her daughter was stirring, roused by sound of music.

I decided to give them a special piece that the child would surely love: The Chainsaw. I started with the highest notes I could pick, followed by my bretheren.

The child stirred further and the mother said something–I couldn’t really hear her over our music. But she was flapping her wings. These humans have never really learnt to use their wings but I could see my music was making her wish she could fly. So I added more vigour, urging my brothers to give it their best.

Alas, humans are unpredictable like cloudy skies. You never know what they would do next. The woman swung a broom at me!

Now, I don’t want to hurt anyone’s sentiments. I would have accepted a rose but broom is certainly not my style. Firstly, they are too heavy. Secondly, so many twigs of the broom wouldn’t have fit into my nest.

I tried to continue singing but when the broom came too close, I decided it was time to say a rushed goodbye.

After that I tried a few more times of different occasions but with the same results. After the fifth time she offered the broom, I decided it was better to keep my distance.

I think I have hurt her feelings . But I really can’t go building another nest for every fan! What would my wife think?

Posted in Fiction, Random Thoughts

Something

Scared by the darkness,

She looked back. Nothing.

Something told her, her shadow wasn’t following.

.

She couldn’t be sure–

It was too dark.

Surely she would know if her shadow was still her part…

.

She would feel it

Sticking to her shoe…

Certainly there would be something…a slight cue?

.

Unknown, unreasonable,

Fear crept in.

Panic filled up empty crevices within.

.

She rushed back

To the streak of light.

Her shadow was there the other night.

.

Travellers swear,

In car headlight,

A phantom dives under their speeding cars. Every night…


Author’s note: Some people working in graveyard shift in Gurgaon back in 2014 used to say that a phantom woman would dive under their car’s front wheels. Every night. Scary! ๐Ÿ˜จ

Posted in Blogging

It isn’t what it looks like!

Once again, I missed her.

My siren.

There she was singing to me about new stories,

Sitting right beside me,

While I plodded on with office work,

Waiting for it to be over,

So I could write down what she was telling me.

Now I sit with smartphone in hand,

Clueless of what

I was sure to have memorized.

My siren is long gone,

Disappointed at being ignored,

Suspecting of my love.

This is what happens when

You spend too much time with Work.

I hope she knows it isn’t what it looks like!

Posted in Fiction

The Bouquet

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 Random Thoughts

Problem solved

I was bad at Maths. It didn’t excite me as English and Hindi stories would. My parents tried to coach me, sent me to tution class and even got a private tutor at an exorbitant cost. I barely made it through Highschool Maths exam.

So, when my daughter was born, I decided to instill a love for Maths in her so that she wouldn’t face problems like I did. She loves stories. So I started telling her stories that required her solving Math problems. Say, if she is studying Addition and Subtraction, I tell her stories that have such problems. Recently, I told her stories involving money, time and metric measurement. And she must answer the problems before we can move ahead.

For example:

“Once there was a banana seller who was walking through the forest, he sat down beneath a tree to rest for a bit. But there were monkeys in that tree who started stealing his bananas.

When he woke up, he saw 9 monkeys ๐Ÿ’๐Ÿ’๐Ÿ’๐Ÿ’๐Ÿ’๐Ÿ’๐Ÿ’๐Ÿ’๐Ÿ’ (not 10 so that it is difficult to count), each with 3 bananas ๐ŸŒ๐ŸŒ๐ŸŒ in hand and one ๐ŸŒ in their mouth. How many bananas did he lose?

3+1=4*9=36 ๐Ÿ˜ค

Poor man was aghast. Each banana was worth 7 rupees ๐Ÿ’ฐ each. He would lose so much money. How money would he lose?

36*7=252 ๐Ÿ˜ฑ

So he decided to do a trick. He started monkey dancing, ๐Ÿ•บso monkeys ๐Ÿ’๐Ÿ’๐Ÿ’๐Ÿ’๐Ÿ’๐Ÿ’๐Ÿ’๐Ÿ’๐Ÿ’would copy him.

