The Catalysts E-Book

Anamika

• Herausgeber: Grosvenor House Publishing
• Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

We are all part of the cosmic world. We are responsible for the experiences we have, the people we interact with and the situations we create. But there is also an element of some things being pre-ordained, which we have no control over. If we experience misfortune, we blame our luck and curse our existence even. But in truth, the hardship was sent our way so we may learn from it. It breaks the bubble of our reality. If we are honest enough to acknowledge that, we are given the strength and opportunity to put things right. The universe will stay in step with us if we stay in tune with it. And if we do, it allows us to perform our own little miracles. A child can never smile too much. And we are all children of god. And god loves a trier.

Leseprobe

Contents

The Same Recurring Nightmare

The House on the Hill

Zara’s Story

The Jazz Festival

Where Do I Go from Here?

College’s Out

The End of the Halcyon Days

Mr. Joshi in a Rage

The Last Meeting

Life Goes On

No News from Jay

Bombay

Another Day

The High Society

Zara was Back from Sunny California

Michael was Here

Life Goes On

Ava and the Others

Ava and Meera

The Sunday Friend

College Days are Fun……

A Year Goes By

Home Sweet Home

Zara’s Last Night

Precious Times

The Sinister Ghost from the Past

Bombay Beckons

Five Days and a Sinister Truth

Monish

A Week

Two Years Fly By

Time to Say Goodbye

A Different World

Europe

Interlaken

Back in London

The Past Meets Destiny

Two Weeks Later

Life Went On

Fort William

Cathy

What Was not Meant to be

Dilemma

A Letter to Zara

The Protector

Better Days

I am Going Home

No more Partings

Here to Stay

The Mysterious Jet Skier

Raoul and Meera

Zara Comes Home

Zara and Michael Come Home

The Same Recurring Nightmare

Copyright

The Same Recurring Nightmare

It was the same recurring nightmare. She was running barefoot through the woods. She sensed the beast a few yards behind her. She could not stop or the beast would capture her. The leaves under her feet crackled, her face was scraping against the dry branches of trees. She ran on, oblivious of the pain caused by the lacerations neither to her face nor her feet. The strength and energy came from some unknown force. Or was it the adrenaline from the fear and nervous tension? Suddenly she could not go any further. There was a brick wall. Tall as the tallest wall in the world. She looked up to the sky but there was no sky in sight. The wall went on upward forever and ever. She felt the beast inches away from her face and there was no fighting it. She wanted to cry for help but she could not find her voice. She was weak and exhausted and there was no way out.

Meera woke up in a sweat and fought back tears of frustration. She leapt out of bed, jumped into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Flip-flops on and she was out of her room.

‘No Goldie, get back!’ she bellowed at the family pet, which was at her heels, ready for any excitement. The dog was quick to respond and receded back towards her home, slightly despondent but obedient just the same.

Off came the slippers and she was running down the beach, hair flying wildly in the light wind. She raced all the way to Jay’s. She rang the doorbell, almost jamming her finger on the button, but then restrained herself as she knew that Jay’s father would disapprove. He was never nice to her, always passing derogatory comments like ‘young lady you want to start behaving like one.’ He clearly disapproved of her sometimes boyish demeanours. Mr. Joshi was not home. The maid informed her of that to put her at ease. In fact you could already feel the easing of the tension once it was announced that the master of the house was not in.

She went straight through the passageway and down the long corridor to Jay’s room. She could hear the ball thumping against the wall. Jay’s usual way of dealing with a stressful situation. The door was locked so she knocked hard enough for it to be heard over the loud booming of drums and bass emitted from Jay’s state-of-the-art music system. He flung the door open. Meera stood there and forgot the reason why she had come running to see him. Jay seemed in a worse state than her, and she wanted to help him.

‘What’s the matter?’ she enquired, concernedly. ‘It’s your dad isn’t it? What’s he said this time?’

‘He wants me to go abroad for three years to get a fancy degree in Business. And when I protested, he’s put a ban on me using the Jet Ski. That’s what the matter is.’ Meera knew Jay’s passion for his Jet Ski and felt for him. She remembered the first time they had met.

It had been soon after she had come to live with her adoptive parents. She had gone for a swim in the sea. The tide was going in. She had gone too far out, almost defying death, subconsciously. She had felt the undercurrents pulling her in. She was fighting for her life now, arms flapping. She was a good swimmer but she was in danger of drowning. A robust pair of hands had grabbed her and pulled her onto the shore. The safe strong hands of Jay. A virtual stranger to her, she had found him bellowing at her.

‘What on earth do you think you were doing?’

She had sat on the damp sands, stunned and speechless. Then she had looked at him and had taken an instant shine to him. He was tall, suntanned and with the warmest set of brown eyes she had seen on anyone.

They had become friends. They had found an instant connection. It was as if she had known him all her life. She could trust him. He would take her on his Jet Ski and they were always exhilarating rides. She would hold onto his muscular body and the speed of the Jet Ski would provide a thrill quite heady. For that much time, they would be free from all thoughts and worries. Suspended.

Now he was barred from using his Jet Ski for defying his father’s wishes.

‘Let’s go for a walk,’ suggested Meera. They were about to make a swift exit, only to be stopped short by a shrill and commanding voice.

‘Jaybaba your breakfast…’ That was Tarabai the live-in household maid cum nearly a member of family. Surrogate mother cum mother hen, she had been there from the time Jay was born, Jay’s natural mother having passed away on giving birth. She cared for Jay as if he were her own. She would sleep on a mattress outside his room, under the stars, lulled by a hard day’s work and the gentle sea breeze. During the monsoons, she would sleep in the kitchen. Poverty had decided her destiny and she never had any fleeting thoughts. She had nowhere to go. But she provided him with the warmth and kindness that was missing in Jay’s life and she had earned much respect from him.

