My life has been so full of letters, she told me once, only after she had warmed up to me as a person and my presence around her.
But, long before all that, two years before she actually uttered those words, I had sighted her first tending to the lovely, big roses in her large, beautiful garden, with the gardener paying rapt attention to all that she was saying. I had just then returned home after winding up four years of my hostel life, I, a soon-to-be engineer; to be precise, I had just knocked at the doors of my sweet home and was humming to myself, when this new, not-to-mention attractive neighbour caught my eye.
Shyamala; how much I loved that name when I heard it first. Amma told me her name when we sat at the dining table ‘catching up’. I didn’t ask for more. Shyama – what a beautiful way to address someone.
A point of stunning radiance
In a garden full of fragrance
Shyamala,I hear, is her name
Is life playing out its game?
Are you sure of what you are saying, Ashok? My mother sounded flabbergasted when she heard about my decision to marry Shyamala.
But, long before all that, I clearly remember the first time I ever spoke to Shyama. Her mother was reluctant to let me in. I am Ashok – your neighbour’s son, I told her; just thought I would drop in to say hello. I somehow thought the lady had an X-ray vision; it worried me in fact. The way her looks went, I thought she was piercing through to scan my intentions. The telephone rang then. It was the saving grace.
That’s when I saw her first, at proximity. Shyamala coming down the stairs, slowly, gracefully. She wore a pink and white salwar kameez with a floral dupatta.
Elegance, thy name is Shyama
Is life staging a timely drama?
Love courses through my veins
Hell, the desire inside me screams!
It was when Shyama told me about the letters I told her of my love.
But, long before all that, that evening when I first went to her home, when her mother was busy on the phone, when Shyama came down the stairs and I stood there mad and paralyzed with love, when I looked at her and said a gentle hello, when she searched in the dimly lit room, when I was a few minutes short of realizing she was indeed ascertaining my position, when she put her hand to the left and picked up the stick, I realized with a lump in my throat – the reality. My Shyama was blind.
I walked up to her and told her hello, again. She smiled. I saw she had beautiful blue eyes, a calm, deep blue that defied the handicap. I told her about me and asked her if she was the one who played the guitar. She nodded. Can I come often? Oh, why not, she said.
Her blue eyes, a sea of serenity
O’ my heart swells with pity
I would realise only a little later
Love not pity sent my heart aflutter.
Our marriage was a simple ceremony. Three years into our marriage, our son was born.
But long before all that, when I insisted, mom grew morose. She seemed withdrawn. Dad was better. He convinced her that it would all be fine. Oh, she isn’t from our caste. What will happen of our culture? What will I tell the elders? Her vision is gone. She is older than my son. My mom had a big list of complaints to go against the whole thing. She hated Shyama bitterly. What sort of grandchildren will I have? I want to match horoscopes, she wailed, let me do at least that. I consented. But, no matter what, I am going to marry her. Shyama’s simplicity and the courage with which she took on life made me put my foot down. Appreciate my love and my intention. This horoscope business is only for your satisfaction. And, so off went my mom to the astrologer.
Well, what she didn’t know was I had already listened to a parrot telling me my future.
Listen o’ love-struck one
Dreaming about a special someone
Run about, jump and scream
You will live the life you dream.
Amma came back unconvinced. Dad said the astrologer held authoritatively that the marriage was destined to happen.
But, long before all that, I went a second time to Shyama’s home. It was a fortnight before I was scheduled to leave for the U.S. for my higher studies. Shyama’s mother seemed visibly relaxed the second time. I wonder what gave her the confidence that I wasn’t behind her only daughter. To my relief, she flashed a warm smile and even brought in tea and biscuits while her daughter played the guitar.
You play so well, I told her admiringly. She smiled. Have you been learning for long? Yes, she said, since I was five. The kids will be here anytime, she reminded me. The ones that come to learn the guitar. I left.
Long fingers, golden nails
Strings leaving musical trails
She ends on a note o’ so high
Beauty and music make me sigh.
