~ ME to YOU ~ - Page 6

Originally posted by: hinanaziri

Part 2:

Done for the day ,kripa smiled thinking of another day gone by...Angad walked out with her watching her smile with relief
As they parted ways at the exit ,he thanked her again ...she smiled and asked him to take care...
The snow had got thinner than before...she wrapped her scarf around and rummaged through her handbag for the car keys.
The tiny snow flakes tickled her cheeks and lips and a few fell on her eye lashes,making the vision blurry ...She walked up to her car and brushed off the snow before getting inside...Slotting the key in,she turned the engine and the windscreen wipers on to clear off the layer of snow...then resting her head on the headrest while the car defrosted ,she shut her eyes...
Soon an impulse she barged out of the cars and looked up at the sky ..standing still for a little while enjoying the sensous moment as the flakes kissed her skin again,she felt pleasured... it was a romantic experience!
Angad happened to pass by the parking lot and stopped when he saw her enjoy her moment of joy...
He watched her from a distance as he jiggled away merrily... this was the first time he noticed how beautiful she actually was...

The very next moment she screamed and swayed ,dancing like a little kid as she lived her romantic high...
"It must be her way to destress after a long day " thought Angad as he watched her go wilder by the second...
He let her dance longer and when she looked drained ,her movements a little slower than before, he approached her and asked
"fancy a drink to calm that hyperactive side of u? ...promise I wont let anyone in on this little secret side of yours" and grinned wide...
Kripa just chuckled instead of being embarrassed "Yeh why not ! I'm sure that would help"she giggled again and joined him to walk to the pub around the corner leaving the car where it was...

~~~~~~~~

"Hmm,its nice and warm in here "Angad rubbed his hands in comfort while Kripa found a corner for the two of them to relax
After warming up a little he turned to her and asked"what would you like to drink?"
She tried to hide her silly laugh and before he could ask why she smiled out wide and said nothing!
"whatever u're having ,make it two please..."
He thought it was rather strange to go by the choice of a person she barely knew...She smiled looking at his red Rudolf nose as he ordered the drinks at the bar...
And when he reached his wallet to pay for the drinks, he realised he only had dollars on him with only a pounds to last a few drinks...he made himself a mental note to not get carried away with the drinks...he would hate it if the lady had to pay...

~~~~~~

The night progressed as they talked about music initially and then came the love for different kinds of food
followed by the books they read and enjoyed...They talked as though it was a reunion they had after years
letting go of all inhibitions they drank like they never had before...it wasn't the quantity that made it special,but the quality time they shared made it all the more fun...
Angad in his intoxicated state had forgotten about the little reminder he had set for himself but she had seen him check his wallet and had gathered what it meant...
They laughed, sang and danced together,he made her feel special and she loved the feeling...

Time had passed quick and the place was about to shut , but both wished not to part and chatter for as long as they could...
Disappointed ,they grabbed their jackets and walked out " it was great talking to you....See ya!" he said while she hailed a cab
"yeh it was fun! thanks!" giving her a light hug he smiled and savored the moment...then breaking the hug she said "do you know where you're going?..." he didnt quite know what she meant
"I mean do you have the address to the place you're living at?" she corrected herself before he made any false presumptions
"yeh,I think I do,dont worry..I'll be fine, bye!" waving at her ,she gave him a sweet last smile as the cab started to move...
He then walked back to the hopital with no money to pay for the cab and neither had he a place to go....


~~~~~


The next morning Kripa resumed her normal 8-6 shift... She had a splitting headache resulting from the hangover last night...
popping an aspirin in her mouth ,she gulped it down with water and thought if HE suffered a hangover too?
Looking through the partially open blinds on her cabin's window,she watched Keiron awake in his bead...Instantly she walked out of her room to talk to him,to ask if he knew about Angad...The nurse attending on the ward was surprised to see a doctor so efficient to visit her patient first thing in the morning,little did the nurse know of Kripa's selfish reasons...
"Hi Keiron! I'm Dr.Sharma,you were brought in last night with severe injuries which we managed to deal with successfully...how do you feel now?"
"Sore!...but happy I could see Christmas day!" said Keiron trying to sit himself up
"well ,the progress seems impressive and the soreness with gradually fade away..."
As she scribbled the prescription of his next set of medication ,he asked "Dr.Sharma, do u know anything about the person I was brought in with? Angad Khanna?" Kripa was glad he asked her before she did
"Yes Mr Khanna had a few minor bruises and cuts,he was given treatment and discharged last night,he should be resting at home probably,I had updated him of your stable status..." replied Kripa in a professional way not knowing how close of friends Angad and him were to tell him about the time they spend together...
"Home? he cant be home,he doesn't know where I live,I had picked him up from the airport late afternoon yesterday and he insisted on reaching the venue of his performance before time...we met with the accident on the way there..." Kripa cursed herself for trusting him with the convincing lie ,she was annoyed to have left him out in the freezing cold especially when he had no money on him....
"Do you have a mobile number we could call,to find out where he is? " she wished to hear a yes...
"Yes I do,its stored in my phone,where are my belongings?" inquired Keiron ...he was a little suspicious of her interest in Angad,
'hope he isn't in any sort or trouble' he wished while Riddhima reached the locker room that contained patients belongings...
She smiled with delight to find the device that could connect her with him ...switching it on she searched through the contacts to find his number..'Angad Khanna'...she dialled instantly only to reach the voicemail on the other end...
urghhh! she hated it when she had to speak to a machine...leaving him a message anyway she hoped he'd call back soon...
Switching off the mobile ,she wiped her frustration and walked out to hand it over to its owner "here u go,but I'm afraid u aren't allowed to use it on the ward..." she quipped "in that case ,can you please find Angad's number and make the call for me?" he requested
"Ok !" she assured and rushed down to the cafeteria expecting to find Angad there...
