Posted:
Hey guyz
well i am a huge fan of nicholas sparks and i loved all his book,esp;message in a bottle so i thought of converting it in a fic of armaan riddhima!well lemme clear it here and now this is not my work!i m just changing the names of the characters of message in a bottle to dmg characters......
and thus i m not plagerising coz it is NOT MY WORK i repeat again this story is by NICHOLAS SPARKS
so lemme give u the prologue and the part 1 will be up soon....atleast i hope so,
buh lemme inform u :i m very bad at keeping promises
PROLOGUE
The bottle was dropped overboard on a warm summer evening, a few hours before the rain began
to fall. Like all bottles, it was fragile and would break if dropped a few feet from the ground. But
when sealed properly and sent to sea, as this one was, it became one of the most seaworthy
objects known to man. It could float safely through hurricanes or tropical storms, it could bob
atop the most dangerous of riptides. It was, in a way, the ideal home for the message it carried
inside, a message that had been sent to fulfill a promise.
Like that of all bottles left to the whim of the oceans, its course was unpredictable. Winds and
currents play large roles in any bottle's direction; storms and debris may shift its course as well.
Occasionally a fishing net will snag a bottle and carry it a dozen miles in the opposite direction
in which it was headed. The result is that two bottles dropped simultaneously into the ocean
might end up a continent apart, or even on opposite sides of the globe. There is no way to predict
where a bottle might travel, and that is part of its mystery.
This mystery has intrigued people for as long as there have been bottles, and a few people have
tried to learn more about it. In 1929 a crew of German scientists set out to track the journey of
one particular bottle. It was set to sea in the South Indian Ocean with a note inside asking the
finder to record the location where it washed up and to throw it back into the sea. By 1935 it had
rounded the world and traveled approximately sixteen thousand miles, the longest distance
officially recorded.
Messages in bottles have been chronicled for centuries and include some of the most famous
names in history. Ben Franklin, for instance, used message-carrying bottles to compile a basic
knowledge of East Coast currents in the mid-1700s'information that is still in use to this day.
Even now the U.S. Navy uses bottles to compile information on tides and currents, and they are
frequently used to track the direction of oil spills.
The most celebrated message ever sent concerned a young sailor in 1784, Chunosuke
Matsuyama, who was stranded on a coral reef, devoid of food and water after his boat was
shipwrecked. Before his death, he carved the account of what had happened on a piece of wood,
then sealed the message in a bottle. In 1935, 150 years after it had been set afloat, it washed up
in the small seaside village in Japan where Matsuyama had been born.
The bottle that had been dropped on a warm summer evening, however, did not contain a
message about a shipwreck, nor was it being used to chart the seas. But it did contain a message
that would change two people forever, two people who would otherwise never have met, and for
this reason it could be called a fated message. For six days it slowly floated in a northeasterly
direction, driven by winds from a high-pressure system hovering above the Gulf of Mexico. On
the seventh day the winds died, and the bottle steered itself directly eastward, eventually finding
its way to the Gulf Stream, where it then picked up speed, traveling north at almost seventy miles
per day.
Two and a half weeks after its launch, the bottle still followed the Gulf Stream. On the
seventeenth day, however, another storm'this time over the mid-Atlantic'brought easterly
winds strong enough to drive the bottle from the current, and the bottle began to drift toward
New England. Without the Gulf Stream forcing it along, the bottle slowed again and it zigzagged
in various directions near the Massachusetts shore for five days until it was snagged in a fishing
net by John Hanes. Hanes found the bottle surrounded by a thousand flopping perch and tossed it
aside while he examined his catch. As luck would have it, the bottle didn't break, but it was
promptly forgotten and remained near the bow of the boat for the rest of the afternoon and early
evening as the boat made its journey back to Cape Cod Bay. At eight-thirty that night'and once
the boat was safely inside the confines of the bay'Hanes stumbled across the bottle again while
smoking a cigarette. Because the sun was dropping lower in the sky, he picked it up but saw
nothing unusual inside, and he tossed it overboard without a second glance, thereby insuring that
the bottle would wash up along one of the many small communities that lined the bay.
It didn't happen right away, however. The bottle drifted back and forth for a few days'as if
deciding where to go before choosing its course'and it finally washed up along the shore on a
beach near Chatham.And it was there, after 26 days and 738 miles, that it ended its journey.
The bottle was dropped overboard on a warm summer evening, a few hours before the rain began
to fall. Like all bottles, it was fragile and would break if dropped a few feet from the ground. But
when sealed properly and sent to sea, as this one was, it became one of the most seaworthy
objects known to man. It could float safely through hurricanes or tropical storms, it could bob
atop the most dangerous of riptides. It was, in a way, the ideal home for the message it carried
inside, a message that had been sent to fulfill a promise.
Like that of all bottles left to the whim of the oceans, its course was unpredictable. Winds and
currents play large roles in any bottle's direction; storms and debris may shift its course as well.
Occasionally a fishing net will snag a bottle and carry it a dozen miles in the opposite direction
in which it was headed. The result is that two bottles dropped simultaneously into the ocean
might end up a continent apart, or even on opposite sides of the globe. There is no way to predict
where a bottle might travel, and that is part of its mystery.
This mystery has intrigued people for as long as there have been bottles, and a few people have
tried to learn more about it. In 1929 a crew of German scientists set out to track the journey of
one particular bottle. It was set to sea in the South Indian Ocean with a note inside asking the
finder to record the location where it washed up and to throw it back into the sea. By 1935 it had
rounded the world and traveled approximately sixteen thousand miles, the longest distance
officially recorded.
Messages in bottles have been chronicled for centuries and include some of the most famous
names in history. Ben Franklin, for instance, used message-carrying bottles to compile a basic
knowledge of East Coast currents in the mid-1700s'information that is still in use to this day.
Even now the U.S. Navy uses bottles to compile information on tides and currents, and they are
frequently used to track the direction of oil spills.
The most celebrated message ever sent concerned a young sailor in 1784, Chunosuke
Matsuyama, who was stranded on a coral reef, devoid of food and water after his boat was
shipwrecked. Before his death, he carved the account of what had happened on a piece of wood,
then sealed the message in a bottle. In 1935, 150 years after it had been set afloat, it washed up
in the small seaside village in Japan where Matsuyama had been born.
The bottle that had been dropped on a warm summer evening, however, did not contain a
message about a shipwreck, nor was it being used to chart the seas. But it did contain a message
that would change two people forever, two people who would otherwise never have met, and for
this reason it could be called a fated message. For six days it slowly floated in a northeasterly
direction, driven by winds from a high-pressure system hovering above the Gulf of Mexico. On
the seventh day the winds died, and the bottle steered itself directly eastward, eventually finding
its way to the Gulf Stream, where it then picked up speed, traveling north at almost seventy miles
per day.
