HEARTFULLY ENTANGLED - CHAPTER 13 - THE HIDDEN ROOTS

 13 - The Hidden Roots

"Some stories reach you before you knew they existed."

As the celestial colours of sunrise spread in the sky, erasing the darkness of the previous night, I stood on the terrace, leaning back on the parapet. The morning breeze brushed my skin, causing a few loose strands of my hair flutter against my face. But I didn't bother tucking them back. I let the breeze play with my hair, my arms crossed across my chest, my eyes glued on Vijay who walked out of the terrace to call Arun for exercising.

Arun was such a lazy fellow. While punctuality was one of the important things I followed, he didn't seem to know even 'p' in punctuality. He didn't come to the terrace at sharp 6 on the second day, either. I would have gone to wake him up. But I didn't dare to go because of the awkward experience I had the previous day. So I sent Vijay, who accompanied me to the terrace every morning adamantly, after I jumped from the terrace. Such a lovely, caring, and over-protective brother he was!

I hoped Vijay would not get traumatized even if he got to see Arun's morning monument.

Oh god! Seriously, the cloth of his track pants rose, making it look like a monument only between his thighs, and caused my soul to leave my body for a moment. Though I knew it was natural for men, seeing it directly in front of my eyes for the first time made my mind collapse, and my thoughts skyrocketed till his future wife. I literally worried for his future wife. It was just a second I saw it, but millions of unnecessary, not-so-pure thoughts crossed my mind in that 'just a second'. My naughty mind! I needed a five minute meditation to pull myself away from my unnecessary thoughts.

No way I was giving my brain a chance to collapse again. Let Vijay handle him and his morning monument, I thought and sent him.

You all might wonder why I didn't complain about Arun to my parents, why I let him in our home, why I chose to try taking him out of his alcoholic addiction, and why I chose to be friendly with him.

All the questions have only one answer.

The answer is, I didn't know him as a tenant for the past two months only, but I knew him already for the past four years. 

Yes, Four years!

I knew him from the age of 14. I had a crush on him from the age of 15 without even seeing him. I saw him for the first time at the age of 17.

From the moment I saw him, I saw myself in him.

Because, he was an orphan. And, I was also an orphan. 

My mom and Papa were not my biological parents. They had given me a home, a life filled with love, but not the birth. They brought me up like a princess, nah...they brought me up like a queen. A queen who had everything, except the truth! They wanted to hide the truth from me, and they did it to their best, but my mom's sketchbook had planted a few questions in me from my age of 5. 

My mom was an excellent artist and she had sketched all the precious moments of her life in her sketchbook. I grew up watching her sketchbook like a photo album. It had her childhood naughtiness, playfulness, unforgettable moments with her friends, the precious moments of my mom's and dad's school days where love bloomed between them, the moment when my mom held me for the first time when I was four months old baby, my mom and dad's wedding when I was three years old, my mom's pregnancy and baby bump while she carried Vijay, the moment of Vijay's birth, his new born moments with us. Everything. It had everything. 

But my questions were...

Why didn't she sketch her baby bump while carrying me? How did I be born before their wedding when all the friends of mine said they were inside their mom's stomach during their parents' wedding? 

When I asked these questions to my parents at the age of 5, they were shocked, but managed to hide the truth by saying, 'I was so eager to meet them and came out of my mom's stomach so soon before their wedding and mom sketched the pregnancy while carrying me, too, but she kept that notebook in my mom's maternal house itself.' I nodded sadly and told them to bring that notebook, too, soon. They agreed with a forced smile, looking at each other blankly.

The next night, when I asked my mom the sketchbook, she denied giving it to me as if hiding the sketchbook could hide the truth. But I kept on asking for it adamantly. After all, it was the book I saw every night before sleeping, like it was a lullaby made of pictures. How could I stop seeing it all of a sudden? I cried, asking for it. My mom tried her best to divert me, lifting me in her arms, kissing me, offering me other toys, but I was adamant about asking for the sketchbook. Sketchbook only! After a certain extent, she was frustrated, letting me down on the floor, and she too sat down on the floor, looking at me blankly as if she was telling me to cry as much as I wanted, but the sketchbook would never be given. Her blank look intensified my tears even more. I cried loudly, my throat turning dry. She turned her face away, bending her legs, wrapping her arms around her legs, slowly tears forming in her eyes, too. Vijay saw both of us and he cried louder than me at the age of 2, without even a reason, just because we cried. But our mom didn't turn her face to Vijay, either. She let both of us cry as if she didn't have ears to hear or to eyes to see us.

