BOOKED TILL DECEMBER

“For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you”

                                                                                   Khalil Gibran

Part 2

“But why do all your stories have to end that way?” she protested.

Prakarsh realized that he had made a mistake. His life over the last year had changed completely. He never went out. No more parties, picnics, movies, night outs. He only wrote stories now in his leisure time. Sad ones.

In his last story, the central character was killed in a car accident. Two weeks later he had posted the first part of a new story. Her friend Sharmila Louis had read it and she was skeptic that the ending would have a death again.

 Prakarsh realized he was in a bus. Tact was needed. He knew Sharmila would have a bunch of arguments ready for his answer.

“O.k , I will ensure that this one has a happy ending.” he answered hoping she would take it.

“Liar”, she replied with anger. “You will kill the protagonist. Sad, sad, sad.”

“Oh my God, we have reached our stop. Phew, how time flies.”

Sharmila worked at an advertising agency at a stone’s throw from Prakarsh's new office. Today as she was about to start for office, her driver announced that the car had a broken tire. Reluctantly, she took a bus. And of all the people she had expected to meet, she saw her college friend Prakarsh.

“Bye for now. But remember Prakarsh, I will hate you if you kill the protagonist this time.”

With that, she walked to the alley leading to her workplace.

Prakarsh turned to the opposite side of the pavement. As he walked towards his office, Sharmila's words kept ringing in his head. Sad, sad, sad.

But then, that was exactly what his life had become over the last year. Friends who had known Prakarsh of the old would have never recognized this sober, somber office going guy. It was the past. Prakarsh wondered how long it would continue to haunt him. He had tried everything to escape the memories. Not one had worked. Sometimes he wished if there was a potion to erase the past. Something that would change his present for the better.

It was almost an answer to his fancy that she shouted.

“You are going to kill her aren't you?”

Prakarsh stopped. The huskiness of the voice, the enchantment of the speech, the mysterious interest that it invited, yes, he had heard the voice before.

He turned back.

The girl was right behind him. Dressed in a blue suit, she had lost some of the radiance, but none of the innocence. The smile was still one that would make people want to live, live an extra moment and thank god for it. Prakarsh noted that her hairs were colored a shade of burgundy. They were untied, and as the wind blew they swirled around her face. But she didn’t blink.

“Aren't you?” she repeated.

For a moment he was dumbfounded.

“What?” he exclaimed.

“You will kill the protagonist.”

“Excuse me? Do we know each other?” Prakarsh asked.

“Don’t tell me you have forgot me so easily? How many Patna trips have you missed?”

And then it dawned on him.

“You? I never thought I would be seeing you again”, he knew he was lying the moment the words came out.

The girl put her right arm on her hips. Dangling from the arm was a brown leather purse.

The girl had still not forgotten the one liner. The most innocent thing someone had ever told her.

“Well how could we not meet? I had to thank you.”

She turned her left palm inside out and smiled again. The tattoo of the heart. He saw it again.

“This heart. It pumps the blood that you gave it” , with that she laughed.

Prakarsh closed his eyes. Like all those memories that he had wanted to forget, this one rushed up to his reminiscence too.

The following day at the hospital. It was her......

The Past

He rubbed his eyes and looked at the watch. He realized he had had only 4 hours of sleep. He saw the message. It was from Swapnil. “Prakarsh, can you please drive my parents to the hospital in the morning. I am still at the hospital. Thanks yaar.”

Hours ago he had seen Swapnil cry as her wife delivered a beautiful baby girl. How happy he was! They both were so happy. The perfect couple. Sometimes love works.

 Sometimes it does not.

He was dead tired. He had a hell lot of work pending. But for a friend, he could never say no.

He didn’t bother about having breakfast. He took the train, went straight to Swapnil’s house and drove his parents to the hospital.

Two hours had passed. It was already 12. He had to collate the sales figures of Eastern India. He was rushing down the stairs, and he almost made it to the entrance. Then he heard the announcement

“A girl in operation theatre 12 urgently needs A+ blood. Those willing to donate please contact the reception immediately”

He noted the time, ignored the announcement and left. But at the portico he heard it again.

This time the last of those words caught his attention.

“THE BLOOD IS NEEDED ASAP.  SOMEONE’S LIFE DEPENDS ON YOU.”

He stopped. About a year ago, he had messaged the same thing to a person. Someone’s life depends on you.

He had seen how Swapnil had broken down when the operation was taking place yesterday. Someone would be in the same state today. He knew he was a universal donor.  He looked at his watch and shrieked. “Bullshit”, he muttered.

He called the one person who he knew could save him. Ashraf. He had joined his sales team recently.

He rang him up. “Ashraf?”

“Prakarsh Sir? Kahaan hai aap? Itna late?”

