The Lost One

It’s a normal working Monday for Priya. Getting into the office at least ten full minutes before anyone else, going up the lift, listening to the liftman with his never ending complaints about his arthritis. The office blessedly silent for a precious ten fifteen minutes or so.

Pulling the wooden blinds all the way up so that morning sunlight flooded in, blinding her. Water the small potted plant sitting in the window sill, pouting at her over the neglect of the weekend. Then the PC starting with a with a whirr, wincing as the Windows startup music blasted the room. Turned the volume down.

Screen coming to life, loading the screen saver with the picture of her children - she just has to smile each time. An old photo of the Swati with two front teeth missing in her grin and Jay’s shy smile.

A small ting to say she has got new mail. And then, in the in box, amongst a dozen other, a name that hits her like a sledge hammer.

Angad Singh

Angad, the lost one.

For a long while, a keen buzzing in her ears, eyes clouding in shock. The name, the name that she hasn’t dared to whisper to herself for years now, is sitting there innocently amongst the other mails. The usual stuff.. most work related and two girlfriends’ generous forwards.

Fingers shaking so violently, skidding over the mouse, before managing to click open the mail.

And in the wait of few seconds while the mail is opening, her heart hammering - thud after painful thud.

The mail is friendly - telling her how he came across her name and email address on the her company’s website. Reading about her career..How he is not sure if he is doing the right thing by contacting her. Telling her about himself - living a few time zones away, married, two kids, good career. How happy he was to see she was so successful. And asking if it was okay with her, that he would call one day for a chat. A business card is attached.

She closed her eyes and hugged herself.

Oh God! Angad. Her mind full of a surge of emotion. It takes her a moment to name it - joy.

Around her the office fills up. Chattering colleagues, somebody hollering Hi Priya, but thankfully no one comes over for a chat.

Only dimly aware of the things happening around her, eyes still closed.

When she opens them, the scene outside her window is the same. A pair of pigeons in cooing in relentless passion, far below, sounds of the Monday traffic.
All is exactly the same - nothing new, nothing different. She is still wearing her white and yellow patterned sari, the matching wooden bangle on her wrist. Her office neat, her desk ready for the day’s work.

The only difference is the mail open on her screen. Mail from Angad.

Angad.

She reads it again and yet again. Trying to imagine him writing it, choosing the words carefully. She tries to read past the words, peer between the lines. The slight hesitancy of the words as he ends, “We shall see what you think...”

She shakes her head firmly. Get on with it, Priya. Work to do.

For the next few hours, attacks her work, methodically. There are phone calls, work related. One reminder call to husband to visit his cousin. The usual, brief call of a long married couple, but today she lingers at the end.. “umm .. Nikhil?” “Yes Priya.. What’s it?” a little tinge of impatience. “Nothing, Seem to have slipped my mind. Home by nine? Bye then.”

Blessedly, her desk is clear. She seemed to have gotten through the day.

Then once again, she opens Angad’s mail, reading it all over. And starts her reply. Warmer than his, lengthier than his. Telling him that she was married, a bit about her work, what Nikhil was doing and about the children, the sum of her life. Gave her phone numbers. Told him she would be delighted to chat. At the end, on an impulse, attached a picture. Her entire family, all sitting in an open jeep in Ranthambore. All brown and grinning.

Reads the mail and before giving herself time to wonder if, whether, should she? , presses the Send button. In a second, the mail is gone.

Should she say something to the husband? And then decides yes, she should. He knows about Angad. Knows though nothing about enormous the pain that went with it. She having preferred to keep it light, better that way.

So, over dinner that day, in a light voice, she mentioned the email.. He looked up from his soup, eyes searching hers. But hers were looking at her plate. She smiled faintly when he caught her eye, as if she had just mentioned something humdrum, something that happens every day. He continued to look for a minute and then looked away, seemingly satisfied.

She went on - her answering his email. How she sent a picture of the whole family to him and remarked that it would be nice one day to meet up. He grunts non committally as the children join the dinner table.