She was/is stubborn. So stubborn in a way no one would be able to break her stubbornness except herself or our dad. That too, it was not our dad's dominance, but it was her decision to surrender, to listen to our dad whatever he said because of her love and trust in him. She has an unwavering belief that everything said by her Krishna would be right. Otherwise, no one would be able to make her change her decisions. She would do whatever feels right or whatever our dad said, even if the entire world says it wrong.

But I didn't know it at that time. I was crying with the hope that she would give me the sketchbook. But she didn't move even an inch.

Our dad was pursuing his M.ch in cardiothoracic and vascular surgery at AIIMS along with working as a junior doctor on those days and we were staying in the quarters. He mostly worked 18-36 hours continuously along with his academic learning and it was rare for me and Vijay even to see him. On that day, he actually left the home the previous evening after answering my questions and returned after 28 hours of duty, only to be shocked at the sight of us. He rushed to us, his exhausted face turning furious, throwing his white coat towards the sofa, yelling at our mom, "Payal, are you mad? Children are crying this loudly and you are sitting like a statue?"

While our mom didn't even shift her face to him, I flinched at his yell. A part of me was scared to witness his angry face for the first time while another part of me didn't like the way he yelled at our mom. My mixed emotions caused my tears to stop abruptly. But Vijay's tears didn't.

Our dad knelt down in front of us, lifting Vijay, holding him in one of his arms, hugging me with his other arm, passing a death stare at our mom, raising his voice, "Damn it! Payal, I am asking you only. Answer me for God's sake. What if their breaths get ragged while crying? You are sitting simply, letting them cry? This is how you take care of them? How could you even sit simply when children are crying this much? Won't you even try stopping their tears? Do you have a heart or a stone?"

Our mom shifted her eyes to him, forcing a smile, tears trickling down her eyes, her voice quivering, "Your eyes can see their tears. But your eyes are blind to see my tears. Isn't it? Maybe, their cry is louder which makes you see them. But silent tears are more painful than the loud cries." She buried her face between her knees, hugging herself. "Yes, not only my heart, I am myself made of stone only. That's why, I could bear the massive pain of delivery, and gave birth to them. Otherwise, muscles cannot bear that delivery pain. Stone only can bear it. Yes, I am a stone. That's why, I could endure all the postpartum struggles alone when you are working in the hospital most of the time. Yes, I am a stone. That's why, I rush out of the room with Vijay without disturbing your or Diya's sleep, whenever he cries mid-nights. Yes, I am a stone. That's why, I am sitting simply without caring either for them or for you."

Our dad fell silent for a moment, the anger in his face fading. I released myself from our dad and stepped towards our mom. "Papa, don't scold our mom." I sniffed and touched her shoulder. "Maa..."

She cried, yanking her body away from me.

Our dad forced a smile and called affectionately, his hand caressing Vijay as he was still crying. "Payal, I am sorry. Look at me."

"Don't talk to me." She cried.

He took a deep breath, smiling warmly at her, moving to our mom, his legs still kneeling down. As he reached our mom, he hugged her, caressing her hair. "Sorry, butterfly. I know you are not a stone, but a diamond. A precious diamond who added beauty to my life, who is so strong and cannot be broken that easily. But what if their breaths get uneven or their throats get dry? They are little children na? It's true you are also a child to me. I am a dad to them, but a mom and husband to you. I always love you a little more than our children. That's why, I might sometimes miss hearing Vijay's cry during mid-nights, but I automatically open my eyes when I don't feel your presence near me and my legs automatically move in search of you, no matter how tired my body is. You are the reason I felt motherhood despite being a man. You are the reason I felt fatherhood. You are the reason for every happiness in my life. I will never hurt you intentionally. You know it, too. But I yelled because you are a grown up child na? You should think before letting them cry this much na? If something happens to their health, you only would worry and cry more than me na?" He said softly. 