Poor folk who have no wealth

Give of their hearts

Because that is all they have

And they don’t even know…

How precious that gift

They give so freely.

There was toast, akuri, which was spicy, scrambled egg made with chillies, onions, tomatoes and coriander, and apple juice. Meera managed a chilled glass of juice herself and then they were out. The sun was not at its zenith and the sand was not scorching hot yet. There was a slight dampness in the sand which made walking on it a pleasure.

‘So what got you out so early to see me?’ Before she could open her mouth, he continued, ‘I know, you’ve had that nightmare again haven’t you?’

She nodded.

‘And did you try to do what I’ve told you to do?’

She shook her head and defensively replied, ‘There’s never enough time, I get captured before I can even try and do what you have suggested. Oh Jay it’s awful and so terrifyingly real!’

‘You’ll have to try harder’, he said, ‘or else that nightmare will never go away.’ He said this matter-of-factly as he picked up a pebble and skimmed it against the gentle tide. She tried the same but hers never managed to skim. They just sort of plopped and sank into the water, whereas you could see Jay’s skim along forever then silently disappear.

They carried on walking, in silence, for a while. ‘So which University does your dad want you to go to?’ enquired Meera.

‘Some fancy one in London – I wasn’t quite listening’, replied Jay, the anger palpable in his voice.

‘So why do you not want to go? It could be quite an experience, living the high life in London,’ said Meera, with genuine enthusiasm.

‘Because everything I want is right here.’ Simple yet profound words, succinctly put.

He had many a times expressed to her how he wished he could open his own water sports business right here in Goa. That was his dream. But Mr. Joshi would not have any of it. Childish dream he would call it.

Meera was all for the pursuit of dreams and felt for Jay. She had her dream. She wanted to travel the world, expand her horizons, and discover the secret of life. She did not know how she was going to go about it, money being the main object. Jay too needed money to finance his project, to fulfill his dream. How he was going to do that without his father’s help, he did not know either. She did not have any comforting words for her friend so she said nothing.

They changed the topics of concern for both. Meera’s nightmare and Jay’s dream, temporarily dismissed from their conversation. A little food and drink always helped. They stopped at Souza Lobo’s café, run by Mr. and Mrs. D’Souza, Meera’s adoptive parents. They voraciously ate a portion of jumbo prawns and drank ice-cold coca cola, served up by Mrs. Dee, as everyone in the village addressed her.

They were good people, her parents. By the time she had reached the tender age of ten, she had lost both her parents; her father had died when she had been three years old and her mother when she was ten. She had been brought up by her maternal uncle and a distant aunt, who had been entrusted with Meera’s upbringing by her mother before her passing. At the age of seventeen, and after her aunt’s unfortunate death, Meera had fled from her family home and arrived in the village, in pursuit of finding a job and a roof over her head.

She had heard of a couple who would foster children from neighboring villages. They ran a little inn, providing accommodation to tourists, a café being the front runner of the inn. They spent the money they made from the business on the children, being a childless couple themselves. They had never asked Meera where she came from, they had just accepted her. Meera, over the last year, had got involved, as much as she possibly could, in the running of the café, the inn, the caring of the children who would come and go. She felt herself to be extremely fortunate to have found these people who were now virtually like a family to her. They also funded her education at a fine college. Mr. Dee was of the firm opinion that a good education was the best investment of one’s money.

And then there was Goldie. To compensate for the lack of children they could not have, Mr. and Mrs. Dee had acquired a dog. She was an Alsatian, brown and black and five and a half years of age. She had bonded instantly with Meera. There were joint solitary walks on the beach, playing ball, rolling on the sands and also swimming in the sea with her. There were licks of affection at every greeting and Goldie instinctively accompanied her into her room when Meera was feeling despondent. And then she would lick her tears even. Habitually, before Meera’s arrival at Mr. and Mrs. Dee’s, Goldie would sleep with them but had soon gotten into the habit of scratching on Mrs. Dee’s door in the middle of the night to be let out and then scratching on Meera’s door to be let in for the night. An exasperated Mrs. Dee had relented to the idea of making Meera’s room the mutt’s permanent abode for the nights.

Jay loved visiting them too. There was a kind of warmth there that was missing in his life at home, despite the motherly love of Tarabai; a wholesome family atmosphere. He would mix with the village folk, play beach volley ball with them, sneak Goldie half a sausage from Mrs. Dee’s cooking. They all knew he was the rich boy with a big house on a private beach but no one made him feel out of place.

They only saw him as a young man who wore his heart on his sleeve. And one who had no airs and graces.

The House on the Hill

He came knocking on the door a few days after the first time she had told him about her nightmare. Jay’s eyes looked all fired up.

‘We’re going to see someone special. Get ready – I’ll be waiting in the car,’ he said, with quiet authority.

She saw the intense look on his face and getting ready in a jiffy being her forte, she did just that. Her parents were at church so she left them a note and locked the front door behind her. She and Goldie got into the back, Jay in the front to put Joseph, the chauffeur, at ease. Mr. Joshi was away on a business trip. Joseph had been sworn into secrecy, as several times before, about this mission which Jay had undertaken many a times.

When the cat’s away the mice will play.

The drive was a pleasant one. The monsoons were approaching and there was a hint of moisture in the air. They did not speak much. There was music flowing softly through the speakers. Ironically, the album was called Conversations but not so ironical was the fact that it was instrumental.

Instruments have a universal language of their own. No need for words.