She searched all around and even asked the lady at the counter if she had seen him and surprised herself with the perfect description of Angad she gave,'had she observed him so closely? ...had he influenced her more than she thought he did?...' pushing away the random thought ,she ran to the waiting area by the main entrance after the lady at the serving counter refused to recollect any such person visiting the cafeteria... She looked around like she'd lost her one of her favourite possesions...Panic soaring high,she regretted the moment they'd bid farewell to each other,how she wished she could see him again...
lightly panting ,she turned around to the stairs leading back to ward and something caught her eye as she stepped onto the stairs...

Angad was fast asleep in a partly concealed corner ...shivering a little... cocooned under his flimsy jacket he looked cute but cold...
he probably had spent most of the night in that corner by the stairs where the central heating was minimal...
his nose was red again and she couldn't help smile remembering the laugh they had about it last night ...
breaking away from her thoughts , she saw himwriggle and pull his jacket right upto his face ...
happy to have found him eventually ,she sneaked up and sat on the chair next to him
"Angad!..." she whispered ,but he wasn't affected much
"fancy a drink Angad???..." she smiled playfully...
the next moment he opened hi eyes and stared at her as though it was a continuation of the dream he had just had
"Angad ??? " she retorted
making sure it wasn't a dream ,he frowned as she gave him a quizzical look
"Kripa??? sorry I thought it was my dddrrrr....." she chuckled again and said " Keiron is waiting for you,do you not want to see him?"
"Yeh ,of course I do" he was glad she saved him the embarassment ...
They walked up the stairs to the ward and she left him to catch up with his friend....


~~~~~


It was almost midday and Kripa had been busy all morning dealing with emergencies non -stop.She longed for a break desperately to rest her busy head ...Angad had left soon after having a brief chat with Keiron...She wondered where he could have gone ...trying to pretend heedless to his absence ,she focussed on her mundane tasks....
She had developed a longing for him unknowingly... feeling infatuated ,she wished to spend time with him again...
his natural charms had her thinking of him excessively...

Taking a bite of the bland cheese and tomato sandwich ,she thought of treating herself to a lavish dinner tonight.....
she had been lately skipping meals and eating junk and now since it was Christmas ,she desserved to spoil herself a little ....
Smiling with the thought playing in her head ,she looked for change to buy herself a drink to wash down the dry bread
"Coffee?" she heard a familiar voice approach her from behind
"Angad !..." the delight was evident in her tone...
"where had u been all morning? " she asked without thinking
"I mean ,is everything alright with sponsors and all ?" she tried not to meet his eye...
"Kripa ,its Christmas day,I dont think the sponsors would care to speak today...we'll have to wait for the offices to reopen ...." he sounded worried although his tone was light
"it'll be fine ,dont worry!" she reassured
he smiled mechanically and preferred not to talk about it "fancy having christmas dinner at mine? she asked instictively
feeling like she was taken over by a new Kripa,he liked her new carefree self...
"Christmas dinner? " he wasn't quite sure if he'd heard her right
"yeh ,nothing huge,just a home cooked meal ..." she looked at him expectantly
Angad gave the invite a thought and wondered what made her do this...
watching him think deep,she muttered "its okay if you have other plans Angad ...I wouldn't be offended if u say no ...some other time may be?..."
"No! Kripa,it isn't that , I would love to join you...infact its my pleasure ,thanks for the invite...tell me where u live, whats your address?


~~~~~~~~


part 2's here
hope u like :)
cheers
Hina

Originally posted by: Sookie*

This story is response for NJ's request.

Wind struck memoir

"Why are you doing this?" Muskaan asked Riddhima who was packing a backpack.

"It is something I have been meaning to do for a year now Muskaan. We have been through this a dozen times or so already", Riddhima replied.

"When you were talking about it, it did not seem real at that moment. It's like those people who make plans when they see travelogues and travel brochures at dentists or in ads in newspapers. They just don't pack their bags and take a trip across few oceans", Muskaan mused looking out of the window of their shared apartment.

"I want to Muskaan." Muskaan nodded.

They drove to airport and Riddhima boarded her flight. It was going to be a long flight to her destination and her first time to India in many years. She thought back the time when her new fascination began.

It had all started eleven months before.

************************************************************************************

The difference between their personalities had stopped surprising her a long time ago. Muskaan and her were bosom buddies, she would say, if anyone asked her. Muskaan's answer however varied with her mood. While Muskaan pressed her nose and her palms on windows of shops of famous brands on Bahnoffstrasse in Zurich leaving her handprints all over the glass, she had turned her back on those shops sitting on a bench and had watched people for hours. At sundown they had settled with a cup of coffee each in front of Zurich Lake and had watched ducks. Muskaan made friends along the way during their trip and was currently chatting up to a handsome guy, a few feet away from where she was sitting. She was staring at the vastness in front of her and trying to imagine the smoothness of the ripples on the lake.

She rather felt it rather than seeing it for the first time. As she stretched her arms, she felt her palm rest on something cool and smooth. It took a few moments to figure out what it was as the color of the object, green, had blended with the color of the bench.

It was a diary; an old one at that.

For few moments she held it in her hands thinking who in their right mind would lose something like this so carelessly. She had been sitting there for couple of hours now which made her realize that maybe the person who had lost it had not yet realized. She flipped through the pages which had turned yellow with age and realized that it was at least two generation old. She held it in her hands and continued to stare at the lake till Muskaan returned.

Only when she unpacked her bags after coming back home, she remembered carrying that diary back with her. She opened the first page to see who was writing it. It simply read ' "To my grandson ' whispers of a lifetime" And at that very moment, she fell in love.