Then, he picked up a banana ๐ŸŒ and threw it on the ground. All the monkeys threw bananas ๐ŸŒ ๐ŸŒ ๐ŸŒ ๐ŸŒ ๐ŸŒ ๐ŸŒ ๐ŸŒ ๐ŸŒ ๐ŸŒ ๐ŸŒ ๐ŸŒ ๐ŸŒ ๐ŸŒ ๐ŸŒ ๐ŸŒ ๐ŸŒ ๐ŸŒ ๐ŸŒ ๐ŸŒ ๐ŸŒ ๐ŸŒ ๐ŸŒ ๐ŸŒ ๐ŸŒ ๐ŸŒ ๐ŸŒ ๐ŸŒ ๐ŸŒ in their hands on the ground. How many bananas are on the ground?

3*9=27+1=28 ๐Ÿ˜„

He picked them up. But they were squished from falling on the ground, so they were useless to him ๐Ÿฅด. So how much money ๐Ÿ’ฐ did he lose?

28*7? No โ“

36*7=252? No โ“

252 + 7 (his own banana)= 259! ๐Ÿค“

So he picked up his remaining bananas and walked to the market. He had learnt his lesson and brought a wooden stick to ward off monkeys the next time.” ๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚

By the time I am done, my daughter is happily exhausted and ready to sleep.

I always pick the chapter she is currently on and pull in as many calculations and logic as a story can hold without being overwhelming. It instills a deep love for calculations within her and inspite her creative streak, she excels in Maths, which is a logical subject.

For a change, even I am falling in love with Maths a little bit now.

Though I wonder how I am going to insert Sin-Cos into monkey, giraffe stories… ๐Ÿคฃ๐Ÿคฃ๐Ÿคฃ

Posted in Random Thoughts

Choosing one good thing out of three

I was recently writing a science fiction short story. By recently, I mean that I have been writing it for an year and it is still not finished. The reason it is not finished is that I have three probable ends and I am not able to decide one.

The story has been created out of a dream. It was a surreal dream and I wanted to use it. But as I progressed, this one developed into something totally different and I am unable to decide where to take it in the end. Does the heroine get her hero? Was he really the hero? Did he really exist and on what level did he exist?

So many paths to take,

so many turns await…

I take a step to where my heart moves me…

but my heart moves at a fast pace…

How do you decide what life to live today?

Author’s note: I feel in my bones that whichever end I choose I will never be satisfied. I think I am in too deep. I am living this story in my mind!

Posted in Fiction

The Rose Print

Author’s note: Thank you, Lauren for providing the first line of the story.

The letter contained the most unexpected news I could imagine. For the hundredth time, I reread those ragged, cursive words written in a weak hand on a paper with roses printed on it. The paper is of the finest quality, worthy of a person of means.

My dearest,

I wish we had more time together, but I cannot undo the turn my life has taken. On the verge of death, I see you, and you alone, as my closest relative. This estate now belongs to you.

Love,

D. F. Allistor

I hazard a look at the life-size portrait hanging behind my bedโ€”the mischievous blue eyes seem to twinkle with mirth. I avert my eyes trying to ignore the portraitโ€”the proverbial elephant in the room. D. F. Allistor died recently, leaving this estate to me. His attorney had mailed me the letter after his death along with the documentation of inheritance.

When I first received it, I had instantly sent a letter back letting him know that there was a mistake; that I was an orphan with no living relatives and didn’t know any dead ones; that I had never been to the estate before, and neither did I know the last owner nor did I ever hear of him; and hence, I could not be the person in this will.

But the attorney was sure, “I know it sounds improbable, even to me. But while I am unaware of the nature of your relationship with the late Donovon Frederick Allistor yet, the details provided to me by him match you exactly, down to the last letter of your name, address, parentage and work history.”