Her life isn’t changed. Going to work every day, meeting clients and colleagues. Daily routine of chatting to the children about their school and college work, training of the new maid, taking the dog to the vet, friends over weekends.

Except for the hum at the back of her mind... he wrote...

Almost a week later, she is locking her car, when her cell rings. No number showing, just the words “call..”. She barks a brief hello. From the other side there is a hollow sound and then “Priya........... kya haal hai?”

Her knees almost buckle, sudden pounding in her temples even before the name forms itself in her mind. Angad.

After almost twenty years of absence, he needs to introduction. Every cell in her body knows his voice, rich, velvety and so very dear.

Back into the car, switch the a/c on, all the while trying to sound coherent.

“Hi.. I am fine. Just going to work, what about you? Where are you calling from? What? You are in Delhi?”

Somehow the fact that he is in her time zone, the city of their childhood, the city of their love, where they met each other for the last time, jolts her. Doesn’t matter that she is in Bombay now - a thousand odd miles away.

He tells her he will be in Delhi for a couple of weeks, with his parents. The call goes on for almost half an hour. His life, her life, talking of old friends, of Radha, the only friend who knew them both and the only one Priya is still in touch with. The conversation is strange - the words friendly but strained. Too many memories crowd, the line crackles under the weight of unsaid words. The result is superficial, to the point of being inane.

In the silences is another communication as she listens to his voice, her ear straining to catch as much of it as she could, dreading the moment when it will disappear.

“Suno, “ she whispered finally, still not daring to say his name aloud ..” Shall I call in a few days? Is that okay?”

“Of course, sure. Do call. I am on a holiday here, and you are the busy girl now..Call anytime. Good to talk to you Priya. Take care.”

And then he is gone.

That one phone call turns her mind upside down.

Her internal landscape is a far different from what is happening around her as the memories come rushing in -

Walking with him through Delhi’s parks, crazy scooter rides, the ice cream cone shared lick by lick and finally when it was finished, him putting her sweet vanilla scented fingers in his mouth, cool and soft.

The exquisite memory of their first love making. Returning from a holi party, he driving her back in his father’s borrowed car. Reaching her house to discover they had it all to themselves.

Wordlessly they walked through the house, silent now. Walked right to her bedroom - its walls covered still with her Beatles posters and racks and racks of taped music, from Beatles to Simon and Garfunkel, from Kishori Amonkar to Bhimsen Joshi.

Unsure of what was about to happen and with a buzz from her very first glass of thandai, she stood in front of her long dressing mirror. Hands automatically going to her ears, taking off the jhumkas, removing the kundan choker from her throat..

And in the semi darkness, he stood behind her, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders lightly, eyes meeting in the mirror. Both serious now, intently looking at each other. Slowly, his hands and came to her hair, removing the pins holding it up. Dark and heavy locks fell past her shoulders to her waist.

The pallu gently removed from her shoulders, he turned her towards him. Twirl by twirl, the sari came off her, coming face to face - either in front of the mirror or in person.

His hands were soft, savouring every new part of her body that came into view. Finally kissing the side of her neck and then, carrying her to her bed, laying her down gently. And then, with an excruciating unhurriedness his lips travelling over her body.

By the time he left her, in the early hours, both were stunned at the encounter. Not just the discovery of mutual joy, but much more.

The way her small rounded body seemed to fit against his harder, leaner, taller one. Her trusting palm in his larger ones with their slender fingers twining together easily and the colour of their hair - dark dark brown, exactly like each other’s.

A few months went by. They were in love with a capital L. Watching Aawara at a Raj Kapur retrospective. Dum Bhar Jo Udhar Moonh Phere and the smile that passed between them as their fingers laced together. The unbearable impatience when they couldn’t meet, even for a short while. The surge of excitement when they met after the gap, may it be of a day or two, or once when she had to go out of town for couple of weeks for some wedding. The letters exchanged and treasured and the deep, deep hug when they met again.