She didn't look at the diary for another three days. It wasn't time yet, she consoled herself. That weekend she declined shopping trips, dinner plans and movie runs. Her hands ran over the words written in the first page. After reading few entries she realized that it was written by a woman who had was born during India's struggle for freedom. All entries were post dated and mostly were retrospect. It seemed like woman wrote her life story after spending many years being a girl, woman, wife, mother and a grandmother. But each entry had shown that woman's individuality, her struggle for acceptance and her strength.

My name if yelled in a lane, at least five girls would come out of their houses. My name before changing to what it is currently was Sita. It was given by my paternal aunt wishing me to be what my namesake once was. I was daughter of the village accountant who loved sitting by the river, writing poems on the sand in my mother tongue and wishing to see something spectacular in my life before I die. Sure, I lived in a town which had more than seven hundred years of history and had survived several wars.

They wrote many things about my village ' its history, cultural significance, bravery and many other things. But we, the locals, have our own stories which are passed from one generation to next via word of mouth. No one ever writes down a word nor do they cross our village boundaries. It lies in our hearts when we are alive and in our graves when we die. In the mornings I saw many white men looking at Tipu's tomb in awe, talking about him and discussing his legacy. During nights, a wayward drunkard sings a song from a forgotten era about the same king in local language. My father tells me to ignore those songs but even now after all these years, they come to me in my dreams. I am at my most peaceful then.

The entry had ended there. She had Googled the name of the king to find out more about the village where the woman had lived. It was not exactly a small village anymore but smaller than a town. There was a quaint quality to it with rich culture and a laid back lifestyle. She loved the words of the woman more than the pictures she saw. Must be the way she writes, Riddhima thought. However, the entry which instigated Riddhima's zeal to visit the place was about what Sita had written about the green eyed man who had come from north.

It was September 19^th when I first saw him. He was sitting under the banyan tree by the river, eyes wide open and watching monsoon sky. The soft jingling of my anklets made him turn his head. At that moment, I knew that I was spending the rest of my life with him. I was hit by a pair of melancholic green eyes with unwavering gaze. He was a revolutionary, I am sure of that and when he spoke, it was not a language I could understand. Yet we spoke.

He was there every morning when I went to fetch a pot of water. At first he just watched me and so did I. In few weeks he spoke first words in my language. I had burst into a fit of giggles which had grown into a bout of laughter. He pointed at things and told me what they were called in his language and I told him what we said in ours. We taught each other languages and spoke in sign language which only two of us could understand. I showed him the mosque and when I hesitated taking a step inside the premises, he smiled and held his hand. Without missing a beat, I took it. We did not know what one does in a mosque. We sat in the garden and listened to silence.

And then we prayed in our hearts.

In couple of months, his language had improved greatly. His roommate was teaching him the language and he used me as his learning tool. I did not complain but helped him learn faster. He took me to Tipu's summer house and told me what he read in text books. I told him stories what we heard as kids and wondered who had the real story. For which he told me ' "Listen to the silence Sita, it will tell you secrets of the mind and desires of the heart. Listen. Understand."

I did.

Darling grandson, when you go to that place spends few minutes under the banyan tree where I first met your grandfather. Sit where your grandfather once did and listen. The air will bring you the softest melody of anklets. Lay on the grasses in the garden of summer house. Listen to the story the breeze brings you. You will be surprised at the song they have to sing to you. Walk all the way back to the street and you will see Tipu's tomb. Share your meal with the man who looks after the graves; he is the guardian who can tell you stories that curl your toes. Forget them as soon as you turn your back to him. Go to that town my child, when your shoulders are broad and your legs move faster than your father. Visit the river on the same day I met your grandfather. It will tell you the stories of our kinship.

It was not the intelligence of the two people involved blew her away but the connection that they shared. It was the way the woman had left a legacy behind to her grandson giving him a teaching of a lifetime. On a whim, she picked her cell phone and called her grandmother back in India. The hurried whispers from the other side of the phone made her throat sore and eyes wet. She spoke to them for a long time.

Once finished, she continued to read the diary.

We avoided going to temples to avoid running into known faces. He called me "my queen" when we went inside Tipu's palace. I had told him that I preferred the palace not belonging to this king, but the one who lived thirty kilometers away. He had laughed.

It was few months since had come to my village. When my father first mentioned marriage, my heart had drawn a picture of him. But I knew that he was talking about some other boy. We were in the times when girls were married at the tender age of fifteen or sixteen. And in my father's eyes, I was already old. Tantrums were not entertained and by some luck and lots of prayers from my side, the marriage agreement did not go through. My parents cried in disappointment and I escaped from house and embraced my green eyed man in happiness. In that moment, he said he could not live without me. I said that I knew it since the first time we set eyes on each other.

He arranged a picnic for me on my birthday. I lied at my house saying I was going to temple and met him on the banks of the river. It was not a well known spot and had a temple which not maintained. It was used by vagrants sometimes and most of the times it was empty. He opened the basket where food was placed wrapped neatly in banana leaves. We shared our first meal that day.

We talked about many things and nothing. And when the sun was about to set I mourned with the ebbing river. He gave me new set of anklets, their silver as bright as moonlight and a melody which sang our relationship. He asked him to tie them to my ankle and when he was doing that, I told him that I loved him. He said ' "I loved you the moment I heard the sound of your anklets under the banyan tree." We shared a smile. I held his hand till we reached the place where we had to part.

I found my father that evening waiting for me by the door. His expression was livid and the cane in his hand was vibrating in anger. I knew that I was in trouble that evening. My anklets shook and sang their melody every time cane struck my legs. Minutes passed, cane broke, bruises deepened, blood sprouted but my eyes refused to shed any tears, my mouth refused to utter a cry and my pride declined not loving the green eyed man. My mother hid in the kitchen and shed tears and my siblings scampered to backyard. I love him, I told my father. Till date I do not know the origin of my courage to defy my father that day. He looked me in the eyes and said ' "Get out of this house and this village"

I hopped on my feet and kept one foot outside the threshold of the main doorway.

