~ ME to YOU ~ - Page 5

Originally posted by: Sookie*

This is for request by Kiran a.k.a Pebblez :-)

Neverwhere

...................

"She will make an awesome ghost one day", Thing two replied with dreamy eyes.

Sookie

Originally posted by: NYPunjabii

Thanks Hina! (I'm guessing thats your name) yep Hina it is

I had given up hope that anyone would fulfill my request as there aren't many AK fans anymore. But you did it!

My name is Jannat

The first part of this FF was great.

It flowed perfectly and I love the writing style.

Aww..Angad might not be able to do his show

Kripa is sooo sweet

Do continue onto the next part.

Dying to know what happens next.

Happy Holidays!!!

Jannat

Originally posted by: sri_4

hey hina..

nice intro..loved it,,not much into AK fics but liked this theme so would be waiting for u r other part..

so kripa is doc loved the convo..poor angad have met with accident..

lets see what christmas has in store for the..

good wishes..

sri:-)

Originally posted by: spln

theme: cross identities (say each char pretending to be someone they are not...)
genre: witty conversation... can hint into a spark of a meeting!
preferred couple: nupur-mayank! :)

great going everyone, so far!

great thread hinz, and yeh t_ _ _ y _ _ S_

:D

cheers,
nj

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