“Ashraf can you make the presentation on the eastern sales figures and give it to the boss?”

“Umm… sure thing sir, where is the data?”

“I am mailing it to you.”

“It will be done. You don’t worry one bit.”

Prakarsh heaved a sigh of relief. With Ashraf around he never felt uneasy.

“I owe you one buddy.”

The voice at the other end chuckled.

“That you do Sir.”

 Prakarsh mailed the sales figures from his cell and started back to the reception desk.

It took 4 hours. Prakarsh kept looking at the inflammation on his elbow where the needle had been pierced. 330 ml of blood. He wondered how much time it would take to get it back. As he was pondering over this, he noticed a lady approaching him. Her attire looked that of a nurse, but her cap gave her the look of a medieval Victorian maid.

“We will give you the certificate a week later. You need to keep this memo. You can now get a blood transfusion from any of our 5 hospitals”

She handed him a wafer thin piece of paper. Prakarsh shoved it in his pocket and got off the hospital bed.

“Prakarsh,” he heard the nurse call her again. He was scared they would ask him to donate again.

“Don’t you want to know the name of the girl whose life you saved?”

Prakarsh scowled. I don’t give a damn. I am starting to feel it was a mistake.

“Naah, I have a no names policy in all my dealings. Thanks anyways.”

The nurse grinned.

She tried to stare and find out more about this guy. She could not. He was impregnable.

“Anyways...I will tell you her name”

She bend over and started typing haphazardly on the key board.

“The girls name is Aasman....”

She looked up and realized he had left. She periscoped her head to see if he was anywhere near. He had gone.

“Aasmaan Pervez” she nevertheless completed the monologue.

................................................

“You didn’t think we will not meet again did you? Not before I get a chance to thank you.”

Prakarsh just realized they were walking together.

He was uncomfortable with words like Thank you, words that initiated a bonding that he had now grown to hate.

“It was nothing”, he remarked, “You work here?”

“Yes. Very close to your office”, she said the words   as if to arouse a sense of conversation. Prakarsh didn’t take the hint.

“How do you know where I work?”

Because for the last three months I have been sitting right behind you in the bus that you take, following your blog, your words. Following everything about the person who gave me a life. She didn’t say anything.

“You will kill the protagonist in your story, wont you?”

Prakarsh looked blankly her.

“It was nice talking to you. That is my office.” he turned to the pavement leading to the office.

He kept walking but he had a vague feeling she was still there. When he turned back, she was gone.

That night as he slept, he had a strange dream. Amidst the starry sky, he saw a face covered in a black hijaab. Between the cover he could just see the eyes, the kohl lining them and the serenity it gave him. He moved forward to touch the face, but it disappeared almost instantly. He woke up feeling terrible. The eyes, the blue eyes....it reminded him of someone. He didn’t try to think too much about it. The sales figures of Hindustan Unilever were more important. He got off from the bed.

When he got on the bus, he was concerned about meeting the girl again. But with half of the distance traversed, Prakarsh started breathing easy. Only when he was about to get down that he felt her breath and realized the proximity between them.

“So have you decided yet?”

The two got down but it was a while before she repeated her query.

“Prakarsh, will you kill him in the story?”

Prakarsh didn’t want to answer. It was stupid. Even caring to reply.

“How does it matter? Why are you so hyper over such a trifle? I will kill him. That is what I will do. Don’t start losing your sleep over it. No one else will.”

She was a little taken aback by the brusqueness of his words. This was not the same smiling guy who had flirted with her on the flight. But then, she had realized that long time back.

The traffic at the Theatre Road crossing had taken a turn for the worse and both of them kept waiting. When the signal turned green, she spoke.

“It does matter. The little things. They matter.”

Prakarsh shook his head. He was walking briskly now. He had to get rid of this girl.

But the girl quickened her pace.

“Yes they do. The little things. Like this one.”

For a moment, he thought she was pointing her hand to the taxi driver peeing across the wall. But then the pink petal of the bougainvillea swirled and he knew that is what she was mentioning.

The petal landed right in front of his feet. He walked over it caring not to trample, lest it encourage a new topic on plant inhumanity.

“You know in the Mesopotamian civilization, they believe if you see the bougainvillea flower fall in the spring, you fall in love.”

Prakarsh almost halted. The word actually made him shudder these days. He felt a surge of anger, the memories unleashed again. The past. His past.

“We have three bougainvillea plants in our garden. But we stick the flowers with glue. So thankfully they never fall.” He laughed at his stark sense of humor. Hopefully this should shut her mouth.

“You know when I was recuperating from”, she stopped and changed her words. “Whenever I used to feel unwell in the last few months, I used to read your old stories, stories with happy endings, of dreams coming true, of hopes getting a lease. It matters Prakarsh. It does.”

