Prudent Rosy Knew My Vital Signs

ME
One of my mom’s fondest memories of my childhood is about an incident that happened when I was in kindergarten. There is nothing much to this anecdote as you will see but whenever she tells it to her friends she makes a mountain out of a molehill or should I say, out of her chaat masaala. One day she found me sitting in front of radio, listening to a quawwali; wavering my head pendulously in a mystic trance I was oblivious to the fact that she had called me several times. When she didn’t hear back from me she came over. She twirled my ear with one hand and pulled the plug with the other.

"assi apne puttar nu mirasi te nahiN banana si" she would explain to her convivial friends at their tell-your-kid’s-childhood-anecdote gatherings. Later on that day she asked Uncle Spock - as all of us cousins used to call him - to admonish me. He was not much into admonishing little kids but since it was a request from choti bhaabi, he couldn’t refuse. He was the eldest member in our family after grandma and revered as a role model by all. When he was not busy attending conferences all over the world, delivering lectures or winning performance awards, he was found sitting in his study. Such qualities coupled with his thick Spock like eyebrows made him a role model for us kids as well.

"Son! Pay attention to your studies. You have whole life ahead of you to listen to the music; Ok?" Thus spake Uncle Spock and music became an abominable device of devil for me overnight.

That was not all; another thing that contributed towards strengthening my newly acquired beliefs about music was my vocabulary – or lack thereof. For example, I had no idea what the common song words like ’nain (eyes)’, ’zulf (tresses)’, and ’julmi (callous)’ meant. So one day I asked my friend and fellow kindergartner, Shouki, who was a bit older and hence wiser than me, about the meaning of the word "nain".

"It means woman’s breasts," he educated me condescendingly.

I had heard older boys saying pretty nasty things about woman’s breasts so it further reaffirmed my preconceptions. In those days PTV frequently showed movies from 60s and early 70s where busty actresses were shown wearing huge pointy bras and a song ’shikari mere nain, tu mera nishana’ became very popular. So the images that popped up in my mind, when I listened to that song, were that of a bunch of buxom belles running amuck wearing those pointy bras, skewering people to their bosoms and killing them with those weapons of mass destruction. If that was scary, another song, "pyar bharay do sharmilay nain" popped up an image of a lactating woman in my mind; and that was repulsive. I became thoroughly convinced that there was nothing more abominable and lecherous than songs and nice boys ignored them and that the moulvi sahib who tutored us Qura’n, was absolutely right that the End was near.

But it was so hard to resist music. Early in the morning Dadiji used to recite Qura’n and then cantillated hymns and naa’t but all of us kids used to be asleep at that time. We usually woke up when Chachaji would tune his radio to Radio Ceylon and sweet voices of Lata and Rafi would fill the courtyard.

But that was a momentary phase. Pretty soon my vocabulary improved and I began to understand the meanings in the songs. As my horizon broadened, I came to understand the fact that not all but some songs, especially those, which we like the most, have special meanings that affect our mood and influence our lives and feelings. Veritably songs and poetry are an expression of our feelings, which we cannot verbalize. We resonate with the songs and poetry, which reflects our emotions, feelings, maladies and predicaments, our placidity and fulfillment.

In those days I might not have been able to put this idea so eloquently but deep inside I could feel it. For example, Chachaji used to hum "mere samne wali khiRki meiN ik chaand sa chehra rehta hai" all the time and I knew very well that the chaand sa chehra was no one else but Neeli Baji - the blue-eyed girl who lived next door. Undoubtedly Neeli Baji was the Cleopatra of our town. We all knew that Chachaji and Baji had frequent romantic rendezvous on the rooftop and grandma formed a posse of his bhabis and sisters several times to nab the culprits red handed; but Chacha Ji dodged them every time. Perhaps a "mole" was tipping him off. Grandma hated Neeli Baji acutely and called her "Kauri", which is a derogatory word in Punjabi for people with light colored eyes. For Dadiji she was a blue-eyed witch who had stolen her innocent son’s heart. I also knew very well why Neeli Baji used to sing "jan-e-tamanna, khat a tumhara, pyar bhara afsana" often. I guess now you do too.

