Tara walked away from the window towards her vanity table and sat on her small cushioned stool. She glanced at herself in the mirror scrutinizing for tiniest flaws on her face. But she could not find any; she was as perfect as ever. Tara was the envy of every young maiden in the town and the desire for many eligible bachelors in her town and farther away. She had a porcelain complexion that never faded or aged, delicate bone structure that seemed to define further with time. The most captivating feature on her face was her eyes, a pool of fresh mint leaves, anyone who gazed into them were truly mesmerized.

There was a rumour around, that her eyes had magic that had an ability to cast a spell on anyone. She sighed and picked up her hairbrush and ran it through her long white blond hair that cascaded down her back. Anyone who saw her would take her as a young aristocratic woman who has all luxuries of life at her feet. How appearances can be deceived, she spoke to the mirror. She put down her brush near the arrays of bottles and walked to her bed. She noticed an embracing figure expressing their love under the elm tree, she moved closer to the window to look. The man took out what looked like a ring from his pockets, went down on his knees and said something. The young woman wiped her eyes with her handkerchief and extended her gloved hands to wear his ring. And they will live happily ever after, Tara sniffed in the air.

Tara fell onto her bed and cried, tears poured out happily from her eyes. Her heart heavily embedded with sorrow and darkness. She felt her life slowly sinking without any meaning or purpose. On the front, she was like any other normal woman with dreams in her eyes, love and hope in her heart and great expectations from her life but deep within she carried a hollow secret that threatened to poison her being. A deadly curse, she could not share with any one but swallow it until it swallowed her.

Tara could not ever experience eternal love and lasting happiness, any man who proposed lifetime commitment to her would end up in her death. Those words of love would cause her to die in the arms of that man. The curse was so sinister that it cast an irreversible spell. The curse made her more captivating and beautiful that made heartbeats of many men thumper, yet she could never feel its passion. Tara never allowed herself to fall in love with any man nor could encourage them to the point where there was no turning back; she always maintained a cold distance with the men seeking her attention. People whispered about her attitude and single status despite the attention she received but Tara turned her ears upon them. She had accepted her life in solitude and loneliness.

Tara wiped out her tears as done many times before and got up from her bed. Dressed in pale peach gown, she picked up her ever-ready parasol and went for a walk near the stream.

She looked up the sky to feel the heat of the sun; she walked slowly along the trail of the banks plucking the blades of the grasses randomly, the sunlight beaming through the branches and birds chirping happily into the surroundings. She smiled in spite of herself, the serenity made her entirely emotional. She sat on a rock nearby and allowed the weight of her thoughts to soothe. She glanced around to the source of the chattering and peals of laughter echoing around her, couples of fair-head children were engrossed in their excursion. She smiled wistfully and stared at the whirlpool of ripples in the water aimlessly. How I wish to live a normal life.

Her thoughts glided back to that day when she faced the harsh reality of her fate. An innocent trip to the fortuneteller at the local carnival changed her entire course of life. The gypsy, crackled to her in a hollow voice that deadly spells was looming over Tara that was conceived by a very evil relative of hers. The sinister jealously was to surface over her in form of this curse. Any man who desires lifetime commitment with her would end up causing her death. She was doomed for eternity.

She was so deeply disturbed in her thoughts that she had not realized a figure standing behind her.
‘Good day, mam,’ the gentleman tipped his hat in gesture. Tara raised her eyes towards the tall man standing beside her and strained her eyes against the sun. She blinked cautiously at the defining presence of this man, dressed in an army’s attire.

‘Apologies for giving you a fright, but may I sit here?’ he pulled off his hat and smiled.

Tara did not offer any consent but did not remove her eyes off him either. He was certainly tall, with dark smooth hair and dark eyes, his nose and chin well defined as his presence. She lowered her eyes and slowly stood up, but almost losing her balance. The man quickly caught her hand to prevent her from falling and the sudden contact of manly skin caused friction against her skin. She pulled her hands away hastily and walked away without a word.

The man watched her in wonder; she was as pretty as picture whilst she sat on the rock and on an impulse, he went to her without realizing what her reaction would be. An action he was regretting it now, he had scared her off even before a conversation could take place.

Tara walked back to her house silently, deep in thoughts. The man’s strong image kept disturbing her all the way and couldn’t help wondering who he was who triggered such a reaction from her. She wondered if she would ever see him again. And she did, the next day at the town square. Dressed as elegantly as ever; she paraded around the fair on her own as always. Every pair of eyes locked at her bewitchingly. Blocking herself under the parasol, she raised her lashes towards the clear sky basking in the afternoon glow.

‘Ahh, so we meet again’, the very deep voice sparkled from behind her.

Tara staggered clumsily in response; her heart was thumping at a clinical rate and the warmth of the air around her was slowly creeping around her cheeks.

The man noticed her uneasiness and quickly replied, ’I apologise for yesterday; I had not meant to scare you away. I apologise once again.’ He smiled hoping that would ease her nerves.

Tara tried not to feel the effect his smile had on her; instead she asked the first thing that came into her mind’, Are you a sergeant?’

He looked at her questioningly for a second, and then looked down at his crisp, bright uniform he was wearing and grinned,’ yes, indeed I am. On top of the order and the very best as a matter-of-fact.’ He added in proudly.