Shyama’s mother was dismayed when I told her I wanted to marry her daughter. I told her I wanted to know what she thought even before I told my mother. I told her I would take good care of her daughter. She broke down. But long before all that, when I came back after a year into my M.S., for two weeks, I waited breathlessly to meet Shyama. I realised my love for her hadn’t died down. I also realised how my heart pounded when I heard they had gone away for a week. O’ when would she return? My heart ached. I hated myself for the softness that had crept inside me but what was I to do, I was madly in love with the source of it all.
She arrived three days before I was to leave. Her mother was unwell and my mother in all the goodwill that she could conjure as a neighbour went over to help. I accompanied her too. More than a glimpse, an hour of conversation, truckload of memories.
She enquires, smiles, nods
But always on the guard
I seamlessly tell her all
Of summer, spring and fall.
Shyama took a week to tell me a yes. But long before all that, when I had accompanied my mother to her house, when we had sat discussing my year at the U.S., when we had laughed gently over a few, silly jokes, when she had heard me out, when silence had filled the space between us, I looked ahead to see many books. Does your mom read, I asked her. Those are mine, she said. I sat speechless. I could read till a while ago. I lost my vision only three years ago. And even before I asked her how, she said, in an accident.
Her mother stood near the doorway, sniffing her nose into the edge of her saree, brushed away a tear and asked, Ashok, how are you?
I tell her I am doing great and fine
Wishing I could take their lives into mine
I am not sure if I had all reasons
Yet, I know this love is beyond seasons.
The week between my confession and Shyama’s yes was restless to say the least.
So, what happened a week before Shyama said a yes? I was back home again after a year and invited Shyama and aunty home for dinner. You haven’t been home even once, I convinced her. My mom, I suspect, began having her doubts. My interest in the girl, if not anything, was quite obvious. After dinner, I took her to my study. That’s when she spoke of letters. Do you still write them? She asked me. Yes, I replied, sounding surprised. How do you know? She lifted the inland letter lying on the table, tracing the edges with her slender fingers. I smiled and I wished she could see it. It was the best reply I could give her. My life is so full of letters she said then. From my grandfather and father, who were both in the army. I used to read and re-read them so many times, she continued with a touch of sadness. I still have them with me. The letters somehow keep me close to them, even when they have gone far away from me.
And you like candles too? She asked suddenly feeling hot wax on the table. Yes, I said sort of stirred out from a memory whirlpool. Letters under the candle light. I love the ambience, I said. What are you writing? She asked. A love letter.
To?
You.
Suddenly, she falls strangely silent
Staring into the flame so violent
She clears her throat and says I ‘ll leave
Words are stuck like stones in a sieve.
Shyama, please be mine,I tell her
It can’t happen, jus’ don’t bother
Why not, why not, I ask her
Outside the rain goes pitter patter.
I am blind, I can’t see,I hear her mutter
O’ Shyama, I say, it doesn’t matter
I am older, I am older, I hear her mutter
O’ Shyama, I say, it doesn’t matter.
She leaves, unconvinced, tears streaming
I rush to her side, seeing her faltering
Don’t come to see me anymore
She says amidst the noisy downpour.
A week later she called me home to say she couldn’t convince her heart. Please marry me, I now know I have missed you all through, she said and held out her hand. I took it into mine and haven’t left it since. And while you have known all the past, hear out what the future is. My granddaughter who listened to this story, just as you did, hugged me and has gone into her room. Her words were, ‘Grandpa, I need some time to think. But, don’t worry; I will think enough before I decide.’
Why did I decide to tell her my story? I believe, my granddaughter, who is here with me and my wife on a vacation, wants to marry a guy she likes. Understandable. The problem is my son isn’t convinced about the fellow. It is true that changing ways of life have polluted the definition of true love. I am not saying there have been all good love stories in the past but I suspect the trap has become bigger now. The risk of falling into it is even more. And that’s when a good past proves to be helpful. They say let go of the past. Yes, it is important to not be emotionally tied to what has gone by but at the same time, it’s important to hang on to the lessons one has learnt from the past or learn from what the past has got to teach us.
I hope my story will make a difference, no matter how small. I wish she will understand that true love transcends time and distance. It will remain undiminished all through, no matter what. It doesn’t expect anything. It’s about giving space. With that hope, I lean back on my easy chair and wait for the future.
Prayers,
Ashok
Picture by Alessa Dam under CC license