Chachaji was miserable; he looked like a moth, which tries to break into a florescent tube light resolutely anon but fails to annihilate in a blazing glory. Grandma would not allow him to marry Neeli Baji. His eyes looked soppy all the time, filled with monsoon clouds; the clouds that pour when they rain. Then one day, in desperation Chachaji left for Germany for good.

Sometimes it feels like a dream – those days – playing cricket, flying kites, and rolling marbles. Days were carefree but it was no fun without Chachaji; though we all missed him but it was only Grandma who cried for him everyday. What is with the parents; first they teach their children how to fly and then they want to clip their wings. As Chachaji left, others were to abandon the nest too. All phuphos (aunts) got married and we moved to another city too. Neeli Baji stopped humming any songs. Those few years seem like a clip from an old silent movie where people laugh, dance, talk and even be melodramatic but they have no sound. They appear lively but lifeless. Sound has such an overwhelming effect on our psychology. When I reminisce those years, the events appear like shadowy flickers of a strobe light and different characters as jerky speeded up images of a silent movie.

Then one day, the sound, life and happiness returned to our lives, just as someone presses the ’Play’ button when footage is rolling at ’Fast Forward’. Uncle Spock’s daughter - the eldest of all cousins - was getting married. Such was the excitement and anticipation that guests living in other cities started arriving couple of weeks before the marriage, as it was also a tradition in our family. Dadiji loved to have people around. The local relatives would come along with their families every evening after work and everybody dined together.

Girls had occupied a large room on the third floor, where all night they would giggle, adorn themselves with henna, and practice singing, while repeatedly expelling the persistently intruding boys out. Most of the parents just smiled on, reminiscing their own good times while some overprotective aunties assumed the duties of chaperons and started guarding the girls’ room. As it became difficult for both boys and girls to seek cognizance from each other, they found a short cut – the staircase that spiraled all the way to the third floor became their rallying place. A flock of girls would come down the stairs and a pack of boys would go up volleying frisky jests and mock taunts all the time.

After dinner, every night, girls would sit around the dholak and sing wedding songs. Sometimes they danced to folk tunes played over the tape deck. But the song ’sanwali saloni’was every girl’s favorite:

"saanwali saloni si mehbooba"
Teri chuRiyan sharang karkay
Jaanay kaisee aas dilaiN keh
Hai hai karein sub laRkay"

The girls would form a circle, called Giddah in Punjabi, and danced to the tunes of this song, while everybody applauded them in unison. Occasionally, a boy would jump in and started dancing but other girls standing around would pull him out. After a while boys would start getting impatient and switch the music to the Break Dance, which was the latest fad then. The guests usually liked the girls’ presentations better but there was one song that had won everybody’s heart:

Dil dil Pakistan "; jan jan Pakistan
Aisi zameen aur aasmaaN,
inn ke siwa jana kahaN
BaRhti rahe yeh roshini,
chalta rahe yeh carvaN."

Though this extremely popular song was an anthem but how many anthems there are which are played and danced to in the weddings. Pakistan is such a gifted country that its poets and songwriters have poured their hearts into writing masterpieces, and musicians have composed magnum opuses rendering them immortal. But not only that the anthem was radically unconventional; the handsome quartet of singers had also set many a hearts aflutter.