She laughed in spite of herself. Her laugh lingered on his senses causing him to stare into her eyes. Tara couldn’t help but stare back, profound silence deepening around them, until he cleared his throat,’ we have not introduced ourselves formally. My name is Sergeant Edward Cunningham’. He tipped his hat in gesture.

‘I am Tara De Bough’. She smiled.

‘Shall we take a walk?’ Edward suggested hoping she would agree. In answer, Tara raised her parasol and nodded.

They had a leisurely walk around the town fair that was progressing heartily. The weather drew in many crowds to enjoy the merrymaking. As the conversation progressed, the self-conscious Tara eased down. She enjoyed the confident presence of this man who strolled alongside her with poise and dignity. She peered at him through her lashes wondering where all this would head. He caught her expression and raised his eyebrows questioningly. She shook her head and continued to walk gracefully. Edward, on the other hand looked at her in confusion. All along the conversation, it was he doing the talking and noticed certain aloofness around Tara. Despite of being with him her mind seemed to be elsewhere and yet he caught her staring at him wistfully. He was quite puzzled by her attitude. But there was something magnetic about her that he could not define, instead felt himself being pulled by her cold charms. They walked further until it was time to depart.

Tara couldn’t remember the last time she actually enjoyed being with a man without her senses cautioning her. Edward had been charming and chivalrous nothing like those men who were just attracted to her outer beauty, without giving much thought about what Tara felt. A tiny hope of meeting Edward again ignited her heart drums. For the first time she went off to sleep with a tiny smile on her lips rather than swollen teary eyes.

Their meetings became quite frequent. Edward comfortably shared everything about his life, the regiment, and his childhood with Tara but she never spoke about her inner secrets. Edward realized a certain hesitation but never probed further respecting her feelings. Tara dared not speak anything about her curse for she wanted Edward, be with him, to love him, to feel him, to touch him…The more she was with him, the more she grew restless, her heart burned with intensity. He was so very near to her yet he was eternally apart. This new sensation frightened Tara for she did not want to die. She did not want to hurt Edward even though either way he would be shattered. Tara would stare at him silently holding back her tears and swallowing her heartburn. Edward loved her and wanted to share his entire life with her but whenever he tried to get closer to Tara; she would look at him with solemn expression and walk away silently.

‘Tara, since the time we have met you’ve kept your guard on, acted indifference to whatever has been going on between us, why?’ Edward spoke. He wished to know what was troubling Tara.

‘Whatever do you mean?’ Tara knew what he meant but pretended to be surprised.

‘You very well know what I mean, stop this pretense’, Edward was on the verge of losing his temper.

‘Edward…I’, Tara started but could not carry on. Her nerves threatened to wipe her senses.

She couldn’t bring herself to speak and shook her head, ‘never mind…’

She glanced at him quietly and turned to walk away once again. But he caught her arms before she could slip away.’ Tara…don’t….’ he warned her.

‘Edward, please….’ she pleaded. Her pleas did not depict any signs of understanding from him.

She sighed,’ you may not understand, it is very complicated.’

‘Tara, I want to know what your problem is. Why do you drift yourself away from me whenever I try to come closer to you?’

Tara’s lower lips trembled, she could not control herself and burst into tears, ’Oh Edward, I love you very much but I can’t love you and I don’t want you to get hurt which you will eventually anyways.’

‘You do not make any sense at all. If you love me then why would I get hurt and why can’t you love me in spite of you loving me?’ Edward was trying to decipher what she was saying.

‘It’s the curse…a curse that has been cased on me, a bloody curse that will take my life if any man proposes his undying love to me. That’s why I have been behaving coldly towards you. I do not want to die and lose you; I cannot bear to see you hurt.’ Tara sobbed hysterically.

For several seconds Edward stared at her without blinking, ‘Tara that is utter nonsense I have ever heard in my life. If you do not care about me just say it rather than snubbing me off in this way’
Tara frowned at him, chocking on her tears, ‘I told you; you would not understand but believe me I do not want to hurt you. This has silently been killing me’. She sobbed quietly.

Edward sighed, ‘Tara, I love you and that’s all I know or can think of….’

Tara looked up at him, frozen still. She raised her hands to her throat to sooth back the choke.

‘I want to share my sorrows, my happiness, my life everything with you….’

She raised the other hand to hold on to her heart, a burning sensation passing through.

‘I want to wake up every morning, feel the morning dew and the golden rays of the sunshine right beside you…’

She clutched her heart to control the sharp pain that shot right at the core of the heart. She felt as if a glazing splinter had been stabbed mercilessly into her heart over and over again.

‘I want to share my every fireplace moments with you, I want to grow old with you Tara…’

Tara held her throat trying to free herself from the shadows of death piercing in front of her eyes.

‘Tara… Tara…? Are you all right? Tara, look at me!’ Edward panicked when he saw Tara. He took her in his arms to hold her.

Her face went all blue and cold. She was grasping for air. She stared at him in horror unable to bring herself to say something.

‘Oh Lord, Tara, say something, please, what is happening to you?’ he cried helplessly, not knowing what to do but just stare at her. He suddenly realized what Tara had told him a while ago and looked at her alarmingly. She was saying the truth. His very word of love was going to take away the life that he wanted to be with. He would be the cause of her death.

‘Edward….’ Tara choked, ‘I …I’m sorry…’ Lifeless colour creeping onto her face that proved the existence of the curse, the authority it had over her. Its cynical wings were finally going to claim Tara.