Two and a half weeks after its launch, the bottle still followed the Gulf Stream. On the
seventeenth day, however, another storm'this time over the mid-Atlantic'brought easterly
winds strong enough to drive the bottle from the current, and the bottle began to drift toward
New England. Without the Gulf Stream forcing it along, the bottle slowed again and it zigzagged
in various directions near the Massachusetts shore for five days until it was snagged in a fishing
net by John Hanes. Hanes found the bottle surrounded by a thousand flopping perch and tossed it
aside while he examined his catch. As luck would have it, the bottle didn't break, but it was
promptly forgotten and remained near the bow of the boat for the rest of the afternoon and early
evening as the boat made its journey back to Cape Cod Bay. At eight-thirty that night'and once
the boat was safely inside the confines of the bay'Hanes stumbled across the bottle again while
smoking a cigarette. Because the sun was dropping lower in the sky, he picked it up but saw
nothing unusual inside, and he tossed it overboard without a second glance, thereby insuring that
the bottle would wash up along one of the many small communities that lined the bay.
It didn't happen right away, however. The bottle drifted back and forth for a few days'as if
deciding where to go before choosing its course'and it finally washed up along the shore on a
beach near Chatham.And it was there, after 26 days and 738 miles, that it ended its journey.
P.S.:do comment!!!!!!!
love ya!
sophia
CHAPTER 1
A cold December wind was blowing, and Riddhima Gupta crossed her arms as she stared out
over the water. Earlier, when she'd arrived, there had been a few people walking along the shore,
but they'd taken note of the clouds and were long since gone. Now she found herself alone on the
beach, and she took in her surroundings. The ocean, reflecting the color of the sky, looked like
liquid iron, and waves rolled up steadily on the shore. Heavy clouds were descending slowly, and
the fog was beginning to thicken, making the horizon invisible. In another place, in another time,
she would have felt the majesty of the beauty around her, but as she stood on the beach, she
realized that she didn't feel anything at all. In a way, she felt as if she weren't really here, as if the
whole thing was nothing but a dream.
She'd driven here this morning, though she scarcely remembered the trip at all. When she'd made
the decision to come, she'd planned to stay overnight. She'd made the arrangements and had even
looked forward to a quiet night away from Boston, but watching the ocean swirl and churn made
her realize that she didn't want to stay. She would drive home as soon as she was finished, no
matter how late it was.
When she was finally ready, Riddhima slowly started to walk toward the water. Beneath her arm
she carried a bag that she had carefully packed that morning, making sure that she hadn't
forgotten anything. She hadn't told anyone what she carried with her, nor had she told them what
she'd intended to do today. Instead she'd said that she was going Christmas shopping. It was the
perfect excuse, and though she was sure that they would have understood had she told them the
truth, this trip was something she didn't want to share with anyone. It had started with her alone,
and that was the same way she wanted it to end.
Riddhima sighed and checked her watch. Soon it would be high tide, and it was then that she would
finally be ready. After finding a spot on a small dune that looked comfortable, she sat in the sand
and opened her bag. Searching through it, she found the envelope she wanted. Taking a deep
breath, she slowly lifted the seal.
In it were three letters, carefully folded, letters that she'd read more times than she could count.
Holding them in front of her, she sat on the sand and stared at them.
In the bag were other items as well, though she wasn't ready to look at those yet. Instead she
continued to focus on the letters. He'd used a fountain pen when he'd written them, and there
were smudges in various places where the pen had leaked. The stationery, with its picture of a
sailing ship in the upper right hand corner, was beginning to discolor in places, fading slowly
with the passage of time. She knew there would come a day when the words would be impossible
to read, but hopefully, after today, she wouldn't feel the need to look at them so often.
When she finished, she slipped them back into the envelope as carefully as she'd removed them.
Then, after putting the envelope back into the bag, she looked at the beach again. From where she
was sitting, she could see the place where it had all started.
* * *
She'd been jogging at daybreak, she remembered, and she could picture that summer morning
clearly. It was the beginning of a beautiful day. As she took in the world around her, she listened
to the high-pitched squawking of terns and the gentle lapping of the waves as they rolled up on
the sand. Even though she was on vacation, she had risen early enough to run so that she didn't
have to watch where she was going. In a few hours the beach would be packed with tourists lying
on their towels in the hot New England sun, soaking up the rays. Cape Cod was always crowded
at that time of year, but most vacationers tended to sleep a little later, and she enjoyed the
sensation of jogging on the hard, smooth sand left from the outgoing tide. Unlike the sidewalks
back home, the sand seemed to give just enough, and she knew her knees wouldn't ache as they
sometimes did after running on cemented pathways.
She had always liked to jog, a habit she had picked up from running cross-country and track in
high school. Though she wasn't competitive anymore and seldom timed her runs, running was
now one of the few times she could be alone with her thoughts. She considered it to be a kind of
meditation, which was why she liked to do it alone. She never could understand why people liked
to run in groups.
As much as she loved her son, she was glad Gappu wasn't with her. Every mother needs a break
sometimes, and she was looking forward to taking it easy while she was here. No evening soccer
games or swim meets, no MTV blaring in the background, no homework to help with, no waking
up in the middle of the night to comfort him when he got leg cramps. She had taken him to the
airport three days ago to catch a plane to visit his father'her ex'in California, and it was only
after reminding him that Gappu realized he hadn't hugged or kissed her good-bye yet. "Sorry,
Mom," he said as he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her. "Love you. Don't miss me too
much, okay?" Then, turning around, he handed the ticket to the flight attendant and almost
skipped onto the plane without looking back.
She didn't blame him for almost forgetting. At twelve he was in that awkward phase when he
thought that hugging and kissing his mom in public wasn't cool. Besides, his mind was on other
things. He had been looking forward to this trip since last Christmas. He and his father were
going to the Grand Canyon, then would spend a week rafting down the Colorado River, and
finally go on to Disneyland. It was every kid's fantasy trip, and she was happy for him. Although
he would be gone for six weeks, she knew it was good for Gappu to spend time with his father.
She and Abhi had been on relatively good terms since they'd divorced three years ago. Although
he wasn't the greatest husband, he was a good father to Gappu. He never missed sending a
birthday or Christmas gift, called weekly, and traveled across the country a few times a year just
to spend weekends with his son. Then, of course, there were the court-mandated visits as well'
six weeks in the summer, every other Christmas, and Easter break when school let out for a week.
Nikki, Abhi's new wife, had her hands full with the baby, but Gappu liked her a lot, and he
had never returned home feeling angry or neglected. In fact, he usually raved about his visits and
how much fun he had. There were times when she felt a twinge of jealousy at that, but she did her
best to hide it from Gappu.
Now, on the beach, she ran at a moderate clip. Anjali would be waiting for her to finish her run
before she started breakfast'Atul would already be gone, she knew'and Riddhima looked
forward to visiting with her. They were an older couple'both of them were nearing sixty now'
but Anjali was the best friend she had.
The managing editor at the newspaper where Riddhima worked, Anjali had been coming to the
Cape with her husband, Atul, for years. They always stayed in the same place, the Fisher House,
and when she found out that Gappu was leaving to visit his father in California for a good portion
of the summer, she insisted that Riddhima come along. "Atul golfs every day he's here, and I'd
like the company," she'd said, "and besides, what else are you going to do? You've got to get out
of that apartment sometime." Riddhima knew she was right, and after a few days of thinking it
over, she finally agreed. "I'm so glad," Anjali had said with a victorious look on her face.
"You're going to love it there."
Riddhima had to admit it was a nice place to stay. The Fisher House was a beautifully restored
captain's house that sat on the edge of a rocky cliff overlooking Cape Cod Bay, and when she
saw it in the distance, she slowed to a jog. Unlike the younger runners who sped up toward the
end of their runs, she preferred to slow down and take it easy. At thirty-six, she didn't recover as
fast as she once had.
