The Spiritual Guru

NOTE: This story is not based on my life. Resemblance to any person living or death is purely co-incidental. 

Here was Paradise. Muriel could sense the call of the unknown, and the aura of holiness in the dark abyss. She could feel the swish of an ancient snake along the silent wheat field; the splash of sea-gulls encircling a pellucid lake. Her tranquil eyes spotted a blessed soul guiding her to the path of enlightenment. Anxiety waned; eyes shone; spirit was wafted along by the breeze.

The setting sun stole her gaze. She kept staring at the horizon until it blended into darkness. Twilight etched a frame around her careless tresses. Her soul took a flight with the birds, soared higher and higher.

“You have beautiful, sparkling eyes!” Younis said. For the first time since they had sat at the terrace of Vincent’s house, she flashed her smile at Younis. Returning an assured smile, he reached for the pack of cigarettes on the floor.

How did twenty-year old, college-going girl Muriel land up with a stranger from Iran? How could an innocent visage reveal the battered soul within- the sudden plunge into a relationship with her classmate- Jean, the disastrous outcome of it?

She was burdened with the discordant nature of her body and soul. When she arrived at Vincent’s place needing empathetic ears for few hours before waking up to harsh daybreak, she felt puny with the baggages of the past. At one of her weakest moments, she had not thought twice about relying on her wise, erudite college-friend- Vincent.

Muriel would seek solace in Vincent’s company for a while. It was necessary to share her unhappiness given the inner turmoil that left her with sleepless nights. How could anyone otherwise guess that her nights were now spent sitting by Jean’s photos?

Sitting on the balcony of Vincent’s house, she saw the brightness of the noon and made up her mind. Within moments Vincent was deluged with tales of her love, fights and heart-break. He had resumed his intense look throughout, oblivious to everything else; as if he read her mind perfectly and saw through her desires.

Within days of joining college Vincent had become well known for his erudition and charming manners- the stuff the intelligentsias are made of. The professors would discuss issues with him outside classroom, as would the cute girls. He could quote Derrida, Foucault, Freud with élan and he would spend his off-hours staring into nothingness, lost in thoughts. One isn’t a thinker unless one is lost. Impressed, Muriel shared her lost self with him.

In distress she needed a friend- one who would show her the right path and yet not get judgmental. In Vincent, she had found both, along with the fact that he did not know her lover Jean.

She told Vincent about the brief romance with Jean in the heady days of Paris and their escapades to the mysterious hills and bohemian shacks. Every day she would wait to be in his arms or simply hear his voice- telling him to convince his flat-mates and call her over to his house. For days, the small apartment took the centre stage to the story of Muriel and Jean. The apartment waited for the lovers to return; the bed held its breath as they made passionate love; the nights spun one yarn after another.

Even now she could recall every word Jean had ever spoken to her. She could see his grey eyes and lanky frame- receding hairline and sharp facial profile. The taste of his body still lingered on her tongue and the earthy smell. He had bought French perfume for her body and silver anklets from the shop of ‘love & senses’ at Montparnasse road. Under the star-spangled sky, he had vowed to become her husband and promised to have their children as they held hands and strolled along the snow-covered pine trees.

Paris winter had turned the love-birds homebound creatures. They kept at home, romanced yet disagreed on a lot of issues related to their attitude towards life. Initially, the fights that started like tinkling of glasses turned into yells leading to over-turning tables and chairs around. “You are a selfish person and you are incapable of going beyond yourself to care for others.” Jean would tell her. Muriel had grown tired of the constant comparisons drawn with Jean’s ex-lover, Carla. For the longest time the thought of Carla, her romantic involvement with Jean, made her miserable. She was tormented by her own sense of possessiveness for Jean that burdened her ‘being’ immensely.

“Ahh! I see. You were like a wet nurse to him,” Vincent said in a contemplative tone.

Muriel felt too weak to reply. “Calm down. You must meet Younis.” He was Vincent’s flat-mate from Iran.

Vincent described how his Iranian mate had changed his life for good. Association with Younis was the turning point in his life, the daily influences of which culminated into a larger journey. How else to account for the phase, during the bitter winter of the earlier year, when he salvaged his de-fragmented self? The exercise demanded a lot of himself; returning to the core of every issue and getting connected with the cosmic universe. It meant staring at the millions of stars floating below him; feeling the early morning avalanche floating down his spine. “Like taking you to the edge of the cliff and expect you to plunge in. And you should not be scared because you will slowly feel the lightness. Younis will hold your hand and guide you through the journey of enlightenment.” Vincent finished his epic tale of the spiritual guru; the late afternoon shaft of light illuminated all that was jaded and dead.