It was then my father broke down and cried.

My dearest grandson, when you go to my village, go to the lane right next to Ranganathaswamy temple and look for a house with courtyard full of jasmine plants. That would be my house. Visit the residents. I am sure they are related to me in some way. Don't tell them you are my grandson as it might mist their eyes. Tell them you know a girl who played in that courtyard. They will understand.

Pack food when you visit the river where we had picnic. Immerse your feet in the river and eat your food. You will see that it would taste different; it would taste of hope, moonlight, warmth and innocence.

Riddhima closed the book and let out a sigh. She was mesmerized by the woman who wrote the book and wanted to see the places she was asking her grandson to visit. A few moments later she got up and started getting ready to visit the mall.

She had some anklets to buy.

Muskaan raised an eyebrow in question when she saw Riddhima hopping, walking, jumping and finally shaking her legs like a five year old. The sound of Riddhima's new anklets immersed their apartment in an innocent symphony. Muskaan sighed after listening to the story and was surprised when Riddhima said ' "I will sit under the banyan tree on September 19^th." Riddhima was not the one who took solo trips or made impulsive decisions. But few pages of reading had brought about a drastic change in Riddhima's perception. Muskaan deemed it as unnatural. Riddhima said it was eye opener.

Are they any different?

Settling in her bed, she read one of the last entries written.

I told him that I had no place to go. He said he had a home and he will take me there. Our journey to his home was long and hard. We passed many towns during our journey and we got married in one town in a small temple. We slept under the stars that night and I told him about the family I want to have one day. We went to his town where people spoke a foreign tongue. I was welcomed, I was cherished and I was loved. But my heart yearned for the evening breeze from the banyan tree next to the river.

It has been two scores and a ten since I hobbled away from my village. My husband died before my son turned five. The six grand years I shared with him were enough to last for an entire lifetime. But I am a human after all and I have my greed and thus I wish he was here with me now. He would have loved to see his son to be what he is today and his grandson an exact replica of him.

He would have loved you like he loved the silence, Armaan.

My grandson, visit the place I was born and raised. Tell the banyan tree the reason for my quick departure. Whisper in the summer house and let the silence know that your grandfather and I are still connected.

When you go there, listen to the silence.

She closed the book and hugged it once. She did not know about the grandson but she was surely visiting that place in coming future. Once she decided, she planned extensively.

*************************************************************************************

When she saw the banyan tree by the riverside, she cried. The tears were for a young girl who loved this tree, river and its breeze and for the girl who could never visit this place in her life again. She cried for that woman's sadness of losing the innocence and familiarity to be with the man she loved.

Riddhima cried for herself.

She had taken into wearing anklets all the time and as she walked the path which was walked by the man with green eyes and his girl, she felt a residue of them walking next to her. She smiled and walked towards the tree only to find it occupied.

A man was lying underneath the tree looking at the sky. She tapped her feet next to him, her anklets singing a melody. He turned to look at her.

A pair of green eyes and the beginnings of a dimpled smile met her sight.

Her eyes widened, heart hammered and her anklets stayed silent.

He got up, smiled and held out his hand.

"I am Armaan."

"I am here to listen to silence and my name is Riddhima."

Maybe history does repeat itself.

~Sookie

Originally posted by: Sookie*

This story is response for NJ's request.

Wind struck memoir<br>

"Why are you doing this?" Muskaan asked Riddhima
who was packing a backpack.

"It is something I have been meaning to do for a year
now Muskaan. We have been through this a dozen times or so already",
Riddhima replied.

"When you were talking about it, it did not seem real
at that moment. It's like those people who make plans when they see travelogues
and travel brochures at dentists or in ads in newspapers. They just don't pack
their bags and take a trip across few oceans", Muskaan mused looking out
of the window of their shared apartment.

"I want to Muskaan." Muskaan nodded.

They drove to airport and Riddhima boarded her flight. It was
going to be a long flight to her destination and her first time to India in
many years. She thought back the time when her new fascination began.

It had all started eleven months before.

************************************************************************************

The difference between their personalities had stopped
surprising her a long time ago. Muskaan and her were bosom buddies, she would
say, if anyone asked her. Muskaan's answer however varied with her mood. While
Muskaan pressed her nose and her palms on windows of shops of famous brands on
Bahnoffstrasse in Zurich leaving her handprints all over the glass, she had
turned her back on those shops sitting on a bench and had watched people for
hours. At sundown they had settled with a cup of coffee each in front of Zurich
Lake and had watched ducks. Muskaan made friends along the way during their
trip and was currently chatting up to a handsome guy, a few feet away from
where she was sitting. She was staring at the vastness in front of her and
trying to imagine the smoothness of the ripples on the lake.

She rather felt it rather than seeing it for the first time.
As she stretched her arms, she felt her palm rest on something cool and smooth.
It took a few moments to figure out what it was as the color of the object,
green, had blended with the color of the bench.

It was a diary; an old one at that.

For few moments she held it in her hands thinking who in
their right mind would lose something like this so carelessly. She had been
sitting there for couple of hours now which made her realize that maybe the person
who had lost it had not yet realized. She flipped through the pages which had
turned yellow with age and realized that it was at least two generation old. She
held it in her hands and continued to stare at the lake till Muskaan returned.

Only when she unpacked her bags after coming back home, she
remembered carrying that diary back with her. She opened the first page to see
who was writing it. It simply read – <font color="#0000ff">"To
my grandson – whispers of a lifetime" </font>And at that very moment, she fell in
love.