As her breathing eased, she thought about how she would spend the rest of her day. She had
brought five books with her for the vacation, books she had been wanting to read for the last year
but had never gotten around to. There just didn't seem to be enough time anymore'not with
Gappu and his never-ending energy, keeping up with the housework, and definitely not with all
the work constantly piled on her desk. As a syndicated columnist for the Boston Times, she was
under constant deadline pressure to put out three columns a week. Most of her co-workers
thought she had it made'just type up three hundred words and be done for the day'but it
wasn't like that at all. To constantly come up with something original regarding parenting wasn't
easy anymore'especially if she wanted to syndicate further. Already her column, "Modern
Parenting," went out in sixty newspapers across the country, though most ran only one or two of
her columns in a given week. And because the syndication offers had started only eighteen
months ago and she was a newcomer to most papers, she couldn't afford even a few "off" days.
Column space in most newspapers was extremely limited, and hundreds of columnists were
vying for those few spots.
Riddhima slowed to a walk and finally stopped as a Caspian tern circled overhead. The humidity
was up and she used her forearm to wipe the perspiration from her face. She took a deep breath,
held it for a moment, then exhaled before looking out over the water. Because it was early, the
ocean was still murky gray, but that would change once the sun rose a little higher. It looked
enticing. After a moment she took off her shoes and socks, then walked to the water's edge to let
the tiny waves lap over her feet. The water was refreshing, and she spent a few minutes wading
back and forth. She was suddenly glad she had taken the time to write extra columns over the last
few months so that she would be able to forget work this week. She couldn't remember the last
time she didn't have a computer nearby, or a meeting to attend, or a deadline to meet, and it felt
liberating to be away from her desk for a while. It almost felt as if she were in control of her own
destiny again, as if she were just starting out in the world.
True, there were dozens of things she knew she should be doing at home. The bathroom should
have been wallpapered and updated by now, the nail holes in her walls needed to be spackled,
and the rest of the apartment could use some touch-up painting as well. A couple of months ago
she had bought the wallpaper and some paint, towel rods and door handles, and a new vanity
mirror, as well as all the tools she needed to take care of it, but she hadn't even opened the boxes
yet. It was always something to do next weekend, though the weekends were often just as busy as
her workdays. The items she bought still sat in the bags she'd brought them home in, behind the
vacuum, and every time she opened the closet door, they seemed to mock her good intentions.
Maybe, she thought to herself, when she returned home . . .
She turned her head and saw a man standing a little way down the beach. He was older than she,
maybe fifty or so, and his face was deeply tanned, as if he lived here year-round. He didn't
appear to be moving'he simply stood in the water and let it wash over his legs'and she noticed
his eyes were closed, as if he were enjoying the beauty of the world without having to watch it.
He was wearing faded jeans, rolled up to his knees, and a comfortable shirt he hadn't bothered to
tuck in. As she watched him, she suddenly wished she were a different kind of person. What
would it be like to walk the beaches without another care in the world? How would it be to come
to a quiet spot every day, away from the hustle and bustle of Boston, just to appreciate what life
had to offer?
She stepped out a little farther into the water and mimicked the man, hoping to feel whatever it
was that he was feeling. But when she closed her eyes, the only thing she could think about was
Gappu. Lord knew she wanted to spend more time with him, and she definitely wanted to be more
patient with him when they were together. She wanted to be able to sit and talk with Gappu, or
play Monopoly with him, or simply watch TV with him without feeling the urge to get up from
the couch to do something more important. There were times when she felt like a fraud when
insisting to Gappu that he came first and that family was the most important thing he'd have.
But the problem was that there was always something to do. Dishes to be washed, bathrooms to
be cleaned, the cat box to be emptied; cars needed tune-ups, laundry needed to be done, and bills
had to be paid. Even though Gappyu helped a lot with his chores, he was almost as busy as she was
with school and friends and all his other activities. As it was, magazines went straight to the
garbage unread, letters went unwritten, and sometimes, in moments like these, she worried that
her life was slipping past her.
But how to change all that? "Take life one day at a time," her mother always said, but her mother
didn't have to work outside the home or raise a strong and confident yet caring son without
benefit of a father. She didn't understand the pressures that Riddhima faced on a daily basis.
Neither did her younger sister, Kirti, who had followed in the footsteps of their mother. She and
her husband had been happily married for almost eleven years, with three wonderful girls to show
for it. Shubhankar wasn't a brilliant man, but he was honest, worked hard, and provided for his family
well enough that Kirti didn't have to work. There were times when Riddhima thought she might
like a life like that, even if it meant giving up her career.
But that wasn't possible. Not since Abhi and she divorced. Three years now, four if you counted
the year they were separated. She didn't hate Abhi for what he had done, but her respect for him
had been shattered. Adultery, whether a one-night stand or a long affair, wasn't something she
could live with. Nor did it make her feel better that he never married the woman he'd been
carrying on with for two years. The breach of trust was irreparable.
Abhi moved back to his home state of California a year after they separated and met Nikki a
few months later. His new wife was very religious, and little by little she got Abhi interested in
the church. Abhi, a lifelong agnostic, had always seemed to be hungry for something more
meaningful in his life. Now he attended church regularly and actually served as a marriage
counselor along with the pastor. What could he possibly say to someone doing the same things
he'd done, she often wondered, and how could he help others if he hadn't been able to control
himself? She didn't know, didn't care, really. She was simply glad that he still took an interest in
his son.
Naturally, once she and Abhi had split up, a lot of her friendships ended as well. Now that she
was no longer part of a couple, she seemed to be out of place at friends' Christmas parties or
backyard barbecues. A few friends remained, though, and she heard from them on her answering
machine, suggesting that they set up a lunch date or come over for dinner. Occasionally she
would go, but usually she made excuses not to. To her, none of those friendships seemed the way
they used to, but then of course they weren't. Things changed, people changed, and the world
went rolling along right outside the window.
Since the divorce there had been only a handful of dates. It wasn't that she was unattractive. She
was, or so she was often told. Her hair was dark brown, cut just above her shoulders, and straight
as spider silk. Her eyes, the feature she was most often complimented on, were brown with flecks
of hazel that caught the light when she was outside. Since she ran daily, she was fit and didn't
look as old as she was. She didn't feel old, either, but when she looked in the mirror lately, she
seemed to see her age catching up with her. A new wrinkle around the corner of her eye, a gray
hair that seemed to have grown overnight, a vaguely weary look from being constantly on the run.
Her friends thought she was crazy. "You look better now than you did years ago," they insisted,
and she still noticed a few men eyeing her across the aisle in the supermarket. But she wasn't, nor
ever would be, twenty-two again. Not that she would want to be, even if she could, unless, she
sometimes thought to herself, she could take her more mature brain back with her. If she didn't,
she'd probably get caught up with another Abhi'a handsome man who craved the good things
in life with the underlying assumption that he didn't have to play by the rules. But dammit, rules
were important, especially the ones regarding marriage. They were the ones a person was never
supposed to break. Her father and mother didn't break them, her sister and brother-in-law didn't,
nor did Anjali and Atul. Why did he have to? And why, she wondered as she stood in the surf,
did her thoughts always come back to this, even after all this time?