‘Nooooooo, Tara do not leave me,’ he cried pleadingly. ‘TARA…TARA!!’

Tara smiled faintly and touched his face, ‘I do….’ Final shot of pain sprouted out of her mouth and pulled her soul into darkness. Her body lay limped into his arms.

Call disconnected.

A year later.

Boy: Hey!
Girl: Who is speaking?
Boy: Me, your stupid!
Girl: Sorry but who are you exactly?
Boy: Did not you recognize me?
Girl: Should I?
Boy: Come on!
Girl: Sorry, I don’t know you
Boy: Don’t act like that; you know me very well.
Girl: May be!
Boy: Uh! May be?
Girl: Yea…
Boy: Do you wonder why I called?
Girl: No
Boy: Hmmm…
Girl: Anyways, have a good day.
Boy: Hang on! I have something to say.
Girl: Then hurry up, I don’t have time.
Boy: I love you!
Girl: Silence
Boy: Talk to me, I love you so much.
Girl: I don’t love you.

Call disconnected.

Life ran like a wheel. The circle started every morning and ended up late in the night, and then morning appeared again. There was no pause, no rest, not even a slight curve to insert change. She condemned herself for not experiencing even a thought of ever getting out of this circle. She had committed herself to the orbit of life.

Coming out of the bathroom, she turned and looked at her bushed face in the mirror and gasped a tired answer to her long asked question, “Never, you just keep driving in the sunset.” She shook her head to wing away those rebellious butterflies in her mind. She knew she couldn’t join them so she didn’t want them to hang around her either.

She entered the kitchen hearing Mike, yelling in his drowsy voice for the absence of his towel in the bathroom. Her youngest daughter Karen started crying for she didn’t want to go to school that day. Nicole, the eldest, couldn’t help herself but to blame Daniel for the overnight fragmentation of her dollhouse. While Randal registered his protest from his bed that he was not going to drink milk in breakfast like every day. While in the kitchen, sugar had run out and the laundry seemed to have been breeding itself. And she was still looking for that magic wand.

She never got to know when morning ran into noon; even the clock failed to tell her that. Mike left for office still screaming and shouting for his towel and the school bus only arrived after the kids had put all their stunts on the dining table. Their absence couldn’t cease her work for they left their incarnations on her day. She was comparing the pile of her courage to that of the laundry when the doorbell rang. It had been so long anybody coming to their home that she had forgotten what their doorbell sounded like. She tried to guess who could it be but not a single name intervened her thoughts. She opened the door with an uncertain hope for a surprise from the blue but only found the postman standing in the door to vanish that uncertainty.

“Hi David! Since when did you start ringing the doorbell?” words flew out of her mouth with their own consent.

“Ever since I was a kid. Only that in my childhood I would ring the bell and run away.” David was one hell of a cheerful postman.

“But you don’t need to run away now.”

“No, not until you have signed and received you letter.”

“My letter! Who could send that?”

“I am not sure, its someone named L.H.M. Sounds like a postgraduate degree to me.”

“Never mind, I’ll sign it.”

Tanya received the letter. It was a registered letter from within the town. She wondered who could that L.H.M be. She opened the envelope and the mystery that enfolded it. The handwriting sparked a memory but she felt too overwhelmed to scrape her past. Her heartbeat started flying on butterfly wings.

It wasn’t just a letter with ordinary words written on a piece of paper. She could feel those words fluttering over her heart. They were telling her stories of her long lost love.

My dearest wish, Tanya!

I once saw my home in the streets of your palm, my destiny in the smiles of your promises, and my shelter in the shadows of your eyes. I treasured all your whispers under my pillow, your fragrance in my breaths, and your name in my ears. Your face still lightens up the sky in the night, your voice still rhymes the rainfall, and your hair still soften the wind.

The sun always rose from the casement of your eyes.

And then, time flew you away into someone else’s world. That sun vanished and ever since I haven’t seen a sunrise.

Life is spending me and I am aging into it. Days keep climbing the mountain of years. Moon drapes its face in the clouds and the night refuses to bring sleep onto my pillow. I fight your memories and defeat myself. The pain-waves of your absence storm through my stale heart and leave it in a vortex.
Life runs like a wheel. The circle starts every morning and ends up late in the night, and then morning appears again. There is no pause, no rest, not even a slight curve to turn into a change.

My face has lived with me for ten cold winters, now I want to feel the warmth of you face. Bring the sunshine of your eyes to me. Meet me while the sun sets this Sunday at the river bridge where days use to meet nights. My eyes will be measuring the passage until you come.

Larry

The letter ended and left her standing at the door of her time-faded memories. Larry was her classmate in college days. He lived her heart and she dreamed his eyes. They had planned to get married after graduation as soon as Larry found a good job. It took him a year to find one and this expansion of time let Mike surface. Mike was an elegant and handsome man with already a good job. He proposed Tanya and she, tired of waiting for fresh air, stepped into the clouds with Mike. Larry got a first-rate job the day Tanya got married.

In next six months, Larry left the country and Tanya moved to Wisconsin. Life got busy in its details and Larry lived in her memory too much that she forgot to remember him. Mike’s love scattered into his job, kids and Tanya. She did the same to him, except for the job thing. Her job was to take care of the kids and the home. “Easier said than done” she liked this phrase ever since. Her job imprisoned her wishes and she couldn’t even wish for her freedom.