Muriel woke with a start as she made a move towards the terrace, darting her eyes to spot him in the dazzling glow of sun, fixing her frightened gaze on her soul. He struck her as an alien with his stately gaze, arched eyebrows. Without a word exchanged between the two, they seemed to know each other. Only the creaking door reminded her of her plight, swaying gently in the breeze as she sat opposite to him.

“It’s a tough journey which could leave you completely drained,” Younis had said after a moment’s silence. “It would mean completely adhering to what I say. A kind of submission of your self to seek enlightenment.” She resumed her intent look as he said how she would have to disentangle from her friends and relations for a few months. The entire journey would require a certain re-orchestration of life- to be uncluttered in thoughts and actions. This would mean donating all that she earned by free-lancing with the national newspapers to charity. “At times, your life might seem completely frozen,” he had said. She did not want to lose her will and ignore her chance of spiritual fulfillment. What if it really showed her the path to independence and bliss?

Following the spiritual guru, Muriel had stepped into the guru’s room to spend the evening with him. She had abided by his instruction to spend time with him discussing her life and miseries. The initial advice to spend an entire evening and night was not possible for obvious reasons. On their way to his room, she saw Vincent in the living room and shot a friendly glance at him. He returned a sheepish grin and continued watching television.

Now alone with her in the room and asking her to share her anxiety, he switched off the brass lamp. She woke with a start, spotted the nervous rat hiding behind the dressing-unit, as a cat growled on the balcony sensing its prey. Younis lit a cigarette as she furnished details about her ‘affair’.

“Now, I have to set a slightly difficult task for you. You need to completely extricate yourself from your past, worries of future and be in unison with me,” Younis said in a nonchalant manner. Her subdued expression reflected a naïve submission. Yet she could not fully comprehend the meaning of his words. “I need to understand a woman’s instinct to be able to guide her through a life-changing journey. This requires the unison of two souls and bodies.”

The trial was indeed draining her strength, she heard herself pleading. I cannot make love with you……… How could she do this with anyone but her lover? She saw his firm expression, unable to fathom his mind in the darkness. Only physical involvement, not necessarily love-making- She heard him whisper over and over- could show her the light.

There was a sudden lull in the air. It made the noise of the rat even more pronounced. She had risen from her perch as if in a trance. Through the haze of outside lights, Yunis saw the naked body of a woman. Only a slight frown played on the foreboding calm on her face. She felt his breath, his hand on the nape of her neck. She looked into the eyes of the spiritual guru and for a moment her eyes went blank.

She rose to consciousness before anything could happen. She’d made up her mind and felt that it was too big a price to pay for her unearthly pursuit. While slipping into her dress, she could hear the spiritual guru chuckle. There was a moment’s silence, and then he said in a low voice- “It’s your call. Do not speak about this to anyone outside. People will think you to be crazy!” A shaft of light from outside illuminated the ‘laughing buddha’ in the room as she stormed out of the room- the rat disappeared into a dark hole.

Meghna Maiti

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I have seen light in your dark embraces

I have seen light in your dark embraces
Like a churchyard in the silent abyss
A flash of illumination that cuts night
I have seen the immensity in your arms
Like a forlorn sailor from an unknown sea
The fading kite that cheers azure sky
The darkness pulls in everything into a vortex
And spreads something more than happiness.

Meghna Maiti

I Yearn To Run Away

I yearn to run away
From the whispers of half-naked lies
From the myriad fake images of happiness
And the young world's obsessive cry
Growing more terrible as the day;
I yearn to run away
From the green eyes, trampled souls,
And the dead malls, thunder of notes,
For the streets are blackened by dead men.

I yearn to run away but I'm afraid;
Some truth, yet unexplored, might haunt
Out of the old lies buried in the mind,
Popping from dark recesses, leave me half-blind.
Eyes who show me fear,
Of lonely life, faith wriggling on a spire,
Fingers that will point at me with accusing glances,
And do I dare to leave all to chances
Or in the palms of soiled hands.