She supposed that it had something to do with the fact that when the divorce papers finally
arrived, she felt as if a little part of her had died. That initial anger she felt had turned to sadness,
and now it had become something else, almost a dullness of sorts. Even though she was
constantly in motion, it seemed as if nothing special ever happened to her anymore. Each day
seemed exactly like the last, and she had trouble differentiating among them. One time, about a
year ago, she sat at her desk for fifteen minutes trying to remember the last spontaneous thing
she'd done. She couldn't think of anything.
The first few months had been hard on her. By then the anger had subsided and she didn't feel the
urge to lash out at Abhi and make him pay for what he had done. All she could do was feel sorry
for herself. Even having Gappu around all the time did nothing to change the fact that she felt
absolutely alone in the world. There was a short time when she couldn't sleep for more than a
few hours a night, and now and then when she was at work, she would leave her desk and go sit
in her car to cry for a while.
Now, with three years gone by, she honestly didn't know if she would ever love someone again
the way she had loved Abhi. When David showed up at her sorority party at the beginning of her
junior year, one look was all it took for her to know she wanted to be with him. Her young love
had seemed so overwhelming, so powerful, then. She would stay awake thinking about him as
she lay in her bed, and when she walked across campus, she smiled so often that other people
would smile back whenever they saw her.
But love like that doesn't last, at least that's what she found out. Over the years, a different kind
of marriage emerged. She and Abhi grew up, and apart. It became hard to remember the things
that had first drawn them to each other. Looking back, Riddhima felt that Abhi became a different
person altogether, although she couldn't pinpoint the moment when it all began to change. But
anything can happen when the flame of a relationship goes out, and for him, it did. A chance
meeting at a video store, a conversation that led to lunch and eventually to hotels throughout the
greater Boston area.
The unfair thing about the whole situation was that she still missed him sometimes, or rather the
good parts about him. Being married to Abhi was comfortable, like a bed she'd slept in for
years. She had been used to having another person around, just to talk to or listen. She had gotten
used to waking up to the smell of brewing coffee in the morning, and she missed having another
adult presence in the apartment. She missed a lot of things, but most of all she missed the
intimacy that came from holding and whispering to another behind closed doors.
Gappu wasn't old enough to understand this yet, and though she loved him deeply, it wasn't the
same kind of love that she wanted right now. Her feeling for Gappu was a mother's love, probably
the deepest, most holy love there is. Even now she liked to go into his room after he was asleep
and sit on his bed just to look at him. Gappu always looked so peaceful, so beautiful, with his
head on the pillow and the covers piled up around him. In the daytime he seemed to be constantly
on the go, but at night his still, sleeping figure always brought back the feelings she'd had when
he was still a baby. Yet even those wonderful feelings didn't change the fact that once she left his
room, she would go downstairs and have a glass of wine with only Harvey the cat to keep her
company.
She still dreamed about falling in love with someone, of having someone take her in his arms and
make her feel she was the only one who mattered. But it was hard, if not impossible, to meet
someone decent these days. Most of the men she knew in their thirties were already married, and
the ones that were divorced seemed to be looking for someone younger whom they could
somehow mold into exactly what they wanted. That left older men, and even though she thought
she could fall in love with someone older, she had her son to worry about. She wanted a man who
would treat Gappu the way he should be treated, not simply as the unwanted by-product of
someone he desired. But the reality was that older men usually had older children; few welcomed
the trials of raising an adolescent male in the 1990s. "I've already done my job," a date had once
informed her curtly. That had been the end of that relationship.
She admitted that she also missed the physical intimacy that came from loving and trusting and
holding someone else. She hadn't been with a man since she and Abhi divorced. There had been
opportunities, of course'finding someone to sleep with was never difficult for an attractive
woman'but that simply wasn't her style. She hadn't been raised that way and didn't intend to
change now. Sex was too important, too special, to be shared with just anyone. In fact, she had
slept with only two men in her life'Abhi, of course, and Rahul, the first real boyfriend she'd
ever had. She didn't want to add to the list simply for the sake of a few minutes of pleasure.
So now, vacationing at Cape Cod, alone in the world and without a man anywhere in the
foreseeable future, she wanted to do some things this week just for herself. Read some books, put
her feet up, and have a glass of wine without the TV flickering in the background. Write some
letters to friends she hadn't heard from in a while. Sleep late, eat too much, and jog in the
mornings, before everyone got there to spoil it. She wanted to experience freedom again, if only
for a short time.
She also wanted to shop this week. Not at JCPenney or Sears or places that advertised Nike shoes
and Chicago Bulls T-shirts, but at little trinket stores that Gappu found boring. She wanted to try
on some new dresses and buy a couple that flattered her figure, just to make her feel she was still
alive and vibrant. Maybe she would even get her hair done. She hadn't had a new style in years,
and she was tired of looking the same every day. And if a nice guy happened to ask her out this
week, maybe she'd go, just to have an excuse to wear the new things she bought.
With a somewhat renewed sense of optimism, she looked to see if the man with the rolled-up
jeans was still there, but he had gone as quietly as he had come. And she was ready to go as well.
Her legs had stiffened in the cool water, and sitting down to put on her shoes was a little more
difficult than she expected. Since she didn't have a towel, she hesitated for a moment before
putting on her socks, then decided she didn't have to. She was on vacation at the beach. No need
for shoes or socks.
She carried them with her as she started toward the house. She walked close to the water's edge
and saw a large rock half-buried in the sand, a few inches from a spot where the early morning
tide had reached its highest point. Strange, she thought to herself, it seemed out of place here.
As she approached, she noticed something different about the way it looked. It was smooth and
long, for one thing, and as she drew nearer she realized it wasn't a rock at all. It was a bottle,
probably discarded by a careless tourist or one of the local teens who liked to come here at night.
She looked over her shoulder and saw a garbage can chained to the lifeguard tower and decided
to do her good deed for the day. When she reached it, however, she was surprised to see that it
was corked. She picked it up, holding it into better light, and saw a note inside wrapped with
yarn, standing on its end.
For a second she felt her heart quicken as another memory came back to her. When she was eight
years old and vacationing in Florida with her parents, she and another girl had once sent a letter
via the sea, but she'd never received a reply. The letter was simple, a child's letter, but when she
returned home, she remembered racing to the mailbox for weeks afterward, hoping that someone
had found it and sent a letter to her from where the bottle washed up. When nothing ever came,
disappointment set in, the memory fading gradually until it became nothing at all. But now it all
came back to her. Who had been with her that day? A girl about her age . . . lovely? . . . no . . .
Bubbly? . . . yes, Bubbly! Bubbly was her name! She had blond hair . . . she was staying with her
grandparents for the summer . . . and . . . and . . . and the memory stopped there, with nothing else
coming no matter how hard she tried.
She began to pull at the cork, almost expecting it to be the same bottle she had sent, although she
knew that couldn't be. It was probably from another child, though, and if it requested a reply, she
was going to send it. Maybe along with a small gift from the Cape and a postcard as well.
The cork was wedged in tightly, and her fingers slipped as she tried to open it. She couldn't get a
very good grip. She dug her short fingernails into the exposed cork and twisted the bottle slowly.
