~!! Yaadein !!~ SS & KR ff updated page 20 - Page 11

Please please please don't discontinue this ff...

Atleast for our sake...

For your readers sake continue writing...

SWAYAM GOT UP at five and kayaked for an hour up Brices Creek, as

he usually did. When he finished he changed into his work clothes,

warmed some bread rolls from the day before, grabbed a couple of

apples and washed his breakfast down with two cups of coffee.

He worked on the fencing again, repairing the posts. It was an Indian

summer, the temperature over eighty degrees, and by lunchtime he

was hot and tired and glad of the break.

He ate at the creek because the mullets were jumping. He liked to

watch them jump three or four limes and glide through the air before

vanishing into the brackish water. For some reason he had always

been pleased by the fact that their instinct hadn't changed for

thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of years.

Sometimes he wondered if man's instincts had changed in that lime

and always concluded that they hadn't. At least in the basic, most

primal ways. As far as he could tell, man had always been aggressive,

always striving to dominate, trying to control the world and

everything in it. The war in Europe and Japan proved that.

He stopped working a little after three and walked to a small shed

that sat near his dock. He went in, found his fishing pole, a couple of

lures and some live crickets he kept on hand, then walked out to the

dock, baited his hook and cast his line.

Fishing always made him reflect on his life, and he did so now.

After his mother died he could remember spending his days in a

dozen different homes. For one reason or another, he stuttered badly

as a child and was teased for it. He began to speak less and less, and

by the age of five he wouldn't speak at all. When he started classes,

his teachers thought he was retarded and recommended that he be

pulled out of school.

Instead, his father took matters into his own hands. He kept him in

school and afterwards made him come to the timber yard where he

worked, to haul and stack wood. "It's good that we spend some time

together," he would say as they worked side-by-side, "just like my

daddy and I did."

His father would talk about animals or tell stories and legends

common to North Carolina. Within a few months Swayam was speaking

again, though not well, and his father decided to teach him to read

with books of poetry. "Learn to read this aloud and you'll be able to

say anything you want to." His father had been right again, and by the

following year Swayam had lost his stutter. But he continued to go to the

timber yard every day simply because his father was there, and in the

evenings he would read the works of Whitman and Tennyson aloud as

his father rocked beside him. He had been reading poetry ever since.

When he got a little older he spent most of his weekends and

vacations alone. He explored the Croatan forest in his first canoe,

following Brices Creek for twenty miles until he could go no further,

then hiked the remaining miles to the coast. Camping and exploring

became his passion, and he spent hours in the forest, whistling quietly

and playing his guitar for beavers and geese and wild blue herons.

Poets knew that isolation in nature, far from people and things manmade,

was good for the soul, and he'd always identified with poets.

Although he was quiet, years of heavy lifting at the timber yard

helped him excel in sports, and his athletic success led to popularity.

He enjoyed the football and track meets, and, though most of his

teammates spent their free time together as well, he rarely joined

them. He had a few girlfriends in school but none had ever made an

impression on him. Except for one. And she came after graduation.

Sharon. His Sharon.

He remembered talking to Rey about Sharon after they left the festival

that first night, and Rey had laughed. Then he'd made two predictions:

first that they would fall in love, and second that it wouldn't work out.

There was a slight tug at his line and Swayam hoped for a large-mouth

bass, but the tugging eventually stopped and, after reeling his line in

and checking the bait, he cast again.

Rey ended up being right on both counts. Most of the summer she

had to make excuses to her parents whenever they wanted to see each

other. It wasn't that they didn't like him'it was that he was from a

different class, too poor, and they would never approve if their

daughter became serious with someone like him. "I don't care what

my parents think, I love you and always will," she would say. "We'll

find a way to be together."

But in the end they couldn't. By early September the tobacco had

been harvested and she had no choice but to return with her family to

Winston-Salem. "Only the summer is over, Sharon, not us," he'd said

the morning she left. "We'll never be over." But they were. For a

reason he didn't understand, the letters he wrote went unanswered.