On one such evening, when girls had exhausted their vocal chords out as well as themselves, the boys set the tape deck to play ’dil dil Pakistan’. Their dance soon turned into drag-an-auntie ritual where boys would pull their aunts and parents onto the dance floor. A man wearing jeans, dark glasses, thick beard and a baseball cap sitting in the way back jumped onto the dance floor and started dancing. No one noticed him until he stopped by Dadiji’s chair and pulled her to the dancing floor. She wouldn’t get up but my mom and another aunt dragged her to the floor. Such was the spell of that song that it made an 80-year-old woman to dance. That encouraged even the most prude and reluctant to come onto the dancing floor. Even Uncle Spock joined in. It was fun seeing him and his peers do the bunny-hop or whatever they used to do in 60s. Then suddenly, everything came to an abrupt halt when Dadiji fainted and collapsed in the arms of that bearded stranger. She had recognized him; that man was none other but Chachaji.


HER
That became a fateful day in my life and the song ’dil dil Paksitan’ unforgettable. Also that was the day when I saw her the very first time. I wouldn’t go into the theories of pheromones and wavelengths but I admit facilely that I am a worshipper of beauty, visual elegance, esthetic symmetry, and fineness. She was all that. I know it is so superficial but I can’t help loving scintillating bright things. It is my nature. She must have noted me as well because I had been obsessively taking her pictures throughout the evening. In that age ’finding’ someone noticeable was not the biggest problem, the problem was to seek recognition from that noticeable one.

Dadiji was immediately taken to her room and everybody, except aunts and uncles, was expelled out. Meanwhile, I started hovering around the stairs, hoping to steal some moments with that girl whose self was creeping up on my mind like enemy soldiers scaling the fortress walls one by one while the sentries are intoxicated and asleep. My prayers were answered soon as I saw her coasting down the stairs. Saddling one end of her yellow dupatta on her forearm, she looked like a princess walking down the promenade. She was humming ’dil dil Pakistan’ softly. It was the first time I felt how a prosaic word like ’dil’ becomes so poetic, delectable and sweet. She stopped humming just as she saw me. Her enticing smile countenanced my existence; otherwise, she was trying very hard to ignore me. And then she staggered; that is what we men call the ’psychological stumbling’ or ’nafsiayati thokar’, if you will. I impulsively grabbed her wrist to keep her from falling down though the chances of happening that were slim.

"Bismillah" As I blurted out thoughtlessly, I felt like being Babu Paanwala sitting in his kiosk down by the street corner; who uttered ’bismillah’ at the sight of anything female. Cinderella gently freed her wrist and began to tighten the strap of her sandal.

"Nice shoes", as I said that, I felt stupid in addition to being cheap. Without a reply, the next moment she was again gliding down the stairs while I stood there, numbed, surrounded by yellow roses. ’Yellow roses?’ I wondered why. Perhaps it was because of her yellow dupatta or her translucent feet in her red sandals, that the only thing I could think of was roses –lots of roses – yellow rose.

I don’t know about women but man’s brain is wired quite rudimentarily and vestigially, which renders him inherently incapable of recognizing the actuality and subsistence of a woman as an entity unless he pigeonholes her into a certain fantasized role. The moment a man sees a woman, his mind spurs a search engine to sift through a database of fantasies and roles; when it finds an appropriate set of role and fantasy; it tags that woman with them and then registers her existence as such. This is a mechanism of association – an embodiment of a role in which man wants to see that woman.

That is the reason some women incite the most organic and basal desires in a man; yet some others invoke the images of mother or sister in his mind, and still into the eyes of some other women he sees his children, as Brian Adams once sang. That is the reason advertisements, pornography, and literature portray woman to capitalize on this ’handicap’ of men. That is the reason all the religions dictate a certain demeanor between men and women perhaps to harness the fancies of man from running amuck. That is exactly the reason every little thing a woman does is perceived by man as dalliance, coquetry, or simply seduction. Woman by nature are very well aware of this great power that they have over men and some exploit it quite tactfully.

With wobbling knees I sat down on the stairs fancying nothing but yellow roses. That was so unlike me and so unmanly that it started to scare me. How could that girl not fit into one of my fantasies? And yellow roses……what kind of fantasy was that? I felt that an invisible hand was strangling my heart. I was falling in love with that girl and I didn’t even know her name.