"Hmm." She hummed, her fingers curling into his shirt, burying her face in his chest. "But...Diya was adamantly asking for the sketchbook. It's better to make her forget the sketchbook than showing it anymore. I regret showing it every day to her from the day I held her in my arms. Let her cry as much as she wants. But I will never show her the sketchbook anymore. She should forget it. She must forget it. Let me see how long she would cry. If she falls sick, I will take care of her. But I will not show the sketchbook anymore to her. I should have stopped showing it after our wedding. But she was a fragile child, and I showed it as she cried asking for it every night. Now, she is not a child. Her questions prove she is not a child anymore." She sniffled.

I stamped my foot, sniveling, "I am a child only. Little Diya I am."

She turned her face to me, still in our dad's arms, and said blankly, "Yes yes. You are little Diya. Vijay is tiny Vijay. I am micro Payal. And, the big Krishna caught between us."

Our dad laughed, kissing her head. "Achoo...My heartie," he said affectionately, "I am not caught between you all. I am held together by you all."

Our mom smiled warmly. "What to do now? About our daughter."

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. On opening his eyes, he smiled at me warmly at me. "Kuttima, were you adamant to see the sketchbook?"

"Yes, papa." I replied innocently. "I want to see it before sleeping. Otherwise, the monkeys in the mom's drawing will miss me."

He laughed. "You want to see the monkeys more than mom and dad in the drawing. Isn't it?"

"Yes, papa." I giggled, covering my mouth. "I see my mom and papa in front of me everyday na? Why to see them in pictures? But I want to see monkeys, flowers, beaches, mountains, and everything before sleeping. Otherwise, everything will miss me."

He nodded his head, laughing lightly, and kissed my mom's head. "Payal, go and bring the sketchbook. Let's discuss what to do later."

"But, Krishna..." My mom was about to say something.

He intervened. "Truths can be kept hidden. But we cannot change it. And, I think it's better to accept the things we cannot change and to be transparent about it than keeping it hidden."

"Are you telling.....?" She paused, glancing at me.

He shook his head slightly. "Yes. At the right time." He turned his eyes to me with a warm smile. "She is our child. She is learning whatever she sees in you and me. She will be like us only. She will accept the truth with a smile. Isn't it, kuttima?"

I didn't know what he meant exactly, but I exclaimed, "If you show me the sketchbook, I will accept everything, papa."

His warm smile persisted as he nodded his head, and turned to our mom. "Go and bring the sketchbook."

Mom sat hesitantly, fidgeting her fingers.

Dad insisted again. "Go and bring it. She is our daughter. It's the truth, too. Don't think one truth will kill the other truth. It can never."

While I couldn't even understand his words, our mom inhaled deeply, nodding her head, and rose to her feet. 

Finally! I was going to see the sketchbook. I clapped, jumping, as if I won something great. "Yay!"

Our dad smiled at me, sitting on the floor, crossing his legs, keeping Vijay in his lap. Vijay had stopped crying by now. Our dad pinched his chubby cheeks, kissing his forehead and asked him, "Akka cried for the sketchbook. Why were you crying?"

Vijay replied in his childish babbles with long pauses. "Akka.....cried. Amma.....cried. So....I....I too cried."

He laughed, shifting his eyes to me. "See, kuttima. He cries, if he sees tears in your eyes. Such a lovely brother you got! You should not cry hereafter, only to make him cry. Okay?"

"Okay, papa." I nodded, sitting in front of them and tapped my lap. "I will not cry hereafter. Keep him in my lap. We will see the sketchbook together."

He smiled and passed Vijay to my lap.

As I wrapped my arms around Vijay, our mom came back with the sketchbook and passed it to me, throwing a stare at me.

"Papa, maa is staring at me," I complained without getting the notebook.

Our dad laughed. "My butterfly should not stare at children. Just pass the sketchbook and sit on my lap. Let's see the pictures together."