Written by Meghna Maiti

Chinny Arasu

Chinny Arasu, the ‘booze’ correspondent at “The Miracle Times” newspaper, even at the age of fifty walked around the town like a little Johnny sporting his “I am the original macho man” tagged tee-shirt and considered the world to be a goldmine of sexual opportunity. When he said ‘look at me’ people would spot a peasant’s face from south of the Nilgiris, complexion borrowed from the coal mines, alcohol-heavy crimson eyes that almost bulged out of a pair of darting pupils. The hair that god left him was sparse, dry and vertical as if it would soon wither without constant watering. Chinny was small in height and the exact shape of his body was difficult to determine because of his ‘macho’ness.

When I saw him last he had the same half smile on his face, a spark that had greeted me to Press Club, blabbering about the beautiful species called ‘girls’ and clearing his voice for frequent bursts of humming romantic malayalam tunes. He was finally prepared to tie the knot to get imprisoned for life with a powerful woman from the ministry. “Now people will be extremely jealous of my elevated status and power,” he had said.

I could not help but feel happy about Chinny’s good fortune, a second marriage after almost a span of a decade, a mother for his son ‘Unni’ whom he had reared so far.

Chinny had been extraordinarily exuberant about his wedding. Perhaps he was pleased about his victory over the women. Whatever the extent of his self-inflicted frailty, I had never seen him as good-tempered as he had been recently, or as nervously loquacious.

A merciless, scorching sun was at its brightest the day I started work in Chennai bureau of “The Miracle Times”. The heat was unbearable, people preferred staying indoors and waited for the evening sea-breeze to douse the summer’s fire.

Right out of college, I found office to be a sudden leap from frying pan to fire. Slowly I became conscious of the eyes that measured you with formulated phrases, the hierarchy, competition, favouritism and the pre-fixed formula for success. My refuge from this soulless world was occasional conversations with Chinny.

“You know, I really want to be on TV and make a mark as a television reporter,” Chinny had told me with innocent enthusiasm. Even with bristles sticking out of his badly shaved face, blemishes on his skin, he looked so dreamy. I patted him and said, “You’ll make it there. Do not worry.”

“I also like the girls on television. The other day some of them had come to our office and they all looked so ravishing and smart. Will you give me Rajdeep Sardesai’s number?”

We lived in rebellious and unconventional times after all. Chinny would start his day with a sip of whiskey and as the day proceeded he graduated to other brands and labels. He was indeed drinking life to the lees, following the quest of Tennyson’s Ullysses.

“So, you two are big mates now,” one office colleague hissed at me once. She spotted us heading to the Press Club for lunch.

People perhaps entertained minor reservations about Chinny as they were delighted by him and laughed at everything he said even when it was serious. Once, Chinny accompanied by two senior editors of the paper were waiting at the lounge bar of a five star hotel before the commencement of a conference. As the bartender was waiting to take order, Chinny blurted out the name of the most expensive French wine to be served to him. The incident put the other two editors in an embarrasing position, one among them had to rush to the bartender to cancel the order.

Chinny initiated his career at the ‘Journal For The People’. Once the chief editor of the journal told him after an altercation, “I will show you the door now.”

Chinny immediately looked back and said, “I can see the door”.

Exasperated Editor said nothing, but dismay, confusion and anger passed over his face. He glanced down at Chinny’s duff hand and extended his hand saying, “Ok, we can part ways now.”

“Oh, Ok. Are you leaving?” retorted Chinny.

Despite the porky little frame, compared to everyone else in the office he was life itself, vibrant, irreverant and funny. He was an astute and seasoned reporter and an excellent fiction writer which he had once read out to me, intended it to be published some day.

After the passing away of a few summers, winters and the other vagaries of nature I wanted to meet Chinny again. He had not changed a wee bit on the outside, was excited to see me, enquired about me and my life.

“So, how’s married life treating you, Chinny?”

“Oh, it’s okk.”

He was buoyant today but also tenser and a little pensive. It was as if he had made up his mind about something yet he was not sure if it was the right thing to do.

“You know, my maid sways her hips and smiles at me while sweeping and swabbing the floor. She’s attracted to me.”

“What??” I exclaimed.

“Yes, she’s been trying to seduce me. I feel totally raped and I am not liking it!”

Meghna Maiti

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Beatles Cafe

No one had imagined Suzanne, a free-spirited journalist would submit herself to marriage without an affair or long romance. The honeymoon was a bigger news. Her near and dear ones had expected Larry, a corporate high-flier to take her on a cruise to Venice, to Switzerland perhaps, given that she was a die-hard romantic.

The couple settled for the not-so-obvious place- Mahabalipuram- a god-forsaken hamlet in South India. “Perhaps the place will help us connect at a spiritual level. It will be one of its kind,” Larry winked as he looked at Suzanne with a mischiveous grin.

