Fellow Traveller

Monsoon clouds on the deserted north-western land slowly began to sprawl across the afternoon sky. As they thickened and started to grow dark, he leaned his head back and rested against the side of the Khaat (a traditional Indian cot woven from mooj rope). He stretched his legs, edging them out of the Khaat since it was a little too small for his frame. A tiny drop missed his eyes and landed on his cheeks. Without blinking, he kept looking at the sky. Dark, grey and heavy clouds heaped onto each other, fighting and swording among themselves while thunder rumbled with every stroke. Flashes of light cast a luster against the melancholic and monochromatic background.

He was lost inside his mind until his mom called and broke his silent contemplation. “Aayu beta, baarish aane wali hai, Macho andar le aa,” Rain is about to start, come inside and bring the bed with you as well. He woke from his daydream, pulled up the Khaat, curled his fingers around the mooj rope and pulled it onto his waist. The wind blew dust and he watched a torrential downpour from the piazza. He was looking at a lawn. Water, through plastic pipes sourced from the terrace, was rushing through the end, creating a small flood like flow leading up to in the garden. Finally, a happy ending for the almost dead grass, he mused.

The house had a small garden at the entrance; the grass was mostly yellow as it was tough to keep it green in this part of the country. The sun ruled here and the only time the land received water was during the monsoons and from the fog in winter. Either way, the sun never took long to turn back the earths newly acquired green look into golden-yellow. Summer days were hot as hell and winter nights were biting cold.

As he walked inside the room, he noticed the broken tile at the entrance. His house was old with patches here and there signifying old repairs. Several generations had dwelled here and the building had seen changes with every new generation. His grandfather was now at the top of the command chain in the family but he gave very little instruction to anyone. His father would do all the planning instead. Aayush grew up between these walls and remembered every brick. He sailed them from the corner of the narrow street where the truck had unloaded. Along with his cousin and two younger sisters, they would have a baghi (a handcart to carry bricks in bulk, used by two people) in their hands and would move all the bricks inside at night. The masons would come in the morning and start the construction with no delay.

His father was a tough man and was well-reputed in his society. He always pushed his children to be tough and not sensitive like their mother. As the first child, he had the responsibility of eight siblings on him and he carried it out very well. His father used to work as the manager of a transport company and earned a lot of money and respect there. Now it’s been a decade since he started an event management business of his own at his native place. The business was booming and so was his reputation. Everyone in town knew his father and they recognized him as his son. Aayush always had trouble living up to his image.

His father was building a new house for the family at the corner of the same street and they were soon going to move in there. They thought that maybe a new place would bring some positive vibes and good fortune. But he had always dreamed of giving this house a makeover. He still remembered all the planning he had done in his head. Half the lawn would be converted into a parking space, big enough for at least two cars. The old gate in the corner would be replaced by a new one – huge and made of stainless steel. He would plant ashoka and jasmine trees along the boundary wall. There would be a big hall in the entrance with an open kitchen at the end. One corner would be for the dining area and another for an entertainment zone.

The house would have wooden floors and a circular wooden staircase which would lead up to the first floor where all the master bedrooms would be. Though construction of one room on the ground floor would be necessary since his mother wouldn’t be able to climb the stairs because of her knee joint pain. But that wouldn’t be a problem as the plot was big. Eighty-five feet long and 28 feet wide, enough to fit in everything he had imagined. Four rooms above – one for guests, two for his sisters and the best one for himself.

The circular staircase would go to the terrace as well. There would be a swing on the terrace where he would spend his leisure time and watch the sunset – it would be his place for meditation and contemplation. He would think. All the rooms and the hall would have high ceilings which will make for a terrace taller than everyone else’s. They would fly kites during the season there. It would be so much fun to do so from the peak, making it easier to compete with other kids. Aayush had it all figured out when he was young and he thought he would execute all his grand plans when he grew up and earned a lot of money. He grew up but the money remained nothing but a dream.

Most of the neighborhood belonged to the lower middle-class category. Waking up early in the morning, going to their small-scale businesses, taking a nap in the afternoon and shutting shop by twilight was the average life of any person here. Aayush belonged to a traditional Marwadi family and had three siblings. Rituals and customs were paramount here and, unlike any youngster from the corner, he wanted more from his life. Away from these traditions, he desired more money than he had, more freedom than he got and a generous bit of fame as well.

Aayush Sharma was a 29-year-old writer. His first book was published at the age of 22 and he has been waiting for his next break since then. He lived in Mumbai and was visiting his hometown after more than a year. So many things had changed in the last year. There were so many ups and downs, drama, happiness, even a climax. Everything was present in its own way.