The shared laughter, the easy chats and easier silences.

No future was discussed, it was understood - they were together.

And then the unexpected blow - the sudden tearing apart. She had never thought that belonging to two different religions was such a crime. Yes, even to well educated, cultured parents.

Families up in arms, raised voices and flaring nostrils, threats and tears. She landed up being locked up in her bedroom, Angad sent away - she never knew where. No contact, no contact whatsoever. It was as if he had died for her and she for him.

Pain acute enough to be physical. A limb severed, without the benefit of any anaesthetic.

In the two weeks that Angad was in Delhi, they spoke again a few times. Most of the times it was strained, but they couldn’t seem to stop, greedy for each other’s voices. And a dim knowledge that this was something new, something large and scary.

Exhilaration, excitement, fear, guilt and a sense of spinning out of control.

Then there were mails - regular, a few in a week. Asking each other for the missing years. The pain, the bewilderment. Speaking of the frustrations that kept them a victim of the circumstances.

She told him about having to undergo therapy, he told her about his years in a daze. And they both rued the fact that so many years ago, neither had enough independence to overcome the problems.

Neither talked much of the spouses, unwilling to be ’disloyal’. Angad would mention Neelam briefly in some context and she would do the same about Nikhil. When he talked of his children, younger than hers, there would be a deep emptiness in her - thinking of the child she never bore for him..

She also thought of her current life. Nikhil, the choice of her parents. Serious and scholarly, so very different than Angad even as she fought away comparisons. Nikhil who loved her with a deep steadiness.

Nikhil, who had massaged her back through the labour pains and let her cry in his shoulder when Jay broke his arm. Nikhil, who came home to her for the last two decades and she to him.

She loved Nikhil too..maybe different than..than she how she loved Angad.. but she did.

And the mails continued - some more calls, eagerly awaited, her days being marked good or bad depending whether or not he had written/called.

And then the slow realisation that they had to meet.

Just had to..

Thus Radha came into picture. Radha who had stood by Priya’ in the months when she would start to cry, and then the weeks of lethargy, more frightening then the crying.

It was Radha she clung to more at her bidaai, more so than her mother, who Priya had never ever been able to forgive for Angad.
Radha lived in the hills outside Delhi now, on a small orchard from, writing enormously successful books. Not needing a man around her, professing to love her plants and her writing more than she could love any man.

Priya and Radha would meet at least once in a year, when Priya would manage a few days away from Mumbai and her work/family. Their friendship having matured and strengthened into a bond. They could still talk as easily as ever. The only subject not discussed was Angad. A subject that was taboo, a name never mentioned.

Nikhil accepted her going away for those few days by grumbling grace, her being out of touch for days to end - no cell phones worked in Radha’s orchard and even the landline would often be down for days.

But the phone was working when Priya called her one day.

Radha, listen.... he wrote to me.

There was a pause on the line. Radha didn’t need to ask who Priya was talking about.

My God! When? How? Where is he? He is married I suppose, You replied, didn’t you?”..

Yes, and we spoke.. That was a few months ago. And, and.. we have been in touch since.

....

Radha?

I am here.. thinking. You want to meet him, don’t you?

Yessss. Oh yes, even if it is the most foolish thing I have ever done in my life, but oh God, I want to, so badly...

It’s but natural that you want to meet. After all, you never even got to say goodbye...

.......

Priya’s turn to be silent now.

I think you should meet. Talk about what happened, it would do you both good. Get it out of your system. Maybe then you know where you stand....

Alarm bells in her mind -

What do you mean Radha?

Well, where do you want things to head, I mean..

Her mind erupts with a new scenario - she and Angad together. Her family and his family left behind. No Neelam and no Nikhil.. The children??
She knows that this scenario is as far fetched as is a spaceship landing in her car park.

Radha, no, that’s NOT what we want. But we do want to meet. Maybe I shouldn’t want to.. but I know wise or not, I simply have to, at least once!