On flight to Chennai, connections were made for the first time at some levels. Leaving the German territory forty thousand feet below, they entered that tranquility of blue sky and bales of cotton-like clouds, free at last of the sudden panic caused by the turbulence. After a long conversation related to their friends, family, childhood dream, Suzanne sensed his quick breath. Then the inevitable followed marking the beginning of married life as cheek touched cheek, his arm around her tiny frame. Suzanne was holding tightly the man she barely knew, with whom she was going to spend an entire lifetime.

As she settled into her one-bedroom modest accomodation at ‘Bharat Guest House’- she was struck by the unequal treatment meted out to the Indians and the foreigners. Larry had chosen this hotel instead of a fancy resort to live like real Indians in India.

The honeymoon was as it should be, with the couple locked in their room almost the entire day. They only went out during sundown, walked on quiet and dusty roads to the beach. The deep blue sea slowly turning crimson with the glow of the setting sun beckoned them. The smell of fish and chips led them to the shacks by the sea.

The shacks in Mahabalipuram are named after the great musicians- Bob Marley, Santana, Beatles. They liked Beatles café the most. The café with its tables lit by conch-shell lights, sand-filled floor, overlooked the deep blue sea. The place was frequented by people of all nationalities- Swedes, English, Germans, Japanese, Americans, Africans. As Suzanne and Larry quietly missed friends, they struck up friendship with the other tourists. The sweet pleasantries, exchange of ideas, heated arguments sometimes went on till late into the night on the rooftop of Beatles café. As people of different colours, creed, nationalities spoke, shared their joints, made merry, the sea and the adjoining area were filled with full moon’s surge of silver.

The routine was broken by Krishna, the young owner of Beatles café. “He can speak English. He is willing to take us around the village,” Larry said in a cheerful tone.
On their first day of sightseeing, as Suzanne marvelled at the rock-cut temple, the sculptures of hindu god and goddesses, she nudged Krishna, “So, you are also a hindu avataar, right?” A shy and reticent Krishna did not reply, just smiled and nodded. Suzanne could not help but notice his sculpted, handsome face, tall body and dark complexion.

Arriving at the Pallavas temple, they wore straw hats, sunglasses and posed for photos as Krishna gingerly went and stood beside Suzanne. Halfway into the beach that was ravaged by tsunami, Suzanne declared that she was hungry.

At the Beatles café, Suzanne enquired about Krishna’s life, whether he had a girlfriend, his family. He was from the fisherman’s clan, his house in the slum right behind the café. Here everyone was the same- living in the same place, doing the same job for a living. He wrote poems when he wasn’t at the café. Life was easier for their lot until the attack of the wretched tsunami.

Before long, Krishna became their good friend. They liked his shy glances, naïve outlook towards life, loving nature. Larry quized him over Karunanidhi, DMK, Jailalitha. “Who do you think will win in the next election, Amma or………” Suzanne could sense the tense look on Krishna’s face, clumsy reply….Suzanne would butt in and stop the questions.

One day the sky turned pitch black, rain and dust swirled over the buildings, the beach turned narrower with the high tide. Suzanne and Larrry were sipping tea in Beatles café and taking in the essence of nature with slow drags of mariuana. A crimson spread of light of the lantern changed their countenance. They caught Krishna penning poems on rain. “Why don’t you read out your poetry to us,” Larry insisted. Krishna’s small but firm voice read out a series of beautiful poetry on the fury of nature. Suzanne listened to it, enthralled. Larry was effusive with his praises. Krishna looked into Suzanne’s eyes for few moments, felt a sense of joy and fulfilment that he had never felt before.

Days were turning out to be increasingly exciting and enlightning, nights tedious and exhausting with the forced love-making. Sometimes, Suzanne wanted to get up in the middle of the night and shut herself in the bathroom. In her dreams she saw a dark, sculpted face, attractive sinews, simple gestures, broken English………

Suzanne gave a sigh of relief the day Larry did not accompany them on a temple trip. Larry was bored of the temples, he wanted to take a swim in the sea. Suzanne was touring the village with Krishna. Krishna insisted on a trip to the Shiva temple- “It’s a very holy temple and it is beautiful. You can also buy small stone replica of it from outside the temple for your friends back home.”

