Tuesday, 7 February 2012

Perfect…


She felt fresh and like she had won the whole world in her dream. Her perfect life, she thought, perfect job, perfect place, and her love of the life. She was happy, happily being happy.

Very few like her get an off in the middle off the week. She was one of the lucky ones. However, at the cost of working her ass off previously during a period when she could have roamed around, partied hard and had a great time like the other girls of her age, then. But she chose to be a woman, then, making her life, sacrificing family, life, love and comfort. She worked and worked and worked to reach and be what she is today.

She was happy. “That’s all that matters and end of it.” But how would a person who have lived the previous seven or eight years of life, working throughout the week, spend an off day that too in the middle of the week.

“Surprise surprise.”

She got out of the bed finally and freshened up herself. “I just know what to do.”

Bombay, her first love, has been her support. Whenever she needed ideas, she ran off to the seaside, sat and out of nowhere ideas started flowing, sometimes unstoppable, clotting her brains, unmanageable.

She needed an idea now, “how to spend her day.” But Bombay gave her the idea what to do. “Surprise your man, make his week.”

She had her usual bread and butter, light toasted and lots of butter. Brown bread. Coffee, a substitute of Darjeeling tea which she missed since the day she left her home and some crappy tweeting to mark the start of the day.

She got into her favourite style of dressing. A casual shirt, jeans, her favourite crocs and the bag and jacket (a must even though winter in Mumbai meant only guarding yourself from the breeze, precisely guarding your hair from the breeze.)

Two books, one diary, one notebook, one pen, earphones, comb, which she never used, Vaseline which was kept to smoothen the tattoo on her wrist and wet napkins to clean herself if she is all of a sudden has to meet someone important and influential, even though she never used them.

Out, she went. It has been three years that she shifted to her favourite part of the city, Bandra. Her man’s office was in south of the city, another place which she loved hanging out. Before shifting to her graveyard facing, surrounded by nature, few walks away from the sea one BHK, she used to stay in the suburbia of the city. But half the time she spent her nights either with her man or with her friends at Juhu or Bandra. She had relatives too. But she made sure she created some issues and cut off all ties from the gossip-oriented relatives of her. It was just too much on her nerves, she already had a lot to sustain. However, she missed her baby, her sister, cousin. The candy of her eyes. They met secretly. They did.

“The train or the taxi, she thought.” In these last eight years, she had enough money to buy a small or even a long car but she choose not to. Wastage of money. Even though she craved for one, she decided she will one day with her man.

Her man. Seven years older than him, well settled. Bombay-wala but the stronger one of the male species. Decided to not join father’s company, made his life from scarps, wanted to become the next Shahrukh Khan but instead became Dhirubhai Ambani among his friends. It took him few years to become a popular person however little did he know all these happened due to the surname that he uses. Men. Good at lying to their own self. But all these didn’t attract her to him or him to her. A by chance encounter, a fight in one of Bombay’s famous pubs and a slap on the face led to love, longing, lust and understanding.

Marriage wasn’t on their minds. Independent, free, being missed, longed, etc. were some emotions and factors they struck onto. However, lately, with half of their friends, common and distant and not so friends, acquaintances getting married and bounded in legal license to make love out of everything, the word marriage was roaming on their minds, too. Her man was discussing about the wedding, “if we by chance decide to have one”, with a planner; she on the other half decided to window shop dresses that can hide the numerous tattoos on her body during the wedding.

Off. She thought, unusual gift that she gets rarely. Taxi. Let just pamper myself today. Even though the motif was to pamper the man. She took a taxi, and took the sea link and then, there she reached the south of Bombay, the Bombay, according to her man.

She got down; paid the cabbie, out of happiness, paid extra. She checked her whatsapp, the man’s status said “In a meeting, not at office."

“Very usual, she thought.” But that didn’t stop her from going to his house, and lighting up the space. She took another cab and went to his house. Downstairs, the guard gave a salute to her, they know her, and they knew what role she played in his life on the first day. As she was entering the lift, the guard came and said, “Ma’am sir is not at house.”