And today, after more than ten years, a letter came into her life like a butterfly carrying on its wings words written in rainbow colors. It was Wednesday and she wished to jump over those three days into the Sunday sunset.

She never got to know when the kids came back from the school and how she spent the rest of the day. The days had started flying with her. In the night she would read that letter to the moon, the stars and the breeze. She would tell them stories of her love; the first time she met Larry, her first words and her first kiss. Every inch of her memory had a bond to a whole new memory itself. Now she remembered everything; every ray the sun ever decanted on her love.

Life had taken a right turn on a straight highway of routines. The orbit had finally broken. She could feel a powerful freedom that was removing those monotonous thoughts from her mind and injecting life into her veins. Life was wearing hope now.

The time from Sunday morning to evening was hard to spend. Time clock was snailing out of the day and the sun got hung up in mid air. Wind stopped on the surface of water and the shadows declined to shrink. She wished time was a horse with a tail on the forehead and she would pull it from its tail. She wished time was a dry leaf and she would through it in the windstorm of her heart. She wished time was a boat and she would sail it in the river of her eyes. But today, time that had always been a teacher to her, had turn into a teaser. It wasn’t breathing at all, just holding its breath and teasing her more. She wanted the time to fly and it was crawling. She tried to make herself busy in house chores but her eyes quit supporting her hands as they were still looking at the sun. And the sun also kept glaring at her, all day. Finally the sun lost the battle and started going down. From the ventilator, it had skid to the window.

No one in the family felt any change in her. Mike had to go to meet a client and was quite busy looking at himself and the kids were too involved looking at the TV. It was an hour to sunset and she was ready, wearing her best dress and wrapped in her favourite fragrance. She surrendered a couple of years from her face and brought back a few young smiles onto her lips.

“Where are you going dear?” her preparation couldn’t wage enough resistance against Mike’s curiosity.
“Aa, well, actually I thought I would go for some shopping” she hardly uttered.

”Mom! I would go with you.” Nicole yelled as the idea of going out had removed her attention from the TV. The rest were too absorbed they didn’t even listen the conversation.

“Yeah dear, why don’t you take Nicole with you, she could be help.”

Tanya didn’t feel comfortable having a company at that time but she didn’t want to change Mike’s curiosity in to suspicion so she said OK.

All the way to the city center, Nicole kept telling her of all the stuff her friends had and what she wanted to buy in response. Tanya wasn’t listening. She was just shaking her head in approval of whatever Nicole said. She couldn’t possibly have said a word. Her heart was rumbling like a volcano, hitting the rib cage trying to get out to take a look at its long lost love.

The sun was hurrying down now. She was afraid of getting late so she speeded up a little.

“Mom! Aren’t we suppose to go to City Center?” Nicole asked seeing her turning to a different street.

“Yes dear but I have to take care of something important before we go shopping, all right?” she said.

“All right.” It was OK for Nicole as long as it didn’t alter their shopping plan.

The bridge was getting closer and so was logic. Sanity had started penetrating her enthusiasm. The question of “how should I do it?” turned into “why should I do it?” The eclipse of her memories had started declining. She could see the bridge now. She stopped the car a hundred yards away from the bridge.

“Honey! You stay in the car, I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She said to Nicole without a slight touch of emotions. She didn’t wait for her answer, stepped out of the car in a mechanical way and started walking towards the bridge.

Larry was standing on the corner of the bridge, with his back to her. He was looking down the bridge into the running water. She walked for a few yards and then stopped. Larry turned his face towards her. Age seemed to have worn him out. He looked tired as if he had traveled a huge mileage of years. His presence sent no ‘waves of fresh air’ to clean her heart from the mist of dissatisfaction. He disappointed her again. She hoped to find a ray of hope and he disappointed her hope. She looked back towards the car at her daughter. “I have too much to lose, I don’t want to lose my ten years.” she decided and turned back. Larry ran after her but she had reached her car. Larry called her with a passionate cry, “Tanya!” She opened the door and sat in. Larry stopped abruptly with shock struck eyes. Tanya turned the car back.

“You are my wish Tanya!” Larry murmured. She stepped on the car. Larry saw her going into the sunset.

“Who was he mommy?” Nicole couldn’t catch any idea out of it.

“He was a nobody my dear.”

Tanya kept driving into the sunset

She knew the feeling too well. Her forehead was moist with tiny, cold droplets of sweat. The heart was pounding against the walls of flesh. She was having nausea; the sort expecting women experience during gestation. She caressed her belly… her empty womb. She felt like throwing up but there was barely anything in her stomach. She gagged a few times but every time she ended up spitting out stale and bitter saliva.

She thought of him, his image was hazy like a reflection on the surface of water. I think I am passing out she thought. No, it’s just the weakness of nerves. His thought intensified her nausea. She really wanted to puke out her liver, heart, stomach and… the womb.

She had known him for 7 years. Those seven years were full of frenzy and passion. She didn’t know how and when he had become her weakness so much so that he would always call the shots. She had no say in anything. Not even when he would force himself upon her. Not even when he asked her to abort the child. She wanted to have baby but he wasn’t ready for a responsibility.

“You love me?” She had asked him.

“I do.”

“Then let’s get married and have a baby.” She implored hoping to hear a positive reply this time.

“You know your mother won’t accept me. And I am trying to get a job in Dubai. Let me make some money… we would have a family one day for sure.”