Nothing. She switched hands and tried again. Tightening her grip, she put the bottle between her
legs for more leverage, and just as she was about to give up, the cork moved a little. Suddenly
renewed, she changed back to her original hands . . . squeezed . . . twisting the bottle slowly . . .
more cork . . . and suddenly it loosened and the remaining portion slipped out easily.
She tipped the bottle upside-down and was surprised when the note dropped to the sand by her
feet almost immediately. When she leaned over to pick it up, she noticed it was tightly bound,
which was why it slid out so easily.
She untied the yarn carefully, and the first thing that struck her as she unrolled the message was
the paper. This was no child's stationery. It was expensive paper, thick and sturdy, with a
silhouette of a sailing ship embossed in the upper right hand corner. And the paper itself was
crinkled, aged looking, almost as if it had been in the water for a hundred years.
She caught herself holding her breath. Maybe it was old. It could be'there were stories about
bottles washing up after a hundred years at sea, so that could be the case now. Maybe she had a
real artifact here. But as she scrutinized the writing itself, she saw that she was mistaken. There
was a date on the upper left corner of the paper.
A cold December wind was blowing, and Riddhima Gupta crossed her arms as she stared out
over the water. Earlier, when she'd arrived, there had been a few people walking along the shore,
but they'd taken note of the clouds and were long since gone. Now she found herself alone on the
beach, and she took in her surroundings. The ocean, reflecting the color of the sky, looked like
liquid iron, and waves rolled up steadily on the shore. Heavy clouds were descending slowly, and
the fog was beginning to thicken, making the horizon invisible. In another place, in another time,
she would have felt the majesty of the beauty around her, but as she stood on the beach, she
realized that she didn't feel anything at all. In a way, she felt as if she weren't really here, as if the
whole thing was nothing but a dream.
She'd driven here this morning, though she scarcely remembered the trip at all. When she'd made
the decision to come, she'd planned to stay overnight. She'd made the arrangements and had even
looked forward to a quiet night away from Boston, but watching the ocean swirl and churn made
her realize that she didn't want to stay. She would drive home as soon as she was finished, no
matter how late it was.
When she was finally ready, Riddhima slowly started to walk toward the water. Beneath her arm
she carried a bag that she had carefully packed that morning, making sure that she hadn't
forgotten anything. She hadn't told anyone what she carried with her, nor had she told them what
she'd intended to do today. Instead she'd said that she was going Christmas shopping. It was the
perfect excuse, and though she was sure that they would have understood had she told them the
truth, this trip was something she didn't want to share with anyone. It had started with her alone,
and that was the same way she wanted it to end.
Riddhima sighed and checked her watch. Soon it would be high tide, and it was then that she would
finally be ready. After finding a spot on a small dune that looked comfortable, she sat in the sand
and opened her bag. Searching through it, she found the envelope she wanted. Taking a deep
breath, she slowly lifted the seal.
In it were three letters, carefully folded, letters that she'd read more times than she could count.
Holding them in front of her, she sat on the sand and stared at them.
In the bag were other items as well, though she wasn't ready to look at those yet. Instead she
continued to focus on the letters. He'd used a fountain pen when he'd written them, and there
were smudges in various places where the pen had leaked. The stationery, with its picture of a
sailing ship in the upper right hand corner, was beginning to discolor in places, fading slowly
with the passage of time. She knew there would come a day when the words would be impossible
to read, but hopefully, after today, she wouldn't feel the need to look at them so often.
When she finished, she slipped them back into the envelope as carefully as she'd removed them.
Then, after putting the envelope back into the bag, she looked at the beach again. From where she
was sitting, she could see the place where it had all started.
* * *
She'd been jogging at daybreak, she remembered, and she could picture that summer morning
clearly. It was the beginning of a beautiful day. As she took in the world around her, she listened
to the high-pitched squawking of terns and the gentle lapping of the waves as they rolled up on
the sand. Even though she was on vacation, she had risen early enough to run so that she didn't
have to watch where she was going. In a few hours the beach would be packed with tourists lying
on their towels in the hot New England sun, soaking up the rays. Cape Cod was always crowded
at that time of year, but most vacationers tended to sleep a little later, and she enjoyed the
sensation of jogging on the hard, smooth sand left from the outgoing tide. Unlike the sidewalks
back home, the sand seemed to give just enough, and she knew her knees wouldn't ache as they
sometimes did after running on cemented pathways.
She had always liked to jog, a habit she had picked up from running cross-country and track in
high school. Though she wasn't competitive anymore and seldom timed her runs, running was
now one of the few times she could be alone with her thoughts. She considered it to be a kind of
meditation, which was why she liked to do it alone. She never could understand why people liked
to run in groups.
As much as she loved her son, she was glad Gappu wasn't with her. Every mother needs a break
sometimes, and she was looking forward to taking it easy while she was here. No evening soccer
games or swim meets, no MTV blaring in the background, no homework to help with, no waking
up in the middle of the night to comfort him when he got leg cramps. She had taken him to the
airport three days ago to catch a plane to visit his father'her ex'in California, and it was only
after reminding him that Gappu realized he hadn't hugged or kissed her good-bye yet. "Sorry,
Mom," he said as he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her. "Love you. Don't miss me too
much, okay?" Then, turning around, he handed the ticket to the flight attendant and almost
skipped onto the plane without looking back.
She didn't blame him for almost forgetting. At twelve he was in that awkward phase when he
thought that hugging and kissing his mom in public wasn't cool. Besides, his mind was on other
things. He had been looking forward to this trip since last Christmas. He and his father were
going to the Grand Canyon, then would spend a week rafting down the Colorado River, and
finally go on to Disneyland. It was every kid's fantasy trip, and she was happy for him. Although
he would be gone for six weeks, she knew it was good for Gappu to spend time with his father.
She and Abhi had been on relatively good terms since they'd divorced three years ago. Although
he wasn't the greatest husband, he was a good father to Gappu. He never missed sending a
birthday or Christmas gift, called weekly, and traveled across the country a few times a year just
to spend weekends with his son. Then, of course, there were the court-mandated visits as well'
six weeks in the summer, every other Christmas, and Easter break when school let out for a week.
Nikki, Abhi's new wife, had her hands full with the baby, but Gappu liked her a lot, and he
had never returned home feeling angry or neglected. In fact, he usually raved about his visits and
how much fun he had. There were times when she felt a twinge of jealousy at that, but she did her
best to hide it from Gappu.
Now, on the beach, she ran at a moderate clip. Anjali would be waiting for her to finish her run
before she started breakfast'Atul would already be gone, she knew'and Riddhima looked
forward to visiting with her. They were an older couple'both of them were nearing sixty now'
but Anjali was the best friend she had.
The managing editor at the newspaper where Riddhima worked, Anjali had been coming to the
Cape with her husband, Atul, for years. They always stayed in the same place, the Fisher House,
and when she found out that Gappu was leaving to visit his father in California for a good portion
of the summer, she insisted that Riddhima come along. "Atul golfs every day he's here, and I'd
like the company," she'd said, "and besides, what else are you going to do? You've got to get out
of that apartment sometime." Riddhima knew she was right, and after a few days of thinking it
over, she finally agreed. "I'm so glad," Anjali had said with a victorious look on her face.
"You're going to love it there."
