Prologue

But be, as you have been, my happiness... Randall Jarell (1914-1965)

It is a lovely day of early summer... a day when it seems like it will rain, at any time. I stretch my hand out of the window and well there isn't any. But then on closer inspection of my shirt sleeve I see these pristine drops of dew... I guess it is still some time to rain. Uncharacteristically, I go out to the sea face for a walk. Along Carter Road. The sea is quiet, but the breeze is heavenly. It is about seven in the morning. The lovliest part of the day. Till about a few years back, I just was not a morning person. But now it seems difficult to stay in bed beyond seven, even on a holiday. However, I haven't done this for quite some time- come to sea for a morning stroll. Not many people around at this hour, which I thought was surprising. The primary reason why I always choose unearthly hours to come to this place is to avoid the onslaught of people which mars every remotely pleasant nook and corner of Bombay. But not so today. May be the world conspired for me to be alone today.

I find monsoons a particularly difficult time of the year. Untimely showers even more so. As much as I love the rains, I find myself being swept in waves of memories that I generally keep running away from. Memories of times spent with some one to whom I have no recourse, any more. At this point of time, any distraction will do. But nothing looks strong enough to veer my thoughts away from her. The one person, to whom I have no recourse. I look to the sea for inspiration. It is black and looks desolately brackish. The morning is very very pleasant though and the breeze runs through my hair, playing games. There is a paper bag doing a drunken dance in the wanton wind and since no one's looking, I run to catch it- join the party. It flies away, leaving me breathless. So many years spent smoking are finally catching up with me. Lost my voice, my lung space and god knows what else. But every time I think of quitting I realize that for one who often drinks in solitude, there is little else better or more handy than a cigarette for company. Better than drinking alone. I guess in every smoker's life, there comes a point where the little white stick ceases to be an object and assumes a certain life for itself. Becomes a character as the plot of life thickens.

I find myself humming Tere Bin. Stop short- why- I ask myself. Hum something else- I tell myself, but Rabbi refuses to dislodge himself from my lower lip. This weekend's going to be hectic. Ranjan's getting married and Vishal, the weekend after this. It has become a bit of a joke in office how I take these one day leaves to attend out of town weddings of friends. My boss thinks that its time I took some time off for my own wedding as well. Further he insists, that he knows me too well to take leave to attend a friend's wedding. I tell him that it is so much better to just attend these weddings, which I hate doing anyway, than to spend a life time listening to them crib about my not being around on the most important day of their lives. But my boss is sure that I have a girl out of town, who I go to visit every now and then. I really don't think he realizes how right he's got it- except for the tense. But again the thought of weddings is also not a very nice one, considering the call I got last week.

"RV called. On her way to work. Like she usually does. At the time that I so hate. Just to say that she is marrying Ram."

That was the entry in my diary for that day. It was our deal- that once this decision is made, the other will be the first to know. Even before the ultimate beneficiary. She lived up to her side of it. That night I tried calling T, but no one seemed to be at home- must've gone to Cal for an interview, I figured. And then I had so many mobile phone numbers from her numerous trips to Cal, that I kept getting someone else or the other. The habit of accumulating junk and passing it off as memories, caught up with me. Yet again. Gave up. Tried again- this time quite tentatively, Di. Told her. Whimpered a bit. Then I called RV and howled incoherently for about 10 minutes. Went back to sleep. Minutes later Maa called. And then Dad came on the line. I have a feeling I will regret making that call to Di for years to come. In spite of her age she can never handle these situations. Different generations- mine lost in space, theirs firmly grounded. Attachment meant marriage to them. And they announced that they had no problem with it. Graciously. I was kinda speechless, not knowing whether to thank them for it, or laugh it off. Because I am still trying to figure out what attachment means to me. When I finally spoke to T, later that week, she said my voice sounded drenched in pain. She wants me to call her again. Bull, I told her.