She knew he was only buying time. When she would recall his eyes, full of love and desire, her hope would revive. She had spent seven years of her life in this ambiguousness. She succumbed to his arguments once again and aborted the third time. She knew this time she didn’t only kill the fetus she had killed part of herself.

Her heart was sinking; she was totally soaked in the cold sweat. She hadn’t been feeling well since some time. She grabbed the corner of bed sheet as if trying to grasp for the air. She couldn’t inhale enough oxygen. Her mind submerged in the depths of darkness where she could see nothing but the swaying, dancing fetuses with tears falling from their under developed big eyes. She tossed and turned… the pain was becoming unbearable, the nausea was taking her life and above all she failed to shake off those wailing and begging images.

Time came to a stand still… but the clock kept ticking at it’s usual pace with out any regard.

When he came back he found her sleeping. He shook her by the shoulder. She was only a curled up bundle of the dead flesh.

Inspired by a true incident

It is not easy to come to terms with. That real is not real for her anymore; that my world is not hers anymore; that she is not mine anymore.

I’m tired. Of trying to make sense of it all. And getting nowhere. Why, I wonder, does it have to be me? Or her? Or anyone at all?

Will it ever go away? I ask him. It makes him frown. And makes me want to laugh. The futility of it all.

So I laugh. He gives me a strange look. But he is patient. And compassionate. And clueless.

I’m torn. Between hope and despair. She’s confused. Between real and unreal.

The struggle. Is inside and out. The pain. Is mine … and mine alone.

How can he understand any of it? Though he is patient.

I walk slowly. To her. I sit down quietly. With her. In her tiny room. The room with white walls. The room with white sheets. The room. White.

She raises her head. She looks at me. No. Through me.

A lone tear escapes her eye. And burns a trail down my cheek. Is she in pain? Or is it me?

I want to hold her now, as she held me once. Kiss her gently on her forehead, as she did me. But the haze that clouds her eyes. The haze that surrounds her being. Separates us.

Before the woman comes along. The woman who wears a stern face and bears a stern voice. To tell me it is time. Will I see a spark from the past? Sigh. Maybe not. Maybe tomorrow. Is tomorrow another day?

I wish. I want. But I know.

What am I doing here? She knows me not. No more, anyway.

Though I know her.

Have I abandoned her? To the mercy of the stern voices. And the white walls? When the walls in my home are warm.

But she doesn’t know the difference. Though I do.

I close my eyes. Squeeze them tightly. Keep them closed, whispers a voice inside my head.

I open them quickly.

She looks on strangely for a moment. As if reading my dilemmas. Then she smiles. Soothingly. Like warm sunshine. And she raises her hand. To touch my cheek. Oh.

Suddenly, she looks pained. And clutches her heart. She squeezes her eyes shut for a second and opens them with effort. She sees the alarm in my eyes. And smiles. I smile back – the eye sees not what the heart chooses to deny.

The crisp, stern voice speaks. I have to go.

I hug her tightly. Taking the warmth of her being with me. To the comfort of my home. Where she once smiled many warm smiles for me. Where she lived and loved. Where she laughed. Hugged. Talked.

The comfort of my home…where she no longer lives. And silence prevails.

Though her fragrance lingers.

I am sad. The night is dark. And long. I can’t wait. I call him. He is patient… and unrelenting. I wait.

As darkness lifts, light rays filter through thin net curtains. I pull on a coat. I pick up the keys. Run a hand through my hair. And step out.

I rush. Through the white corridor. I barge in. Through the white door. I stare. At the white bed. Crisp. Neat. Empty.

The white walls begin to close in on me. I take a deep breath. And a cloud seems to lift.

In the comfort of the white room, where she no longer lives…her fragrance lives on…

It was 9 pm; the sun had already set and the moon was ready to take shelter under the stars. He had just left the office and was walking towards his car. The dancing trees were conveying that it would be a windy night. He was about to unlock his car when he realized a piece of paper flying in the air towards him. It whirled for a while thinking where to stop its journey. Getting slower by every second, it fell just in front of his feet. He stared at the paper, thought for a second to take it or not; then took the paper. The moonlight being there, he tried to see what it was. The handwriting was enough to make him dizzy, he immediately came to know it was her and he continued reading the rest with a heavier pain in heart aching more on each word:

“Dear You,

Although I did not mention any name, I bet as soon as you touch this piece of paper, you will come to know that this special letter has just been written for you and I bet you won’t be surprised as you have been used to my such letters all throughout the period we used to be together. Letters which were full of cries, full of begging, declaring how much I love you…Letters showing how much I need you, miss you, how much I long for you…Letters asking about solutions, resolutions, a way-out assuming you had the same feelings…And I bet before starting to read this one, you will have an anxious smile on your face not being able to decide whether you need to be sad or happy over these emotions which are also indecisive whether to reflect a smile or a cry changing mood on each word on every new page.

You are already fed up with all these unnecessarily said words, aren’t you? I always tried to render myself through words but these words have been inescapably incapable of capturing you, they have been far away from gripping your heart. Now you must be asking “if you are aware of this fact, why are you still writing?” To be honest even I don’t know the answer. I don’t write for a try or re-try, I don’t write with any kind of expectation, I don’t write to feel you between lines as I used to, I don’t write to cheer up remembering the past either.
Simply I write for nothing. May be it has been my habit making me feel alive, time to time reminding me that I still survive after you.