This is the story about that one year of his life.

He took a nap in the afternoon while it was pouring outside, tired after the long train ride. He had reached in the morning and the afternoon had been busy with touching elders’ feet and filling in the family about his life in the city. He woke up after an hour. The clouds had parted and the sun was hiding somewhere under them. It was his first twilight on the terrace of his new home which he had visited after waking up.

On the three-story building, the wind was boisterous and the silence was audible. Last evening, Aayush was at Mumbai Central and the next, he was in a small town in Rajasthan. It sure felt weird. Depression had engulfed him at first but he slowly started to enjoy the silence and the peace that it brought. The question was for how long? It was normal for him to get bored after a while here. It was mostly because of the outdated beliefs and thinking of the people around. Even the idea of love marriage was revolutionary. But things need to change, he thought. It will start with him; that’s what he believed. It’s the freedom that youngsters miss in small towns like Fatehpur.

Aayush knew his visit was different this time. Something had changed inside his head. It was almost like he couldn’t recognize himself anymore. He thought he liked these changes but he wasn’t sure if they were good or bad for him. “Only time will tell the real difference,” he would say to himself. Sneaking out for cigarettes, slipping all kind of secrets, Aayush eventually started to find peace in honesty. He wasn’t to be mistaken for a saint since he also believed that it was better to slip two lies after five truths. But he meant good and it was safe to say he was not on the side of the devil, yet.

His honesty sure seemed rude and unexpected to others but he was trying on a different persona. Sure, it was too late for that but so far nothing had really worked for him. His friends would stare at him long enough to make him uncomfortable, trying to work out what had changed him. The last time he visited, he was reasonable and suddenly, after 13 months, he seemed like a completely different person.

At night, everyone slept by 11; only Aayush was awake. He went up to the terrace, inside the chobara – a bedroom on the terrace which usually remained unused and was cleaned only during his visits. He navigated with help from his phone’s flashlight and flipped on the switch for the tubelight. The interior was mostly the same, only the bedsheet had changed and the smell of unused space was evident. He listened to music through his earphones and recalled similar nights from his childhood that he had spent in this room. His study table lay at one corner, while an old black-and-white TV with a shutter in the front – a part of his mother’s dowry – lay in the other corner. All of this gave the room an ancient look; each wall was filled with memories from his childhood.

With soft and quiet music playing, he hummed for a little while, lying on his bed. As he remembered the lyrics, he sang along, alone in the night, staring at the ceiling through the moving blades of the fan. There was a moment of silence before the new song started. It was was Aaj jaane ki zid na karo by Farida Khanum. The track took him down the memory lane and gave him a kick of nostalgia, taking him back to last July when he met her. Aayush sat up with a new wave of energy, removed his earphones and gazed toward the old computer that was on his study table. It was covered with an ancient, dusty sheet. Aayush lifted the cover and switched on the machine. A tiny green light lit up first then the dark screen started to glow and finally, the Windows sign. It still worked. This gave him a strange kind of happiness. It took time to start and had no MS Word so he opened WordPad. After thinking for a brief moment, he started beating the ten-year-old keyboard to life.

Hie Pari,

I don’t know why I am writing this but I am going to go to old school this time. I remember the last time I wrote someone a letter. It was back when I was 17 and, suffice to say, it didn’t work very well. I promise this time will be no different. It’s 2:15 AM and I just want to pour out all my feelings. It’s funny when everything in this world fails to cheer me up but a pen and a piece of paper come to my rescue. Writing works like aspirin for me. I find relief and peace in it.

I don’t remember the exact moment when all this started. However, I do remember the day I saw you for the first time, everything changed from that moment. Before that I used to feel invincible, as if nothing could touch me. But then the very next second, my heart started beating outside my chest and was exposed to all the elements of nature...

2017, July 14

It was the summer of 2017 when they met for the first time. A typical afternoon at Mumbai University was an auditorium filled with graduate students, hunting for corner seats. A short, chubby woman in her thirties wearing MU faculty clothes helped the students settle down. “Settle down fast, students. You can go up there to the last row, yeah.”

The podium was at the left corner of the stage; the backdrop banner read Find Your Muse Monthly Writing Seminar.

The hall was filled with echoes of the indistinct, continuous chatter of students. A young anchor walked in and placed her material on the podium. She gently hit the mic, coughed a bit and grabbed everyone’s attention. The murmurs died down as she began.