Samjhana,
kyun ho gya, kaise hooa maiN baigaana
Kho gaye, baigaanay ho gaye, sapne jo kho gaye,
gar ho sake tau phir dikhlana…………samjhana

Inquirin g anyone about her was suicide since we were at an age where such words spread like wildfire. I could ask my sister but that was a suicide with a double barrel gun. She would have told mom right away, and I liked to keep my ears intact yet.

Opportunity knocked at my door the very next day when cousin Bilal came to me panting and said "Hey! Sami! Your Mom is asking you to drive some aunties to Samanabad…they’ve forgotten to bring jewelry or something…..will ya?"

Usually, during family functions lads look forward to such opportunities because it gives them a chance to show off to the babes and feel important, but I was in no mood to go anywhere since she was upstairs.

"Those are your passengers cabbie" Bilal didn’t wait for my answer and pointed towards a bunch of aunties waiting at the gate. To my surprise I saw her standing among them as well. Bilal was grinning mischievously.

"How did you know?" I asked

"We’re neither blind nor stupid…barkhurdar…now shut up and get the car…and remember you owe me big time".

She sat right behind me, crammed between the door and two heavy-duty aunties. As the car started slithering down the smooth road I adjusted my side view mirror focusing her face. A gentle breeze was caressing her hair. Her dazzling brown eyes, apparently, were not looking back at me but I had a feeling that they were whenever I shifted mine to the road. Her eyes incited a sudden urge in me to stop my car right there in the middle of the road and kneel before our Creator for making the brownest and brightest of those eyes with such transcendence and delicacy. Once I was done with God I wanted to hold her by the shoulders, shimmy her, and ask her what was with her and the yellow color. The yellow and red waves on her dupatta were deceptive and illusory, for I could not tell whether the pink in her cheeks was rouge or just life in its most beautiful shade. I promised myself then that if she ever befriended me I would call her with no other name but Rosy. Aunties, busy discussing their dresses and jewelry, had no idea what was going on behind their back.

I was totally in the realm of daydreams, because when I parked my car in front of their house it felt like just a moment or two had gone by. The auntie on the passenger seat hopped out of the car and dashed towards the house; the others followed, probably to powder their noses.

"Aren’t you coming beta?" one of the aunties asked us.

"No…. I’ll just stay here. It’s gonna take a minute, isn’t it?" She replied, while I just blinked my innocent puppy eyes.

"So you live here eh?" I reluctantly started the conversation after an uneasy period of silence.

"Nope"

"Really?….. then why did you come along?"

"Is it a crime riding your car" she smiled.

"Humm!…. nope;……….. but I don’t even know your name"

"I know yours"

"But what is yours" I insisted

"What’s in a name? That which we call a rose" she said playfully. Babe with brains had put the onus on me to sound intelligent now.

"Alright madam Shakespeare, ’Rose’ it is, if you say so. How about Rosy? I am gonna call you Rosy from now on. Ok?"

"I don’t think so" she replied defiantly.

" Well its either Rosy or Tiffany, take your pick"

"Tiffany? Why? Do you have a crush on some Hollywood actress?"

"No," I chuckled, "don’t you know that yellow roses are called Tiffany Roses"

"Oh!" she caressed her dupatta with her long slender fingers and rolled her eyes in disbelief.

Suddenly the porch door opened and horde of aunties came back into the car. On the way back it was again the side-view mirror and her brown eyes, but this time I was feeling the heat penetrating my face. I popped the cassette in the stereo:

"Chehra mera tha, nigahaiN uski
khamoshi meiN bhi, wo’h baataiN uski
mere chehray peh ghazal likhti gayeen
shair kehti hoi aankhaiN uski"

I found myself parking my car just as the song ended. As I was stepping out of the car she said quietly "Listen, you don’t need to play Romeo all the time; people notice these things…" she paused and then said "…the case in point" she nodded her head towards Bilal who was coming towards us, winking, and grinning.