"Shut up, Krishna..." Our mom smiled lightly, slipping her face away.

He laughed, holding her hand, pulling her down to his lap. As she fell on his lap with a snivel like a child, he grabbed the sketchbook and passed it to me, wrapping his other arm around our mom.

I got the sketchbook, laughing at them.

Vijay babbled innocently, stretching his legs out, leaning back on my chest. "Maa, lean....lean back....on appa, and stretch....stretch your legs...like this." He tapped his own little legs. "It will be super."

Our mom laughed lightly. "Krishna, let them see it. You go and get freshen up. Let me bring the food." She was about to get up.

But our dad wrapped both of his arms around her, placing his chin over her shoulder. "No. Let's go after ten minutes. I missed you all so much."

"We too missed you a lot." Mom smiled warmly at him, her fingers intertwining with his fingers, their eyes locked.

My happiness doubled as I got to see my parents happy after a fleeting moment of tears, and also I got what I wanted. The sketchbook!

I flipped the sketchbook open happily, letting myself drown in the pictures, explaining every picture to Vijay, too.

That was our family. There might be moments of raised voices or cries or even silences, not everyday, but occasionally, and none of them lasted more than five minutes. Within five minutes, papa would pull her into a hug, mom would smile immediately, Vijay would babble something innocently, and I would be clapping and jumping happily.

Years rolled down with happiness and peace, filling our life with beautiful moments, just like the sketchbook I was holding. 

But, the truth was waiting for me.

I still remember the evening when our parents told me the truth. I was 9 years old by then. Our dad had completed his DM in cardiology and we had shifted to Chennai, and the construction works for our own hospital was going on. 

It was supposed to be just another beautiful evening. The air was cool with the scent of the ashoka flowers that were vibrant in our garden. Our mom was preparing my favourite besan laddus in the kitchen. Our dad was cleaning the utensils in the kitchen. Vijay was riding his bicycle in the living room. I was sitting on the sofa, munching the laddu, my eyes glancing at the sketchbook, the questions popping up in my mind again. "Maa, today one of my friends brought her parents' wedding album to our school. I saw it. She was not there in the album. When I said excitedly that I was there at my parents' wedding, they started laughing at me. They said no child can be born before the parents wedding. I argued with them. But our teacher entered the classroom, interrupting us. But you tell me how I was born early and give me your wedding album. I will take it to school for proof," I said.

Our mom's eyes snapped towards dad, the ladle slipping from her hand, making a clink against the vessel.

Our dad's hands froze while the water from the tap poured over the vessel he was holding, his face losing its colours.

Mom took a deep breath, and turned her eyes to me. "We already told you were curious..."

Dad interrupted, his hand turning the tap off. "Payal...."

She paused her words, turning to dad.

He shook his head with a forced smile, wiping his hand with our mom's white duppata, saying something in a low voice to her.

My mom's expression looked as if she was scared.

What was going on? Why were they talking in a lower voice without responding to me?

"Maa..." I called, confused.

Mom flinched, shifting her eyes to me.

Dad held her hand and led her towards me while smiling warmly at Vijay. "Shonu, we are going out to the beach within half an hour. Go and take all the toys and dresses you want for the beach. Akka will come within five minutes."

"Beach?" He exclaimed, halting the bicycle in a blink, and ran to our room.

Mom and dad settled on either side of me, and then mom took me to her lap.

She hugged me tightly as if she was afraid I would run away. 

Dad held my hand, locking his eyes with mine and asked softly, "Kuttima, you trust us na?"

"I trust you, maa and Vijay only in this world, papa." I smiled. "But why are you asking?"

He forced a smile, touching my cheek gently. "We actually don't want to tell you the truth. At the same time, we don't want to hide anything from you. Your mom and Papa actually experienced the consequences of hiding the truth, thinking the truth would hurt our loved ones. We didn't know in our teenage years that the truth can be kept hidden from our eyes, but it is like the root of a tree. It can be buried under the soil, but if a storm hits, the truth, the root would come out in the ways we never wanted. It might shatter everything we built for years. Your maa and papa experienced it in their life. We don't want to experience the same again with you, too. So we decided to tell the truth to you. Not to hurt you, but to make you stronger so that any unexpected storms will not bring out the truth, only shatter you. It's better just to convey that there is a root rather than leaving it buried until a storm hits, only to shatter you later. Are you understanding what I am saying?"