The place was on the top of a hill, on the outskirts of the village. On their ascent, they passed chickens and hens running around. There was also an old well and then they passed a cross, made of cement but badly in need of a lick of paint. There were houses, structurally sound although looking slightly unkempt, strewn randomly across the hill. They reached a house and, but for Joseph’s prior knowledge of its location, they could easily have passed it by, so obscure was its existence.

There were potted plants strewn around on either side of the slatted wooden door. The air was thick with the aroma of mixed herbs. There was a bougainvillea tree on the corner of the house, a riot of magenta pink in sharp contrast to the white walls. Jay got hold of the doorknocker and rapped it, gently. A shuffling of feet and a few muttered words later, the door was opened by a tall elegant lady of slim build. Her hair was tied up in a tidy knot. She wore a black flared skirt and a long black top pulled over it. But the most striking feature in her appearance was her set of large dark eyes.

Instant recognition entered those eyes, which were extremely kind as well.

‘Jay my boy, how good to see you!’ she exclaimed, throwing her arms open to give him a welcome hug. Goldie was wagging her tail and panting, suffering from the effects of the heat and the drive.

‘This is Goldie,’ said Jay. The lady gave her a good stroke and a hug and then led her through the back into the garden, also placing a bowl of water down for her.

Who is this mysterious lady, Meera wondered. But she did not have long to wait. Having returned her effusive hug, Jay introduced Meera to Zara. Her family had moved back to their homeland in Portugal and her father had passed away soon after. She did not feel any affinity towards her mother and brother and had broken all her ties with them. The hills held all her memories and she was content here.

Jay had encountered Zara when only a young boy, on one of her visits to the village. He had been a quiet and confused boy, the root cause of it being that he had no mother and that his father had no time for him. And when he did have the time for his one and only son, Mr. Joshi was too demanding of him. This Zara had extracted from Jay and he had totally started to trust her after only a few meetings. She would, on occasions, bring him home-made cakes and flowers from her garden. She would ask how he was. As he grew older, Jay would ask Joseph to take him up to her house, whenever Mr. Joshi was away. Zara had strengthened Jay up to face the world alone. She had detected a rare spirit in him and had made him aware of it.

‘Keep your mind free of troubles and fill your soul with love,’ she would say. ‘And dream.’

So he had. All in one; when on his Jet Ski, his mind would be free of all troubles, his soul would fill with love because he was doing what he most enjoyed doing. And he would dream, of opening his own water sports business, which in his opinion had the potential for success with the tourists that flocked the beaches year after year.

Zara got a bottle of Goan port and three glasses. She distributed a generous peg in each of them and sat them down. Serving the youngsters alcohol was clearly not an issue in her household.

‘I’m going to leave now,’ said Jay, matter-of-factly. He downed the drink at a pace which would have made an alcoholic shy away. He asked Meera in a far corner, as Zara instinctively scarpered off into the kitchen in order to get some fruitcake, giving the youngsters some space.

‘Tell her about the nightmare. Or anything else for that matter,’ were his parting shots as he made a swift exit.

Meera was a bit astounded by the pace at which the morning was going, especially as she did not know the reason why she was here. Zara appeared with a tray of fruitcake. Port and cake had served as icebreakers, and now it was time to get down to business.

‘Tell me anything you want,’ said Zara encouragingly.

The nightmare. She told Zara about the nightmare, and the fact that it had been going on for years.

Zara asked her about her childhood. Meera had suffered the trauma of seeing her mother die at the age of ten. Her mother had been beautiful and very loving. A fatal illness had prematurely claimed her father’s life when she had been merely three years old. She did not have any distinct memories of him.

Her mother had had the difficult task of bringing Meera up by herself. She had been her mother’s little princess. She would buy her pretty dresses, read her stories in the night, and cook her favorite meals for her. She had been relentless in her caring for and devotion to Meera. Her mother and her uncle, her mother’s brother, had been their parents’ sole recipients of a hefty inheritance and consequently Meera had had the privilege of attending the finest of schools. She had made some very good friends and was well-liked by all.

‘So tell me about your uncle. Your mother’s brother,’ enquired Zara, intuitively.

Meera hesitated but went on after looking into Zara’s kind eyes. She felt that she could trust this woman over anyone else in the world.

‘We went to live with him after my dad died. He was good to me and could do no wrong. He was kind to me, generous, loving, but it all changed when my mother died.’

He had had a dark and sinister side to him, which only Meera had encountered.

‘Did he hurt you, sweetheart?’

Meera’s eyes were brimming with tears and she only managed a nod, for she felt a big lump forming in her throat.

Meera blurted out to Zara that after her mother’s death, initially things were fine between her uncle and her. Her mother had left Meera’s care in his supposedly trusted hands. She had also had a nanny who was a distant relative, appointed by her mother, to solely look after her. Money had never been an issue and there was still plenty of it, which ensured that the lifestyle that Meera was accustomed to remained unchanged. Her mother had paid the fees for Meera’s entire years at school too.

But soon, the family wealth started to dwindle; her uncle turned into a heavy gambler and an alcoholic. Meera was still grieving at the loss of her mother and for some time failed to notice the extent of his deterioration.

When he had frittered away most of the family’s fortune, he had started to vent his anger and frustration on Meera. She got into the habit of staying in her room to stay out of the firing line of his temperamental outbursts. She started to dread going home from school. There was no place for her to hide and no place to run to.

Meera’s life turned into a nightmare. He tried to dismiss the nanny for he said that he could not afford to pay her wages. The nanny had argued that she would work for less, so devoted was she to Meera even though she had only been with her for a year or so. She herself was unattached and had no intentions of marrying or having children. She had promised Meera’s mother she would look after Meera as if she were her own and she was going to honour that pledge.

