seventh anniversary today.
i'm not looking up to see if a helicopter's up there in the sky, arcing away, its sound mingling with the rush of longing in my mind.
pink dupatta, green lehenga, gota shimmer, helmet on her head, sneakers on her feet, wobbly swing of a scooter that belongs to whom, to her or the kaka ji she almost ran over in that crowded lucknow galli, i still wonder.
i still wonder how i got there. to that ramp, to that look in dark eyes with its particular weariness, its preternatural awareness, to that breath caught in the night as a girl fell. i hadn't meant to be there.
who were these people? why was the man in a grey suit walking purposefully toward that girl in a red saree? why was she stepping back, fear and something else emanating from her, filling up the evening, the whole universe. he had the gait of a nocturnal creature, a dangerous one. yet he looked hypnotised, he was vulnerable. reflections shimmered all around, water and fire played in the night. her lips were glistening, pink, light innocent, craving the darkness. his eyes wouldn't leave her lips, their tremble. he seemed to have stopped breathing. i seemed to have stopped breathing.
when everything else stops mattering is a single undefinable yet specific moment. it came out of nowhere, or perhaps it was hidden in the pool, or in asr's wardrobe, or in khushi's tiny glittering bindi, or was it in the pompom? it came and i felt myself give in, there was no option.
now she is on a scooter again. this time i know it's bedi ji's. and she's banged into a big white car. what are you to do when a monster tells you how much it costs to fix a mirror. really, these monsters.
let me go, let me go, she pleads. but he will not. she is a spy. she must tell him why she's here. jiji's wedding can't take place if she doesn't return. let it not, girls like her can find other men. no... how could he. badtameezi. a hiss of anger, a vicious gleam, eyes burn with rage. two people locked in a gaze. snap. an echo of what? horror? the pearls scatter.
hello hi bye bye, aap toh suttupei kar leo. hai re nand kissore, sanka debi, chatori, titaliya. hum nani hain. tumhari saansey ruk jaaygi... raanisahiba... yeh bhi na. tum thik ho? shut up. get out. get ooouuut. di! diii! chhotey. what the! how dare you! kyun, hum daring kyun nahin kar sakte... daring par sirf aapka naam likha hai kya? aap daring khareed li hai kya?!! what nonsense. aap non-
words tumble in and out. music plays. every peak and trough and tremor and pause is etched somewhere. could it be in hamesha? must ask nk, he has good answers, after all he's from kidney.
what is love? what tells you it is, it is indeed love, and nothing else. i hate you. yes, that must be it. hum nafrat karte hain aap se, yes, yes... more nafrat please.
toh kya woh sach taarey ban jaatey hain?
the girl is walking out of his office. tears glitter in her eyes. he looks at her, he can't look away, something is cutting into him... she doesn't matter to him. a door is sliding she on one side, he on the other, a conversation has ended, a conversation has begun.
there was a girl friend. yes, a real one. and she was lovely. there was a villain, a nasty one, i never could forgive the director for giving him khushi's best palat.
the goat was a goat and perhaps a metaphor but nani ji really loved her. she was lakshmi ji, and khushi spoke to her from time to time. the goat didn't mind.
it's okay. biwi ho tum meri. huq hai tumhara... the voice gets smooth, playful, a crack in it... mujh pe.
i'm getting lost. hey hey heyheyhey heyheyhey enters my gut and lingers, calling jo pehle hua na... kyun, dard hai itna... jadoo hai nasha hai... tu hi bata mere maula, tu hi bata mere... rabba vey
rabba vey...
piano notes trill. a girl in a plain red chiffon, earrings brilliant and sparkling dangle, her hair flies, her eyes plead and accuse. a man in a suit, transfixed. maula maula, maula mere maula...
where are we? where are we going. i'll go anywhere with you. the temple is deserted and he is dragging her up the steps. how will i ever like him after this. i must hate him. why do i feel his pain? what trickery is this? don't tell me this is acting. don't tell me he is an actor. i am sitting up in bed. it's the middle of the night. he's just seen khushi in the arms of his brother in law. he is staring at them, stupefied. the expression begins to shift, concentrate...
she is standing on the table in a light green churidar, hands joined over her head, telling the story of janmashtami. why is her voice so lovely? why am i getting as enamoured of the tale as nani ji and di. thank h for la, anaconda. but wait, kans has arrived.
has it been seven years already? five and a half of them without the weekday half hour of dhakdhak starting midnight, here in singapore. no mahaepisodes, no episodes, no telecast, but iss pyaar ko kya naam doon? still plays, the media is different. it's our dil, our dimaag, our dhadkane. hai na... chacha ji? aaargh that first palat.
okay, forget it.. main chahta hoon ki tum mujhe, abhi, kiss karo.
nahin!
as i type out the words, i begin to imagine a kissing scene between the two, i am beginning to choke, but aman has a mission. he calls. i often think hp was his plant in shantivan. had he not knocked on the door that day...
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