He decided to leave New Bern to help get her off his mind, and also

because the Depression made earning a living in New Bern almost

impossible. He went first to Norfolk and worked at a shipyard for six

months before he was laid off, then moved to New Jersey because

he'd heard the economy wasn't so bad there.

He found a job in a scrap yard, separating scrap metal from

everything else. The owner, a Jewish man named Morris Goldman,

was intent on collecting as much scrap metal as he could, convinced

that a war was going to start in Europe and that America would be

dragged in again. Swayam didn't care. He was just happy to have a job.

He worked hard. Not only did it help him keep his mind off Sharon

during the day, but it was something he felt he had to do. His daddy

had always said: "Give a day's work for a day's pay. Anything less is

stealing." That attitude pleased his boss. "It's a shame you aren't

Jewish," Goldman would say, "you're such a fine boy in so many

other ways." It was the best compliment Goldman could give.

He continued to think about Sharon at night. He wrote to her once a

month but never received a reply. Eventually he wrote one final letter

and forced himself to accept the fact that the summer they'd spent

with one another was the only thing they'd ever share.

Still, though, she stayed with him. Three years after the last letter, he

went to Winston-Salem in the hope of finding her. He went to her

house, discovered that she had moved and, after talking to some

neighbours, finally called her father's firm. The girl who answered

was new and didn't recognize the name, but she poked around the

personnel files for him. She found out that Sharon's father had left the

company and that no forwarding address was listed. That was the first

and last time he ever looked for her.

For the next eight years he worked for Goldman. As the years

dragged on, the company grew and he was promoted. By 1940 he had

mastered the business and was running the entire operation, brokering

the deals and managing a staff of thirty. The yard had become the

largest scrap-metal dealer on the east coast.

During that time he dated a few different women. He became serious

with one, a waitress from the local diner with deep blue eyes and silky

black hair. Although they dated for two years and had many good

times together, he never came to feel the same way about her as he

did about Sharon. She was a few years older than he was, and it was she

who taught him the ways to please a woman, the places to touch and

kiss, the things to whisper.

Towards the end of their relationship she'd told him once, "I wish I

could give you what you're looking for, but I don't know what it is.

There's a part of you that you keep closed off from everyone,

including me. It's as if your' mind is on someone else. It's like you

keep waiting for her to pop out of thin air to take you away from all

this. . ." A month later she visited him at work and told him she'd met

someone else. He understood. They parted as friends, and the

following year he received a postcard from her saying she was

married. He hadn't heard from her since.

-----------------------

continued in d next post..

SWARON CONTINUED

In December 1941, when he was twenty-six, the war began, just as

Goldman had predicted. Swayam walked into his office the following

month and informed Goldman of his intent to enlist, then returned to

New Bern to say goodbye to his father. Five weeks later he found

himself in training camp. While there, he received a letter from

Goldman thanking him for his work, together with a copy of a

certificate entitling him to a small percentage of the scrap yard if it

was ever sold. "I couldn't have done it without you," the letter said.

"You're the finest young man who ever worked for me, even if you

aren't Jewish."

He spent his next three years with Patton's Third Army, tramping

through deserts in North Africa and forests in Europe with thirty

pounds on his back, his infantry unit never far from action.

He watched his friends die around him; watched as some of them

were buried thousands of miles from home.

He remembered the war ending in Europe, then a few months later

in Japan. Just before he was discharged he received a letter from a

lawyer in New Jersey representing Morris Goldman. Upon meeting

the lawyer he found out that Goldman had died a year earlier and his

estate had been liquidated. The business had been sold, and Swayam was

given a cheque for almost seventy thousand dollars.

The following week he returned to New Bern and bought the house.

He remembered bringing his father around later, pointing out the

changes he intended to make. His father seemed weak as he walked,

coughing and wheezing. Swayam was concerned, but his father told him

not to worry, assuring him that he had the flu.