She didn't look at the diary for another three days. It wasn't
time yet, she consoled herself. That weekend she declined shopping trips,
dinner plans and movie runs. Her hands ran over the words written in the first
page. After reading few entries she realized that it was written by a woman who
had was born during India's struggle for freedom. All entries were post dated and mostly were
retrospect. It seemed like woman wrote her life story after spending many years
being a girl, woman, wife, mother and a grandmother. But each entry had shown
that woman's individuality, her struggle for acceptance and her strength.

<font color="#0000ff">My name if yelled in a
lane, at least five girls would come out of their houses. My name before
changing to what it is currently was Sita. It was given by my paternal aunt
wishing me to be what my namesake once was. I was daughter of the village
accountant who loved sitting by the river, writing poems on the sand in my
mother tongue and wishing to see something spectacular in my life before I die.
Sure, I lived in a town which had more than seven hundred years of history and
had survived several wars. </font>

<font color="#0000ff">They wrote many things
about my village – its history, cultural significance, bravery and many other
things. But we, the locals, have our own stories which are passed from one
generation to next via word of mouth. No one ever writes down a word nor do
they cross our village boundaries. It lies in our hearts when we are alive and
in our graves when we die. In the mornings I saw many white men looking at Tipu's
tomb in awe, talking about him and discussing his legacy. During nights, a
wayward drunkard sings a song from a forgotten era about the same king in local
language. My father tells me to ignore those songs but even now after all these
years, they come to me in my dreams. I am at my most peaceful then.</font>

The entry had ended there. She had Googled the name of the
king to find out more about the village where the woman had lived. It was not
exactly a small village anymore but smaller than a town. There was a quaint
quality to it with rich culture and a laid back lifestyle. She loved the words
of the woman more than the pictures she saw. Must be the way she writes,
Riddhima thought. However, the entry which instigated Riddhima's zeal to visit
the place was about what Sita had written about the green eyed man who had come
from north.

<font color="#0000ff">It was September 19^th
when I first saw him. He was sitting under the banyan tree by the river, eyes
wide open and watching monsoon sky. The soft jingling of my anklets made him
turn his head. At that moment, I knew that I was spending the rest of my life
with him. I was hit by a pair of melancholic green eyes with unwavering gaze. He
was a revolutionary, I am sure of that and when he spoke, it was not a language
I could understand. Yet we spoke. </font>

<font color="#0000ff">He was there every
morning when I went to fetch a pot of water. At first he just watched me and so
did I. In few weeks he spoke first words in my language. I had burst into a fit
of giggles which had grown into a bout of laughter. He pointed at things and told
me what they were called in his language and I told him what we said in ours. We
taught each other languages and spoke in sign language which only two of us
could understand. I showed him the mosque and when I hesitated taking a step
inside the premises, he smiled and held his hand. Without missing a beat, I took
it. We did not know what one does in a mosque. We sat in the garden and
listened to silence. </font>

<font color="#0000ff">And then we prayed in
our hearts.</font>

<font color="#0000ff">In couple of months,
his language had improved greatly. His roommate was teaching him the language
and he used me as his learning tool. I did not complain but helped him learn faster.
He took me to Tipu's summer house and told me what he read in text books. I told
him stories what we heard as kids and wondered who had the real story. For which
he told me – "Listen to the silence Sita, it will tell you secrets of the mind
and desires of the heart. Listen. Understand."</font>

<font color="#0000ff">I did.</font>

<font color="#0000ff">Darling grandson, when
you go to that place spends few minutes under the banyan tree where I first met
your grandfather. Sit where your grandfather once did and listen. The air will
bring you the softest melody of anklets. Lay on the grasses in the garden of
summer house. Listen to the story the breeze brings you. You will be surprised at
the song they have to sing to you. Walk all the way back to the street and you
will see Tipu's tomb. Share your meal with the man who looks after the graves;
he is the guardian who can tell you stories that curl your toes. Forget them as
soon as you turn your back to him. Go to that town my child, when your shoulders
are broad and your legs move faster than your father. Visit the river on the
same day I met your grandfather. It will tell you the stories of our kinship. </font>

It was not the intelligence of the two people involved blew
her away but the connection that they shared. It was the way the woman had left
a legacy behind to her grandson giving him a teaching of a lifetime. On a whim,
she picked her cell phone and called her grandmother back in India. The hurried
whispers from the other side of the phone made her throat sore and eyes wet. She
spoke to them for a long time.

Once finished, she continued to read the diary.