Frankly speaking, during the period I was away from you, I felt like a wreckage of a tired body, like a wounded soul in an unexpected crash. Now I consider myself as a mental patient who has just recovered from her illness.

If you are already bored, stop reading at this point because the rest will smell more past. It is my duty to warn you as you don’t need to endure all this as an outsider to my heart.

You know what, I wish I could convert this imaginary letter into a real one but unfortunately I even don’t know where you are living exactly and the chances that a mail-bird finding your way is quite less. That reveals a fact at this step, which is in fact I am writing this letter to myself!

When I look back (which I should not do according to you), I realize one thing—I did not ask for the permission to enter your life out of blue, in an unexpected way, and similarly you did not ask me either while leaving my life. So I guess we are equal now…

You know that the way we contacted each other or connected to one another was quite limited. But I suppose I always found a way to create a huge world for myself from even a word written or said by you, like whenever I heard your voice, I asked myself “What do I hear in his voice?” The reply was always the same: “The rest of my life!” However, a life with you is deemed to be a dream forever; a dream to be had but not to be turned into real.

Last night I was reading a book, suddenly a small piece of paper fell out of it. It was a note written by you three years ago and it was saying:
“Close your eyes,
Take a deep breath,
Hold your breath as long as you can,
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

Now take a breath,
I missed you as much as you missed the air.”

Naturally I couldn’t stop a drop of tear although I know how much angry you feel when I cry. Past keeps whispering to me such small anecdotes day and night letting me live every moment with you again and again no matter good or bad! What about present? Well, my present means only long waits…waiting for a sign proving that you were REAL, that what I had with you was truly SINCERE…

Your picture is in front of me right now, you are looking at me with your olive-like eyes. Your smile is embracing me; you are so close to me and far away at the same time, sometimes I feel as I can reach you by only one step, at other times you are oceans away! There is still so much to say that I would like to but no point…let them be entrapped in me.

Now before ending this letter I am putting a faded smile on my face hiding all the evidence of this love which is still at the level of madness. I always knew I had to be patient on the way I chose to walk!

Dear you, this is the end, may be my last paragraph in your life but not the last sentence. As I am so sure that you won’t read this letter, I can clearly, madly, enthusiastically scream or cry my last sentence without being shy or feeling embarrassed:

‚Tum bhi mujhse pyaar kar lo1’Yours forever…”

It was 9 pm when she was lost in dreams in front of the window. Suddenly she felt a relief inside as if her letter so that her words had reached him and tugged his heartstrings at last. She said to herself “it is too LATE now!” She had already swallowed the handful of pills…

After finishing the letter he felt as if his soul was taken away from his body. He thought he was totally misunderstood by her all throughout. He regretted as he had never disclosed his heart, never tried to explain anything, stayed as dull and silent as a wall…He decided to take a step to make himself clear to her so he would call her tomorrow as it was too LATE now!

1 “Please you too love me.”

Author’s Note: The characters, events, and the emotions within this letter are totally imaginary; any similarity, connection, reminiscence or resemblance is completely accidental or coincidental…

She woke up earlier today although it was weekend. She opened the curtains to a white world and started to watch the snow even without blinking her eyes. Each time a snowflake reached the ground and melted in the soil, she remembered him. Each time a snowflake was gone with the wind in the air carelessly here and there, she remembered him. And each time a snowflake fell onto the window smiling at her with a soft and calm move, she remembered him.

It was her birthday so the time was not proper to think about him, to remember him or frankly speaking to miss him. That would put her into an expectation, expecting a call for her birthday as his velvet-like voice, his warm smile contrasting to the cold whether would be the best gift she could ever have in her entire life, yet he had forgotten her last birthday.

She looked at the watch, it was 8 am. She tried to calculate the time in Ontario. It must have passed the midnight. He must have been sleeping already. For a short while, she got lost in her mind surrounded by the thoughts all about him. She thought they never watched the same moon at the same time, they never blinked at the sun at the same time, they never got wet under the same rain, and they never breathed the same air or never felt the cold face of the same snow…

That was nothing more than nonsense. She always thought she ended this issue in her mind months ago but her heart was against her as usual. Trying to divert her attention from him to something else she took a few steps towards the kitchen. All of a sudden she realized something on the carpet. A hairclip with blue-pink butterfly on it, the pair of which was sent to him a year ago in an envelope full of love and hope. Now she did not have enough courage to take it from the ground or to handle the situation itself. Right now this tiny hairclip let her dig her past deeper and deeper. She remembered how they used to imagine a day to spend together. A day in Ontario, on a lonely street buried into silence with the snow covering the whole city.

They would be walking hand in hand slowly, silently feeling each other more on each step. They would let the snow hide their footprints they left on the snowy road.

He would be smoking at the same time. She never had any special reason but she always had the impression that he looked more charming while smoking. After a long walk they would be sitting on a cold bench not even minding its being wet by snow. They would be looking each other’s eyes searching for the traces of love more and more until feeling satisfied. Her nose would be reddish due to chilling wind and he would warm it by rubbing his nose onto hers. That would let her feel his breath on her face…

These daydreams were going on for hours each time they called each other and just before they end the call, they used to repeat their promise given by heart: “No matter what happens, no matter where we are, no matter how old we are, no matter with whomever we are, we will meet at least once before we die!”.