Less than one month later his father died of pneumonia and was

buried next to his wife in the local cemetery. Swayam tried to stop by

regularly to leave some flowers; occasionally he left a note. And

every night without fail he took a moment to say a prayer for the man

who'd taught him everything that mattered.

AFTER REELING in the line, he put the gear away and went back

to the house. His neighbour, Martha Shaw, was there to thank him,

bringing three loaves of homemade bread in appreciation for what

he'd done. Her husband had been killed in the war, leaving her with

three children and a shack to raise them in. Winter was coming, and

he'd spent a few days at her place last week repairing her roof,

replacing broken windows and sealing the others, and fixing her wood

stove. He hoped it would be enough to get them through.

Once she'd left, he got into his battered Dodge truck and went to see

Gus. He always stopped there when he was going to the store,

because Gus's family didn't have a car. One of the daughters hopped

up and rode with him, and they did their shopping at Capers General

Store.

When he got home he didn't unpack the groceries right away.

Instead he showered, found a Budweiser and a book by Dylan

Thomas, and went to sit on the porch.

SHE STILL had trouble believing it, even as she held the proof in

her hands. It had been in the newspaper at her parents' house three

Sundays ago. She had gone to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee, and

when she'd returned to the table her father had smiled and pointed at a

small picture. "Remember this?"

He handed her the paper and, after an uninterested first glance,

something in the picture caught her eye and she took a closer look. "It

can't be," she whispered, and when her father looked at her curiously

she ignored him, sat down and read the article without speaking. She

vaguely remembered her mother coming to the table and sitting

opposite her, and when she finally put aside the paper her mother was

staring at her. "Are you okay?" she asked over her coffee cup. "You

look a little pale."

Sharon didn't answer right away, she couldn't, and it was then that

she'd noticed her hands were shaking. That had been when it started.

"And here it will end, one way or the other," she whispered again.

She refolded the scrap of paper and put it back, remembering that she

had left her parents' home later that day with the paper so she could

cut out the article. She read it again before she went to bed that night,

trying to fathom the coincidence, and read it again the next morning

as if to make sure the whole thing wasn't a dream. And now, after

three weeks of long walks alone, after three weeks of distraction, it

was the reason she'd come.

When asked, she said her erratic behaviour was due to stress. It

was the perfect excuse; everyone understood, including Neal, and

that's why he hadn't argued when she'd wanted to get away for a

couple of days. The wedding plans were stressful to everyone

involved. Almost five hundred people were invited, including the

governor, one senator and the ambassador to Peru. It was too much, in

her opinion, but their engagement was news and had dominated the

social pages since they had announced their plans six months ago.

She took a deep breath and stood again. "It's now or never," she

whispered, then picked up her things and went to the door. She went

downstairs and the manager smiled as she walked by. She could feel

his eyes on her as she went out to her car. She slipped behind the

wheel, started the engine and turned right onto Front Street.

She still knew her way around the small town, even though she

hadn't been here in years. After crossing the Trent River on an oldfashioned

drawbridge, she turned onto a gravel road that wound its

way between antebellum farms, and she knew that, for some of the

farmers, life hadn't changed since before their grandparents were

born. The constancy of the place brought back a flood of memories as

she recognized landmarks she'd long ago forgotten.

The sun hung just above the trees on her left as she passed an old

abandoned church. She had explored it that summer, looking for

souvenirs of the War between the States, and, as she passed, the

memories of that day became stronger, as if they'd happened

yesterday.

A majestic oak tree on the riverbank came into view next, and the

memories became more intense. It looked the same as it had back

then, branches low and thick, stretching horizontally along the ground

with moss draped over the limbs like a veil. She remembered sitting

beneath the tree on a hot July day with someone who looked at her

with a longing that took everything else away. And it had been at that

moment that she'd first fallen in love.

