Days

Sapna

29th February 1988,

Sky colored purple. Grasses matching beats with the wind. Emptiness spread all over. But I feel full-- of excitement, happiness, love, hope, care.

Ankita sprints dancing with the grass. Her face glowed. Lips giggles. My restless body tries to match her speed. Finally did. Maybe she slowed herself. Maybe I fastened myself. I opened my arm and she holds it. And whispers, "With you, I live. Without you, everything is posthumous."

-----*-----*-----*-----

The fan above cracks. It fails to fulfill the purpose of his existence: to cool my office. The cushion of my chair has been squished into a thin layer of cloth. The big red ledger on the big wooden table hasn't been touched since morning. And so has been the two folding chairs on the other side. Radio from the corner plays Binaca Geetmala. 'Chauhan's Builders and Brokers' banner flaps with hot winds.

I crossed my fingers beneath my head. Shifted. Yawned. And closed eyes.

I am a very superstitious man. I believe dreams are the signals from Gods of forthcomings. I'm not a Jyotish or soothsayer. But I know this -- Ankita is danger.

If someone asked me what love is, I'd say pain. Because that's all my love for her has given me. I gave her all of me. And in return, she gave me nothing but vulnerability.

The other day I watched "Prem Rog", and I thought if she becomes a widow, will I accept her? I might have. But not after what she has done with me. Anyway,

Meri Kismat woh nahi shayad.

Maybe she is not in my fate.

My wife, on the other hand, is everything one could ask for. Caring, jolly, obedient. I don't love her. But I'm happy with her. Or maybe I am happy with the dowry she brought which helped me to buy this office. Or the son she gave me. But I am happy.

I didn't realize when I fell asleep. I jerked myself. The drool covered my cheek and was about to enter my ear. I cleaned it with the back of my hand and sat up.

Enough of this past shit. I need a good puff.

I half-closed the shutter and asked the neighbor shopkeeper to keep a watch.

"Ji Bhaiya," he replied. "Yes, brother.

-----*-----*-----*-----

I walked to the nook to a Gumti-- kiosk. It was a wooden cabinet with space to fit only one person. The man wears his usual white dhoti and pale color kurta. His legs were folded like an L. His left hand was wrapped around the vertical leg, and the left swung a wooden hand fan. In the front, refreshments were hanged. Below them, A mug filled with water and betel leaves was kept. Behind him, different brands of cigarettes were showcased. The door was on the left, and on the right, he kept bidis and jars filled with paan ingredients.

Three people surrounded the Gumti. They spotted me one by one and greeted "Ram" one by one. And one by one I greeted them back.

By the time I reached, the paan-seller was ready with matchsticks and my regular. I lit it. Inhales smoothly. Exhales. And relaxed.

"Have you heard," Jagdish questioned. "She's back in town?"

Manoj spat away from us and asked, "Who she?"

"Ankita Rajput. She is still the same item she once was." Jagdish closed his eyes as he spoke. And I wanted to close his eyes. Forever. But, I don't care.

"She once was promised to you, wasn't she?" Santosh said. His questions always sound like orders. All because of the khaki uniform.

"So what happened then?" Jagdish questioned.

"Virender's reality was too small for her fantasy." And everyone broke into hysterics. All I could do was give a smile. And I don't want to do anything. Because I don't care.

"Make a paan," I said when my cigarette was over. " And increase tobacco. I feel sleepy today."

The paan seller started working methodically: drying leaf, coating, adding ingredients, wrapping it from edges, feeding. He then took out a small diary and scribbled something beneath my name.

I shook hands with everyone and left.

-----*-----*-----*-----

The sun shines on my head. Crow cows from the tree. Kids shout. A group of ladies sings Krishna Bhajan--hymn. Some dancing. Some clapping. Ankita sitting. My eyes goggling.

I stand behind the bars like I did that day. She wore a salwar kurta, unlike that day. And indeed she is still the same. An item.

But I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't have asked her neighbors where she is. Nor should I stare at her. She is someone's now. I am someone's But there's no harm at glancing.

"What are you doing here?" My wife asked. She peeled off the banana and gave half of it to me. She stood in front of me. And I didn't notice her coming. How lost I could be.

"Got attracted by the bhajans," I said still looking at Ankita.

"Do you know, Ankita Didi, your childhood friend is also here. Won't you meet her? She talks so well of you."

Now I turned my face to her. I want to know what she said. I want to know she cares. I don't. But She does. But I couldn't say it.

"Do you know," she continued. "She is two months pregnant."

The air sucked out of my body. I breathe through bricks. The tobacco suffocates me. I feel hazy and lost.

I wanted to forget. Forget I ever came here. Forget I ever dreamed about her. Forget I ever wrote a letter to her. Forget I ever met her.

"Won't you meet her?" she asked again.

"No," my voice cracked. I gathered myself. "Not today."

"Why?"

I swung my hand fast and took her head away with it. "Mind your own business!"

The Prashad spilled around. She sobs as she collects grain by grain. I pulled her up and said, "Go home. And don't you leave without asking me. Go now."

When she left. I turned back. No one notices. Everyone was absorbed in praying.

But Ankita was never a devotee. And so she did. She watched me yelling, slapping, dominating. And she looked hurt. I don't know why. I don't want to. All I know was it felt good. To see her hurt. I know it was hurt because I have felt it. On 29th February 1984. The day I gave her that letter. And later I found her covered in the arms of some man, standing on the balcony, sipping with the same cup.

She believed the arrival was a coincidence. Such coincidence happens only in movies. It was my love that I retrieved myself. And it is my love that I never told that to anyone.

One day, I might tell her about my love. About how much I cared. But not today. Because today, I don't care. About anything.