They met under the most clichéd
and at the same time, the most unusual circumstances, if that’s ever
conceivable! She was rebounding from a particularly devastating divorce. He was
trying to come to terms with his third relapse. She, a research analyst from
Virginia and him, a budding filmmaker from Mumbai. She thought it was extremely
dreamy to have met under a widespread banyan tree that was rumoured to have
weathered more than three hundred years of gusts. Ever so vulnerable with its
mighty roots exposed, but at the same time resolute enough to stand tall. Much
like her current state of affairs and she would soon find out that his was no
different.
When she decided to board the
flight for an escapade into this serene farmhouse nestled in the laps of a tiny
village named Vechoor, the sole possessions in her backpack were a pair of
summer dresses, her purse , passport, phone and laptop. The latter two were
rendered almost useless when she found out that this village, somewhere near
the backwaters of Kottayam, was virginally untouched by modern technological
advances, which are often taken for granted back in the US. When the initial
amusement of the situation conceded, she was pleasantly surprised to realise
that she didn’t mind being disconnected, after all she was home, wasn’t
she? And besides there was not one soul that she could think of
wanting to call and inform her whereabouts.
“How pathetic is that Tara?” she asked herself.
The room was exactly as she would
have preferred - non-descriptive with minimal furniture, painted in earthy and
pastel tones with a subtle touch of antiquity. They invoked vague memories of
stories her mother used to tell her with that lost and yearning look she always
had in those beautifully mystic eyes of hers. As a teenager, she often
playfully fought with her mother for not passing on those specific genes
responsible for that mysticism. Later, that look was the only remnants of what
her mother used to be and the lone reassuring fact while she watched her mother
fight fiercely to saddle her slithering memories. And when the end came, she
hadn’t let them close those eyes, even as she tried in vain to freeze the
moment. For those eyes were the very last thing she wanted to see. Twenty years
have taken some of the intensity out of the pain, but it was still piercing
enough to form that lump in her throat every time she wandered into that alley
of her life.
Perhaps the hosts sensed her need
for self-retrospection and mostly left her to herself. The farmhouse, spread
across 35 acres of forestry, was on an island that appeared to float aimlessly
towards the estuary, but not quite reaching there. She woke to the
usual perks of such tranquil surroundings – chirping of birds, sun soaked
waters, quacking of ducks, dewy trees, glistening sands, musky breeze , greenly
foliage and that enthralling smell of damp earth which emerges post virgin
showers, mixed with the faint perfume of spices. Her window opened to this
picturesque banyan tree that spread its wings to fill the landscape and create
an astounding canopy of green leaves. Some of its roots had clamped together to
form a natural swing.
She closed her eyes, enjoying the
almost floating sensation as the world around hazed and amalgamated together.
The creak from above and a cascade of leaves. The swing moves backward, her
feet lifts upward - a suspended magical moment of childhood. She was still lost
in the exhilarating feeling of the fragrant wafts kissing her skin when she
heard him say, “That’s the most liberating experience ever, isn’t it?”
She turned around to find this
rather thin and tall young man in clothes that kind of hung loose around him.
He wore a muffler which she thought was somewhat outlandish in this summer
heat. He was handsome in a tired sort of way and had distinct
cheekbones, an angular jaw and a smile that lit up his eyes. There was a quiet
sort of elegance in him.
Something made her blush, perhaps
it’s the atypicality around the frame in which she was - a
woman, approaching the wrong side of forty, is perched on
the right side of a nature made swing, with her summer
skirt politely refusing to be decorous enough to cover her shapely
thighs.
“Jay Vardhan. From Mumbai.”
“Tara Arvind. Nice to meet you.” They shook hands. His palms were
thinner than she initially thought. Fragile enough for her to feel the
bones.
“So what makes a high profile research analyst retreat to this corner of
the world?” he enquired while she sipped the aromatic coffee brought in by the
staff.