"Yes ma’am" I replied obediently as she dashed upstairs.

Of course I had to sacrifice not one but two pounds of my flesh to Bilal yahudi but it was worth it; by the end of that marriage ceremony her mother and mine had exchanged all their secret recipes and our fathers had solved almost half of world’s geopolitical problems - all because of Bilal.


ME & HER
It was a lazy, soft-as-pink February afternoon when I parked my motorbike in her porch. She was sitting in the verandah staring at a flowerbed at her feet and giddily striking chips on a Carom board.

"Ahem! Where is everybody?"

"Oh hi……… not here… upstairs." I had startled her.

"What the hell is everybody doing upstairs?"

"Are you new in this city – paindoo…it’s basant…. kites…get it?" she had composed herself.

I cursed my absent-mindedness and said, "So is that how you got that tan," while looking at her with a tantalizing intrigue, wondering how sun had turned the tiffany rose into a bronze statuette.

"Yeah…you see, I have totally ruined my skin," she lamented touching her cheek.

"Who told you to fly kites in the sun – gandi bachchi"

She ignored the ’gandi bachchi’ label and kept on expressing her anguish. I started growing impatient, as a nagging urge began to compel me to put my finger on her lips, hush her up and then tell her that:

Goray rang ka zamana kabhi ho ga na purana
Gori dar tujhe kiska hay, tera to rang gora hay
Goray rang ka nazara, lage sab ko hi pyara,Zara kar do ishaara
Gori dar tujhe kiska hay, tera to rang gora hay.

Strange things go through our heads but we can’t express all of them, so I nodded towards the Carom, instead, and said "How about a game".

"Nah…we’ve been playing all morning and now my fingers hurt" she replied massaging her index finger.

"I am going to go wash my eyes now…I guess sun is making me blind as well" she said while rising from her chair, picking up a small container marked ’Boric Powder’ from the table. I couldn’t let her go so soon so just to prolong the conversation, I inquired, "With boric?"

"Yeah"

"But this boric is for the Carom boards, isn’t it? Is it safe for eyes too?"

"Dummy! I bought it from the drugstore; it’s the same."

"No its not" I shifted myself into tease mode.

"I always wash my eyes with it and look at my eyes…" she widened her big brown eyes and continued, "…and look at yours… foggy…. bleary…. yellow… jaundiced eyes… boy you need Boric more than me…."

"Oh …wow…. hold on right there missy…" I interrupted "… I accept bleary and foggy ’cause I just came riding my bike but…jaundiced…for crying out loud" I protested but she was able to shake my confidence. She began to smile, sensing her victory.

I had to get back at her so I recouped my confidence and said, "Last time you said that I have badmaash aankhaiN…. instead… Will the boric also wipe badmaashi off my eyes?"

"Nah Sami, taindi akhiaN ich e naiN, tainday mathay tay ve bhaiR likha piya eh (Sami! It’s not just your eyes, ’bad’ is written all over your forehead)"

"Gosh! What’ve my eyes ever done to you…such rancor? …. What is wrong with my eyes – tell me today?"

She waited a little and then said matter-of-factly "They don’t let anyone through them."

"Excuse me!"

"Look! I know you’re not a liar… you’ve nothing to hide… you’re an honest man, as far as I know… there are more people who speak high of you than those who ………but your eyes… they see…. they scan…the all knowing eyes pry other open…. but they themselves don’t show…these beady eyes don’t show what is inside you……….inside this pumpkin" she pointed towards my head.

I was so dumbfounded by that revelation that I could not respond right away. "I think you should drop Psychology & Philosophy and take up Home Economics instead" that was the best I could come up with.

She shook her head in despair and proceeded to go inside. "Wait! Please" I said, "Listen! I have to tell you something too but I am afraid you’ll think that I’m just trying to get back at you."