I blinked, understanding superficially, but not deeply. "I understand a little. You are going to say some truth and I should not worry about it. Isn't it, papa?"

"Yes." He smiled, tapping my cheek. "Our genius daughter."

I giggled. "Tell, papa. What truth do you want to say?"

He nodded, gulping, and then smiled at me, still his palm on my cheek. "I hope you are mature enough to understand this. You asked how you are present in our wedding when all your friends are inside their mom's stomach na?"

"Yes."

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. "It's because....." He opened his eyes, locking his eyes with mine. "It's because maa didn't carry you in her stomach. Actually, you are a god sent angel for us."

What did he mean? 

I looked at him puzzled.

He added, "We don't even know who carried you in the womb and how you came to this earth. But you were found on a coconut frond on the flooding water during Odisha's deadliest cyclone in 1999. The volunteers rescued you and tried to find your parents when you were just a two month old baby. But they were nowhere to be found and the neighbouring people too said that they never saw you before anywhere nearby. The volunteers were disappointed and admitted you in a children's home. Later the volunteers found out that God had taken your parents to heaven. You were staying in the children's home. Mom saw you there and she wanted to take this angel home. So, she brought you home and took care of you. That's how this angel came to us."

My heart skipped a beat.

Did he mean I was not born from them? Did he mean I was born from someone else and they died in the cyclone?

How could it be? 

It cannot be the truth. It should not be the truth.

I was their daughter and I wanted it to be the truth.

I snapped my eyes to my mom with the hope that she would say it was all their lies, it was all their fun game. 

But she turned her face away, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, her hands tightening around me.

"Maa, it's a lie na? You are playing na?" My voice trembled, tears forming in my eyes.

She shook her head, indicating no, tears escaping from her eyes, her voice quivering, "N...no. Your papa said the truth."

I stared at her, blinking my teary eyes, my heartbeats thundering.

Was she really telling the truth? 

My mind flashed the ways she used to cradle me, the way she used to sing lullaby for me, the way she chased me to feed me food, the way she used to braid my hair, the way our dad hugged me whenever I cried, the way our dad brought me toys, the way both of them behaved unpartial between me and Vijay. Everything played in my mind and I couldn't believe what they said. 

They didn't treat me like someone else's daughter.

Then, how could I be?

Their actions said I was their daughter, but their words said something else, and I needed to believe both.

But I could cry only at that age.

My tears trickled down my cheeks, as I stared at mom, my throat tightening. I really didn't care who my biological parents were. I just wanted them to tell me I was born from them. I needed no parents other than them. But the truth was something different.

She shifted her eyes to me and kissed my cheek. "But, this truth doesn't change anything between us. You should understand that truth cannot be changed. At the same time, any truth cannot change the love, too. We love you always. You are our elder daughter. You are the angel of our home. You are the queen of our home. Nothing can change this. Okay?" She kissed my forehead.

I didn't know what to respond. But I felt I was in someone else's arms rather than my parents arms. I was in someone else's home rather than my home. Yet, it was the only home I had. I had no other places to go away. I had no one other than them.

I cried, leaning to my mom's chest.

Both my mom and dad comforted me, as my dad said softly, "Kuttima, every daughter is an angel to their parents, but you are a unique angel with two parents. One parent with God to bless you, another parent with you to love you. Okay?"

"No." I cried, clenching my mom's kurti with my fingers. "I don't want two parents. I want you only. You are the only mom and dad to me."

"Okay." Both of their voices shivered as my mom kissed me.

"Vijay knows this?" I cried.

"No. We just wanted to tell you the truth. It's not necessary to tell him this," our dad said.

"No. You only said it's better to convey the truth than leaving it to be revealed by any unexpected storms na? Tell him, too. He is my brother. He will not ignore me,"

My mom smiled with tears. "If you want to tell him, let's tell him after he is mature enough to know this. But stop crying, please."