“Divorce. I slept with his best friend.” She said matter-of-factly,
while her eyes traced the banyan tree roots. The roots ran into each other
without any seemingly obvious pattern. They entwined, embraced and appeared to
be comforting each other in their journey down to the belly of nowhere.
He smiled, “And what’s your excuse?” She was sure that he wasn’t being
judgmental, for there was no trace of criticism in his voice.
“I wish I had one.”
“And?”
“And my husband ripped me apart. He took half of everything I ever had –
my business, money, home, car and I think a part of me too, something that was
me but perhaps not really mine….”, she unsurely left the words trail off.
“He sounds like a reasonable guy.”
“Point noted.” and she laughed. Her cheeks ached from the unfamiliar
stretch of facial muscles, which amused her. She must not have laughed like
this for quite some time, it seems.
“So why Kerala?”
“My mother was from Kottayam. I think she left some of her here when she
migrated to US with my father. I could always sense it in her eyes. Perhaps, I
came looking for that something. I don’t know, it was a rather impulsive
decision.”
“Hmm…and the other man?”
“Insignificant, in the larger scheme of things. Ah! I could sense that
smirk coming. Indian males!” she rolled her eyes melodramatically.
“Now
that’s judgementality, racialism, sexism and bigotry all rolled into one
sentence. Especially when I wasn’t even thinking of smirking.”
Their laughter merged with the rustling of the leaves until his ended in
what seemed to be a perpetual bout of cough.
“That’s rather bad. Are you okay?” she asked reaching over to rub
his bent back.
“Well I guess you could say that given the circumstances.”
“Would you like to explain that?” she thought there a faint trace of
resignation in his voice.
He looked down at the palm of his
right hand. She noticed that he had beautiful hands with long, tapering fingers
in spite of the thinness. The tip of his thumbs slightly inclined backwards
making her want to curl her fingers around them. She thought it would be
comforting, more so for her than him.
“Do you know what this is? It’s called a simian crease. It’s formed when
your heart line and head line are fused together. So when others have 3 main
creases on their palms, people with simian crease have just two. There’s no
segregation of duties between the head and the heart for us, we think and act
together.” He smiled and continued, “It’s also said to have an unestablished
correlation with the cancer. It just established itself in my case. So
technically speaking, I don’t have much miles to go before I sleep.”
Although he said this as a matter
of fact and none of his mannerism indicated any kind of yearning for sympathy,
she suddenly felt overwhelmed with emotion and tears pricked at her eyes.
Alarmed, she blinked them away, but the feeling lingered.
“But then what are you doing here? You should be under treatment.”
“When you reach the end of the cliff you are left with just two options –
take the plunge or wait for your wings to spread so that you can soar. I choose
the latter.”
“But there must be something that can be done?”
“The doctors don’t know where to start. My crab has wide spread claws.”
She didn’t want to continue the
conversion. The topics of death and illness have always made her uncomfortable.
It brought back frames from the abyss of memories that she often tried to keep
tightly locked up in the deep chambers of her soul.
They met quite often. He seemed to
be the only other guest around at this time of the season, barring a bunch of
college kids who were always out trekking and a honeymoon couple who mostly
kept to themselves. He was a pleasant enough company, with him letting her do
most of the talking, while he seemed to be content to just listen to her. With
their common love for old melodies and classic reads, there seemed to be no
shortage of topics for coffee tête-à-têtes under the shady spot of the ancient
banyan tree. The only interruptions seemed to be his bouts of cough, which
seemed to become more and more frequent as days went by.
She learned that he was separated
too. His wife couldn’t deal with the crests and troughs of his journey with the
crab. So he had let go, ungrudgingly.
“But she’s supposed to be there , holding your hand, through thick and
thin!’