I Know, Priya..

Shall I say I am visiting you??? Sometime in December? Sorry darling, I am asking you this....but really have n’t a clue what else can I say.

Radha chews her pencil, in her overstuffed armchair, the phone cradled in her left hand.

No Piyoo, of course I don’t mind if you say that. Much as I love Nikhil dearly, I also know you just have to meet up. Be strong though girl.. Let me know the dates, okay?

So, almost a year after Angad’s first mail, she sat on the flight to Delhi. She was en route to meet him, actually meet him..

Not just meet him for a cup of coffee - both were realistic enough to know that that was not going to be enough. They needed to catch up - speak to each other, look at each other and yes, touch each other. Oh yes..So they would drive to an old fort, spend couple of days there. Just the two, Angad and Priya.

When she saw him standing at the airport, her heart did a slow painful somersault - just the way it had done when she saw him for the very first time more than two decades ago. The same angle of holding the head, eyes impatient behind sleek glasses ( a new addition) , the beard less full than before..And then he saw her and smiled this slow smile - as if the years didn’t exist, or didn’t matter.

The car drives through winter dusk deepening into darkness. Lights from the passing traffic illuminate Angad’s face and Priya simply cannot keep her eyes off him. The curve of a cheek, the hands that take the glasses away ever so often, the silver at the temples. They sit comfortably now , her feet tucked under her and he with his long legs stretched ahead of him. Chatting, she still breathless, he in quieter tones.

Once she gets a whiff of his cologne and holds out her palm. His comes in naturally, his long fingers holding hers in natural camaraderie.

Hours later, the fort itself materialises out of the dark, silent and somewhat forbidding. Signing the register in make believe names, Mr & Mrs.. a meeting of eyes and a tiny smile of cheekiness.

Up the steep staircase shaded by a pink flowering vine and into a white and blue room.

Plain white washed walls, a pair of comfortable deep chairs, an antique writing desk, blue curtains on the windows and small tasteful paintings, and yes, the bed.

The suitcases deposited cosily next to each other on a sturdy rack. The door closes on the room-boy grinning broadly at the generous tip.
There is a door at the far end of the room - maybe the terrace? They step out.

Out on a world shrouded by mist - onto a large round turret now a terrace. Far below, the tiny village is getting ready to sleep. Dim yellow lights are going out. A lone dog barks. On the far horizons are the dense forms of mountains, the rest is just a black void. Mist swirls in the starlight.

They stand leaning against the gnarled walls, breaths clouding, conscious of each other, very very much conscious.

Back in the room - he announces he will freshen up. She nods, tongue tied.

The bathroom door closes behind him. Sounds of taps opening, water running. She sneaks a look at his open suitcase. Unfamiliar clothes nestling in neat piles. Who packs his bag?

She looks away.

There is no guidebook to tell you how to behave at such a time.

For no guidebooks have been written about this subject - How to handle the re-union with the love of your life after a gap of decades.

Then he comes out and her breath is knocked out of her. A white kurta, against the milk chocolate of his skin and a whimsically checked lungi, feet in leather slip ons, hair springy despite the recent wetting.

She walks into the bathroom now. Brushes her teeth - eyes meeting herself. What are you doing Priya? Shaking the head to dispel the thoughts. The old fashioned bathroom is cold and she shivers as she gets into sensible warm pajamas and tiptoes back in the room.

He is on the bed, fiddling with his computer carry case. She sits down shakily on the other side of the bed, breath shallow, warming her hands on the electric heater glowing red.

There is a box of chocolates on her pillow, bitter chocolates, her favourite. And next to that, a bottle of perfume. How very sweet of him. Oh God, she has got nothing for him. Their eyes meet and he smiles, breaking the tension and stretches his hand to her as she comes to him.

She hears something in background - he has switched on his lap-top. In one smooth movement he switches off the lights. The room is lit up only by the blue light of the lap-top and the warm orange glow of the heater. When she puts her head down on his chest, the music begins.