Meera was attached to her too, for Aunty Kusum, as she addressed her, to a certain extent filled the void left by her mother’s demise. She also gave Meera the support her mother had provided; that of grooming her, reading to her at night and most importantly, nurturing her with warmth and love.

He relented to the nanny staying on.

But then one day, the whole world crashed round Meera. Aunty Kusum had gone out to buy some groceries. Her uncle came home and entered her bedroom.

Meera, at this point, looked at Zara for she did not know how to go on.

‘He took your innocence, the bastard, didn’t he?’ said Zara, in the softest of voices.

Meera nodded. She did not need to go into things any further.

To compensate for his depraved behavior, he had offered her a sweet, Meera continued. He had then sworn her, menacingly, into secrecy and said that if she divulged the truth to anyone, he would instantly dismiss the nanny who he knew she depended on.

So Meera had kept silent. But then one day, when he was once again in her bedroom, Aunty Kusum had returned home soon after leaving for she had forgotten the shopping basket. She had heard Meera screaming and kicking and had hammered on the front door which he had locked from the inside, thus preventing her from entering the household.

The very same day, he tried to dismiss Aunty Kusum, who had dug her heels in and refused to go. Normally of a very timid nature, she found the courage to stand up for the child whose care she had been entrusted with.

Meera overheard a conversation between them. Aunty Kusum was calling the shots on her uncle. She knew what had gone on and was threatening to expose him if he did not stop.

And that had been the last time he had touched her.

And then days would go by when he would treat her with utmost kindness, throwing her off her guard. Other times, she would see his ugly side; when he was manipulative and controlling. He took pleasure in belittling her. He criticized how she looked and insulted her intelligence by calling her stupid.

Meera said to Zara, ‘I think because he had no control over his own life, he wanted to have power over mine. Aunty Kusum was sent to guard me. I know she could not protect me from initial harm but she definitely was instrumental in preventing its perpetuation,’ said Meera.

‘She was your guardian angel,’ said Zara.

Then Meera finished her tale. The next few years had been a struggle but she got through them without any further morbid occurrences.

But that spell was not to last either. One day Meera returned from school to find that Aunty Kusum had died, cause of death unknown. She was now seventeen but knew she could not stay another day in the household.

‘And so I ran away,’ she said to Zara at the finish.

And somehow, the big world had seemed like a safer and less daunting place than the one her family home had turned into since her mother’s demise.

‘Jay is not to know about this, Zara. I will tell him when and if I wish.’ For Jay knew about the nightmare but not about the abuse she had suffered.

Zara could only nod in consent. She did not know how to console this young woman. Sometimes in life you just have to keep silent as no words would suffice for providing consolation. Like when somebody loses a loved one. She gave Meera a big kiss on her forehead. But Zara had a secret too. She felt, however, that this was not the moment to divulge it to the young woman.

‘You are a very brave child. And don’t forget, you were not to blame for what happened to you.’ And then, ‘Do you like to dance?’

But before Meera could reply to her, she got up and went to the gramophone in the corner of the room. It was a beautiful machine, shiny and gleaming. It was a Grundig, a quality record player made in Germany, an acquisition from her father’s few personal effects he had decided to leave behind. Zara chose a record and the air was filled with the sound of a violin, maudlin yet happy.

Meera and Zara took off on the floor.

‘Let your emotions go,’ said Zara, with a lilt in her voice. Unsurprising to Meera, Zara was very light-footed and covered a lot of ground with her nimble footwork. She also had natural rhythm. Meera took to the music like a duck to water, hips swaying, arms moving like floating butterflies. But soon they were dancing like a pair of synchronized swimmers, in complete unison.

Jay entered the room at this point and he joined in with the celebration by pouring himself another drink, relieved that something evidently positive had been achieved in his absence.

There were many good moments to be shared in the house of Zara from then on.

And so it was that Meera would make the journey, many a times, to see Zara. On one occasion, it was Meera’s turn to ask Zara about her life.

Zara’s story

Zara was an adopted child of a Portuguese couple. Her parents, having unsuccessfully tried to have a child of their own, had adopted her from an orphanage. They were wealthy, having inherited their fortune through her father’s ancestors from the spice trade. They lived in a big colonial house and Zara had been fortunate to travel round the world at a very early age and to attend a fine school of a very high academic calibre.

However, a few years later, her mother conceived and gave birth to a boy. They called him Marco. His arrival delighted her parents. Initially, it had been a normal happy upbringing for Zara but things started to change as she grew up; she was the apple of her father’s eye and Marco was the apple of her mother’s. Father was never really around and when he was, his moods changed in direct conjunction with the fluctuations in the stock market, being a speculator and heavy investor. If father had had a good day, all would be well but if he had made losses, he would direct his wrath at her mother and Marco, although he kept Zara safely out of his firing line.

Resentment towards her was clear to see from Marco and her mother even and Zara had silently endured the worst of that bitterness in an unimaginable and sinister way.

‘Marco maimed my childhood just like your uncle maimed yours. He was jealous of the love and affection showered on me by my father as also aggrieved by the discrimination my father showed between his treatment of me and Marco. Consequently, he used my father’s long absences to control, humiliate and shame me.’

‘Looking back now, because he was vulnerable and helpless to my father’s violence towards him, his way of being in control was to dominate me. Then, his guilt would take on a form whereby he would be very kind to me. I realised years later that he did so to confuse me and ensure my silence about his abuse.’