"Go ahead…I am all ears"

"No you’ll think that I am just kidding you" I made as solemn a face as I could.

"Aah! C’mon " she was growing frustrated.

"Well then come here…closer."

As she stepped cautiously towards me, I bent down a little bit, looked into her eyes and said "Have you ever noticed that your right eye squints a bit…"

"Whaaat? No… I don’t squint," she yelled explosively "you liar". But as she looked at my hallowed and austere face she came even closer to me and said, "Look again, its not so".

I pretended to look into her eyes more intently. I wanted to tease her a bit more but then suddenly that moment dawned upon us; the moment that I call the man-woman moment; a moment that is reminiscent of the moment when Adam and Eve looked at each other for the very first time after tasting the forbidden fruit. It is a moment when all inhibitions become void, protocols become suspended, decorum is forgotten, and formalities, customs and rites become non-existent. It is a moment when one bares his soul to the other. It is a moment when one lets other pass through the gateway of one’s soul and allow him to find himself in the other. It is like that moment when a ray of sun penetrates deep into a leaf and becomes a part of it. It is like that moment when God Himself picks up a prayer and takes it to heavens; who can stop that prayer from being answered. That was the moment when we touched each other’s soul for the very first time

I don’t know how long we stood there; but when I was unchained from the spell of that moment I could hear nothing but her soft breathing. Suddenly she also realized that she was standing awfully close to me. She pushed me back with her palm. I pretended to stagger and grabbed a chair to keep myself from falling. She was still looking at me bewildered and bedazzled. I rolled my eyes up as if I was inebriated with a gallon of crudest and strongest moonshine.

"Badtameez, kameena" she said smilingly before disappearing inside.

Mausam guzartay jaiN magar na bhoolaiN mujhe w’oh aankhaiN
Manzar badaltay jaiN magar yaad aaiN mujhe who aankhaiN
Aatay haiN yuN tau nazar kaee chehray mujhe subh-o-shaam
Magar kia karooN mera dil ho chukka hay un aankhoN ke naam.


US
And then came that evening…. that eventide… Sometimes I wonder why twilight time of day makes us sad. May be it is not sadness but a latent feeling of anticipation. Probably it is because of our genes; the experiences of our forefathers got permanently etched on them and then passed onto us. I think somehow when sunset draws near, these genes are activated and they trigger the same feeling of anticipation that our forefathers used to feel. Sitting in their caves they would anticipate the returning of their hunters-gatherers and those returning home would anticipate the loud cheers, warm embraces and passionate kisses on their return. May be it was the anticipation and assurance of safety in the caves from the caliginousness of the coming witching hour when demons would start to howl and shadows began their danse macabre. This intense feeling of anticipation of a warm emancipation is so inspiring that it has moved poets to write epic poetry and enkindled painters to create chef d’oeuvres depicting ebb of day.

That day the time of Vesper was close. The vanilla sky had yet to turn crimson, crimson to indigo and indigo to deep blue fathomless sea. I had just returned from hockey practice and as a daily ritual I was lying down on a charpoy under the tree in our lawn. That tree was the most cherished part of our home. A long swing tied to one of its branches had an equal attraction for, adults and kids. A large part of our lawn was covered with my Dad’s beds of roses, which were constantly encroaching upon my Mom’s ever-shrinking vegetable garden. Our house was located on the very edge of the town. A short hedge and a row of eucalyptus trees separated our lawn from the vast expanse of wheat and mustard fields. The beauty of an evening there can only be imagined and cannot be explained in words.

With my hands clasped behind my head I was watching flocks of birds returning to their nests. The sweet smell of roses mixed with that of recently watered soil was intoxicating and my eyes began to close. Then suddenly someone covered my eyes with hands. Thinking that it might be my sister I yelled "Hina ki bachchi! Let go or I will hang you up on this tree with your ponytail"

Sensing the persistence of one who had covered my eyes I decided to up the ante, "Let go or I will…" but I stopped, because I recognized the fragrance of those hands.