He was two years older than she was, and as she drove along this

roadway-in-time, he slowly came into focus once again. He always

looked older than he really was, she remembered thinking, slightly

weathered, like a farmer coming home after hours in the field. He had

the calloused hands and broad shoulders that came to those who

worked hard for a living, and the first faint lines were beginning to

form around dark eyes that seemed to read her every thought.

He was tall and strong, with light brown hair, and handsome in his

own way, but it was his voice that she remembered most of all. He

had read to her that day as they lay beneath the tree with an accent

that was soft and fluent, almost musical in quality. She remembered

closing her eyes, listening closely and letting the words he was

reading touch her soul.

He thumbed through old books with dog-eared pages, books he'd

read a hundred times. He'd read for a while, then stop, and the two of

them would talk. She would tell him what she wanted in her life'her

hopes and dreams for the future'and he would listen intently and

then promise to make it all come true. And the way he said it made

her believe him, and she knew then how much he meant to her.

Another turn in the road and she finally saw the house in the

distance. It had changed dramatically from what she remembered. She

slowed the car, turning into the long, tree-lined dirt drive.

She took a deep breath when she saw him on the porch, watching

her car. He was dressed casually. From a distance, he looked the same

as he had back then. When the light from the sun was behind him, he

almost seemed to vanish into the scenery.

Her car continued forward slowly, then finally stopped beneath an

oak tree that shaded the front of the house. She turned the key, never

taking her eyes from him, and the engine sputtered to a halt. He

stepped off the porch and began to approach her, walking easily, then

suddenly stopped cold as she emerged from the car. For a long time

all they could do was stare at each other without moving.

Sharon Raiprakash , twenty-nine years old and engaged, a socialite,

searching for answers, and Swayam Shekhawat, the dreamer, thirty-one,

visited by the ghost that had come to dominate his life.

------------------------------------------------------

so hw was it?? HIT LIKE NEXT UPDATE AFTER PAGE 30

pm's vl b sent to only those people who like or comment henceforth.

REY GOT UP at five and kayaked for an hour up Brices Creek, as

he usually did. When he finished he changed into his work clothes,

warmed some bread rolls from the day before, grabbed a couple of

apples and washed his breakfast down with two cups of coffee.

He worked on the fencing again, repairing the posts. It was an Indian

summer, the temperature over eighty degrees, and by lunchtime he

was hot and tired and glad of the break.

He ate at the creek because the mullets were jumping. He liked to

watch them jump three or four limes and glide through the air before

vanishing into the brackish water. For some reason he had always

been pleased by the fact that their instinct hadn't changed for

thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of years.

Sometimes he wondered if man's instincts had changed in that lime

and always concluded that they hadn't. At least in the basic, most

primal ways. As far as he could tell, man had always been aggressive,

always striving to dominate, trying to control the world and

everything in it. The war in Europe and Japan proved that.

He stopped working a little after three and walked to a small shed

that sat near his dock. He went in, found his fishing pole, a couple of

lures and some live crickets he kept on hand, then walked out to the

dock, baited his hook and cast his line.

Fishing always made him reflect on his life, and he did so now.

After his mother died he could remember spending his days in a

dozen different homes. For one reason or another, he stuttered badly

as a child and was teased for it. He began to speak less and less, and

by the age of five he wouldn't speak at all. When he started classes,

his teachers thought he was retarded and recommended that he be

pulled out of school.

Instead, his father took matters into his own hands. He kept him in

school and afterwards made him come to the timber yard where he

worked, to haul and stack wood. "It's good that we spend some time

together," he would say as they worked side-by-side, "just like my

daddy and I did."

His father would talk about animals or tell stories and legends

common to North Carolina. Within a few months REY was speaking

again, though not well, and his father decided to teach him to read

with books of poetry. "Learn to read this aloud and you'll be able to

say anything you want to." His father had been right again, and by the

following year REY had lost his stutter. But he continued to go to the

timber yard every day simply because his father was there, and in the

evenings he would read the works of Whitman and Tennyson aloud as

his father rocked beside him. He had been reading poetry ever since.