‘I fought back, the strength comes from somewhere, and from then on, he left me alone. I want to make sure you don’t suffer from the effects of that abuse as I have had to. I haven’t breathed a word of this to anyone, and would have taken this secret to my grave. But since you have told me what you have, I need to help you,’ said Zara with a very forlorn look in her eyes. ‘So that you don’t waste years of your life being a victim. Like I did.’

Then she continued. ‘The mind, my dear, has a way of shutting out pain as a natural mechanism. Just like our blood clots, when a blood vessel is damaged, to prevent the body from bleeding to death. The body tends to dissolve the clot once the injury has healed but sometimes it forms on the inside of the vessel and fails to dissolve, thus being potentially dangerous and in need of urgent medical attention or it could be fatal even.’

After a thoughtful pause, she continued.

‘The same with the mind; the shutting down of painful moments can be psychologically detrimental. Unless worked through by the victim with the help of a professional or a friend even, it subconsciously will rear its ugly head from time to time in your life. It will affect your future relationships, it will make you vulnerable to abuse by predators just like our childhood perpetrators, it will leave you looking for an explanation as to why this happened to you, for which there is no answer, and it will leave you with a low self-esteem about yourself.’

It was to be many years later that Meera would realise that she had had a free session of what some people in some parts of the world paid a lot of money for, sitting on a psychotherapist’s couch, relating childhood experiences that mould or haunt them for the rest of their lives.

‘All this through no fault of your own.’ Zara emphasised the last sentence.

‘Perhaps we pay for the sins of our fathers,’ said Meera. She had read somewhere that children can pay for the sins committed by their fathers and fore fathers.

‘I know that saying. All I can say is that if there is any truth in it and we become a parent, it is our duty to break the vicious chain even if it means enduring pain, by setting a fine example for our children to emulate. And to give the child true love is the best gift a parent can bequeath.’

Then, just as a scientist has to back his theory with facts, she went on to relate to Meera how she would block out the painful moments with her husband Tony, and then how she would easily forgive him his harmful treatment of her. Tony also took advantage of her having a low opinion of herself for, when he had wronged her, he would make her feel as if she had caused him to misbehave towards her.

‘When one has been a victim of abuse, one tends to accept abuse as acceptable, even though in the deep recesses of one’s mind one knows it’s unacceptable. One gets complacent with the feeling of self-loathing, self-pity and despair, which are all familiar and easy to deal with and to wallow in even. I wasted many years learning through my own mistakes, the hard way. But if I can prevent this from happening to anyone, it would make me very happy.’

Meera was trying to digest all that Zara was telling her. Her mind was attempting to stay still as it seemed to her that things were going round her head like a whirlwind. As if a storm was gathering round her and she was the eye of it. She could relate to the bit about how the mind shuts out painful moments for, even if she made a concerted effort to try to remember the horror of what she had endured a few years ago, she could not fully recall the pain and discomfort that she was bound to have felt. Happen though it did, it was as if she was detached from the pain of it all. She could not make much sense of the rest of the consequences that Zara had addressed.

However, she would at a later stage in her life, when all that Zara was telling her now would make perfect sense. For without that forewarning, she would have stayed in a harmful relationship much longer than she actually did…

The two women made a mutual pact of never to discuss this common experience with anyone. They jointly decided that it was not something they would need to mention to each other on a daily basis either.

However, just as water finds a way to seep out through any outlet available, the truth has a way of doing the same. When, regrettably, her son would overhear his mother sharing her secret with her future husband and which would cause him enough distress to flee without breathing a word to his parents.

Then Zara finished her tale.

She had had a son to Tony and they had called him Raoul. It had been the happiest day of Zara’s life, when she had given birth to this beautiful child with big brown eyes and a smile that had lit her world up. The love she had felt for this child had been superior to the love she had ever felt for Tony.

‘Babies are from the spirit world,’ she said. ‘When you look into their eyes, they are pure and innocent.’

Meera wondered if someone like Hitler, when a baby, had had eyes pure and innocent. Zara caught her with an inappropriate look on her face and Meera felt devastated at having such a thought whilst Zara was sharing the innermost secret of her life.

‘What’s that that just went through your mind?’ Meera told her and Zara gave out a very uncharacteristic cackle. ‘You have a sense of humour, my child. I get thoughts like that all the time. Witchy thoughts.’ Meera felt exonerated by this comment.

That led to talk about good and evil. ‘Do you think if we get evil thoughts but they remain thoughts, that we are as evil as those who implement them?’ Meera was tapping Zara’s mind for an opinion.

‘I don’t think so. We get wicked thoughts so as to test us whether we are going to dismiss them or not. Like the devil, always tempting and your soul always on the vigil so as not to fall prey to the devil. You can inoculate your body against the polio in the air, but you can’t immunize your soul against the temptation of the devil. The eternal battle of good and evil within us, our aim, ideally, would be to do the right thing. Not easy.’

‘And what about conscience, do you think there is such a thing as a bad conscience?’

‘No, I think there is a good conscience and there are those with a weak conscience and those with no conscience. And then there are those whose conscience develop and awaken slowly, in time.’

Then Zara continued with her life story. Tony’s unreasonable behaviour had destroyed the family. Zara would look after Raoul; do all the things that mothers did. Build sandcastles on the beach with him, read him bedtime stories, bake cakes and buy him birthday presents, play ball with him till it was time to drop. She would help him with his homework, having had a fine education at the local catholic school herself. She would remind him how strong and brave he was, and not ever to forget that, and how she believed that he was destined for great things. She would also try and shield Raoul from his father’s violent and abusive behavior, although she bore the brunt of it many a times herself. For Tony was jealous of the love Zara felt and showed towards Raoul.