“Good morning, everyone. My name is Arpita Ketkar. I welcome you all to our third week of classes. As you all know, the University of Mumbai has recently started conducting a weekly seminar to guide all you aspiring writers and help achieve your dreams. Today, as our faculty guest lecturer, we have one of the youngest writers in our country. He’s a desi man with lots of love and emotions in his words, tall dusky and mysterious. No, I am not describing a Bollywood star. His first book, Head over Heels, created quite a buzz in the literary world. Some even say he is the young “Andre Aciman” of India. I would like to quote a critic’s review of his book: it is a love letter by an amateur writer who is surprisingly able to bring all those real-life memories to life and can easily supply a nostalgic feel to anyone’s story of first love.” She smiled, “Please welcome Mr. Aayush Sharma.”

The audience started clapping and some girls giggled in the corner. A young man in his late 20s walked down to the center of the stage, through the left wing. “Thank you,” he said graciously smiled until the applause stopped. “Thank you very much for the kind introduction,” he added and looked around the hall. He shook his head, “I’ve got to be honest with you, the quote Arpita just read was not complete.” The auditorium was quiet. “There was a total of 38 words in the review. Time India reviewed my first book. The first and only book. Arpita just read 33 words; she missed five words.” He paused for a reaction and scanned the hall. All the student were watching him curiously.

“Now don’t get her wrong, she did her research well and I was called upon to speak at the last moment when, I guess, another, more famous, writer couldn’t show up.” He gazed to his right, past the podium and at the skeptical anchor inside the wings. He smiled and went on, “Arpita had very little time to dig up information on me. which is hard… if in case you haven’t noticed, I am not that famous.’

Everyone laughed.

“Or on Wikipedia,” he said. “And I had done everything in my power to remove those five words from the internet. What were those five words?” He paused for a moment and looked at everyone staring at him without blinking. “It’s a love letter by an amateur writer who is surprisingly able to bring all those real-life memories to life and can easily supply a nostalgic feel to anyone’s story of first love, however with an odd ending. However, with an ‘odd’ ending.” he repeated slowly.

He walked from the left side to the right side of stage and gave the listeners a moment to process the new information. “You know, someone once told me to never believe any sentence spoken before ‘but’ and ‘however’.”

Someone chuckled in the back and he identified the source. “Yeah,” he said. “Thirty-three kind words. Well, I wouldn’t say ‘amateur’ is a kind word, but still.” He walked around the stage and paused for a moment. He stopped and then continued, “Thirty-three versus five words and yet those five words change everything. That is the power of words my friends, the power of words. Now, I can’t teach you how to write and if anybody says he can then he is lying. What I can do is– “

The auditorium door at the front of the stage was opened, making a loud sound. The sun’s rays rushed inside, like they had hit the gates. Two girls walked in and a halo appeared through them. They showed no sign of worry for disturbing the seminar. They stopped in front of the stage, busy scanning through the audience to find a friendly face. Everyone stared at them. A guy from the left side raised his hand and gave them a destination.

2018, the present

You do know how to make an entrance. There you were with your friend and I am trying to remember what you were wearing that day, but I am sorry I can hardly recall that. My eyes were glued to your face. Your eyes were non-disruptively busy with finding a vacant seat in the crowd. You and your little, midget friend, Aaliya, had no idea you were disturbing a class which was on full swing five seconds ago. More than two hundred students were looking at you and you were busy locating a seat by your friend, as if you didn’t care. This lack of concern about others’ perceptions requires confidence, one thing I always envied about you...

2017, July 14

“Yaar, we are too late,” Aaliya said while they jogged through the veranda.

“No, I think we are just on time,” Pari replied as they reached the door and opened it.

Without giving much attention to the stage or anyone else, they started looking for empty seats. Without any concern for interrupting the seminar, they scanned for a friendly face. “There’s Nikhil,” Aaliya said, pointing at the corner.

“Where?” Pari asked and turned. “Oh, wo Raha.”

With duck steps, they climbed down the stairs, skipping one at a time to reach the middle. The rest of the auditorium, Aayush included, was staring at them and exchanging smiles with each other. Everyone looked well amused. Aaliya and Pari, who were still zigzagging toward their seats, noticed everyone smiling, including the person on the stage. They smiled back and continued with their zig-zag motions, their blushing faces looking down as they nudged toward the end.

2018, the present

I always enjoy the non-itinerary incidents during an event. But I would put those couple of minutes, where you disturbed my first ever class, at the top of my list. While some may not agree with my feelings here as a guest lecturer, I enjoyed the disruption very much. When you guys were settled, and after some awkward exchanges of looks, we moved ahead with the lecture. There’s not much I remember about that day. But I guess I gave some of my precious tips then. And, just to be clear, I might have tried a little harder not just because it was my first ever class or cause I wanted to leave a good impression, but also because I wanted your attention. If only I wished for something else that day...