When he got a little older he spent most of his weekends and

vacations alone. He explored the Croatan forest in his first canoe,

following Brices Creek for twenty miles until he could go no further,

then hiked the remaining miles to the coast. Camping and exploring

became his passion, and he spent hours in the forest, whistling quietly

and playing his guitar for beavers and geese and wild blue herons.

Poets knew that isolation in nature, far from people and things manmade,

was good for the soul, and he'd always identified with poets.

Although he was quiet, years of heavy lifting at the timber yard

helped him excel in sports, and his athletic success led to popularity.

He enjoyed the football and track meets, and, though most of his

teammates spent their free time together as well, he rarely joined

them. He had a few girlfriends in school but none had ever made an

impression on him. Except for one. And she came after graduation.

KRIYA. His BAATCUTTER.

He remembered talking to SWAYAM about KRIYA after they left the festival

that first night, and SWAYAM had laughed. Then he'd made two predictions:

first that they would fall in love, and second that it wouldn't work out.

There was a slight tug at his line and REY hoped for a large-mouth

bass, but the tugging eventually stopped and, after reeling his line in

and checking the bait, he cast again.

SWAYAM ended up being right on both counts. Most of the summer she

had to make excuses to her parents whenever they wanted to see each

other. It wasn't that they didn't like him'it was that he was from a

different class, too poor, and they would never approve if their

daughter became serious with someone like him. "I don't care what

my parents think, I love you and always will," she would say. "We'll

find a way to be together."

But in the end they couldn't. By early September the tobacco had

been harvested and she had no choice but to return with her family to

Winston-Salem. "Only the summer is over, BAATCUTTER, not us," he'd said

the morning she left. "We'll never be over." But they were. For a

reason he didn't understand, the letters he wrote went unanswered.

He decided to leave New Bern to help get her off his mind, and also

because the Depression made earning a living in New Bern almost

impossible. He went first to Norfolk and worked at a shipyard for six

months before he was laid off, then moved to New Jersey because

he'd heard the economy wasn't so bad there.

He found a job in a scrap yard, separating scrap metal from

everything else. The owner, a Jewish man named Morris Goldman,

was intent on collecting as much scrap metal as he could, convinced

that a war was going to start in Europe and that America would be

dragged in again. REY didn't care. He was just happy to have a job.

He worked hard. Not only did it help him keep his mind off KRIYA

during the day, but it was something he felt he had to do. His daddy

had always said: "Give a day's work for a day's pay. Anything less is

stealing." That attitude pleased his boss. "It's a shame you aren't

Jewish," Goldman would say, "you're such a fine boy in so many

other ways." It was the best compliment Goldman could give.

He continued to think about KRIYA at night. He wrote to her once a

month but never received a reply. Eventually he wrote one final letter

and forced himself to accept the fact that the summer they'd spent

with one another was the only thing they'd ever share.

Still, though, she stayed with him. Three years after the last letter, he

went to Winston-Salem in the hope of finding her. He went to her

house, discovered that she had moved and, after talking to some

neighbours, finally called her father's firm. The girl who answered

was new and didn't recognize the name, but she poked around the

personnel files for him. She found out that Kriya's father had left the

company and that no forwarding address was listed. That was the first

and last time he ever looked for her.

For the next eight years he worked for Goldman. As the years

dragged on, the company grew and he was promoted. By 1940 he had

mastered the business and was running the entire operation, brokering

the deals and managing a staff of thirty. The yard had become the

largest scrap-metal dealer on the east coast.

During that time he dated a few different women. He became serious

with one, a waitress from the local diner with deep blue eyes and silky

black hair. Although they dated for two years and had many good

times together, he never came to feel the same way about her as he

did about Kriya. She was a few years older than he was, and it was she

who taught him the ways to please a woman, the places to touch and

kiss, the things to whisper.

Towards the end of their relationship she'd told him once, "I wish I

could give you what you're looking for, but I don't know what it is.