‘He was very insecure. But do you know what? The more he attempted to put me down, the more I was determined to rise above it. There’s a saying that you can’t keep a good man down but I say it applies to a woman as well.’

The last straw for Zara had been when Tony, in a fit of jealousy, had burnt all her paintings, for Zara had been a keen painter. She had even managed to sell some of them at the flea market in the village. Word had been getting around that she had talent. As usual, the remorseful Tony had cried his crocodile tears and begged her for forgiveness. Zara had suddenly realized that those tears were not of remorse, nor for the guilt and shame he should have felt. They were not shed for her, but for himself, the perpetrator seeing himself as a victim and then feeling sorry for him. He was drowning in his sorrows to the extent where he could not see the pain he was causing her. It was a vicious circle and she had felt the need to get out.

Also, the small fortune left to her by her parents was dwindling with Tony’s unscrupulous demands. He had drunk and gambled away his inheritance left to him by his wealthy parents and was now determined to usurp hers, without a care in the world for his one and only son even.

Zara had done what was long overdue. She took the help of some locals who coerced Tony into leaving. Raoul stayed with Zara but soon Zara was to discover that he too was heading the same way as Tony. With no father to berate him, he saw Zara’s love for him as a weakness and had started to get abusive towards his own mother. After the initial shock of hurt and despair, Zara had packed his bags too, for she did not want history to repeat itself. For her own sake as well as her son’s.

She told Meera that she felt a deep void in her life. She felt empty, desolate.

‘Where is Raoul now?’

‘He lives with his father in a nearby village. He was here a few months ago. He said he was working for a restaurant on the beach. I asked him if he was enjoying his job. He said it was okay but the money was not very good. I told him that one had to start somewhere and there was always scope to reach higher goals. He said he wanted to make a quick buck and live the high life. He wants to live the dream that people dream of living. To which I said that as he was naturally bright, it was possible in time he would do that. He said I had a pathetic outlook to life and that I was a no-hoper, just like his dad had said. I told him that there was no shortcut to happiness and that I was content amongst my modest surroundings. He once again got abusive towards me and said that his father had been right all along about me, that I was a cold-hearted and hopeless woman, still holding it against me for evicting him from my house. I had to ask him to leave. That was the last I saw of him.’

‘We had to part for he was mistaking my love for him as my weakness instead of my strength. I asked him to leave for both our sakes but he is too young to understand that. Sometimes it is the here and now that matters but sometimes you have to put time and distance between us and those we love for things to come together. I am hoping Raoul will one day see sense, for he is my child and I will always love him.’

Meera realized that Zara was sharing with her something she had not had the opportunity to do with anyone. She could not, understandably, share it with Jay. It was a woman to woman thing.

‘Do you not get lonely or scared living up here by yourself? ‘asked Meera.

‘As for feeling scared, the villagers are good folk, they look out for me. I get to know, through a secret network of spies, if there’s a stranger lurking around.’

‘You can feel lonely right in the middle of a crowd. Just because I live here by myself I’m no lonelier. For most people, all things diverge from the focus of loneliness but for me, all things converge to a point that is loneliness.’ Zara had a faraway look in her eyes as she spoke. ‘And then you reach a stage when you embrace it and wrap it round you like a shawl. ‘

Meera, intuitive as she was, felt Zara’s pain as if it were her own.

Loneliness clung to me

As first or last resort

Now it seems as though

I envelope it

Instead of it looming

All around me.

Like a dense fog

It refused to lift itself off the ground.

So, instead

My imagination

Lent me wings

To fly above this obstinate cloud.

Un-swiftly I got to work

At the task at hand.

Shedding, moulting

Skin and disease

Healing with time

As consolation.

Like a snowflake

On a snowy day

I sank back on to ground.

Loneliness remained the same

But I am different now

‘Have you got any of your paintings left?’

Zara shook her head dejectedly. ‘But, I had painted some murals in the other room, if you care to see them?’

Meera sprang to her feet at this. Zara led her to a room, which she said she would enter when she was in a contemplative mood, which was often of late.

There were four murals, one for each wall, painted from floor to ceiling. One of a man and woman, bodies intimately entwined, another of a woman in flowing white garments holding a baby with large beautiful smiling eyes, the third a giant oak tree fallen to the ground, roots exposed, like a man with his sinews bleeding, and the last one of the sun rising in early morning freshness, on a sky without a blemish, above a tranquil sea.

Symbolic of Zara’s life, Meera understood the meaning behind them. Love between man and woman, a child born through that love, all dreams shattered and the love destroyed, symbolized by the fallen tree and roots exposed, a tree which would have took years of painstaking labor and love to grow, and the sun rising in its everyday beauty, lending hope for another day. Zara had a gentle soul but her murals were powerful.

An artist expresses power that has not gone to her head.

‘These are awesome – you must start painting again!’ exclaimed Meera.

‘There’s no inspiration,’ was all Zara could say, in a very flat tone.

She took Meera into another room. This one had collages hung on the walls. There was one with multi-colored glass, like a static kaleidoscope, but the pieces unsymmetrical, all glued together on a canvas board. There was another with different patterned cloths, paisley and batik on silk and satin, all merged together, again randomly glued together on a canvas board. A bit bizarre, thought Meera. She did not understand the significance behind these.

‘When I asked Raoul to leave, I took all my favourite possessions; all my china, wine glasses, collections from around the world, for I had travelled extensively with my family as a child. I smashed them up and stuck them back together,’ said Zara, her voice devoid of any emotion. ‘And that other one, I did the same with all my favourite clothes and made that.’

‘But why?’

‘When the spirit is empty, what good are your material possessions? I have hung the collages up to remind me that the most important thing in life is love in the spirit not love for beautiful things.’