2017, July 14

“Who’s this guy?” Pari asked, looking at the man on the stage.

“Aayush Sharma,” Aaliya replied. “The writer of Head over Heels, haven’t you read it?”

Pari was curious to know about him. He seemed very unconventional for a writer, almost contradictory in some ways. “He is too tall to be a writer,” she said.

“Hai Na? I know,” Aaliya giggled, “and he’s so fucking handsome as well!”

“Hmm, I am gonna ask him that question,” she replied, breaking into a michevious, lopsided grin. Pari had a question stuck in her mind since last night and she had been asking everyone about it. It started with Aaliya when she woke up, to the canteen uncle at breakfast and to Chatterjee ma’am in the second lecture. But no one had been able to satisfy her yet.

“Thank you very much, everyone,” Aayush smiled. “Now that I have just 15 minutes left, I am gonna take some questions.”

2018, the present

I usually chose the heads and hands to ask questions but I think your college was a peculiar kind. Back in those days, where I come from, when we attended boring seminars, there would just be a handful of people who asked or had any interest to ask a question. But much to my surprise, your auditorium was filled with raised hands. One of your college faculty, who I guess was assigned to operational ground duty that day and was apparently enjoying neither the seminar nor her work, took it upon herself to pick hands on my behalf. And I must say, it was quite evident that she wasn’t really fond of you. I saw her ignore you while you were obviously visible to the whole auditorium. She didn’t want you to ask any questions, and I got that. I wondered why and thought of giving you the nod myself. However, I controlled my urge to do so and assumed that the teacher knew who she was dealing with. But curiosity gnawed at my guts. I wanted to take the chance. But I took too long to think and missed the appropriate time to give you the green signal. But you being you, did the unexpected.

2017, July 14

“Ma’am, I have a question? Ma’am, MA’AM,” Pari said loudly, trying to gain the attention of her teacher.

“She won’t listen to you. I can guarantee that.” Aaliya chuckled. “Chatterjee Naam hai uska, Chatterjee.”

“Dekh bhi nahi rahi ye to, ma’am, ma’am, here!’ she cried as she continued her struggle for attention.

Meanwhile, Aayush had noticed everything. He heard a hiss from the wings. Arpita signed him, telling him to look at his wristwatch. It was time. “Okay, I think we are done for the day. We are already ten minutes past the scheduled time and Arpita ma’am is giving me a look,” he paused for a second as he played with his eyebrows and smiled before continuing, “A wrap-the-fuck-up look.”

The crowd burst into hysterical laughter. The faculty on the first row looked uncomfortable but the rest of the audience seemed to have a good time. It wasn’t a regular thing to hear swearing in the auditorium.

He took one last look at Pari and said, “It was really nice talking with all of you; I hope to see one of your names on the shelves. Until then, best of luck–”

“Sir, may I ask a question?” Pari interrupted him.

“Pari, haven’t you heard,” Chatterjee replied furiously. “the seminar is over.”

Before Pari could reply, Aayush interfered, “It’s okay ma’am, let her ask.” He turned his gaze, “Yes? Pari, right?”

“Yes, Pari Sandhu,” she smiled a little.

Trying to hide his blush by biting his teeth, he said, “Okay, Ms. Pari Sandhu, what do you wanna know?”

“Aayush, can I call you Aayush?”

“Please!” he said while the rest of the auditorium moved their gazes from his face to hers.

“Aayush, you talked about mistakes and you emphasized on finding the answer to our questions. You said, and I quote, ‘there is always an answer’. What if I ask this?”

Aayush smiled softly. She took a moment, coughed a bit and went on, “If you were given a chance to go back to your past and fix one mistake in your life, what would that be?”

He stared at her for a second, genuinely surprised and wondering what she was up to. After a moment he said. “Okay, that’s kind of a personal question, but you know what? I wouldn’t chan–”

Much to his surprise, Pari started speaking again, “I am sorry, I have something more to add.”

He was stunned and stared at her, confused.

“Yeah, I mean don’t say that you won’t change anything because mistakes make experience and experience makes a person better. That is not really how humans think. It isn’t even practical, but delight me with an honest and heartfelt answer.”

Aayush was taken aback, as was the audience, for the next couple of seconds. Everyone had gone down their memory lanes, searching for the mistake. Mrs. Chatterjee and Pari exchanged heated expressions. The whole time, Aayush was staring at her blankly. A moment later, he regained consciousmess and continued, “That will take a lot of time to answer. I will surely get back to you some other time.” He felt instantly stupid about his answer but that was the only thing he could come up with. Embarrassed, he felt the urge to disappear. “Thank you, everyone,” he said before bolting from the situation toward the shadow of the wings.

