Tuesday, 13 May 2014


Note: This is the first guest-article on this blog. The story is written mostly by Rupsha Bhadra, a woman of myriad talents (I'm whipped) who took a paragraph I had written and gave it a plot. She refused to share the story herself, for some inexplicable reason, which is why it finds a place here. Check out her blog here


Love. A strange word indeed.

Suchitra was tongue-tied. She tried to tell him, but she was too shy. Her mind conjured up all possible responses that would amount to rejection on his part. At the same time, she knew now was as good a time as any to tell him how much she loved him; how long she would wait each day for him to arrive just so they could travel the remaining distance together; how the sound of his voice was music to her ears. “I love you, Sid”, she whispered. Its easy, she told herself. She’d practiced this way too many times already.

Love. A strange word indeed.

 She surely felt all warm and fuzzy when he looked into her eyes. Going by the numerous textbook descriptions, she had definitely ticked off all the points on the list. His laughter, the occasional teasing, coffee dates, innumerable conversations over WhatsApp and the promises of “always being there for each other, no matter what”. All their friends thought they were meant to be. She did too.  The love songs made more sense with him in her life and she couldn’t stop smiling after each day spent in his company. He made her happy. She couldn’t stop thinking about him and this was the perfect moment to tell him.

This was it. He was in the next room, talking to Ankana about some project they had to do together. She would surprise him. She took a look in the mirror, tousled her hair in a swipe and gulped in nervous expectation as she heaved the door open.

Siddharth and Ankana finally had their moment. They were chosen to do a project together, which meant a viable excuse to see each other, in the privacy of closed rooms. Once inside, he took her in his arms. She took a sip of the whiskey in her hand as she felt his hands all over her body. His hands wobbled in anticipation as he unhooked her bra. He kissed her deeply, passionately. She let herself free. They were still locked in a kiss, even as the door flew open, and a shocked Suchitra poured in the scene that would haunt her for the rest of her life.

There he was – the boy she loved. Whiskey bottle in one hand, teenage girl in the other. They were too engrossed in each other to even notice the dumbstruck woman at the door.

Suchitra didn’t know what she should do in that situation. Scream at him? Break down? Walk away silently? But what after that?  Would he come running after her asking her to forgive him?  Tell her it meant nothing? Convince her that she was his chosen one? Or would she just wake up from a bad dream?

Or maybe, he wouldn’t do anything at all. Maybe, he wouldn’t flinch at all. She chose to walk away, leaving a note that she didn’t want to disturb them.

Love. A strange word indeed.

A few days later:
Sleepless nights. Incessant tears. Countless unanswered phone calls. Even an attempt to indulge in an overdose of sleeping pills. She quite possibly did it all.

About two months had passed. She believed him again. She believed his apologies. Siddharth felt strongly for her too, and Ankana was just a "friend with benefits". He assured her that that night had meant nothing. No feelings involved. No strings attached. New promises had been made, to overshadow the old ones broken. This time he could be trusted, she told herself. He had "changed" JUST for her, after all. He was a new man. He was her man now.

Or was he?

Another evening. She knew he was in the next room. She decided to surprise him again. She was confident she would walk into a better sight than the last time. She took a look in the mirror, tousled her hair in a swipe and gulped in nervous expectation as she heaved the door open.

Love. A strange word indeed.

"Oh poor unthinking human heart! Error will not go away, logic and reason are slow to penetrate. We cling with both arms to false hope, refusing to believe the weightiest proofs against it, embracing it with all our strength. In the end it escapes, ripping our veins and draining our heart's blood; until, regaining consciousness, we rush to fall into snares of delusion all over again." - Rabindranath Tagore. 'The Postmaster'.