“Who says so Tara? You can’t close your palm tight enough,
the proverbial sand always slips through. Relationships and boundaries have
never really been best of friends. The more space between them, the better
off they are. What right do I have to drag another individual through an
emotionally turbulent roller coaster ride? This is my get-away from all kinds
of bonds I ever had – parents, partner, friends and colleagues. I just knew
that I had to deal with it alone and in my own little way. Coming here made me
realise how emotionally draining were those façade of positivity and optimism
I used to adorn, just so that the people around me didn’t feel the shit I
was going through.”
“We all run away, don’t we?”
“Of-course, flight is our default mode and the safest, perhaps. Nothing
wrong with that though. When you are ready, you can switch to the fight mode.
But the fight should be with one-self.”
Days and weeks fell way, so did
the leaves, forming a tranquil brown quilt over the ground. They marked the
passing of time in their own cluttered way, the triggers of nature. As the
leaves made their last journey towards the bosom of the muddy earth, she
marvelled at their gracefulness and poise, at the soft rustle with which they
come down to rest, finally ending their dance to the earthy tunes of
wind. She came to associate Jay with the banyan tree, head held high
among all the gales and tempests, but roots firmly grounded, offering the
canopy of shady coolness and allowing bright gaps of sunshine to break through now and then. The falling leaves,
for her symbolised his journey towards the inevitable. They often sat there
together on the wrought iron bench, watching the leaves falling to form the
gorgeous patterns of mosaic underneath.
“So, what’s next Tara?” he inquired about a month into their first
rendezvous.
“Well, I guess I need to get back and pick the reins from where I left
off. “
“Does that include settling scores?”
“Well, it wasn’t far from my mind. How did you guess?”
“It’s as predictable as the sun rising. There is no point, you know that
don’t you Tara?“
“Why do you say that Jay? I am aware that I am no saint, but I did not
deserve the mental strain through which I was dragged. He got his, now it’s
just my turn.”
“Tara, revenge is self-destructive. Confucius once said that before you
embark on a journey of revenge, you need to dig two graves. Revenge will not
make you feel better. Trust me, you are most likely to feel worse.”
“The hate doesn't ebb Jay, it only multiplies, especially when you are
stripped off till the last thread.”
“Every tide recedes Tara. Do you know how lucky you are to have the
chance to start all over again? Try to find your silver lining, there’s always
one, you know.”
“What’s yours?” It slipped out before she could stop herself. “I am
sorry Jay, I didn’t mean to be spiteful.”
“Oh, don’t you bother! I do have one, I don’t have to die of
old age, you see.” He threw back his head and laughed. His laugh lines resting
snugly next to his lips. Something made her look towards the banyan tree. She
sensed the rhythms of his laughter merging with the rustle of its leaves.
Her trance broke when she heard
him cry, the kind of desolate sobbing that comes from a person drained of all
hope. The pain that flowed from him was as palpable as her throbbing heart. She
instantly sank to her knees, not caring for the damp mud that would dirty her
dress and entwined her hands in his. The rawness of his sobs and his
vulnerability became evident when he finally turned his face towards her. His
hazel eyes, misty and glazing with a mix of lose and acquiescence.
“You know Tara, this is the bravest thing I have ever done.”
And then she hugged him. The palms squeezed a fraction tighter, the
muscles lost their tension to the breezy wind. His bony frame sunk into the
warmth of her curves, appreciative of the simple gesture of affection. Perhaps
the hope had been there all along, but without some love it was trapped, like
diamonds in a rock. She felt him brush her hair back with his piano player
fingers and kiss her gently on the forehead.
Finally, she was home.
“Show me the generous chambers of
thy heart,
Let me choose if we need to drift
apart.
Show me the measureless depths of thy soul,
Let me seal the abyss with elixir
console.
Show me the tempestuous sea of thy
eyes,
Let us together float over the
lows and highs.
Show me the tranquil zeal of thy
embrace,
Let us remain so in this timeless
space.
For now it’s no more about solely thee and me,
From this day on it’s absolutely
becometh us and we.
I only feverishly hope thee will
return ere long,
To the melodious theme of life’s
only exquisite song.