There's a part of you that you keep closed off from everyone,

including me. It's as if your' mind is on someone else. It's like you

keep waiting for her to pop out of thin air to take you away from all

this. . ." A month later she visited him at work and told him she'd met

someone else. He understood. They parted as friends, and the

following year he received a postcard from her saying she was

married. He hadn't heard from her since.

-----------------------

KRIYAANSH CONTINUED

In December 1941, when he was twenty-six, the war began, just as

Goldman had predicted. rEY walked into his office the following

month and informed Goldman of his intent to enlist, then returned to

New Bern to say goodbye to his father. Five weeks later he found

himself in training camp. While there, he received a letter from

Goldman thanking him for his work, together with a copy of a

certificate entitling him to a small percentage of the scrap yard if it

was ever sold. "I couldn't have done it without you," the letter said.

"You're the finest young man who ever worked for me, even if you

aren't Jewish."

He spent his next three years with Patton's Third Army, tramping

through deserts in North Africa and forests in Europe with thirty

pounds on his back, his infantry unit never far from action.

He watched his friends die around him; watched as some of them

were buried thousands of miles from home.

He remembered the war ending in Europe, then a few months later

in Japan. Just before he was discharged he received a letter from a

lawyer in New Jersey representing Morris Goldman. Upon meeting

the lawyer he found out that Goldman had died a year earlier and his

estate had been liquidated. The business had been sold, and REY was

given a cheque for almost seventy thousand dollars.

The following week he returned to New Bern and bought the house.

He remembered bringing his father around later, pointing out the

changes he intended to make. His father seemed weak as he walked,

coughing and wheezing. REy was concerned, but his father told him

not to worry, assuring him that he had the flu.

Less than one month later his father died of pneumonia and was

buried next to his wife in the local cemetery. Rey tried to stop by

regularly to leave some flowers; occasionally he left a note. And

every night without fail he took a moment to say a prayer for the man

who'd taught him everything that mattered.

AFTER REELING in the line, he put the gear away and went back

to the house. His neighbour, Martha Shaw, was there to thank him,

bringing three loaves of homemade bread in appreciation for what

he'd done. Her husband had been killed in the war, leaving her with

three children and a shack to raise them in. Winter was coming, and

he'd spent a few days at her place last week repairing her roof,

replacing broken windows and sealing the others, and fixing her wood

stove. He hoped it would be enough to get them through.

Once she'd left, he got into his battered Dodge truck and went to see

Gus. He always stopped there when he was going to the store,

because Gus's family didn't have a car. One of the daughters hopped

up and rode with him, and they did their shopping at Capers General

Store.

When he got home he didn't unpack the groceries right away.

Instead he showered, found a Budweiser and a book by Dylan

Thomas, and went to sit on the porch.

SHE STILL had trouble believing it, even as she held the proof in

her hands. It had been in the newspaper at her parents' house three

Sundays ago. She had gone to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee, and

when she'd returned to the table her father had smiled and pointed at a

small picture. "Remember this?"

He handed her the paper and, after an uninterested first glance,

something in the picture caught her eye and she took a closer look. "It

can't be," she whispered, and when her father looked at her curiously

she ignored him, sat down and read the article without speaking. She

vaguely remembered her mother coming to the table and sitting

opposite her, and when she finally put aside the paper her mother was

staring at her. "Are you okay?" she asked over her coffee cup. "You

look a little pale."

Sharon didn't answer right away, she couldn't, and it was then that

she'd noticed her hands were shaking. That had been when it started.

"And here it will end, one way or the other," she whispered again.

She refolded the scrap of paper and put it back, remembering that she

had left her parents' home later that day with the paper so she could

cut out the article. She read it again before she went to bed that night,

trying to fathom the coincidence, and read it again the next morning

as if to make sure the whole thing wasn't a dream. And now, after

three weeks of long walks alone, after three weeks of distraction, it

was the reason she'd come.