Meera said,’ Yes you loved with all your heart, you were deceived and feel you have lost everything. But that is the precise reason why you should paint again. It will be solely for you, and your talent will have to be your inspiration. It is your destiny and it would be a sin not to follow it.’

‘You remind me of myself, when I was your age. Maybe you have said something there that’s worthy of some thought.’

‘That’s what it’s all about.’

She started to reflect on the last several years of her life; before she had become a recluse.

‘Tony took a chunk out of my life and I let him. I spent years looking after Raoul so I have no regrets,’ she said to Meera.

‘But Tony isolated me from the world too. I used to know lots of people in neighbouring villages and was a regular on the guest list to parties. But he was jealous of me going anywhere so I stopped going; to keep the peace, for Raoul’s sake.’

‘There’s nothing to stop you now,’ said Meera.

‘Yes, but now I’ve lost the confidence. Also, I’ve lost touch with the people I knew. It’s difficult,’ replied Zara.

‘The next time there’s a party or an event, I’m going to call on you and take you,’ said Meera.

Zara smiled. And then Meera left to return home. Zara felt pumped up with fresh enthusiasm and so it was that she started to paint again, although all she managed to paint were abstract black and whites. They reflected the lack of colour in her personal life. But, it was a start.

A week later, Meera was knocking on her door, informing her of the music festival which she wanted Zara to come along to.

‘I’ll see,’ replied Zara.

‘No, you’ll have to come,’ said Meera, insistently. ‘I’ll come for you. Jay is going too.’

‘What time does it start?’ asked Zara.

‘About six in the evening,’ was Meera’s response.

‘You don’t need to come for me. I’m a big girl. I’ll find you there.’

‘Promise?’ Meera’s eyes were pleading.

‘Cross my heart, I’ll be there. And thank you, my sweet girl.’

Meera raced down the hill after saying goodbye to Zara.

Meera was pleased that she had made Zara see beyond her remit of complacency and despondency.

When darkness and light

Are one and same

When pain and joy

Feel just the same

Knowing truth from lies

And yet no gain

When deceit reigns

Good must resign

For its own sake.

When hatred shines

Its torch on love

When on a sun drenched day

It rains in your heart

When you try and try

And yet you fail

When life and death

Desert you, then;

It’s time to set another trail

To redesign

And start again

Empty the cup

To fill again

Ingredients of truth and love

The same.

Except, with renewed energy

Will the outcome be positive?

Will love reign

Will deceit hang its head in shame?

Will light be light

And darkness dark?

Will love rejoice

In glorious pain

For that day to come

I hope

I’ll wait.

The Jazz Festival

They met for a beer at the café. They headed off for the village square, which lay adjacent to the beach, the venue for the jazz music event. The sun was setting in all its glory of fiery bright orange. Five minutes later, it was gone, but had left this part of the twilit world illuminated. Like when a cheerful person with great joie de vivre leaves a room but you can still feel the glow and warmth of their recent presence. The stage was set with lots of equipment and men in casual attire were running around making last minute preparations. The crowds had started to gather in informal circles. It was a multicultural gathering of people, tourists and locals alike. Bold and colorful floral designs from the sixties and seventies were on the clothing agenda. The atmosphere was thick with excitement and anticipation. Huge marquees were erected at the far end of the plaza. From soft drinks to alcoholic beverages, there was virtually something for everyone. The smell of illicit substances pervaded the air and mixed with the aroma of nearby mango and coconut groves, it provided quite a heady sensation.

Zara was nowhere to be seen.

They settled for seats towards the rear. The music was just as audible from there, the sands and the sea providing the backdrop for what was to be, they hoped, a magical evening. It was an evening of fusion of music of east and west. Violins, guitars, sitars, saxophones, flutes, drums and the tabla* were merged in musical notes with relative ease. The rise and fall and rise again, each time reaching a higher crescendo, delighted the rapturous crowds.

Jay and Meera listened in sheer wonder and amazement at these talented musicians. The music touched their soul in the same way as they jointly applauded at the appropriate moments. Jay reached for her hand. She let him hold it for so long and then withdrew it. They had their own miniature bottles of vodka so they bought some orange and drank some.

There was a small crowd of young men and women gathering outside the marquee. From their effusive body language a message was emanating that a party was brewing. Someone decided they would have a bonfire. Before everyone was too inebriated, some locals brought in some wood from a garage and voilà, a slow fire was started, marking the onset of a moonlit night. Yellow and orange flames danced, licking the starlit night. Gold and silver merged together and smothered the crowds with magic dust. The jazz band was packing up in the backdrop, and someone brought in a guitar to continue with the musical theme. People started to dance, in pairs or solo, it did not quite matter.

The music got Meera to her feet. Faintly tapping to the beat, she started to sway, gyrate. Soon she was in a trance, feeling the gentle breeze caressing her neck. That was when Zara joined her.

‘Where have you been?’ asked Meera, half exclaiming as she felt Zara, who was swaying to the music as well, gently tap her shoulder.

‘I was out towards the front. My, I enjoyed the music. Exhilarating.’

Someone was celebrating their birthday, someone else their love for another. Bubbly champagne, very rare in these parts, was popped open by a rich American tourist who came back year after year, looking for something that was missing in his life. Everyone indulged and Meera, now evidently quite merry, danced even more exuberantly. Jay stood up and grabbed her by the waist. He tried to keep in rhythm with her but soon she was lost inside herself, oblivious of all around her. Even Jay.

Night…stars…moonlight

A whiff of wind

Like fingers

Gentle, caressing.

The strum of a guitar

A soothing voice

Melodious.

But for this

The mind would stray.