Riddhima had to admit it was a nice place to stay. The Fisher House was a beautifully restored
captain's house that sat on the edge of a rocky cliff overlooking Cape Cod Bay, and when she
saw it in the distance, she slowed to a jog. Unlike the younger runners who sped up toward the
end of their runs, she preferred to slow down and take it easy. At thirty-six, she didn't recover as
fast as she once had.
As her breathing eased, she thought about how she would spend the rest of her day. She had
brought five books with her for the vacation, books she had been wanting to read for the last year
but had never gotten around to. There just didn't seem to be enough time anymore'not with
Gappu and his never-ending energy, keeping up with the housework, and definitely not with all
the work constantly piled on her desk. As a syndicated columnist for the Boston Times, she was
under constant deadline pressure to put out three columns a week. Most of her co-workers
thought she had it made'just type up three hundred words and be done for the day'but it
wasn't like that at all. To constantly come up with something original regarding parenting wasn't
easy anymore'especially if she wanted to syndicate further. Already her column, "Modern
Parenting," went out in sixty newspapers across the country, though most ran only one or two of
her columns in a given week. And because the syndication offers had started only eighteen
months ago and she was a newcomer to most papers, she couldn't afford even a few "off" days.
Column space in most newspapers was extremely limited, and hundreds of columnists were
vying for those few spots.
Riddhima slowed to a walk and finally stopped as a Caspian tern circled overhead. The humidity
was up and she used her forearm to wipe the perspiration from her face. She took a deep breath,
held it for a moment, then exhaled before looking out over the water. Because it was early, the
ocean was still murky gray, but that would change once the sun rose a little higher. It looked
enticing. After a moment she took off her shoes and socks, then walked to the water's edge to let
the tiny waves lap over her feet. The water was refreshing, and she spent a few minutes wading
back and forth. She was suddenly glad she had taken the time to write extra columns over the last
few months so that she would be able to forget work this week. She couldn't remember the last
time she didn't have a computer nearby, or a meeting to attend, or a deadline to meet, and it felt
liberating to be away from her desk for a while. It almost felt as if she were in control of her own
destiny again, as if she were just starting out in the world.
True, there were dozens of things she knew she should be doing at home. The bathroom should
have been wallpapered and updated by now, the nail holes in her walls needed to be spackled,
and the rest of the apartment could use some touch-up painting as well. A couple of months ago
she had bought the wallpaper and some paint, towel rods and door handles, and a new vanity
mirror, as well as all the tools she needed to take care of it, but she hadn't even opened the boxes
yet. It was always something to do next weekend, though the weekends were often just as busy as
her workdays. The items she bought still sat in the bags she'd brought them home in, behind the
vacuum, and every time she opened the closet door, they seemed to mock her good intentions.
Maybe, she thought to herself, when she returned home . . .
She turned her head and saw a man standing a little way down the beach. He was older than she,
maybe fifty or so, and his face was deeply tanned, as if he lived here year-round. He didn't
appear to be moving'he simply stood in the water and let it wash over his legs'and she noticed
his eyes were closed, as if he were enjoying the beauty of the world without having to watch it.
He was wearing faded jeans, rolled up to his knees, and a comfortable shirt he hadn't bothered to
tuck in. As she watched him, she suddenly wished she were a different kind of person. What
would it be like to walk the beaches without another care in the world? How would it be to come
to a quiet spot every day, away from the hustle and bustle of Boston, just to appreciate what life
had to offer?
She stepped out a little farther into the water and mimicked the man, hoping to feel whatever it
was that he was feeling. But when she closed her eyes, the only thing she could think about was
Gappu. Lord knew she wanted to spend more time with him, and she definitely wanted to be more
patient with him when they were together. She wanted to be able to sit and talk with Gappu, or
play Monopoly with him, or simply watch TV with him without feeling the urge to get up from
the couch to do something more important. There were times when she felt like a fraud when
insisting to Gappu that he came first and that family was the most important thing he'd have.
But the problem was that there was always something to do. Dishes to be washed, bathrooms to
be cleaned, the cat box to be emptied; cars needed tune-ups, laundry needed to be done, and bills
had to be paid. Even though Gappyu helped a lot with his chores, he was almost as busy as she was
with school and friends and all his other activities. As it was, magazines went straight to the
garbage unread, letters went unwritten, and sometimes, in moments like these, she worried that
her life was slipping past her.
But how to change all that? "Take life one day at a time," her mother always said, but her mother
didn't have to work outside the home or raise a strong and confident yet caring son without
benefit of a father. She didn't understand the pressures that Riddhima faced on a daily basis.
Neither did her younger sister, Kirti, who had followed in the footsteps of their mother. She and
her husband had been happily married for almost eleven years, with three wonderful girls to show
for it. Shubhankar wasn't a brilliant man, but he was honest, worked hard, and provided for his family
well enough that Kirti didn't have to work. There were times when Riddhima thought she might
like a life like that, even if it meant giving up her career.
But that wasn't possible. Not since Abhi and she divorced. Three years now, four if you counted
the year they were separated. She didn't hate Abhi for what he had done, but her respect for him
had been shattered. Adultery, whether a one-night stand or a long affair, wasn't something she
could live with. Nor did it make her feel better that he never married the woman he'd been
carrying on with for two years. The breach of trust was irreparable.
Abhi moved back to his home state of California a year after they separated and met Nikki a
few months later. His new wife was very religious, and little by little she got Abhi interested in
the church. Abhi, a lifelong agnostic, had always seemed to be hungry for something more
meaningful in his life. Now he attended church regularly and actually served as a marriage
counselor along with the pastor. What could he possibly say to someone doing the same things
he'd done, she often wondered, and how could he help others if he hadn't been able to control
himself? She didn't know, didn't care, really. She was simply glad that he still took an interest in
his son.
Naturally, once she and Abhi had split up, a lot of her friendships ended as well. Now that she
was no longer part of a couple, she seemed to be out of place at friends' Christmas parties or
backyard barbecues. A few friends remained, though, and she heard from them on her answering
machine, suggesting that they set up a lunch date or come over for dinner. Occasionally she
would go, but usually she made excuses not to. To her, none of those friendships seemed the way
they used to, but then of course they weren't. Things changed, people changed, and the world
went rolling along right outside the window.
Since the divorce there had been only a handful of dates. It wasn't that she was unattractive. She
was, or so she was often told. Her hair was dark brown, cut just above her shoulders, and straight
as spider silk. Her eyes, the feature she was most often complimented on, were brown with flecks
of hazel that caught the light when she was outside. Since she ran daily, she was fit and didn't
look as old as she was. She didn't feel old, either, but when she looked in the mirror lately, she
seemed to see her age catching up with her. A new wrinkle around the corner of her eye, a gray
hair that seemed to have grown overnight, a vaguely weary look from being constantly on the run.
Her friends thought she was crazy. "You look better now than you did years ago," they insisted,
and she still noticed a few men eyeing her across the aisle in the supermarket. But she wasn't, nor
ever would be, twenty-two again. Not that she would want to be, even if she could, unless, she
sometimes thought to herself, she could take her more mature brain back with her. If she didn't,
she'd probably get caught up with another Abhi'a handsome man who craved the good things
in life with the underlying assumption that he didn't have to play by the rules. But dammit, rules
were important, especially the ones regarding marriage. They were the ones a person was never
supposed to break. Her father and mother didn't break them, her sister and brother-in-law didn't,
nor did Anjali and Atul. Why did he have to? And why, she wondered as she stood in the surf,
did her thoughts always come back to this, even after all this time?