She heard his voice echoing in her ear as if it was just whispered. She realized the bitter truth of the world once again. Different nations, different cultures, different religions, and parents isolating their children from this “difference”.

The voice in her ear carried on: “I know we have no end but I promise you I will be yours and only yours forever. Can you promise me as well?”

She whispered to herself “I promise”.

As soon as she finished her sentence the phone rang. Before daring to hear who it was, she checked the time again. It was 8:45 am. She picked it up. That familiar soft voice:

“Happy Birthday Ducky!”

Although she was longing for this call, hence waiting for it, she was shocked and had no words to speak. For a while they stayed silent. Then the guy carried on:

“Don’t you want to know about your birthday gift?”

“Even this meant a lot. Thank you for your nice behavior.”

“No, no…ask about your gift!”

“Ok then, what is my birthday gift?”

“A flight ticket!”

“Ticket? For me?”

“No, actually for myself.”

“For yourself? Ok, but to where?”

“To you!”

Just then another snowflake fell on the window slipping downwards smiling at her…

His feet were heavy, as if there were a million passages clung to his tired shoes. His heart was heavy, as if a million sinful thoughts were stuffed into his intentions. His eyes were heavy, as if a million repentant tears flooded the gates of his life. His hands were heavy, as if holding a million-page book of decaying deeds. His head was heavy, as if a million evil plans were stuck in his tomorrow. His lips were heavy, as if a million complaints buzzed in silence.

With so much burden ___ that slowed down his speed to redemption ___ he entered the sacred place.
God was waiting for him since long ___ they talked.

When he came out, he went away flying.

Finally she collected her bags and managed to get out of the airport. He was supposed to meet her at the gate outside. Her eyes started to go through every figure which even remotely looked like him. It seemed he had not arrived yet, so her impatience kept increasing with every minute spent while waiting. It had been an hour and he was nowhere around. She dialed his cell number with reluctant fingers and she heard that routine female voice giving the bad news that his number was not in use. But how come?! She had called him last week to give the flight details; she had heard his sweet but manly voice just a week ago.

She felt helpless for a moment and was unable to think of what to do due to extreme panic. Then she sat on a bench and searched for something in her handbag. She took out her agenda and went through the pages but her upset face showed that she had forgotten to note down his address. Her cheeks had gone red, heartbeat accelerated and she started to sweat due to the adverse situation she was in. It must be a nightmare, she thought, she would scream and wake up soon in a dark room; but no, she was totally awake and aware of the situation.

She had almost lost all her hopes when a brilliant idea came to her mind. She took her cell out and began to scan all the names in the list and there it was…His flat mate’s number was sparkling just in front of her like a unique stone. She felt as if she found some water in the desert. With a thrill unmatched, she dialed the number and it started to ring. Those few seconds were like centuries to her. Then a strange voice replied:
-Hello.
-Hi, I am Fahad’s friend. I am at the airport right now. I called him but couldn’t reach him.
-Well, he is not at home.
-Ok, and his number does not work, do you know any other number where I can contact him?
- Well, no I don’t know his new number.
- You mean he changed his number?!
- Yes. By the way who are you exactly?
- Hmmm I m his girlfriend, his fiancée actually. May be he told you about me.
-Hmmm. He did not mention you. Where are you from?
-Italy.
- Ahan.
- Ok, but when will he be back home? Any idea?
- He won’t be.
- What do you mean?
- He went back to Pakistan for his marriage!
- What marriage?
- His fiancée was a Pakistani just like himself. And I guess this is a joke what you are doing right now….

She ended the call without saying anything further as she was unable to hear or speak. She was trembling. This was the only sign showing that she was alive; all other senses of hers were all gone. People kept looking at a stranger sitting on the bench hugging a medium-sized bag. Some even asked her what had happened but she did not hear them, did not see them even.

When the night fell, she hardly managed to go to the reservation desk dragging her luggage behind, looked at the official with frozen eyes and said “A ticket to Pakistan please!”

I had transferred from a small Catholic women’s college in Boston, where I’d been a commuter, living at home in my family’s Dorchester three-decker. Coming to Barnard, I expected a more serious, all-consuming intellectual life, absent from my first school. I hoped to meet professors who would challenge an inspire me, not merely march me and my classmates through midterms, papers and finals. But I had no idea how hard it would be to find housing on campus. I lived for several weeks in a dingy hotel on the corner of Amsterdam and 121st, occupied by more than a few very old women. A scattering of us transfer students shared the dismal five bedroom suites with their dark, ancient kitchens and bathrooms.

It took what seemed like forever to find friends. There seemed no quick way to make connections with my teachers, either in or out of class. On the corner of 116th and Broadway, every afternoon and evening, a young black guy, tall and skinny, stood with his hand out asking for spare change. I got into the habit of crossing the street block earlier than I might have, just to avoid him. Almost every day, I saw a woman who appeared to be speaking in tongues, yelling into the receiver or a broken pay phone in front of the Campus Deli. The IRT roared by the campus. It was widely believed in my family that I had gotten above my raising, that the local Catholic girls’ college back in Boston was perfectly fine for me and my girl cousins. When I set out for New York I expected to find a welcoming community of sisters and teachers who showed us how to live the intellectual life. Instead, I was surrounded by those who’d had experiences I could only vaguely imagine. A girl in my orientation group with long straight red hair and ginger colored eyes lit a cigarette, exhaled slowly, and said, “I was playing chess with an architect friend of mine last weekend.” The housing director was impervious to my frequent visits and polite requests for a room in the dorms. Had one opened up yet? There was never even a hint of a smile from her. Eventually she stopped responding except with a shake of her head when I appeared in the doorway of her office twice a week.