After a walk around the shrines, they entered a dimly lit cave of Shiva. They were the only two devotees present there. As Krishna joined his palm to god, his eyes shut, Suzanne stood beside him and felt her heart racing at the highest possible speed. On an impulse, she hugged him and put her lips on his. He was as if jolted out of a reverie, felt shocked at the sudden advances, but reciprocated. Within five minutes, she released herself from his grasp and went out into the daylight.

Suzanne rose early on the day they were leaving for home. She wanted to catch a glimpse of Beatles café. In the afternoon, they were all set to bid adieu to Mahabalipuram. “Please keep in touch. You have our phone number. Thanks to you, we had a great time,” Larry told Krishna with a beaming face. A small crowd was singing “You are beautiful” nearby, foreign tourists were shopping for clothes and jewellery from roadside stalls, beggars nudging the visitors, shutters clicked.

As the cab with luggages and the honeymoon couple whizzed past, Suzanne waved at Krishna with an assured smile replete with promises and desires of the young hearts.

Meghna Maiti

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Interlude

It was seven pm in the evening. The weather-beaten collosal structures in kalaghoda region of Mumbai were looking alive with the intermittent monsoon showers. The aroma of steaks and kebabs wafting through the air was making the homebound office-goers' pace even faster. Hrishi was waiting for Kamalini at the lonely corner of the street, a little removed from the cacophony of life. He lit a cigarette, the excitement in his twenty-five year old heart was palpable.

"Hi honey! Have you been waiting long?" Kamalini enquired in her usual affable, loving tone. Her kind, compassionate, refined expression, energy and enthusiasm in her work, love for life made her look younger than her forty-years of existence. Her battered soul for the loss of her husband did not reflect on her face. Hrishi felt the strong urge to hold her tight and feel her soft lips.

A beautiful maiden is a frequent visitor in the dark recesses of human mind. She is very restless and does not like to reside in any place for long. She sometimes lingers in the chambers of sea, sometimes lurks in the dense, wild forest. She also dwells inside a flaming volcano or atop a snowy mountain peak. She sets the standard of right and wrong and calls herself 'Moral'. This exquisite creature trails the most mundane drawing-rooms, offices and conversations of human-beings.

It is passion that brought Moral to her dwelling at one end of the earth. Her cave dimly lit with an earthen lamp reveals her beautifully painted pots, door-gods on the alter, a garland of jasmine and burning incense, a weighing scale. Draped in a floral attire, Moral sits by the door and gazes at the vast rocky terrain outside, awaiting eagerly for her beloved, August.

For three years in Mumbai, Hrishi had wormed inside his cocoon- the comforts of his first job with its problems and solutions, the weekly trips to his brother and sister-in-law, settling down in a new house with a room-mate, spending time with colleagues, long-distance relationship and its demands. His sister-in-law pulled his leg, called him loner. "Any Tom, Dick and Harry cannot be a loner. You need to be talented to be that," he said.

Despite the solitude and an easy life, he had lost the ability to think. It was as if he was holding his life in his hands and let it flow.

The job at 'Matilda ad agency' was almost like a breather for him. Experience had taught him to face the eyes in office that would fix him with formulated phrase and judge him with his every action. The first brush with his senior Kamalini was in fact quite charming. It was his first day at his workplace and he was going to be evaluated on the basis of an assignment. Hrishi felt flustered, nervous like hell, failed to make head or tail of it.

"What happened Hrishi? You need help? Don't worry, pass me the copy," said a relaxed Kamalini. For the next few months, as he learnt the tricks of the trade, used his creativity to come up with interesting advertising campaigns, ideas, Kamalini always came to his rescue like an angel.

Slowly, Hrishi learnt about Kamalini's husband's sudden demise from other colleagues. Hrishi was struck by her enthusiasm, zest for work, intelligent mind and eccentricity. He started looking up to her and loved her unconditionally. Kamalini too loved him in return.

Kamalini started feeling immeasurably at peace and the world turned wonderful and youthful to her. Her inner desires buried long in dark corners received light.

Yet she did not want to mislead young and passionate soul of Hrishi. Her voice, like a sad, broken tune of a tanpura said, "I am sure you understand my feelings. I love you too. But I really do not have anything to give you apart from my friendship and professional help. I am a widow and at a mature stage in life. I do not want to hurt others in my family and nor in yours. You will always be part of my life and we will be best of friends. I know, you are strong and you can surely move on."

Days passed by, december night came, a slight nip in the air, a slight sensation of being ill at ease. "Finally with a person half your age," said one colleague; "What is the extent of involvement of you guys," said another colleague with a smirk. Its always the wretched lot of women who have to face the music.