"Tsk, Tsk, Tsk…….do you always talk to your sister like that?" Rosy said while uncovering my eyes, "Doesn’t she get scared?"

"Nothing scares that demon okay. But what the hell you are doing here. Where are your parents?"

"wow…wow such indignation? I guess someone doesn’t like my presence here ……anyway my parents are in living room; they dragged me along…any more questions?" she was determined to tease me.

"No... No... I didn’t mean that… by God you took me by surprise…" I paused and gathered myself, "…as a matter of fact I want to say ’woh aye ghar meiN hamaray – Eid ka din hay gale se laga kar…’" I mangled Urdu poetry.

"Shut up, silly… or else I am going inside"

She was standing there leaning her back against the tree. The last few rays of sanguine sun were sieving through her hair setting them ablaze while shyly caressing her eyelashes turning the brown in her eyes into a breathtaking auburn.

"What are you looking at?" she almost whispered; the tumult inside her was making her to bite her lips.

"This evening… it is so perfect…I wish I could stop time…. make it eternal…with you… always…"

"You can" she interrupted my mumbling.

"ah…how" I mumbled again; her interruption had startled me.

"All you gotta do is ask" she said and dashed towards the pantry door leaving me there stumped as a deer caught in the headlight.

Yeh shaam phir nahee ayegi
Iss shaam ko, iss saath ko
Aao. Amar karlain
Dil ki baatain sabhi
Bin kahay hum sunain
Hont khaamosh hon
Aankhain kehti rahain
Aankhon aankhon mein
Baaton baaton mein
Jeevan...
Basar karlain
Amar karlain
Yeh shaam phir nahee ayegi


"ME"
The next time when we met, it was a week after her family had announced the date of her Nikah - due a month later.

"Why did you break my heart like that?" The acrid sneer on my face appeared only as a painful smile.

"Sami! I know after what has happened, you don’t owe me anything but for old time’s sake I beg you for a chance to explain myself."

"Old times?" I scoffed, "…. did they matter when you changed your mind… you have no idea how much it hurts every second of my waking hours".

She pleaded again, and with such a heavy heart I could only nod. She gathered her thoughts for a while and said, "I couldn’t say no to my Dad". Her voice was trembling along with her body.

"What???…Did your family…your father force you?"

She almost choked with emotion, "No one forced me… my parents also knew about you… but when dad asked me about the new proposal… the desperation in his tone sounded like that poor father who tries to divert his child’s attention from an expensive toy which he can’t afford to buy…. I couldn’t say no to that tone…"

"You could have at least informed me." I scoffed.

"I couldn’t Sami" she shook her head.

"What do you mean…’you couldn’t’…you owed me that."

"I couldn’t Sami…. You’ve no idea how much I love my father… he is the first gentleman in my life… he came in my life way before you did…now he was expecting something in return for the love he gave me, all those years… How could I refuse him?" She caught her breath for a while and added "…. and you didn’t help your case either."

"What do you mean ’I didn’t help my case’"? I was appalled.

"Sami! It’s your idealism… your obsession with changing the whole world…. this conflagrant torrid fire of passion that rages inside you…do you know how much it scares people around you. It is charming but very intimidating – contagious but demanding. Sami! Tainday andar jehray bhaanbhaR balday han eh wadiaN wadiaN na traah kadh dainday han…" she paused for an uneasy second and continued "Why did you go that far? Do you enjoy such adventures?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do enjoy ’such adventures’. They put me in C class where I could relieve myself only in front of 10 other inmates, everyday, while roaches crawled on my feet. Use your imagination, how much I would have enjoyed the ’adventure’." I blurted out bitterly.