She supposed that it had something to do with the fact that when the divorce papers finally
arrived, she felt as if a little part of her had died. That initial anger she felt had turned to sadness,
and now it had become something else, almost a dullness of sorts. Even though she was
constantly in motion, it seemed as if nothing special ever happened to her anymore. Each day
seemed exactly like the last, and she had trouble differentiating among them. One time, about a
year ago, she sat at her desk for fifteen minutes trying to remember the last spontaneous thing
she'd done. She couldn't think of anything.
The first few months had been hard on her. By then the anger had subsided and she didn't feel the
urge to lash out at Abhi and make him pay for what he had done. All she could do was feel sorry
for herself. Even having Gappu around all the time did nothing to change the fact that she felt
absolutely alone in the world. There was a short time when she couldn't sleep for more than a
few hours a night, and now and then when she was at work, she would leave her desk and go sit
in her car to cry for a while.
Now, with three years gone by, she honestly didn't know if she would ever love someone again
the way she had loved Abhi. When David showed up at her sorority party at the beginning of her
junior year, one look was all it took for her to know she wanted to be with him. Her young love
had seemed so overwhelming, so powerful, then. She would stay awake thinking about him as
she lay in her bed, and when she walked across campus, she smiled so often that other people
would smile back whenever they saw her.
But love like that doesn't last, at least that's what she found out. Over the years, a different kind
of marriage emerged. She and Abhi grew up, and apart. It became hard to remember the things
that had first drawn them to each other. Looking back, Riddhima felt that Abhi became a different
person altogether, although she couldn't pinpoint the moment when it all began to change. But
anything can happen when the flame of a relationship goes out, and for him, it did. A chance
meeting at a video store, a conversation that led to lunch and eventually to hotels throughout the
greater Boston area.
The unfair thing about the whole situation was that she still missed him sometimes, or rather the
good parts about him. Being married to Abhi was comfortable, like a bed she'd slept in for
years. She had been used to having another person around, just to talk to or listen. She had gotten
used to waking up to the smell of brewing coffee in the morning, and she missed having another
adult presence in the apartment. She missed a lot of things, but most of all she missed the
intimacy that came from holding and whispering to another behind closed doors.
Gappu wasn't old enough to understand this yet, and though she loved him deeply, it wasn't the
same kind of love that she wanted right now. Her feeling for Gappu was a mother's love, probably
the deepest, most holy love there is. Even now she liked to go into his room after he was asleep
and sit on his bed just to look at him. Gappu always looked so peaceful, so beautiful, with his
head on the pillow and the covers piled up around him. In the daytime he seemed to be constantly
on the go, but at night his still, sleeping figure always brought back the feelings she'd had when
he was still a baby. Yet even those wonderful feelings didn't change the fact that once she left his
room, she would go downstairs and have a glass of wine with only Harvey the cat to keep her
company.
She still dreamed about falling in love with someone, of having someone take her in his arms and
make her feel she was the only one who mattered. But it was hard, if not impossible, to meet
someone decent these days. Most of the men she knew in their thirties were already married, and
the ones that were divorced seemed to be looking for someone younger whom they could
somehow mold into exactly what they wanted. That left older men, and even though she thought
she could fall in love with someone older, she had her son to worry about. She wanted a man who
would treat Gappu the way he should be treated, not simply as the unwanted by-product of
someone he desired. But the reality was that older men usually had older children; few welcomed
the trials of raising an adolescent male in the 1990s. "I've already done my job," a date had once
informed her curtly. That had been the end of that relationship.
She admitted that she also missed the physical intimacy that came from loving and trusting and
holding someone else. She hadn't been with a man since she and Abhi divorced. There had been
opportunities, of course'finding someone to sleep with was never difficult for an attractive
woman'but that simply wasn't her style. She hadn't been raised that way and didn't intend to
change now. Sex was too important, too special, to be shared with just anyone. In fact, she had
slept with only two men in her life'Abhi, of course, and Rahul, the first real boyfriend she'd
ever had. She didn't want to add to the list simply for the sake of a few minutes of pleasure.
So now, vacationing at Cape Cod, alone in the world and without a man anywhere in the
foreseeable future, she wanted to do some things this week just for herself. Read some books, put
her feet up, and have a glass of wine without the TV flickering in the background. Write some
letters to friends she hadn't heard from in a while. Sleep late, eat too much, and jog in the
mornings, before everyone got there to spoil it. She wanted to experience freedom again, if only
for a short time.
She also wanted to shop this week. Not at JCPenney or Sears or places that advertised Nike shoes
and Chicago Bulls T-shirts, but at little trinket stores that Gappu found boring. She wanted to try
on some new dresses and buy a couple that flattered her figure, just to make her feel she was still
alive and vibrant. Maybe she would even get her hair done. She hadn't had a new style in years,
and she was tired of looking the same every day. And if a nice guy happened to ask her out this
week, maybe she'd go, just to have an excuse to wear the new things she bought.
With a somewhat renewed sense of optimism, she looked to see if the man with the rolled-up
jeans was still there, but he had gone as quietly as he had come. And she was ready to go as well.
Her legs had stiffened in the cool water, and sitting down to put on her shoes was a little more
difficult than she expected. Since she didn't have a towel, she hesitated for a moment before
putting on her socks, then decided she didn't have to. She was on vacation at the beach. No need
for shoes or socks.
She carried them with her as she started toward the house. She walked close to the water's edge
and saw a large rock half-buried in the sand, a few inches from a spot where the early morning
tide had reached its highest point. Strange, she thought to herself, it seemed out of place here.
As she approached, she noticed something different about the way it looked. It was smooth and
long, for one thing, and as she drew nearer she realized it wasn't a rock at all. It was a bottle,
probably discarded by a careless tourist or one of the local teens who liked to come here at night.
She looked over her shoulder and saw a garbage can chained to the lifeguard tower and decided
to do her good deed for the day. When she reached it, however, she was surprised to see that it
was corked. She picked it up, holding it into better light, and saw a note inside wrapped with
yarn, standing on its end.
For a second she felt her heart quicken as another memory came back to her. When she was eight
years old and vacationing in Florida with her parents, she and another girl had once sent a letter
via the sea, but she'd never received a reply. The letter was simple, a child's letter, but when she
returned home, she remembered racing to the mailbox for weeks afterward, hoping that someone
had found it and sent a letter to her from where the bottle washed up. When nothing ever came,
disappointment set in, the memory fading gradually until it became nothing at all. But now it all
came back to her. Who had been with her that day? A girl about her age . . . lovely? . . . no . . .
Bubbly? . . . yes, Bubbly! Bubbly was her name! She had blond hair . . . she was staying with her
grandparents for the summer . . . and . . . and . . . and the memory stopped there, with nothing else
coming no matter how hard she tried.
She began to pull at the cork, almost expecting it to be the same bottle she had sent, although she
knew that couldn't be. It was probably from another child, though, and if it requested a reply, she
was going to send it. Maybe along with a small gift from the Cape and a postcard as well.
The cork was wedged in tightly, and her fingers slipped as she tried to open it. She couldn't get a
very good grip. She dug her short fingernails into the exposed cork and twisted the bottle slowly.