Pari and Mrs. Chatterjee exchanged a few more expressions. Everyone in the auditorium stood and started moving, in a queue, toward the exit. Pari, Aaliya and Nikhil followed the crowd into the sunlight outside. The sun felt very hot as they came out of the comfort of the auditorium’s centralized air conditioning. Pari walked ahead.

“What’s up with you?” Aaliya grabbed her elbow and stopped her.

“What?” Pari replied.

“What what? What’s up with that question already?”

“I think it was a good question,” Nikhil interrupted.

“Right?” Pari nodded toward him as they both grinned and high-fived each other.

“Ha, ha, ha.” Aaliya said, annoyed. “Yeah, it was an excellent question but why are you asking everyone this?”

“Who else did she ask?” Nikhil asked.

“Oh, let’s start from this morning,” Aaliya replied. “First it was me, then the hostel wala guard bhaiya, then Mrs. Chatterjee during history lecture and the hostel ma’am when we ran back to eat some snacks and then got late for the seminar,” Aaliya explained.

“We?” Pari cried. “No ‘we’. You had to eat the garlic bread because you forgot to put it in the fridge.”

“Okay, I got hungry,” Aaliya confessed. They both scanned her chubby structure from top to bottom and back up. “I forgot to put the garlic bread back so it was only right to go back and eat it. I saved the bread from stinking and killed my hunger before it killed me.” she replied, trying to sound cute.

“Oh, common now,” Nikhil said, “you two are being extremely melodramatic. But why are you asking everyone this question?” he highlighted the original topic. Aaliya agreed with a nod and they both looked at her for a logical explanation.

She hesitated, “Okay, last night I was watching this beauty pageant where one of the judges asked this question to a contestant.”

“Since when did you start watching beauty pageants?” Aaliya asked surprised.

“No,” she answered, shaking her head, “I don’t. I was actually getting bored and you were out with him. So I was just watching TV to overcome my boredom and to pass the time. And that was the only interesting thing on besides, of course, Sooryavansham but wo ab kitni Baar dekhe.”

Nikhil smiled. “Okay, so now you’re planning to become Miss India or something?” Aaliya replied.

“No.”

“No, you totally can but your height is not much.”

“Okay, first of all, I am 5’3” which is enough, according to Indian standards. And second,” she paused breifly before she gently went on, “I was watching it to find out what my answer would be if anyone ever asked me those questions. This particular question got to me because the girl answered ‘mistakes make experience and experience makes blah blah blah’, so I thought I should do better than that. After all, I am an archaeology student. So I got to thinking and came up with nothing.”

“And that’s why ab tum Kisi aur ko bhi jeene nahi dogi,” Aaliya joked.

2018 Present

Your question shook me. For a second, I actually went down memory lane and began to pull out my life’s biggest mistakes. I even came up with one but I didn’t have the courage to tell that story in front of a foreign audience. Also, I don’t think that would have been an appropriate response. At least, that was what I believed. My friend, Amit, agreed with me.

2017, July 15

Aayush lay on his back and was, half, under the sheets. He had one arm around a pillow and the other stretched across the rest of the bed. His neck and bare chest were on display. It was sunny outside but the room was air-conditioned and well-covered with thick curtains. He turned and rested on his stomach, wrapped an arm around a pillow and rolled onto his side. He moved his knee up and down, struggling to keep the sleep. He finally gave up and opened his eyes. Aayush threw the sheet to the corner of the bed and sat up lazily.

He found the AC remote near the lamp and switched it off. He pulled his pants up with the efforts of a pro-wrestler after a big fight and walked out of the bedroom, yawning. Aayush rubbed his eyes as he reached the fridge. He had opened the single door and was scanning the empty shelves when he heard a noise. Someone was unlocking the main door. He rushed toward the bedroom as the door opened.

“Good morning, buddy boy. Dekh Liya maine Aaja tu jaag Raha hai,” Amit said when he noticed Aayush running toward the bedroom.

“Shit,” Aayush murmured to express his acute resentment and walked back to the kitchen shelf.

Amit got busy looking for something in the corners and drawers of the house, like Sherlock Holmes would. He checked the ashtray on the table first, then the edge of sofas, below the coffee table and then he moved toward the TV.

“Coffee Piyega?” Aayush called from the kitchen. He was living in a one-Bhk flat in a popular suburban area in Mumbai. The main door opened to a hall that was filled with a rented three-seater sofa, two single sofas and a dark walnut table in between. It also had a bean bag, which was lying near the window, and a 40 inch TV set with wooden work around it at the other side.