“Take Gutman,” said my official orientation guide, a breezy, self-confident sophomore who was giving me registration advice… “Gutman’s amazing. She makes Proust comprehensible. “A buzz spread among the transfer students. “I hear Gutman’s really good.”

“What does she teach?” I asked. I had no intention of majoring in English.

‘Who cares?” said another transfer, a graduate of one of those rich girls’ junior colleges. “If people say she’s good, take her. I’ve had it with bad teachers, man.”

What I didn’t realize until I got to the first meeting of The Modern Novel was that Gutman’s classes were always full to capacity and then some. But she never turned anyone away. Columbia guys routinely showed up to take her courses for credit, instead of enrolling just to meet girls. Gutman didn’t care how many students she had; she just kept adding small discussion sections on top of her lectures.

I’d never heard anyone lecture about novels before. I found Gutman’s classes inspiring, stimulating, sometimes thrilling. Each seventy-five minute class sped along as she spoke. I was enveloped in her outpouring of facts, literary theories, and intriguing connections between writers and texts. It was in one of those small discussion groups, as we worked our way through Proust (French, for those who could read it), Mann (for those who could), James, Joyce and Faulkner that I was first able to speak out in a class there, to find a way out of my reserve and my feeling that I wasn’t smart enough to contribute to the discussion. Early in the term I handed in a paper, leaving it in Gutman’s mailbox with a note attached, saying how grateful I was that she’d created the smaller sections, where I felt comfortable enough to raise my hand and speak. She returned the paper with many comments and probing questions, as always, but this time, she added an encouraging note. She said my ideas were worth bringing to our class.

I saw her at the college’s Wednesday afternoon teas, too, with her two blond children, the girl with thick braids, the boy all explosive energy, and I delighted in her greeting me—by name—with a wide smile and sparkling eyes. I have forgotten by now, all these years later, what I wrote my papers for her on, but I recall studying for the exam and relishing all I had learned about the roots of the modern novel, psychoanalytic theory, the New Criticism. Gutman had opened my mind up to all this. There was so much more to learn. I had no interest any more in political science or history. I would major in English. I would ask Gutman to be my advisor.

After finals sophomore year, I went home to Boston for the summer and waited tables at a plush restaurant on the south shore. I stayed out late with my old high school friends, drinking beer at the park and going down to the Cape if someone had extra room at their cottage. I’d made some new friends at Barnard, mostly a tight little group of seniors who lived on my floor and had welcomed me into their camaraderie. One of them stayed on in New York for the summer, sharing an apartment on Riverside with some grad students. One day a letter from her arrived, with a clipping from the Columbia Spectator, summer edition. Gutman had died.

Lee had heard a story, one she didn’t really believe, she wrote. Gutman had been preparing for a family vacation. She packed two enormous leather suitcases, and when she picked both of them up at the same time, she suffered a massive heart attack and died instantly. There were few details in the Spectator obituary, only a photo of her, that curly hair, and an intense, direct look in her eyes. I am so sorry, Linda Lee wrote. She knew how much I admired Gutman and was counting on her. I wondered who would push me, steer me, encourage me now. And I could not figure out why the circumstances of Gutman’s death were a secret.

The summer passed in a blur of waiting tables, wine poured, tasted and drunk, empty plates cleared, busy nights, dead- slow nights. On one particularly slow evening the young assistant manager closed up early and let the help stay on to have a party. In the enormous kitchen, we drank beer and one of the younger waitresses brought out her guitar and sang folk songs. A bus boy, a black kid from Roxbury, sang a Smokey Robinson song none of us had even heard yet, it was so new. The boy, no more than fourteen, did it smoothly, lyrically. White and black teenagers and adults stood around the kitchen swaying, feeling soulful. It was easy at moments like this not to think about Gutman. I stopped myself from wondering what had really gone on in her apartment that day. I put it behind me.

And for a long time, I succeeded. I returned to New York in the fall, found a new advisor, a brusque middle-aged spinster who wore tweed suits and sensible shoes and didn’t care what courses I took so long as I satisfied all my major requirements. But several summers later—by that time I had married and, finding myself very unhappy, I was already separated and well on my way to a divorce—I went up north to a writers’ conference. By now I fancied myself a poet. One of the writers there had known Gutman. I had come to work on my poetry, but to tell the truth, I didn’t get much done. Instead, I found every opportunity to talk to the writer alone, about Gutman. I learned in minute increments, over several days talking with this grizzled writer, that the circumstances of Gutman’s life were very sad—no, tragic, like the stuff of the novels we studied in her course that winter. I dared not ask how she’d done it, whether her husband had found her, who had raised their children. I didn’t even know how to phrase the questions.

I just sank back into my Adirondack chair, looking down at the grass. I felt such surprise; my face flushed hot. What had there been that I had not seen? What insights had I been unable to produce when the evidence had been right there before me? Whatever sadness and pain there had been in Gutman’s life, I had been oblivious, dense. She should have become a gifted teacher who should have lived on to teach until old age came to her. The best I can say, which isn’t very much at all from where I stand now, is that she’d made her mark on me.