"Hmm." I hummed, but still cried. I didn't even know why I was crying despite feeling the safest in her arms.

They didn't utter anything after that. They just comforted me, and made sure to be with me, and did everything I loved.

I was upset for a few days, but their love and Vijay's innocent way of pulling me to play with him made me bounce back to normal soon, within a week. 

Somewhat I understood, love and family is about hearts, not about blood. 

Somewhat I understood, love and family is about who still chooses you, who values you, even if the world takes everything away from you.

They were/are my only family.

Yet, I knew the truth. The truth that love could be this vast and selfless! The truth that in a world where some people don't even care about their own children, there are people who care about someone else's children, too, as their own children!

And those truths didn't hurt me. Some truths don't really hurt. It gives us comfort. It gives us hope. It gives us a reason to believe in love, in humanity, in goodness, in bonds that form beyond blood. It inspires us to be the light in darkness.

I grew up, not only with love, but also with gratitude and dreams to be like those volunteers and my parents. Those volunteers who saved me, letting their life in danger amidst the cyclone. My parents, who adopted me and loved me without expecting anything back. 

Without those selfless volunteers, I would have not survived. Without my selfless parents, I would have not lived.

They were my reason to believe in humanity and they were my inspiration.

I didn't know whether I could be as good as them. But I wanted to be someone who would give hope to the broken, who would give shelter to the orphaned and abandoned.

That's when my dream of building a children's home in the future sprouted in me at the age of 10.

Later when I started reading general health and mind related books from my dad's room since I was 10, I slowly found out that the lack of love in people could lead them in wrong paths. 

That's when my other dream of becoming a psychiatrist took root in me at the age of 14. 

I knew everyone cannot be transformed towards goodness. I knew some were spoiled from the root. I didn't care about them. The law or the Karma would take care of them. But I wanted to reach those people who ended up becoming wrong without proper guidance and support. The ones who were angry because they had no one to understand their pain. The ones who weren't bad, just broken.

I wanted to reach them, listen to them, and guide them with my presence as much as I could. 

Because, I realised I too would have ended up being broken or wrong, if I didn't get my parents. 

What if I was left alone? What if I was chased by demons? I too would have taken weapons to protect myself or I too would have ended up broken by those demons or I too would have joined those demons to survive the cruel world.

But thankfully, I was living a morally right and emotionally happy life because someone chose to save me from the cyclone, value me with their love and guide me. I wanted to be that someone for others.

They had given life to one Diya. I wanted to show the path towards life to many Diyas out there.

I studied with those dreams and I was always a topper. Everyone in my class was friends with me.

But my best friend was Shalini. She was not at all interested in studies. She always passed on the border, but had an excellent skill in playing the flute, and wanted to learn to play all the musical instruments. Especially, learning guitar was her dream.

On that day, I was sitting at my desk, pulling out my 10th grade maths book. The morning sun filtered through the window, casting a glow on my wooden desk.

As our classroom was filled with indistinct chatter, Shalini rushed towards me, removing her backpack. "Diya, my dad had finally joined me in the guitar classes. You know what is more exciting than my guitar classes? It's our sir. If we get a sir like him in our school, too, we would never miss the classes."

This girl!

We didn't have any sir in our classroom. All we had were madams.

But her eyes would automatically turn towards our nearby classroom sir, her lips would automatically grin, even if he crosses our classroom. Because he was handsome and she would shamelessly sight him. When she was excited about the nearby classroom sir himself, what about the guitar teaching sir in the same classroom? I was sure whoever it was, he was doomed. With her over excitement and grins!

I glared at her, asking sternly. "Oh! What makes that sir that great? Don't tell me he is handsome. I am bored of hearing this for everyone you see."

She twisted her lips, settling near me. "No. When he is the definition of handsomeness, how could I do a sin of saying he is not handsome? I will never! He is handsome. Handsome. Handsome. Exceptionally handsome." She squared her shoulders.

I gritted my teeth.