There wasn’t a lot of decoration in the house except for the usual Buddha painting hung on one side of the wall. It was the previous tenant’s and he had never cared to remove it. There was one more hall-like space inside which accompanied the open kitchen, a fridge in the corner and a washing machine near the washrooms.

“Yes, my friend, definitely tere haath ki coffee naseeb walon ko milti hai but agar Chai mil jaaye to maza aa jayega,” Amit replied while continuing his search for hidden treasure.

“Chai khatam,” Aayush informed as he glanced at the empty jar of tea.

“Okay, coffee it is,” Amit replied. He went through all the drawers, from top to bottom, until he found it in the last one.

“There it is,” he smiled and gently took out the half-smoked joint. His finger crawled into his trouser pockets and he pulled out a lighter. He lit the burnt end and approached the sofa.

Aayush entered the room with two cups of coffee. “Aaj Subah subah, what’s the occasion?” he asked while he pushed the cup toward him.

“We are going to a party,” Amit replied, exchanging the cups with the joint. “Where we will not be able to drink alcohol.”

“Why do we have to go to a party where we can’t get drunk?”

“Because we have a meeting. An essential one and also, someone gets sleepy after drinking at parties.”

“Okay, that was one time. But yeah, my eyes feel heavy after drinking and party music works as a lullaby. I generally prefer to party on drugs.”

“Shut up, we are not doing any drugs today,” Amit replied, volunteering no more talk about the subject. “Acha, what happened to your lecture, Mr. Professor?”

“Well, it started off very good and it remained that way for the most part. But it went south before the end.”

“Hmm, that bad, huh?” Amit replied. “It was just a two-hour lecture about writing as a career. You could have just saved their time and told them to do something else with their lives.”

Aayush smiled, “You know what, you would be very proud and surprised to know, but that’s what I kinda did, in an indirect fashion.”

“Indirect fashion,” Amit repeated. “Yes, that’s the word. That’s how you do things. It never gets out of fashion, nice.” he replied, nodding at Aayush. “Anyway, what went wrong?”

Aayush looked at him and then turned his gaze. He took a long drag of the joint, sipped his coffee over it and went on, “If you had the chance to go back to your past and correct one mistake in your life, what would that be?”

Amit stared him with suspicion, took the joint and smoked a heavy drag. “Hmm,” he exhaled. “One mistake huh, one mistake… I don’t know man, there are so many mistakes in this life. It won’t be much of a difference even if I correct one.”

Aayush nodded in agreement, took back the joint and took another drag. “There was a girl,” he said, exhaling. He looked at the painting, trying to recollect his memories. “She asked me this question. I even tried giving her the correct answer but it was like she knew what I was gonna say to her. She stopped me just before I could say anything and…” He awhile to say anything further.

Amit was staring at his face, “And?”

“And don’t say you won’t change anything because mistakes make experience and experience makes a better person,” Aayush replied, imitating Pari.

“Then?”

“Then what,” he said. “I said we don’t have time now and I will get back to you later.”

Amit chuckled, “That’s my boy. Was she hot?” he asked.

“The girl?”

Amit nodded.

“Yeah, yeah she was beautiful. But I am not getting back to her if that’s what you mean.”

“Why not? You just said she’s beautiful, not hot, precisely.” he said, finger-quoting.

“Yeah, but don’t you think I might have to tell her one of my mistakes.”

“No. no, no, you don’t tell your mistake; you never do.”

“Hmm, I guess you’re right.” Aayush nodded.

“Yeah, you are a writer, come up with better, confusing shit.” Amit replied as he took a final drag.

“Am I a writer?” Aayush asked himself quietly.

Amit heard him and said, “You don’t think?”

He shook his head. “I am a fraud.”

“We are all frauds, my friend. We all are, until tested.” Amit replied, philosophically. “Now come on, get ready. We have a party to go to.”

“Why is this party so early?”

Amit stood up and walked toward the window. He drew the curtains and showed Aayush the evening dusk outside.

“It’s five pm my friend,” he said. “Twelve hours past morning. Get ready fast, we are going to a Bollywood party!”

“Bollywood party?”

“Yes, a Bollywood party. We might even see some Khans and Kapoors.” he said. “And we need to meet this creative guy from Dharma.”

Aayush had stood and had just started to walk when he stopped. “Dharma?”

“Yes, my friend from Dharma,” Amit replied, feeling a strange sense of pride.

“Jatin?”

“Yes… how did you know?”