<font color="#0000ff">We avoided going to
temples to avoid running into known faces. He called me "my queen" when we went
inside Tipu's palace. I had told him that I preferred the palace not belonging
to this king, but the one who lived thirty kilometers away. He had laughed.</font>

<font color="#0000ff">It was few months
since had come to my village. When my father first mentioned marriage, my heart
had drawn a picture of him. But I knew that he was talking about some other
boy. We were in the times when girls were married at the tender age of fifteen
or sixteen. And in my father's eyes, I was already old. Tantrums were not
entertained and by some luck and lots of prayers from my side, the marriage
agreement did not go through. My parents cried in disappointment and I escaped
from house and embraced my green eyed man in happiness. In that moment, he said
he could not live without me. I said that I knew it since the first time we set
eyes on each other.</font>

<font color="#0000ff">He arranged a picnic
for me on my birthday. I lied at my house saying I was going to temple and met
him on the banks of the river. It was not a well known spot and had a temple
which not maintained. It was used by vagrants sometimes and most of the times
it was empty. He opened the basket where food was placed wrapped neatly in
banana leaves. We shared our first meal that day.</font>

<font color="#0000ff">We talked about many
things and nothing. And when the sun was about to set I mourned with the ebbing
river. He gave me new set of anklets, their silver as bright as moonlight and a
melody which sang our relationship. He asked him to tie them to my ankle and
when he was doing that, I told him that I loved him. He said – "I loved you the
moment I heard the sound of your anklets under the banyan tree." We shared a
smile. I held his hand till we reached the place where we had to part.</font>

<font color="#0000ff">I found my father that
evening waiting for me by the door. His expression was livid and the cane in
his hand was vibrating in anger. I knew that I was in trouble that evening. My anklets
shook and sang their melody every time cane struck my legs. Minutes passed, cane
broke, bruises deepened, blood sprouted but my eyes refused to shed any tears,
my mouth refused to utter a cry and my pride declined not loving the green eyed
man. My mother hid in the kitchen and shed tears and my siblings scampered to
backyard. I love him, I told my father. Till date I do not know the origin of
my courage to defy my father that day. He looked me in the eyes and said – "Get
out of this house and this village" </font>

<font color="#0000ff">I hopped on my feet
and kept one foot outside the threshold of the main doorway. </font>

<font color="#0000ff">It was then my father
broke down and cried.</font>

<font color="#0000ff">My dearest grandson,
when you go to my village, go to the lane right next to Ranganathaswamy temple
and look for a house with courtyard full of jasmine plants. That would be my
house. Visit the residents. I am sure they are related to me in some way. Don't
tell them you are my grandson as it might mist their eyes. Tell them you know a
girl who played in that courtyard. They will understand.</font>

<font color="#0000ff">Pack food when you visit the river where we
had picnic. Immerse your feet in the river and eat your food. You will see that
it would taste different; it would taste of hope, moonlight, warmth and
innocence. </font>

Riddhima closed the book and let out a sigh. She was mesmerized
by the woman who wrote the book and wanted to see the places she was asking her
grandson to visit. A few moments later she got up and started getting ready to
visit the mall.

She had some anklets to buy.

Muskaan raised an eyebrow in question when she saw Riddhima
hopping, walking, jumping and finally shaking her legs like a five year old.
The sound of Riddhima's new anklets immersed their apartment in an innocent
symphony. Muskaan sighed after listening to the story and was surprised when
Riddhima said – "I will sit under the banyan tree on September 19^th."
Riddhima was not the one who took solo trips or made impulsive decisions. But few
pages of reading had brought about a drastic change in Riddhima's perception.
Muskaan deemed it as unnatural. Riddhima said it was eye opener.

Are they any different?

Settling in her bed, she read one of the last entries
written.

<font color="#0000ff">I told him that I had
no place to go. He said he had a home and he will take me there. Our journey to
his home was long and hard. We passed many towns during our journey and we got
married in one town in a small temple. We slept under the stars that night and I
told him about the family I want to have one day. We went to his town where
people spoke a foreign tongue. I was welcomed, I was cherished and I was loved.
But my heart yearned for the evening breeze from the banyan tree next to the
river. </font>

<font color="#0000ff">It has been two scores
and a ten since I hobbled away from my village. My husband died before my son
turned five. The six grand years I shared with him were enough to last for an
entire lifetime. But I am a human after all and I have my greed and thus I wish
he was here with me now. He would have loved to see his son to be what he is
today and his grandson an exact replica of him. </font>

<font color="#0000ff">He would have loved
you like he loved the silence, Armaan.</font>

<font color="#0000ff">My grandson, visit the
place I was born and raised. Tell the banyan tree the reason for my quick
departure. Whisper in the summer house and let the silence know that your
grandfather and I are still connected. </font>

<font color="#0000ff">When you go there,
listen to the silence.</font>

She closed the book and hugged it once. She did not know
about the grandson but she was surely visiting that place in coming future.
Once she decided, she planned extensively.

*************************************************************************************

When she saw the banyan tree by the riverside, she cried. The
tears were for a young girl who loved this tree, river and its breeze and for
the girl who could never visit this place in her life again. She cried for that
woman's sadness of losing the innocence and familiarity to be with the man she
loved.

Riddhima cried for herself.

She had taken into
wearing anklets all the time and as she walked the path which was walked by the
man with green eyes and his girl, she felt a residue of them walking next to
her. She smiled and walked towards the tree only to find it occupied.

A man was lying underneath the tree looking at the sky. She tapped
her feet next to him, her anklets singing a melody. He turned to look at her.

A pair of green eyes and the beginnings of a dimpled smile
met her sight.

Her eyes widened, heart hammered and her anklets stayed
silent.

He got up, smiled and held out his hand.

"I am Armaan."

"I am here to listen to silence and my name is Riddhima."<br>

Maybe history does
repeat itself.

~Sookie<br>

Originally posted by: Pebblez

My my, this thread is definitely on a roll :D whoever said its not going to work? *wonders* in your face :P

Originally posted by: Pebblez

My my, this thread is definitely on a roll :D whoever said its not going to work? *wonders* in your face :P

Kiran

This is a great thread, and good fun to read. Thanks Hina for an awesome idea and for putting it altogether. Loved the snow short intro..snow is fun and not at the same time..causes too much chaos wherever and whenever it arrives. Tau where was I.. yes the story requests. Let me get to it one by one..

@Nijal:- I hope I got the name right.. I really liked your short story, it was simple and sweet. The flow was easy and more than anything else it seemed to have come straight from the heart..no big words were required for the natural and effortless writing. I am going to be very ignorant here and say you should write more if you don't already, would love to read more from you, preferably one shots. One shots just coz I think you would do better with it, and also coz I am biased towards it..:)

@Sookie: Thing one and two were my favourite, and have just found the brothers grimm.. will be getting to it soon. Really liked this one, and fun read it definetly was.

@Hina: I am liking the mini Christmas story on AK, it's really cute. I think I remember reading it last Christmas with AR; apologies for not commenting on that one. Any how I am enjoying re-reading.