This reply had rattled me. I am not a public figure, and I have no social media account. Researching about me from across the country must have taken a lot of time and resources. Yet, this relative had never approached me while he was alive, not even when I was abused by foster parents and turned into a servant of their household. All those years, I had waited for some relative to come forward and claim me. Now that I was out of that situation, inheriting this obscene amount of money and the sprawling estate seems meaningless. Well, almost…

Two years back, I had left my foster home at the first opportunity and started working at the hospital in the Hospice ward. In return, I received weekly paychecks and had a small quarter to live in. It was a tough life. The people I took care of were waiting to die and death was a frequent visitor. It isn’t fair to have to work in a place that reeked of death just to be able to survive.

I tried to stay aloof most of the timesโ€”tears were a luxury for meant for people with means. But it was difficult when some of the patients cared so much for me. They often offered words of care and caution like family. Charles had even offered to adopt meโ€”I had to remind him that I was too old to be adopted. And Martha had offered me a job at her home, but, of course, the job was only until Martha was alive, which wasn’t long. And that place was right next door to the Cancer ward, where I had met Eric…

He used to make me laughโ€”even declared his “undying love” and “married” me by twisting his ventilator tube and slipping it on my finger as a ring, joking that I would soon be a rich widow! He died last month with his bald head in my lap and wrinkled hands holding mine. I had stayed with him until an ambulance came and took him back to his city to be buried. That was the only day I had allowed myself to cry.

It isn’t fair at all!

All this while, there was a someone with means who knew about me and could have supported me! But he had waited until his death.

Initially, I was angry, confused and unsure of the stroke of unusually good luck. But there was no point declining the opportunity this estate presented. It came with a lot of money and no debt. It could set me up for life and help me start over, attend college and, maybe, become someone I could be proud of. The place came with a housekeeper and a gardener who were paid through a trust fundโ€”I didn’t have to be alone here. So, I left the job at the hospital and moved here.

*****

I love the place. It is beautiful and not very old. My resentment towards late D.F. Allistor is gradually dissipating. But even after being in the house for two days, I’m still unsure of my relationship with him. I always keep wondering if someone will come and make a claim for the estate, calling me a fraud and usurper.

I can’t put it off anymore. So, I broach the topic with the housekeeper about the previous owner without making it look like I didn’t know him. She seems very fond of him, “Oh! He was a fine man, ma’am. A little mischievous but he had a good heart. Always helped me when I was in trouble with my husband. Even in his death, he left a trust fund, so I don’t have to go back to him. Taken too early, I say! Twenty-four is not the age to die!” Tears are gathering in the corners of her eyes.

24? “When did he commission this portrait?”

“Just two years back when a local artist was unable to pay her mortgage. He gave her enough money without making it sound like charity.”

How can I hold a grudge against such a person? Earlier, I had assumed he was older. But taken at 24? For the first time, I look properly at the portrait with the twinkling eyes, looking for a similarity in his face and mineโ€”some family connection I never knew of. The face feels faintly familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it.

Thinking of something to say, I pick the most obvious topic, “How did he die?”

She looked at me with doubt in her eyes, “Cancer. You know all about it, of course. By the time doctors diagnosed it, he only had a few months left. He got chemotherapy and radiation done in a facility close by. The poor boy lost all his hair, eyebrows and lashes, and he was so frail in those last daysโ€”it was impossible to recognise him! And later, he went to that big hospital in your city all alone, for his parents were both dead and gone. He wouldn’t let me come because my youngest is still only 3. When he met you, he was finally so happy. He told me all about it over the phone…”

Her voice trailed away, as she read the doubt on my face, “You did know him, didn’t you?”

I could picture him in the hospital, mischievous blue eyes framed by a frail, bald face and a charming smile, slipping the twisted ventilator tube like a ring on my finger, his bald head in my lap and wrinkled hands holding mine…

Frederick…Eric…

*****

For the millionth time, I reread those ragged, cursive words written in a weak hand on a paper with roses printed on it. I look at the life-size portrait hanging behind my bed.

The mischievous blue eyes seem to twinkle with love…