“I met him once; he is gay,” Aayush replied and sat back on the sofa.

“When? Where was I? And so what if he is gay? Don’t be homophobic.”

“You were in Fatehpur with Pooja last month. I don’t have any problem with him being gay, but I think Uski Mujh Pe Gandi Nazar hai.”

Amit chuckled. “‘Gandi Nazar hai’! Okay see, these people are very professional. They might do healthy flirting and all but I don’t think they will ask more than that from a writer. A model or actor is a different case.”

“See, I know and I like it when gay people flirt with me. I enjoy that shit. Who doesn’t like when people desire you but they can’t have you? That’s kind of fun. But this guy creeps me out.”

Amit laughed. He knew gay men always had a thing for Aayush. They would sometimes sit and try to figure out what about him attracted boys. The subject had always amused Amit and he loved making fun of Aayush. But this time, he needed to convince him so he adjusted his urge to pull his legs. “Man up, dude man up. What is the most he could do to you? He can’t rape you. Look at yourself, you’re 6’3” with broad shoulders and a broad chest.

You can easily take three guys at a time; besides I will be there with you. We both can take at least five guys.” he said and wondered about the double meaning in the sentence. But before Aayush could notice he added, “And it’s a good thing that he likes you. He wants you and only you. He loves your writing, man! And it’s an added advantage if he also likes your ass.”

“It’s always nice to have one’s ass wanted but I am not sure if one’s feelings are reciprocated,” Aayush replied.

Amit paused for a moment. Quietly and seriously he said, “Don’t you want money? Don’t you want your dream of becoming a great writer to come true?”

“Seriously? No, not anymore.” Aayush would think that but then he was not sure if another part of him was convinced. He wasn’t sure of anything: money, dreams or being a great writer. He was never sure of what he actually wanted from his life. ‘Something big out of it’ was the only definition he had. Somehow, his first book happened and then he just cruised along. The book served well he got attention and respect.

But it’s now been more than six years since his first book. “It’s okay,” he often said to himself. “It’s not like I want to be Stephen King or somebody else. I will be fine even if I don’t write for a couple of years. Life seems good and greed is bad for a good life. But the wait for the next good thing never seems to end.”

I don’t think he’s gonna like my script, he thought. Why are you thinking like this? Only losers think like this. Maybe I am one. No, you’re not and don’t ever say that. But I have grown tired of continuously struggling. I always fail and luck abandoned me a long time ago. It’s okay, time will change things. What if I don’t have what it takes? What if I am just fooling myself and wasting my time? What if this is how I end up spending my life or what if it gets worse? Shut up, stop thinking all this; your head will explode.

Look, you are trying to write your next book. Yes, it’s been a while since you wrote anything, that’s true, but one day you will and until then, let’s make a fucking movie and earn some money. But it’s not easy; I don’t know how to write a movie. I am too cynical for a movie. I have seen them, I don’t know if I’ll be able to write punch line dialogues or action scenes or romantic lines. Yes, because those are all stupid. You will write something good, something great. Nobody knows what they are capable off until they find it themselves. Besides that, think of your mother, she has high hopes for you. And I think you are forgetting some things: rent, EMI for your car and this 40 inch TV which you never use. You can’t give up, this is a luxury you don’t have.

Amit stared at Aayush’s profile while he was busy contemplating things in his head. “What happened to you?” Amit asked.

“Huh? Nothing,” he replied and looked at him in wonder. “No, nothing. I’ll get ready, let me finish the coffee.” He stood up and got another joint. Amit looked at him, wondering what he thought when he lost himself in his mind. It was a usual with him. One second, he is with you and the next, he’s lost in his thoughts. When you ask about it, he shrugs it off as if it were nothing. Amit thought that maybe this is what all writers did. Aayush was smoking and holding a cup of coffee in one hand. He blew smoke onto its surface as he raised it to his lips.

“Are you okay?” Amit asked.

“Yeah, I am fine.”

“I thought I lost you.”

He smiled. “Yeah, I got a little carried away with my bohemian thoughts. Let me get myself clean, I think my armpits smell like a dead rat.” he said while feeling his arms.

“Oh, it’s you,” Amit replied

“Shut up, you motherfucker; roll up another joint. Don’t touch mine. The stash is in the other drawer; I’ll be back in some time.”

2018, the present

Just like everyone else, I also want to be rich and famous. But somewhere down the road when trying to reach my destination, I realized the journey might take a lot more time than I had imagined. I realized that I was not as intrigued as I was a night before. One moment, I wanted to be a great writer and the next moment, rich and famous. It sounds so inartistic, profoundly pathetic and kind of sad to have a dream like ‘to be rich and famous’. It’s so realistic that it’s almost stupid.