I haven't much time right now, but I'll be back later, need to comment on Sookie's story on NJ's request. I absolutely loved that one...and also post a request.

Huma

Originally posted by: Sookie*

This story is response for NJ's request.

Wind struck memoir

"Why are you doing this?" Muskaan asked Riddhima who was packing a backpack.

"It is something I have been meaning to do for a year now Muskaan. We have been through this a dozen times or so already", Riddhima replied.

"When you were talking about it, it did not seem real at that moment. It's like those people who make plans when they see travelogues and travel brochures at dentists or in ads in newspapers. They just don't pack their bags and take a trip across few oceans", Muskaan mused looking out of the window of their shared apartment.

"I want to Muskaan." Muskaan nodded.

They drove to airport and Riddhima boarded her flight. It was going to be a long flight to her destination and her first time to India in many years. She thought back the time when her new fascination began.

It had all started eleven months before.

************************************************************************************

The difference between their personalities had stopped surprising her a long time ago. Muskaan and her were bosom buddies, she would say, if anyone asked her. Muskaan's answer however varied with her mood. While Muskaan pressed her nose and her palms on windows of shops of famous brands on Bahnoffstrasse in Zurich leaving her handprints all over the glass, she had turned her back on those shops sitting on a bench and had watched people for hours. At sundown they had settled with a cup of coffee each in front of Zurich Lake and had watched ducks. Muskaan made friends along the way during their trip and was currently chatting up to a handsome guy, a few feet away from where she was sitting. She was staring at the vastness in front of her and trying to imagine the smoothness of the ripples on the lake.

She rather felt it rather than seeing it for the first time. As she stretched her arms, she felt her palm rest on something cool and smooth. It took a few moments to figure out what it was as the color of the object, green, had blended with the color of the bench.

It was a diary; an old one at that.

For few moments she held it in her hands thinking who in their right mind would lose something like this so carelessly. She had been sitting there for couple of hours now which made her realize that maybe the person who had lost it had not yet realized. She flipped through the pages which had turned yellow with age and realized that it was at least two generation old. She held it in her hands and continued to stare at the lake till Muskaan returned.

Only when she unpacked her bags after coming back home, she remembered carrying that diary back with her. She opened the first page to see who was writing it. It simply read ' "To my grandson ' whispers of a lifetime" And at that very moment, she fell in love.

She didn't look at the diary for another three days. It wasn't time yet, she consoled herself. That weekend she declined shopping trips, dinner plans and movie runs. Her hands ran over the words written in the first page. After reading few entries she realized that it was written by a woman who had was born during India's struggle for freedom. All entries were post dated and mostly were retrospect. It seemed like woman wrote her life story after spending many years being a girl, woman, wife, mother and a grandmother. But each entry had shown that woman's individuality, her struggle for acceptance and her strength.

My name if yelled in a lane, at least five girls would come out of their houses. My name before changing to what it is currently was Sita. It was given by my paternal aunt wishing me to be what my namesake once was. I was daughter of the village accountant who loved sitting by the river, writing poems on the sand in my mother tongue and wishing to see something spectacular in my life before I die. Sure, I lived in a town which had more than seven hundred years of history and had survived several wars.

They wrote many things about my village ' its history, cultural significance, bravery and many other things. But we, the locals, have our own stories which are passed from one generation to next via word of mouth. No one ever writes down a word nor do they cross our village boundaries. It lies in our hearts when we are alive and in our graves when we die. In the mornings I saw many white men looking at Tipu's tomb in awe, talking about him and discussing his legacy. During nights, a wayward drunkard sings a song from a forgotten era about the same king in local language. My father tells me to ignore those songs but even now after all these years, they come to me in my dreams. I am at my most peaceful then.

The entry had ended there. She had Googled the name of the king to find out more about the village where the woman had lived. It was not exactly a small village anymore but smaller than a town. There was a quaint quality to it with rich culture and a laid back lifestyle. She loved the words of the woman more than the pictures she saw. Must be the way she writes, Riddhima thought. However, the entry which instigated Riddhima's zeal to visit the place was about what Sita had written about the green eyed man who had come from north.

It was September 19^th when I first saw him. He was sitting under the banyan tree by the river, eyes wide open and watching monsoon sky. The soft jingling of my anklets made him turn his head. At that moment, I knew that I was spending the rest of my life with him. I was hit by a pair of melancholic green eyes with unwavering gaze. He was a revolutionary, I am sure of that and when he spoke, it was not a language I could understand. Yet we spoke.

He was there every morning when I went to fetch a pot of water. At first he just watched me and so did I. In few weeks he spoke first words in my language. I had burst into a fit of giggles which had grown into a bout of laughter. He pointed at things and told me what they were called in his language and I told him what we said in ours. We taught each other languages and spoke in sign language which only two of us could understand. I showed him the mosque and when I hesitated taking a step inside the premises, he smiled and held his hand. Without missing a beat, I took it. We did not know what one does in a mosque. We sat in the garden and listened to silence.

And then we prayed in our hearts.

In couple of months, his language had improved greatly. His roommate was teaching him the language and he used me as his learning tool. I did not complain but helped him learn faster. He took me to Tipu's summer house and told me what he read in text books. I told him stories what we heard as kids and wondered who had the real story. For which he told me ' "Listen to the silence Sita, it will tell you secrets of the mind and desires of the heart. Listen. Understand."

I did.

Darling grandson, when you go to that place spends few minutes under the banyan tree where I first met your grandfather. Sit where your grandfather once did and listen. The air will bring you the softest melody of anklets. Lay on the grasses in the garden of summer house. Listen to the story the breeze brings you. You will be surprised at the song they have to sing to you. Walk all the way back to the street and you will see Tipu's tomb. Share your meal with the man who looks after the graves; he is the guardian who can tell you stories that curl your toes. Forget them as soon as you turn your back to him. Go to that town my child, when your shoulders are broad and your legs move faster than your father. Visit the river on the same day I met your grandfather. It will tell you the stories of our kinship.