“I know, he is in a meeting.” And she walked ahead. The guard stopped her again. “Par what will you do if he isn’t there?”

“Excuse me?” And she walked off, without waiting to hear anything more.

She got an unusual feeling. She thought they never stopped me, even when the PEST control guys asked the man to stay away from the house for three days; she came to make sure everything was fine; they didn’t stop her, even though they did stop him.

“Whatever!” She thought.

She reached the floor, walked in the flat and stopped, she suddenly wasn’t feeling good.

She unlocked the door with the duplicate key and got in.

“I knew you will be coming, but so early I didn’t know. How is my little princess? What shocked to see me at home and decorate the place for you? Chauka dia na?!"

He was going on talking from the next room. The flat decorated as if Valentine’s Day appeared two months earlier. Sudden outburst of love. He was explaining how he did all these and asked her not to enter the bedroom until he asks.

She stood there, flabbergasted. She thought this is why I was feeling weird. I love my man, she said to herself. Then the man said from inside, giving signals that she can enter the bedroom now. She stood there, silently, hearing his voice, admiring the decoration. Perfect life. Perfect job. Perfect love.

He called out again. And then when no response came from her end, he called out again.

And then she heard him saying, “What will you keep standing there or help me in bed? C’mon your sister S doesn’t even wait so long. Act like her sis and not her cousin which you are.”

She wasn’t expected there. She stood. Five minutes.

An hour later she was back in Bandra. She wondered why she wasted her whole time and money. And then it’s her sister. Her baby.

She chanted, “Perfect life. Perfect job. Perfect…"

The full Perfect series for all the readers.

Sunday, 5 February 2012

Dear Dad, Yours loving Step-daughter


Dear Dad,

I was 9 when I first met you. Mom married again. And your ex-wife passed away. I didn’t know what it meant to be a step-daughter. Whenever I heard anyone say, “She is the step-daughter,” I felt it meant the child who learns to live on the steps of her father. I wanted to and I tried to live my life on your foot-steps. I hope I was able to.

When I was 15, you taught what high-school meant. While mom was teaching me about menopause and sex, I was learning you and your life. I differentiated each and every guy I met with you. Like Miranda, for me you were the only man I knew, even though there were lots of them around me then.

When I turned 18, we started moving far away. I used to hear you and mom discuss about your new daughter. I felt cheated, I felt jealous. I felt murderous. I knew I was growing up, I was going through a phase but I needed you, to help me tackle the inner evil that was drifting me away from you. I couldn’t bear the pain of slow separation.

As I entered my 21st birthday, you were there, smiling at me, with me, happy, cheering me up. But yet you were not there. I could feel myself separated from you. Like a just born child, cut off from the umbilical cord of the mother, I felt so, cutting away from you.

And then things started falling apart. I learnt what step-daughter meant. I did everything you asked me not to. I felt broken, shattered, and even guilty while doing everything that I promised I wouldn’t but hoping that my mistakes will make you rescue me.

A year later, we were in the same house. I lived my own life. You your own. Your nice little world. You, my mom and you and my mom’s daughter.

That night, I came late. Something happened. I don’t even remember. I just knocked on your door. I saw your eyes. You were hurt but it wasn’t I who did it. You were hurt for other reasons. I wanted you to tell me. You didn’t.

It’s now going to be a year. I miss you. I can’t remember your face, I can’t remember what were the things that we promised to do. I can’t even remember your birthday.

All I remember is the last words. It’s 1:50 AM. You were never my father. I was never your daughter. But we shared a bond. Unspoken. Beyond heart, soul, mind and blood.

I didn’t lose you, a year back. We lost ourselves. I miss you but things would have remained the same, had you been alive today. And I wish you were alive today to see that even in mistakes you are the only one I think about. And I will still follow your steps. Coz I am your step-daughter and you are my step-father.

Lovingly,
Your step-daughter.

I still follow your foot-steps.

The above letter is fictional and doesn't relate anyone in particular.