When asked, she said her erratic behaviour was due to stress. It

was the perfect excuse; everyone understood, including Neal, and

that's why he hadn't argued when she'd wanted to get away for a

couple of days. The wedding plans were stressful to everyone

involved. Almost five hundred people were invited, including the

governor, one senator and the ambassador to Peru. It was too much, in

her opinion, but their engagement was news and had dominated the

social pages since they had announced their plans six months ago.

She took a deep breath and stood again. "It's now or never," she

whispered, then picked up her things and went to the door. She went

downstairs and the manager smiled as she walked by. She could feel

his eyes on her as she went out to her car. She slipped behind the

wheel, started the engine and turned right onto Front Street.

She still knew her way around the small town, even though she

hadn't been here in years. After crossing the Trent River on an oldfashioned

drawbridge, she turned onto a gravel road that wound its

way between antebellum farms, and she knew that, for some of the

farmers, life hadn't changed since before their grandparents were

born. The constancy of the place brought back a flood of memories as

she recognized landmarks she'd long ago forgotten.

The sun hung just above the trees on her left as she passed an old

abandoned church. She had explored it that summer, looking for

souvenirs of the War between the States, and, as she passed, the

memories of that day became stronger, as if they'd happened

yesterday.

A majestic oak tree on the riverbank came into view next, and the

memories became more intense. It looked the same as it had back

then, branches low and thick, stretching horizontally along the ground

with moss draped over the limbs like a veil. She remembered sitting

beneath the tree on a hot July day with someone who looked at her

with a longing that took everything else away. And it had been at that

moment that she'd first fallen in love.

He was two years older than she was, and as she drove along this

roadway-in-time, he slowly came into focus once again. He always

looked older than he really was, she remembered thinking, slightly

weathered, like a farmer coming home after hours in the field. He had

the calloused hands and broad shoulders that came to those who

worked hard for a living, and the first faint lines were beginning to

form around dark eyes that seemed to read her every thought.

He was tall and strong, with light brown hair, and handsome in his

own way, but it was his voice that she remembered most of all. He

had read to her that day as they lay beneath the tree with an accent

that was soft and fluent, almost musical in quality. She remembered

closing her eyes, listening closely and letting the words he was

reading touch her soul.

He thumbed through old books with dog-eared pages, books he'd

read a hundred times. He'd read for a while, then stop, and the two of

them would talk. She would tell him what she wanted in her life'her

hopes and dreams for the future'and he would listen intently and

then promise to make it all come true. And the way he said it made

her believe him, and she knew then how much he meant to her.

Another turn in the road and she finally saw the house in the

distance. It had changed dramatically from what she remembered. She

slowed the car, turning into the long, tree-lined dirt drive.

She took a deep breath when she saw him on the porch, watching

her car. He was dressed casually. From a distance, he looked the same

as he had back then. When the light from the sun was behind him, he

almost seemed to vanish into the scenery.

Her car continued forward slowly, then finally stopped beneath an

oak tree that shaded the front of the house. She turned the key, never

taking her eyes from him, and the engine sputtered to a halt. He

stepped off the porch and began to approach her, walking easily, then

suddenly stopped cold as she emerged from the car. For a long time

all they could do was stare at each other without moving.

Kriya Ghai , twenty-nine years old and engaged, a socialite,

searching for answers, and Reyaansh Singhania, the dreamer, thirty-one,

visited by the ghost that had come to dominate his life.

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so hw was it?? HIT LIKE NEXT UPDATE AFTER PAGE 30

pm's vl b sent to only those people who like or comment henceforth.

its lovely
well my like button is not working
count my like too

Awesome updates

Awesome update n that too a big one
Swaron still feel for each other
Sharon's marriage??
This story is reallt different from others
Hope swaron r together in end
Waiting for next part
Ps.update ur swaron ff too pls

just awesome...wow!!!i wish...i so wish i could read whole story in one go...!!!
and pls...pls...continue...update soon