She giggled. "I think he must be just 19 or 20 years old. Maybe, he is working part time during his college, or he works full time." She shrugged. "I will know everything about him soon. But as of now, I know he is going to teach our evening batch. He is handsome. His fingers play on the strings of the guitar in a way you can watch it for the entire day. I always love music, but the music made from his fingers is a bliss. I am so excited to be his student. I can admire him and also improve my skills in my music passion, too. Two in one!" She winked.

That was over exaggerated!

I sighed, shaking my head, my fingers flipping the pages of my maths book. "Okay. All the best," I said.

She frowned. "I came so excited to share everything with you. But you are not even interested in listening to me."

"See, Shalu, you can share anything with me, but not about the boys you sight,"

"I am not talking about boys. I am talking about a man." She pouted.

"Fictional men are enough for me," I said as I was/am a bookworm. Especially, every genre fiction from thriller to dark romance to old-school-romance to fantasy to mythological to spiritual, and also health and psychology related books. I read all genres. Because I was interested to know different perspectives of people and fiction is one of the best ways to understand the way different people think. Not to judge them, not to connect those perspectives with my personal ideologies and to trigger myself, but to learn something new, to know different perspectives which would be useful to understand the world better, which would be useful for my future psychology career. My parents, too, would buy me whatever book I wanted, but my mom would read them before giving it to me until I was 16. After she made sure I was mature enough to differentiate between right and wrong when I was 16, my parents just gave me money to buy whatever book I wanted. I too would happily buy books, and made my room itself a little library. Just like my dad!

But my personal favourite was old-school-romance and the fictional men I mentioned to Shalu were the men in old-school-romance. They were like my Papa. I love my Papa, but I was delusional about the men in old-school-romance. 

Oh god! They were too cute to handle. They were too perfect to be real. They had their own way of turning 'just a word' into 'a special emotion.'

How could I not love those fictional men? I was crazy about them.

Shalu twisted her lips. "If I say one thing about him, you will not be sighing like this anymore."

"What?" I asked flatly, my fingers marking the answers for the multiple choice questions in the book with my pencil.

She giggled. "He has sea-green eyes."

What? My favourite sea-green eyes?

Many of my favourite fictional men had sea-green eyes and I was dying to see it in reality at least once in my lifetime. But unfortunately, I saw only Hrithik Roshan sir with green eyes, but with hazel-green eyes, not with the sea-green eyes. That too, on TV, not in front of me. I was so disappointed about it.

But who was this guitar teacher? From where he came? Did he really have those sea-green eyes which would appear with different shades of blue and green under different light settings? Was he from abroad?

I widened my eyes, my pencil freezing on the paper. "Really?" I exclaimed. "Is he from any other countries?"

"No." She laughed. "He is a pakka local man. You know he even pronounced the word alarm as Alaaaram."

"Oh." I grinned. "Cute na? English is a language. But Indian English is an emotion."

She smirked. "Is this for his sea green eyes or for his pronunciation?"

"Both." I grinned, showing all my teeth. "What's his name?"

She twisted her lips, turning her face away. "I will not say."

Dramatic girl!

But if she was dramatic, I was a drama queen.

I pinched her cheek, asking affectionately, "Say, Shalu. You are my cutie na?"

She giggled, pursing her lips, nudging her shoulder with mine. "If you want to know his name, if you want to see him, if you want to drown yourself in those sea-green eyes, join guitar classes with me. It will be fun, too."

I scrunched my nose. "I would love to learn guitar and to see those sea green eyes in reality. But I have to concentrate on my studies now. Let me try to see him from a distance during our annual holidays, if possible. You just tell his name now."

She shook her head. "You and your studies! I don't know how your brain is not leaking out of your head till now. Give some rest to your brain."

I pouted. "I read fiction and watch movies to relax myself na?"

"Hmm." She nodded.

"Tell his name,"

"Arun," she said.

"Oh." I looked up, imagining a face with sea-green eyes, tapping my pencil against my chin, a smile appearing on my face. "A...R...U...N... Arun. Nice name. He is handsome in my imagination, too."

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With Love,

Nilah R.

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