Kamalini kept her countenance, remained self-possessed, except when a television, mechanical and tired, reiterated some worn-out, common song or the frangrance of wild flowers across the garden, all whispering the things that other people have desired. And on such days, she asked the divine being whether her ideas are right or wrong.

Kamalini could sense a change in the behavior of her colleagues. On certain occasions, she overheard hushed conversations about them, laughter, gossips, attempts to eavesdrop into her conversations with Hrishi, calling her 'mean, amoral'.

As people were celebrating news of Kamalini's affair, condemning her for not adhering to socially acceptable drawing room rules, on another part of the universe Moral was making love with her August under the starry sky. Her passion and impulse is unparalleled- August looked puny and frail beside her. She is the mistress of all desires. She is in charge of the mind and body of the vulnerable beings of the planet. She is the queen in the hearts of those who live suppressed lives, do not give a vent to their feelings and people who are constrained by the hopes and opinions of others.

Moral changes shape every hour, finds new expressions, dances like a peacock, cries like a mermaid, chatters like an ape and soaks in the essence of life in a tobacco trance.

Meghna Maiti

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Rustom Daruwalla

It was his innate ability to live in the plane of senses that Kriti liked the most. Cuisines of different cultures, traditions, hues, spices, aroma delighted Rustom Daruwalla. While his natural appreciation of beauty in others were liked by some, it also irked some women on grounds of promiscuity.

In life, as in a work of art, a person's name reveals a lot about his nature. With Daruwalla, unfortunately, his name is the stark contrast of his teetotaller self. Our very own Daruwalla, the seasoned pry with a reputed daily enjoyed crowd, parties and the honeybees but he was allergic to smoke, alcohol and chocolates. Knowing his aversion for the god's nectar, once the chief editor of his newspaper got the bartender to serve him horlicks in a party.

Daruwalla threw tantrum seldom and could easily manage to keep his aggression under wrap. However, on a breezy Monday evening, as all in 'Honest Times' newspaper office buried themselves in their copies, there was an explosion. All shocked colleagues raised their heads to find Daruwalla in a fit of anger, hurling abuses at the person on the other side of his cellular phone.

Five minutes later, all looked at each other with mischiveous smiles and retreated into their copies. Luck had saved the public relation officer with head of cabbage from falling on the chopping board as he committed the hineous crime of getting Daruwalla’s mobile number!

“I do not like people intruding into my personal life. They all can contact on office land-line number,” explained Daruwalla to a puzzled colleague, Kriti when she got curious about the rationale behind his mystery.

Daruwalla almost seemed like God’s answer to chaos. He was almost always particular about his signatures on attendance sheet, filling up outdoor duty forms on time, replying to all emails, even seemingly insignificant ones, answering all calls with the same tone. Watching him in the office was like watching a virtuoso performance. With him in charge, nothing seemed impossible- reporting, writing, editing, giving story ideas to juniors, even nursing the god-forsaken hopeless souls in office.

Clearly, he had a habit of overdoing things. He liked to chew every bit of his food and in the process flex his facial muscles in a manner that attracted eyes. His food was very dear to him as he rarely shared it with others. The way he rinsed his mouth, gurgled and spat into the basin one would be reminded of throwing pebbles into the well.

Six-feet, bearded, pinnochio-nosed Daruwalla would come to office everyday in his high-waist trouser and full-sleeved tailor-made shirt. His feet wore shoes and sandles from Shree-leathers, Kolkata.

Daruwalla did not mind being the butt of ridicule for many as he was very secure and stable with his own self. Beneath the comical persona of Daruwalla, there lurked a clairvoyant, shrewd, business-minded being with a hawk-like mental abilities. Many juniors sought his suggestions and valued his opinions.

Unlike many others, Kriti, way junior than him, found him very interesting. She slowly realized that there were interesting people in the world and then there were those who are just nice. And they can’t always be identical. The interesting people you wanted to be with – their minds were unusual, you saw things freshly with them and all was not deadness and repetition. Kriti longed to know what Daruwalla made of things, what he thought of love, life or marriage.

Kriti sought his opinion. Kriti could sometimes be content when he made her see things in a certain way. He had the ability to look at things from a different angle, he made connections. And then there were the nice people who were not interesting, and Kriti never wanted to know what they thought of anything. They are mostly good, meek and deserved more love. But it was the interesting ones like Daruwalla are lot more fun to be with. The camaraderie, nevertheless, raises many eyebrows but…..well….that’s another story…..another time.

Meghna Maiti