The Impatient Soul – Part I

She may have come through the window, as curtains fluttered in the south westerly monsoon winds. Her entrance was dramatic, most certainly unexpected for Vishal to comprehend.

Down from her destination up above … straight into his bedroom, the spirit of Tara knew no bounds. Already this was the third night after she left, and she was feeling restless.

Why shouldn’t she? Does love die like humans do?

She seemed possessed last Wednesday evening. Vishal had requested her not to leave her office in haste. After all, she had this habit of being possessed by her mind at times. These were tough times, as none could alert her and her actions defied everything.

But it was his birthday, and she had just sent another e-card to his mailbox. Nothing extraordinary, she had this habit of sending him e-cards every hour on this day … to be followed by that paper card and the gift … and a grand dine out.

This time, she wanted a change. She planned the dinner at his apartment. For the first time, she wanted to cook the dinner and have it with him. She wanted the quiet candlelight dinner … away from the restaurant crowd … just with him.

‘No, I want to come … why do you stop me?’ she had asked

‘Dear, why create tension? I will come and pick you up after work, can’t you wait?’ he had argued

‘I’m no kid alright … and I need to cook tonight … right in your kitchen’ she continued

‘That’s fine … but why do you rush?’ Vishal questioned

‘I don’t rush Vishal … I just need you tonight … I need only you … and I have to start now’ she whispered on the phone and hung up. She had made up her mind.

Such times Vishal felt so helpless. She had grown to possess her love like she never possessed before. And that proved fatal.

That was Wednesday … as her lively body so full of earthly love came under the heavy wheels of the charging bus. She was in a rush … crossing the road during peak hours, almost being unmindful of the traffic. Her living soul breathed last … only to be set free as the non-living … high above this earthly atmosphere.

But she did come back … didn’t she?

As though she kept her promise, she smiled looking from behind her veiled face. The silk curtains from Vishal’s bedroom window had been fluttering amidst the monsoon breeze for the last three days. He had refused to shut them … he had got himself into an ethereal monotony.

Tara was his soul … he was her life. It was for her that he left his family to settle among the crowded Delhi life. And today she’s no more.

Is she?

Her spirit smiled looking at Vishal’s tired body that lay on the couch … his unfinished glass of whisky left uncovered on the table.

Is he drinking? Lost love … Devdas … she laughed loud. The sound reverberated … Vishal quietly opened his eyes only to see the dark cascading cloud hover around the window. He didn’t see her … but she did.

Somewhere among the many memories of Tara, there were moments of touch. He felt for Tara’s body odour … so was her sense of feeling for his lips. Vishal closed his eyes again.

She circled around him … once, twice and so on. They say seven such circles complete the quest for the life partner. But she didn’t want that tonight.

Why would she leave him married now? Why would she do it when he couldn’t even sense her?

Another circle and she flew around ... in a jest that was so like Tara, the unbridled soul.

To be continued …

The Bag she lives for

A man is known by the company he keeps.

How’s a woman known?

Never thought of that? well, that’s a safe bet. I kept thinking about this question from the time I came across the proverb. Whether you curse or admire me, blame my idle mind.

In my less than a half-century existence, I have tried all possible ways to know women. There were failures and half-successes … and in case I am a dignified person (which I have grown to suspect), there were other notorious attempts to inquire.

One of which bought me to this – a woman is ‘known’ (should I write this word?) by the bag she carries.

Yes, the bag … you read it right, and even with all my senses intact, let me repeat – the bag. These lovely pouches she carries as her favorite pet, possession, passion and sometimes a panacea – an all-purpose magic box to supply everything she needs.

Countless ladies, and their million choices to carry or hang around their shoulders – be it the shoulder bag, the hand bag, the clutch bag or the wallet … and so much more.

Once she carried a vanity bag – the cute, elegant looking dangler a few inches from her elbow. Her saree pallu was short, may be they were lesser in terms of what we get today. Those bags weren’t stuffed, almost dedicated to the show of vanity more than anything else. This was the ‘hip-hop’ lady of seventies, one who loved to party and show off status equated with the status of her executive class hubby (or her rich dad).

Cut to the woman from today, with those designer bags hanging from her shoulders, this time barely a few inches below her armpits (you would know if you have been looking around the right areas). Their bags dazzle, but with the tiny size, one would only expect bare toiletries inside. They have grown jazzier yet portray the materialistic woman, who prefers money and the ‘status’. They may look elegant and dress fashionable, but I have always felt them a few yards away from me!

Carrying a jhola-like big bag on the shoulder could be the sign of a lady who seems to be a down-to-earth person. I remember a lady friend of mine from college carrying an extra pair of slippers, just in case, inside such a bag!

Such women are usually decently independent, and a conventional carry-all practical person … often you see them as successful students, executives and housewives.