It was not the intelligence of the two people involved blew her away but the connection that they shared. It was the way the woman had left a legacy behind to her grandson giving him a teaching of a lifetime. On a whim, she picked her cell phone and called her grandmother back in India. The hurried whispers from the other side of the phone made her throat sore and eyes wet. She spoke to them for a long time.

Once finished, she continued to read the diary.

We avoided going to temples to avoid running into known faces. He called me "my queen" when we went inside Tipu's palace. I had told him that I preferred the palace not belonging to this king, but the one who lived thirty kilometers away. He had laughed.

It was few months since had come to my village. When my father first mentioned marriage, my heart had drawn a picture of him. But I knew that he was talking about some other boy. We were in the times when girls were married at the tender age of fifteen or sixteen. And in my father's eyes, I was already old. Tantrums were not entertained and by some luck and lots of prayers from my side, the marriage agreement did not go through. My parents cried in disappointment and I escaped from house and embraced my green eyed man in happiness. In that moment, he said he could not live without me. I said that I knew it since the first time we set eyes on each other.

He arranged a picnic for me on my birthday. I lied at my house saying I was going to temple and met him on the banks of the river. It was not a well known spot and had a temple which not maintained. It was used by vagrants sometimes and most of the times it was empty. He opened the basket where food was placed wrapped neatly in banana leaves. We shared our first meal that day.

We talked about many things and nothing. And when the sun was about to set I mourned with the ebbing river. He gave me new set of anklets, their silver as bright as moonlight and a melody which sang our relationship. He asked him to tie them to my ankle and when he was doing that, I told him that I loved him. He said ' "I loved you the moment I heard the sound of your anklets under the banyan tree." We shared a smile. I held his hand till we reached the place where we had to part.

I found my father that evening waiting for me by the door. His expression was livid and the cane in his hand was vibrating in anger. I knew that I was in trouble that evening. My anklets shook and sang their melody every time cane struck my legs. Minutes passed, cane broke, bruises deepened, blood sprouted but my eyes refused to shed any tears, my mouth refused to utter a cry and my pride declined not loving the green eyed man. My mother hid in the kitchen and shed tears and my siblings scampered to backyard. I love him, I told my father. Till date I do not know the origin of my courage to defy my father that day. He looked me in the eyes and said ' "Get out of this house and this village"

I hopped on my feet and kept one foot outside the threshold of the main doorway.

It was then my father broke down and cried.

My dearest grandson, when you go to my village, go to the lane right next to Ranganathaswamy temple and look for a house with courtyard full of jasmine plants. That would be my house. Visit the residents. I am sure they are related to me in some way. Don't tell them you are my grandson as it might mist their eyes. Tell them you know a girl who played in that courtyard. They will understand.

Pack food when you visit the river where we had picnic. Immerse your feet in the river and eat your food. You will see that it would taste different; it would taste of hope, moonlight, warmth and innocence.

Riddhima closed the book and let out a sigh. She was mesmerized by the woman who wrote the book and wanted to see the places she was asking her grandson to visit. A few moments later she got up and started getting ready to visit the mall.

She had some anklets to buy.

Muskaan raised an eyebrow in question when she saw Riddhima hopping, walking, jumping and finally shaking her legs like a five year old. The sound of Riddhima's new anklets immersed their apartment in an innocent symphony. Muskaan sighed after listening to the story and was surprised when Riddhima said ' "I will sit under the banyan tree on September 19^th." Riddhima was not the one who took solo trips or made impulsive decisions. But few pages of reading had brought about a drastic change in Riddhima's perception. Muskaan deemed it as unnatural. Riddhima said it was eye opener.

Are they any different?

Settling in her bed, she read one of the last entries written.

I told him that I had no place to go. He said he had a home and he will take me there. Our journey to his home was long and hard. We passed many towns during our journey and we got married in one town in a small temple. We slept under the stars that night and I told him about the family I want to have one day. We went to his town where people spoke a foreign tongue. I was welcomed, I was cherished and I was loved. But my heart yearned for the evening breeze from the banyan tree next to the river.

It has been two scores and a ten since I hobbled away from my village. My husband died before my son turned five. The six grand years I shared with him were enough to last for an entire lifetime. But I am a human after all and I have my greed and thus I wish he was here with me now. He would have loved to see his son to be what he is today and his grandson an exact replica of him.

He would have loved you like he loved the silence, Armaan.

My grandson, visit the place I was born and raised. Tell the banyan tree the reason for my quick departure. Whisper in the summer house and let the silence know that your grandfather and I are still connected.

When you go there, listen to the silence.

She closed the book and hugged it once. She did not know about the grandson but she was surely visiting that place in coming future. Once she decided, she planned extensively.

*************************************************************************************

When she saw the banyan tree by the riverside, she cried. The tears were for a young girl who loved this tree, river and its breeze and for the girl who could never visit this place in her life again. She cried for that woman's sadness of losing the innocence and familiarity to be with the man she loved.

Riddhima cried for herself.

She had taken into wearing anklets all the time and as she walked the path which was walked by the man with green eyes and his girl, she felt a residue of them walking next to her. She smiled and walked towards the tree only to find it occupied.

A man was lying underneath the tree looking at the sky. She tapped her feet next to him, her anklets singing a melody. He turned to look at her.

A pair of green eyes and the beginnings of a dimpled smile met her sight.

Her eyes widened, heart hammered and her anklets stayed silent.

He got up, smiled and held out his hand.

"I am Armaan."

"I am here to listen to silence and my name is Riddhima."

Maybe history does repeat itself.

~Sookie