She stopped and took a turn. Prakarsh then realized she had reached the crossing that led her office.

Had Prakarsh looked a second later, Prakarsh would have missed her eyes. But then he looked at her. The color of the eyes. They were deep blue.

It was Thursday night. Prakarsh stared blankly at his laptop. The story for his blog. He had to finish his story tonight. Deep down, he knew he had to kill the hero. There were times when he had contemplated taking his life during the last year. He could not muster the strength. It was then that he started writing stories. Dark ones. In which he would kill the central character as a manifestation of his own desire to do so. It made him feel good. It made him feel under control.

It matters Prakarsh. It matters. The words of the girl kept ringing. He tried not to think of her. But if heart had the power to do what was right, wars would never have been. Her voice kept ringing. Of hope, of dreams coming true.

“Bull shit,” he muttered.

He was relieved when next day he did not see her in the bus. He was scared she had read the story and would give her views even when they were not welcomed.

But the euphoria was short lived. When he was returning, on his way back, she got on the same bus. He was not surprised when she approached him with a smile. He looked around. All seats where occupied. He wanted to look up at the skies and curse the heaven. She stood near him. She kept smiling. He stood up and offered her the seat. She sat down. She was still smiling.

“So what is so funny that I am missing”, Prakarsh asked.

“The happy ending. I loved it. Thanks.”

Prakarsh raised his eyebrows, “Thanks? For what? I never did it for any one. The story demanded it. I kept him alive because I will bring a sequel to it.”

He was relieved that he had answers ready for almost anything. A stint in marketing selling detergents to villagers in Patna makes you good at that.

She swiped her cell. Prakarsh noticed she was browsing through his blog. He pretended not to notice.

Half an hour later, Aasman, raised her head. She had reached her stop. As she stood, she grinned and asked, “Prakarsh , the sequel. Will that have a happy ending too?”

Prakarsh lost his cool. This girl was too much to take. He knew he was in a bus so he said in a hushed voice.

“You know it does not matter. I will kill everyone in the story. These things don’t matter. Your little things. Hope, dreams and all of your beliefs. Baloney. Life is about the misery God offers to punish all of us. All of this hope, beautiful life crap, I don’t believe in a shit of it.”

When he stopped, he marveled as to how softly he could say all of those words.

Aasman turned grim. She was about to leave when she said, “You can believe in anything that you put your heart in. I always do.”

She got off. The bus was stuck in a jam. Prakarsh took the seat vacated by her. He looked through the window. She was standing on the pedestrian pavement very close to the bus. Almost wanting to whisper something to him. He turned and looked at her.

“Prakarsh there is no such thing about the bougainvillea plant in the Mesopotamian civilization, but you know, I do believe in it.” she walked away.

 The jam cleared and the bus moved.

That night before sleeping he checked his blog. He read the story. A happy ending. It had been a while since he had written stories like that. He felt good. All his life, he had been good at making people smile. He was good at it. How things had changed!

He was about to log off when he saw a comment on his blog.

He noted the name.

AASMAN PERVEZ

A muslim. For a flicker of a second, his thought went on the hijaab that he saw in the dream.

Then he read her comment on the story.

A perfect ending for a perfect story. Made me smile and happy, and is not that the reason why stories are written in the first place.

He shut down his laptop. He just remembered tomorrow was Saturday, a holiday. He would have to wake up early and bring milk. He set his alarm clock. He had the strange dream again. However this time he could see her face clearly, the eyes, the curvature of the lips, the smile.

He woke up. He gulped water and slept again. And as he slept, he admitted a fact to himself. Aasman Pervez may not be the typical friend he would ever have, but after that day he knew they were not strangers anymore.

The alarm clock rang harshly. Prakarsh moved his hands around the side table hoping to choke the clock. He could not. He woke up. Saturday. He loved the fact that he would not have to deal with sales figures. He hated the fact that it was milk day.

He took his brush and moved to the balcony. He looked down at his garden infront. There was a sea of pink. Bougainvillea flowers scattered all over. In the corners, on the railings of the boundary wall, near the artificial fountain, the sea of pink was everywhere. The gardener was using a shovel to put them together. Prakarsh saw his father growling at the gardener. Prakarsh did not laugh. How did this....

His father looked up at him.

“The Norwester. It came last night. And look at the havoc. We will not be planting any bougainvillea this year. Such a mess.”

After that explanation was offered, Prakarsh's father went back to hurling abuses at the inefficiency of the gardener.

Prakarsh went to the wash basin. He looked at his face in the mirror.

The words came back to him.

You believe in anything that you want to.

Prakarsh gargled and went back to bed. He pulled over his blanket and shut his eyes.

“God please, please, please....I don’t want it to begin again.”

The only problem was.....

It had already begun.

A story by Pranay Tiwari

Part 3 next week.

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