It loses the point, as some may argue, and the point was to have an actual goal in life that fulfills your soul. But then, some may say that being rich and famous is also a goal. Naturally, it was a long-shot to become rich and famous through artistic excellence alone. It’s the same as time traveling, theoretically possible but not achievable with the current technology and resources. So I cruised along, doing my thing, playing the fool, not really understanding and being far from reality. I was vaguely unclear until you found me.

2017 July 15

The sound of an age-old fan hanging from the ceiling dominated the afternoon silence of the college library. In between, there was indistinctive whisper coming from a corner. Pari and Aaliya were going through the bookshelves. As Pari was searching through the shelves, her eyes fall on one particular book. She gazed at it for a second and then continued her search. A moment later, she picked up the same book and opened the first page. There was a picture on the cover page.

Aaliya noticed, “Ohh, someone is stalking the tall writer?”

“Oh, come on, it’s not stalking,’ she replied, unable to hide her blush.

“Then what is it?” Aaliya asked, rolling her eyes. “Since when did you get interested in romantic novels?”

“No, just aise hi.. if it’s not good, I can put it back.”

Aaliya stopped her hand. “No, no, no. Please have it; I know you want to. Besides, it’s a great book, an excellent piece of art from a writer who is entirely loveable and, not to forget, tall and handsome. I am sure you will love it.”

Pari looked at her for a second, wondering what it was about him that made her so excited. She nodded, looking at the book and the two began to walk toward the librarian’s desk. Pari placed the book on the table and the librarian looked at Pari with her droopy eyes.

“No,” she said, adjusting her Harry Potter spectacles. “Put this back from where you got it.”

“Ma’am, please,” Pari begged

“No, Pari. You already have two books issued in your name; I can’t release any more books on your account. Two books at a time is the rule. You haven’t returned any of them either and it has been 45 days. I am going to charge you with a penalty this time.”

Pari and Aaliya looked at each other. Pari raised her eyebrows at her and she nodded back. “Ma’am, please issue this in my name,” Aaliya said and pushed the book toward her. “Currently, I don’t have any books issued from my account.”

Irritated, expanding her nozzle, she could only say, “Okay, I will. But you’re no saint, don’t forget I have waived your penalty twice already. Don’t expect any favors this time.” She issued the book with a warning. They nodded with utmost sincerity and walked out of the library.

“It’s like she hates us,” Aaliya whispered.

Pari smiled, “I don’t think it’s only us. She hates all college students.”

“Why? What did we do to her?”

“Nothing, stupid. She just gets irritated, probably because handling all the students in the library is frustrating. Nobody is allowed to talk in there but everyone does anyway, including us.”

“Hmm,” Aaliya paused, “or maybe she isn’t getting laid, huh? And by the way, my favorite place to have an important discussion.” She pointed her back to the library.

“Hashtag, me too,” Pari chuckled. “And maybe she hates us because we never return books on time.”

“Hmm, maybe. I still think the main reason is that she is not getting laid.” Aaliya nodded.

Pari smiled, “I think she has plenty of other reasons to hate us.”

“You are right and you know what? This book will be worth all the hate.”

“Oh, you think so?”

“Yes, I do,” Aaliya confirmed. They both chuckled and continued walking to the campus exit.

“Hey, tell me this,” Aaliya said. “How tall do you think he is? The writer?”

“I don’t know, definitely more than six feet.”

“Hmm, more than six feet. Do you think their penis size is correlated to their height?”

“What? No, I–I don’t know. Is it?”

“Fuck if I know dude, I never dated a guy taller than 5’8”.”

“How’s Nikhil’s?”

“Average height, average penis. How was Karthik’s?”

“Hmm, he was almost six feet and he had the right size.”

“Ummm, yum, yum!” Aaliya said, excited.

“Shut up, that’s not true, is it?”

“We shall never know,” Aaliya teased, trying to read her expression. Pari agreed and smiled. Aaliya looked at the exit. “Chalo beta, you go to the hostel, mummy has to go for a movie.”

“Movie? Which one?” Pari asked.

“Dunkirk,” Aaliya said. ’Guys like this… Nolan guy. He is the director.”

“But why you are going for this movie?” she looked at her curiously.

Aaliya smiled, checked her surroundings and pulled Pari close. “Nikhil asked me if I was interested in this movie and I said okay. It builds a good image, you know and things are going forward. Getting serious. Besides, he had two options, either have sex or take me to the movies. He is taking me to the film which means he wants more than just sex, which is a good thing.”