Begum Akhtar singing, Aye Mohabbat Tere Anjaam Pe Rona Aaya.

They are quiet for a long time - just getting used to each other. The scents of each other, strange and familiar at the same time. Finally they are chatting, talking about twenty years ago. How they coped. Even now, with his hands stroking her hair, she shudders with the remembered pain.

And slowly, the drifting away to sleep.. razais pulled to cover both, music playing on.

It was almost dawn when Priya was woken up by Angad’s lips on hers. In the soft predawn light filtering through the curtains, bodies meeting each other, pliant and demanding, soft and hurting all at the same time. Hers finding his old scar, running over his broad back, his hands possessive, reclaiming her.

And the moment when he entered her a sob escaping her - God, some things didn’t change.

His face above her later, smiling a smile, full of tenderness, a little joy and little sadness, brushing away the one fat tear at the corner of her eye.

Waking up again to a bright room. Outside the world has gone and changed on them. The village is sleeping no more and the dark stretches of land turn out to be fields of yellow sarason, all the way to the far off hills. Narrow red pathway cross here or there. A clamour from green parakeets clinging to the rocky walls.

At breakfast, tendrils of last night’s memories mingle with steaming cups of tea. A walk later in the yellow fields, trailing yellow stalks brushing their clothes. A buffalo looking in alarm, a game of cricket in the village.

He talks of his life back home. .. a darling daughter, the apple of his eye, and the son, a bright, talented teenager. His voice is soft, his eyes unseeing, as a group of village ladies go past them, giggling nervously.

What is he seeing now? She wondered painfully, his children, his house, his wife? Then her mind turned to her own life. She sees Swati, cheeks pink and eyes dancing. Jay with his dreamy eyes, Nikhil, tall and serious, sitting at his desk.

There is silence as each is for a short time in their ’other’ world.

Then the rubber ball of the cricketers comes in their direction and they are brought back here - back to the yellow fields surrounding the fort and each other.

At lunch she is looking at his hands, with their slender fingers and then remembers them playing over her body just a few hours ago. Back to their room, blissfully cool now against the hot sun outside. The door closes and this time the kiss is immediate and deep. The afternoon sun casts long shadows on the bed before slipping out of the room.

He falls asleep ..and she props herself up on an elbow and drinks him in. Broad brown back, the smooth skin of the neck, an arm thrown over the head, with its occasional silver threads. A lump comes to her throat, eyes welling up. Can’t help but plant a small kiss on the smooth expanse of the back. Small grunt from him and then his eyes open - their brown colour deepening as he looks at her. Pulls her to him.

Nothing said, no words passed, just his arm encircling her strongly. She slept, secure for the moment.


By the time she woke up, the room is plunged in darkness, he is nowhere about. She quickly changes and freshens up. Just has to caress his toiletries bag and inhale it - his smells are all there..

And then she finds him on the burj - against the sky which is a deepening purple. Just when winds start to be chilly, the room boy brings a burning sigri.

Slowly, the whole evening comes together. A dinner table, set for two, with fresh wild flowers, a bottle of wine sits breathing, two tall glasses. She looks at him questioningly - he grins. He hasn’t been idle while she was sleeping.

By the time a yellow moon comes up behind the hills, the sigri is burning fiercely, creating a circle of warmth around them. He has stuck a few candles in holders and placed them around the burj wall.

As they sip the wine, the music plays on, a plaintive Jogia, Piya Milan Ki Aas, in Bhimsen Joshi’s rich voice.

In that one magic evening is the balm for the past, the wounds of separation.

She doesn’t know when he came and stood behind her as she watched the moon.The village is quiet tonight and there are not even the screeching birds from last night.

He stands behind her, his hands once again on her shoulders, reminiscent of the holi night when they made love, so many years ago.

But now, his hands seem to be giving some different message. Her throat is tight, choked
Will they meet again, do ’they’ have any future? Or is this the last time they are together?