"Don’t you go bitter on me…" she yelled, "Don’t you dare go bitter on me… you were not the only one; I participated in those protests too; I was there too… on your side…" then she mellowed down her tone and said, "… but Sami I am not as brave as you are; I couldn’t sacrifice for the cause as much as you did…" then her voice began to tremble "…promise me Sami, today, that you will never go bitter again."

With my head bowed down I continued scratching dirt with my toe.

"Say it Sami; you gotta promise me, please" she was beseeching.

"Ok I promise"

Then an uneasy moment of quiet descended upon us that extended to a millennium.

"I could change, had you given me a chance" My voice sounded like coming from a bottomless pit.

"Sami, you neither understand yourself nor me. Don’t you know that it is your fiery passion that drove me crazy about you? You have no idea what kind of gift you have…this blazing passion…. this self-assuredness…this mercurial impulsiveness…how it has charmed so many, … you have no idea. There are other men too…thousands… passionate… but they smolder like soaked wood… plenty of smoke to burn others eyes but not enough heat to warm one heart -… never change Sami…. promise me you’ll never change".

I just smiled and pretended to ignore her impassioned pleading. A little while later I said "But I thought we had something between us"

She didn’t reply immediately. I could see squalls building up in her sanguine eyes and then tears started rolling down those beautiful brown eyes, the eyes, which meant the world to me.

"Something?" she sobbed, " Sami you had me the day you looked at me through that side view mirror… don’t under-estimate yourself… I know you didn’t believe a word I’ve said today… but I promise you Sami, as God is my witness, if you ask me now…. right now…. I will walk out on my wedding… I will go to court with you right now… I am not a very brave girl… I speak big words but my heart is like that of a sparrow which even a thunderclap can cleave asunder… but today just to prove that I really meant what I’ve said… I will let you decide my fate… but I wont let you sell yourself short"

At that moment I felt like that cataleptic who’s loved ones burry him alive sure of his demise. But when he wakes up in his coffin under a mountain of dirt he screams, he kicks his coffin and scratches his nails bloody but can’t get out. Then oxygen starts running out and with every breath he thinks that it would be his last step towards eternal ’freedom’ but his lungs then somehow manage to extract few more molecules of oxygen, prolonging his misery. It took the strength of every strand of my body and mind to come over that asphyxiating moment and I managed these words "Rosy! I would rather die than take advantage of your weak moment"

As I said that, I gust of fresh air filled my chest. My conscience had freed me from my coffin. I have not only been able to confront but also defeat my most formidable enemy – ME.

"Farewell Rosy, my love. I wish you best in life."

Those were the last words I said to her.

Tum do’or thay tau kia hooa
Tum mil gay’ay tau kia hooa
TanhaiaN kam na hooeen
Tanha tha maiN tanha raha.

After her, a feeling of sadness was permanently etched onto my genes. But I was never bitter – not because I had promised her but because she had given me a gift. She had introduced me to myself. Now you know why funniest people in this world are the saddest people. To me, love is like an onion – with lots of layers – on the outside it has charming colors – then it has layers of caring, giving, sacrificing, touching, sharing and enriching but as you keep peeling off layer after layer and as tears wash your eyes you begin to see the layers of self-indulgence, egocentric self-seeking, and narcissistic self interest and at the very nucleus what you find is ’ME’. When the gravity of ME pulls someone else towards itself, first he feels the amity of outer layers but as his self is pulled closer to ME he starts feeling the pungency and confining bitterness of ME. Rosy helped me reach to ME before anyone could because she knew, understood, and cherished the vital signs in me. She taught me that life, after all, is bigger than us.

Dau pal ka jeewan hai kuch karna hai tau kar guzru
Har lamha ik sapna hai, kia jaane apna ho na ho
uRatay haon kaheeN jugnu keh baithi ho titli kahin
daikho tau haseeN hai yeh nah daikho tau kuch bhi nahin
haaro bhi tau haro na; yeh paighaam hai jeet ka
jo haaro gay kabhi tum tau mazza aay ga jeet ka.