But beware. Some of those big ‘bagwaali’ pros are often known to carry their lunch boxes outside of their bags. Or the laptop, in some cases. This makes me wonder that though these shoulder bags have a lot inside, some items are a definite no-no. Hence the extra carry item. May be signs of the organized soul, don’t you think?

The tiniest member could be the clutch bag or the wallet. I believe these wallets are mostly relied for comfort. A wallet is small to carry, and cool … and perfectly romantic. This clutch bag, in case colored with a metal fastener behaves like a purse, and can even belong to the celebrity. Mostly filmy ladies are photographed in page three with these bags. Need I say more?

I have admired young ladies moving with their wallets and mobile phones tucked away in their palms as if they are mini icons of freedom. No real fashion here, I presume, though I haven’t seen their older compatriots donning these handy purses, which gives me a queer feeling. Are they a bit too modern?

But have you seen a woman go out on a date with a big jhola-like bag? I may have, but very rarely. The question arises whether a wallet proves the perfect fit for such rendezvous.

Somewhere between the big jhola and the cute wallet, lies the most popular ladies bag. Among women, they are the prized possession for many. They may adorn petite shoulders or appear clutched inside soft palms. Whatever the season, and for whatever reason, this bag is the object she lives for … and you can’t imagine her leaving that.

Want to know more? Keep watching the bag next time you meet her. I promise, you can continue to learn more about her.

My brush with Creator

He entered the park holding her hand. She was around thirty, or may be a bit less … a shaped body wrapped in a light blue churidaar. Her mature figure defied age. May be she wasn’t the hourglass figure, but her face defied the turbulence of the woman in love. At her age, I would have attempted to romance her heart away … but on this day, I watched her hold him strong.

A man in his mid-life often wanders, mostly in search of that romance that he dreams, but could never fulfill. A discomfort only the man feels, that stays and leaves with him.

This park had a few benches for people to sit and relax. My daughter was one among the notorious bunch running around. All the time, I could hear her giggle past me. The air around was refreshing, as I stretched my limbs to rejuvenate.

He had chubby cheeks, the pinkish glow emerging from below his dark, inquisitive baby eyes. Already we had exchanged an introductory glance, his face glowing with a refreshing smile towards me as they passed from front … while I barely managed a sheepish grin.

Here was adulthood, even couldn’t match up to a boyish urge to smile!

Soon he merged with the group of toddlers grabbing the ball. The lady settled for another bench beside me. I looked at her from the sides, her bare arm reminisced the charm of women in her early youth.

Alas, my young days had passed a while back.

‘Uncle, do you know how to play ball?’, my mind diverted to hear the boy’s question.

There was reason for him to validate me, for nowhere did I prove my expertise with the ball. I may be a top-grade ball player, but then when did I show him that?

‘No beta, I can’t’, I muttered.

‘You’re lying uncle … you know how to play’, his eyes widened and he believed himself. Somehow, he denied my humility. I could have spoken the truth. I knew how to play the ball with whatever little I played even during my college days. But then, my shy demeanor … and he was quick to correct me.

I felt as if he knew me inside out, and more about the adult instinct to hide qualities away. ‘Speak up the truth’, I probably heard him command that from his within … and I gathered courage to admit that. ‘Little bit beta, nothing more’, I replied.

‘Will you play with me?’, his demure face with those expressive eyes merged to look for an answer. His question appeared innocent, more than I had ever read innocence in the eye of a kid.

I looked at the lady. She had her face lit up with a smile glued with attention.

So we started to play. And for the next few minutes, it was me and him. The difference of age was probably more than the bond that he was making with me. As he interacted, I felt a divine presence … watching me, inspiring me and refreshing my soul.

It was as if I was attempting to merge with the creator through this newly-created bundle of joy. He may be barely five, while I was decades elder to him. Did that matter? I hope not, since we were mingling as if it was an old acquaintance.

Divine intervention, may be. Or else, why would he choose me as his playmate when there were so many kids around?

The ball play went around for around twenty minutes. Then he felt tired and soon trudged towards his mother for an affectionate hug. Rejuvenation, I felt. Even the heavenly presence in his body needed a gentle energizer. And the young lady put around her bare arms for a warm hug for him.

His eyes looked at me from around his mother’s wheatish arms. The look of a soul being nursed by its creator pacified me.

Very soon, he was on his way out, gently holding his mother’s hand. Not before thanking me with that show of courtesy that was bred in this planet.

‘My dad never brings me to the park … but my mom does!’ was his parting gift.

Was his dad busy? Was there no love left for him in this world?

The lady looked back at me, with a show of gratitude … probably thanking me more for the time I spent with her little boy. Sparks never flew this way, or do they?

Nothing heavenly, I assumed. I felt for my mother’s hand to hold me out of the park too. In turn, it was my daughter standing there in front.

‘Dad, are you dozing again?’, her voice admonished.

For a moment, the parent-child relationship seemed reverse. And I glowed in my new-found peace having met with the creator's presence in a newfound creation.