Slowly she turns around to face him, puts her arms around his waist. Rests her cheek against his chest, feeling the beat of his heart, strong and steady.

Then he puts a finger under her chin and makes her look up. His eyes are pools of darkness against the moonlit sky and her heart skips several beats.

Jaan?

He voice is frightened, horribly frightened. She is afraid of what he will say, what he will not say.

And then he speaks - his voice, beautiful and mellow, overlaid with a slight foreign accent now. A voice that she loves so very dearly. But she doesn’t want to listen to the words it is saying now....

“you know, we cannot meet like this again.”

She struggles to free herself from his warm arms around her.

“But you said.. you said one can compartmentalise things.. Can’t we??”

“Such things have a habit of spilling out of their compartments and into each other.. Do we want that? Can we go through that? ” His voice is full of pain too, but still in control.

All she wants is close her eyes and listen to his voice with his arms around her. She flinches though from the words it is saying.

But she knows what he is saying is really the only thing, or is it?

She wants to blurt out “can’t we, not meet like this at least once a year?”

But somewhere, some shred of dignity remains. Dignity and a sense of hopelessness like it was like twenty years ago.. but this is here and now.. and the pain is unbelievable.

Later she is in bed, curled up in a shivering ball of misery, despite the blazing heater. A while later, he is in bed with her.

Her eyes open now, she looks at him and just cannot stop. Will I ever see his face again?

He looks back - there is concern in his eyes. But there is also something else..

A little irritation that she could have thought it could be anything else...

In her mind she swallows.. time enough to be miserable tomorrow when they are back in the real world. When she is safe with Radha, curled in the armchair.

He is now.. and these are the last few hours.

This time she is the instigator, her lips are the ones that find his, and then travel everywhere on his body, trying to literally drink him up. Fingers feeling, sliding and memorizing; muscles, curls of hair, the scar, the mole, everything. She is frantic and by the time they are spent, she is wiped out and he is exhausted.

Morning comes around and she has to laugh at the sky outside. There is dense fog, a pea souper. No sun out. What better atmosphere for the parting scene? Then a hope flickers as she thinks they may get a few more hours till the fog clears.

Then sees him, looking impatiently at his watch, irritation clear in the pursed lips. He has things to do, on returning to Delhi....

That’s it, we are going.

She is charged by the last burst of energy. All channelled now on being on way, getting to Delhi, all without the humiliation of breaking down in front of him.

The fort walls say a hollow, misty farewell and she knows she will never come back here again. The car starts with trouble, grumbling against having to go anywhere in this miserable weather.

They drive past the sarson fields, moping in the damp fog, the village curs cowering against the bitter winds. Soon they are join the monstrous trucks on the highway, amongst tyres as large as their car.

Both silent on the backseat as the car eats up the distance. Finally a swanky new board tells them that the Delhi airport was just ten kms away. And then she could feel herself slipping again, spinning out of control. For the very last time, she put her head in his lap.

But her head feels alien on his hard thigh. No hand comes to stroke her head now. She sits up again, her heart close to breaking. Looks at his profile.. he looks at her briefly and then away. His jaw is clenched, and a muscle bobs in his throat, but he says nothing.

No time for any discussion now. not even any point.

Then the taxi takes a sharp turn and they are turning into the airport grounds. Taxis and cars piled up with luggage are all around. The driver jumps out with alacrity and gets a trolley. They are going to split here - he on to another taxi and she to drive on to Radha’s orchard.

Suitcase on the trolley, laptop case on the shoulder, he is ready. For a moment, they cling together, Angad and Priya.

Take care Priya.............

You too...

Then he moves on, walks into the crowds, still a head above all others. Still more handsome than most, her Angad. Hers not any longer.

And watching his broad back getting smaller, Priya is aware that some mighty power, somewhere long back, in a fit of cruelty, has seared one name deep on her heart............. Angad.

That he is not the lost one, she is.