Count the hours

By songs

Not cigarettes or champagne

Fill your glass

With sweet lyrics

And fly away

On the wings of music.

Impulsively, Jay tried to kiss her. She looked so fresh and lovely to him. She fought free from his arms and ran. There were bathers in the sea and some had stripped naked. Meera ran into the sea, as is, and began to swim. Jay threw himself into the water, half protective, half titillated by her spontaneity. Meera was a free spirit and he adored her for that. He would never want to change her. But why would she not let him get close to her?

The night ended with more alcohol consumption and some feeble attempts to cook sausages over the fire. The jolly good fun party was wrapped up in the early hours of the morning and the revelers, most of them paired up, scattered in different directions. Jay and Meera, having had a whale of a time, parted with the unspoken promise of many happy times like these to come.

Or were there?

Meera noticed, as she was walking home, that Zara had disappeared without saying goodbye.

*tabla; Indian drums

Where Do I go from here?

Meera spent the next few days feeling restless. She could not sleep much at night. It was the same feeling of desolation that visited upon her many a times. When she was going through this phase, she preferred to speak very little to anybody. Mrs. Dee had tried to help, at some stage, but with little success. She thought that perhaps Meera was just missing her mother for Meera had, in time, told her parents where she came from, about her mother’s sudden demise, about Aunty Kusum. She had carefully omitted the sinister truth about her uncle as in she never divulged his existence even.

Meera was ruminating over the events of the other night. When Jay had tried to get close to her and she had recoiled. She could not understand it. She felt different to anybody else. She had seen other young women her age embracing boys, holding hands, but she was like a touch-me-not plant the moment Jay touched her. Her mind would shut down and she would withdraw. It was not that she did not like him.

On days like these, she would read avidly, anything she could lay her hands on. Zara had given her some books, which were food for the soul. She opened a book that was her favorite. It was about a gull, symbolic of man, who preferred to spend his days and nights to perfect his flying, as opposed to scrapping for food on the shores, like all the other gulls did. It was also about rebelling against the order and establishment and believing in oneself, even if it meant standing alone, about how he got help from gulls of a higher order, who taught him things he always wanted to learn. And, eventually about love and kindness towards other gulls who were waiting in the wings for someone to teach them how to do the same.

Each and every one of us is here to learn and each and every one of us will learn only what we really want to learn, not what others say we should be learning.

She felt like the gull sometimes. She had no desire for the acquisition of wealth or fame. She just wanted to expand her wings to the fullest. To get her mind, body, heart and soul to function in total harmony and unison would be a fine thing, she had always thought. She knew that she had different ideas to most around her. She longed to meet like-minded people because most of the time she felt that she was from a different planet. But what if everybody felt like that? She dismissed the thought because somehow she knew that that was not the case.

Nature became her companion and she would go on long solitary walks on the beach although Goldie was always at her heels. The every day sunrises and sunsets held a unique meaning for her; the colors of the sky at dawn and dusk, captivating each time. A night sky filled with stars and the reflection of the moon glittering on the sea were magical. To hear the sound of the gentle waves of the sea lashing on the shore was enchanting, to feel the sea breeze play with her hair sensual. She loved to watch the coming of the rains from a distant horizon, gaining momentum before opening up in torrents, quenching the thirst of the parched and scorching hot sands.

And there was music. Sad music, happy music, hippy music, rock music, love music, inspirational music, instrumental music. She had a wide collection and there was something to suit most of her moods.

And then she also liked to write; about nature, her feelings, her thoughts both joyful and melancholic.

So with the help of nature, books, music and her writing, she would revive her senses and would prepare herself to face the world again. With a fresh dose of hope for the future.

She woke up early one morning. Apart from helping her parents with all her commitments at home, she had not seen anyone, Goldie being her only companion. When Jay had attempted to draw her out, she had, without any explanation, refused. But she felt good, ready to start afresh. She would take a walk to his. Goldie was not permitted in Mr. Joshi’s house, strict orders from the master of the household. Meera was of the opinion that people who were too fastidious around their houses sometimes missed out on good hands-on fun.

As Mrs. Dee would say, ‘I’d rather have a house full of sand with Goldie in it than a clean and sand-free one with no Goldie in it.’ This because Goldie was, unwittingly, the main culprit of bringing clumps of sand into the house on a daily basis. And Mrs. Dee would uncomplainingly sweep up behind her.

And Mr. Dee’s reply would be, ‘She keeps you on your toes, that’s the sole reason I like our Goldie. For otherwise I wonder if ever you would clean this house!’

And Mrs. Dee would bite the bait immediately. ‘You wouldn’t know how much it takes to keep this house in this condition.’

Mission accomplished, Mr. Dee would wink at Meera for having managed to get just the reaction out of his beloved wife who would only see it when Meera would say ‘He’s only teasing you ma.’ Then Mrs. Dee would just break out into laughter, blushing a little, realizing that she had been had again. For she was a sweet and simple woman.

If you put affection in your humour, your humour will be accepted affectionately, thought Meera.

The rain had left the sands damp and cool and Meera could discern the colors of a rainbow against the clear sky.

Like a stimulant

A breath of cool fresh air

Enlivens me.

For it is morning.

As I gaze skywards

I see a beautiful arch of prismatic colors

Becoming more prominent.

I feel as if I were a king

Entering his kingdom

Welcomed by a brightly-arched doorway

And not by a crown

But by a string of white pearls

Formed by the seagulls

Playing happily in the waters

Right in the open

Yet so protected.

And I bow before the archway

Though being the king.

And at the first signs of sunlight

The arch disappears;

Its work is done

The king has reached

Safely in his kingdom.