Nothing. She switched hands and tried again. Tightening her grip, she put the bottle between her
legs for more leverage, and just as she was about to give up, the cork moved a little. Suddenly
renewed, she changed back to her original hands . . . squeezed . . . twisting the bottle slowly . . .
more cork . . . and suddenly it loosened and the remaining portion slipped out easily.
She tipped the bottle upside-down and was surprised when the note dropped to the sand by her
feet almost immediately. When she leaned over to pick it up, she noticed it was tightly bound,
which was why it slid out so easily.
She untied the yarn carefully, and the first thing that struck her as she unrolled the message was
the paper. This was no child's stationery. It was expensive paper, thick and sturdy, with a
silhouette of a sailing ship embossed in the upper right hand corner. And the paper itself was
crinkled, aged looking, almost as if it had been in the water for a hundred years.
She caught herself holding her breath. Maybe it was old. It could be'there were stories about
bottles washing up after a hundred years at sea, so that could be the case now. Maybe she had a
real artifact here. But as she scrutinized the writing itself, she saw that she was mistaken. There
was a date on the upper left corner of the paper.
July 22, 1997.
A little more than three weeks ago.
Three weeks? That's all?
She looked a little further. The message was long'it covered the front and back sides of the
paper'and it didn't seem to request any reply of sorts. A quick glance showed no address or
phone number anywhere, but she supposed it could have been written into the letter itself.
She felt a twinge of curiosity as she held the message in front of her, and it was then, in the rising
sunlight of a hot New England day, that she first read the letter that would change her life forever.
Three weeks? That's all?
She looked a little further. The message was long'it covered the front and back sides of the
paper'and it didn't seem to request any reply of sorts. A quick glance showed no address or
phone number anywhere, but she supposed it could have been written into the letter itself.
She felt a twinge of curiosity as she held the message in front of her, and it was then, in the rising
sunlight of a hot New England day, that she first read the letter that would change her life forever.
July 22, 1997
My Dearest Muskaan,
I miss you, my darling, as I always do, but today is especially hard because the ocean has been
singing to me, and the song is that of our life together. I can almost feel you beside me as I write
this letter, and I can smell the scent of wildflowers that always reminds me of you. But at this
moment, these things give me no pleasure. Your visits have been coming less often, and I feel
sometimes as if the greatest part of who I am is slowly slipping away.
I am trying, though. At night when I am alone, I call for you, and whenever my ache seems to be
the greatest, you still seem to find a way to return to me. Last night, in my dreams, I saw you on
the pier near Wrightsville Beach. The wind was blowing through your hair, and your eyes held
the fading sunlight. I am struck as I see you leaning against the rail. You are beautiful, I think as
I see you, a vision that I can never find in anyone else. I slowly begin to walk toward you, and
when you finally turn to me, I notice that others have been watching you as well. "Do you know
her?" they ask me in jealous whispers, and as you smile at me, I simply answer with the truth.
"Better than my own heart."
I stop when I reach you and take you in my arms. I long for this moment more than any other. It
is what I live for, and when you return my embrace, I give myself over to this moment, at peace
once again.
I raise my hand and gently touch your cheek and you tilt your head and close your eyes. My
hands are hard and your skin is soft, and I wonder for a moment if you'll pull back, but of course
you don't. You never have, and it is at times like this that I know what my purpose is in life.
I am here to love you, to hold you in my arms, to protect you. I am here to learn from you and to
receive your love in return. I am here because there is no other place to be.
But then, as always, the mist starts to form as we stand close to one another. It is a distant fog
that rises from the horizon, and I find that I grow fearful as it approaches. It slowly creeps in,
enveloping the world around us, fencing us in as if to prevent escape. Like a rolling cloud, it
blankets everything, closing, until there is nothing left but the two of us.
I feel my throat begin to close and my eyes well up with tears because I know it is time for you to
go. The look you give me at that moment haunts me. I feel your sadness and my own loneliness,
and the ache in my heart that had been silent for only a short time grows stronger as you release
me. And then you spread your arms and step back into the fog because it is your place and not
mine. I long to go with you, but your only response is to shake your head because we both know
that is impossible.
And I watch with breaking heart as you slowly fade away. I find myself straining to remember
everything about this moment, everything about you. But soon, always too soon, your image
vanishes and the fog rolls back to its faraway place and I am alone on the pier and I do not care
what others think as I bow my head and cry and cry and cry.
Armaan
My Dearest Muskaan,
I miss you, my darling, as I always do, but today is especially hard because the ocean has been
singing to me, and the song is that of our life together. I can almost feel you beside me as I write
this letter, and I can smell the scent of wildflowers that always reminds me of you. But at this
moment, these things give me no pleasure. Your visits have been coming less often, and I feel
sometimes as if the greatest part of who I am is slowly slipping away.
I am trying, though. At night when I am alone, I call for you, and whenever my ache seems to be
the greatest, you still seem to find a way to return to me. Last night, in my dreams, I saw you on
the pier near Wrightsville Beach. The wind was blowing through your hair, and your eyes held
the fading sunlight. I am struck as I see you leaning against the rail. You are beautiful, I think as
I see you, a vision that I can never find in anyone else. I slowly begin to walk toward you, and
when you finally turn to me, I notice that others have been watching you as well. "Do you know
her?" they ask me in jealous whispers, and as you smile at me, I simply answer with the truth.
"Better than my own heart."
I stop when I reach you and take you in my arms. I long for this moment more than any other. It
is what I live for, and when you return my embrace, I give myself over to this moment, at peace
once again.
I raise my hand and gently touch your cheek and you tilt your head and close your eyes. My
hands are hard and your skin is soft, and I wonder for a moment if you'll pull back, but of course
you don't. You never have, and it is at times like this that I know what my purpose is in life.
I am here to love you, to hold you in my arms, to protect you. I am here to learn from you and to
receive your love in return. I am here because there is no other place to be.
But then, as always, the mist starts to form as we stand close to one another. It is a distant fog
that rises from the horizon, and I find that I grow fearful as it approaches. It slowly creeps in,
enveloping the world around us, fencing us in as if to prevent escape. Like a rolling cloud, it
blankets everything, closing, until there is nothing left but the two of us.
I feel my throat begin to close and my eyes well up with tears because I know it is time for you to
go. The look you give me at that moment haunts me. I feel your sadness and my own loneliness,
and the ache in my heart that had been silent for only a short time grows stronger as you release
me. And then you spread your arms and step back into the fog because it is your place and not
mine. I long to go with you, but your only response is to shake your head because we both know
that is impossible.
And I watch with breaking heart as you slowly fade away. I find myself straining to remember
everything about this moment, everything about you. But soon, always too soon, your image
vanishes and the fog rolls back to its faraway place and I am alone on the pier and I do not care
what others think as I bow my head and cry and cry and cry.
Armaan
P.S.:hula guyz well.....i knw i did nt get many comments on the prologue but still i have a ray of hope and i think if family is rocking so you guys wud def comment!!!!
P.S.S.:well another thing if u see any firangi name do temme coz maybe i may have written it by mistake!
P.S.S.S:sry for the ps's buh this wud be the last enjoy reading and do comment hopefully next part wud be up soon!
luv
Sophia:)
Cricket
67