- 1 -

He always enjoyed his moments of solitude. He was acclimatized to being alone, but loneliness was a word he never referred to. It was neither depression nor fatigue. It wasn’t lack of will either. Although his profession was to paint pictures with words, he wouldn’t have been able to describe as to how he felt at the moment.

Not even close to thousand copies, his publisher had told him blankly, upon asking about the sales of his debut novel. He hadn’t been able to write a single word after that. He knew in his heart he wasn’t discouraged, but he also knew there was something that stopped him from moving on. He didn’t believe in writer’s block either. It’s just a myth, he often told his friends. Now, when he stood out of his skin and looked at himself from a distance, he felt that the myth was slowly turning into reality, and, he couldn’t have afforded it.

If some people believed that writing was an art form and an artist was always in search of some inspiration, he felt otherwise. That popular belief was anathema to him. Writing is anything but glamorous, he told them, and one should find inspiration from writing itself. And when his women friends asked him about his muse, often accompanied with a naughty wink, he merely dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. He avoided stereotypes of all forms; not only in his writing, but also in his real life. As for the muse, that only happened in movies and foolishly sentimental novels. But all this would change soon. He didn’t know yet.

It had been over five months since he manifested his thoughts into words. He had not been in touch with his friends; neither had he read a single book nor watched a movie. And unlike in movies, he had not taken up drinking. Too early, he reflected, and chuckled. If there was one activity he regularly kept up with, it was running. It was the only thing, which gave him peace.

***

He saw her for the first time on a lazy Sunday morning. He had woken up about half an hour earlier, finished his ablutions, made coffee and settled down in the porch with a newspaper in one hand and a coffee mug in the other. He had taken the first sip when he heard a ‘thud’. Placing the mug and newspaper on the table, he broke into a trot to take a look. There she was, lying on the ground, dusting herself. I don’t know why, but women look fascinating in winter, a character from one of his stories had casually said. Is that a compliment, the woman had asked mischievously. And thus an interesting chapter of flirting had begun. It was all a part of character building, and none of it reflected his personal ideas. He allowed himself a smile upon recalling it. If he hadn’t believed in his own words then, he did now. She is fascinating.

‘Whatever happened to chivalrous men?’ the girl said with a frown as she tried to get up.

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ He approached her, lent his hand, and pulled her up. He then squatted, and picked up the bicycle. ‘What’s with the bicycle?’

‘What’s with the running?’ she asked, candidly. ‘Don’t have to raise your eyebrows like a weirdo,’ she continued, ‘I know who you are. I see you everyday.’

‘You do?’

‘Of course. You are Karan, the writer.’

‘So you have read my book?’ Karan asked as they started walking.

‘I tried, but it was too boring. Couldn’t even get past fifty pages,’ she said, matter-of-factly.

‘To each his own.’

‘What if I told you that I knew you since your primary school days?’

He stopped in his tracks and stared at her.

‘Surprised?’

‘You are bluffing.’

‘No, I’m not. I’m Jhanvi. I was your neighbour for twenty years, that is, till you moved here, to Mysore. And now, as co-incidence would have it, I’m your neighbour again. See that maroon house? That’s where I stay. Come on.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You still don’t remember, do you? We both went to the same school in Bangalore. I was in a different section. You and your hooligan friends used to play right in front our house? There was a guy with red hair in your group, no?’

It wasn’t the information, but the casual manner with which she said it that baffled him.

‘This is really embarrassing. Are you sure of all this?’ he asked her after a long gap. They had reached her house.

‘Why don’t you ask your mother? Anyway, let’s catch up later. Got to go,’ she said, took the bicycle from him and waved him goodbye.

***

Karan made another cup of coffee. The cool winter breeze prompted him to stand by the window. It was a beautiful morning, he mused. And he knew many such mornings had gone by unappreciated. If today was any different it was all because of the girl. A smile flitted across his face as he thought about her: feisty, straightforward, spunky.

Although, he had never imagined that anyone would brazenly give such an opinion about his book, let alone a pretty girl, it didn’t bother him. Instead, he reveled in that unpredictable nature of hers. What did she say? ‘It’s too boring. I couldn’t even get past fifty pages.’ He shook his head as he smiled, and took a sip from the mug.

He stood there for a few more minutes, enjoying the view outside. It was about eight-thirty, and the blanket of mist was slowly being lifted off. It was when the first rays of the Sun seeped through the window, and shone on his face that it struck him. He finished his coffee with a draught, placed the mug on the kitchen table, reached into his trouser pocket, and took out his cell-phone. He had to find out about the girl. He dialed his home number.

- 2 -

He regarded the line from Finding Forrester to be the best advice on writing: You must write your first draft with your heart. You rewrite with your head.

The cursor on the screen looked impatient. He began:

It was the morning he’d never forget. He paused for a moment, deleted the sentence and started again:

It was the morning he’d always remember. For a man who’d never believed in miracles, it was a new beginning. She was the first one to recover from what seemed like a pleasant surprise.

‘Nischal! Such a long time. How are you? And how long have you been here?’

For want of something to say, he took refuge in smiling. She shook her head, smiling back. ‘You haven’t changed a bit, have you? The same old shy Nischal.’

And thus began a conversation, mostly one-sided, that would go on for a long time. But then, had he not met her again in his life, this tale would’ve had a different ending; or to be more specific, a normal, conventional ending of a happy man.

Karan saved the file under the title, Dusk, and read it once. Without thinking further he began again, only to stop three hours later. ‘Bloody phone call,’ he muttered under his breath, and left the room to pick it up.

‘Meet me at the Landmark Book Store at six in the evening, will you? You can suggest me some good books, and then we can have coffee somewhere.’

No hi, no hello. Straight to the point. He didn’t waste his words too. ‘Yes,’ he said, and the phone got disconnected.

Normally he wouldn’t entertain such bad manners. But today was an extraordinary day, and she was the reason behind it. He ran his fingers through his hair as he broke into a smile. Lady Don had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

***

The coffee shop was thrumming with loud voices of both young and old alike. Unlike the modern cafes that have captured the nerves of sophisticated people in metropolitan cities, Poornima Coffee Bar was a small café that served only the two basic hot beverages, along with three local dishes: idlis, dosas, and bhajjis. With a history of over fifty years, it went on with its business smoothly, neither bothering to expand nor trying anything new. When other cafes symbolized the present and the future, Poornima Coffee Bar was ensconced in the past. If anyone had any doubt regarding this, its regular customers and the soot on the ceiling proved it. This is what Karan liked about the place. Along with his regular filter coffee he also got a strong dose of past culture from the customers around.

Jhanvi was neither amused nor surprised at Karan’s choice of place. After spending an hour at the bookshop, he had brought them to his favourite spot. Upon entering the café, she had quickly chosen a table, called the waiter, ordered two cups of coffee, and buried herself behind the blurbs of the books she had purchased. The waiter arrived a few minutes later, and placed the coffee cups on the table. She took a sip, and continued reading.

‘So this must be your favourite cafe in Mysore?’ she spoke at last.

‘Hmm. That must have been a tough case to crack.’

Jhanvi looked up. ‘Seven Minutes? Really?’ she asked, ignoring his sarcasm.

‘I know the blurb appears to be a bit risqué, but that’s that. It’s one of the best books I’ve read so far. Irving Wallace is a genius. Don’t miss his books for the world.’

‘I wish I could say the same thing about your book to somebody.’

Karan tried to trace a hint of smile on her face, but to no avail. Was she serious? He furrowed his brows as he took another sip.

She continued as if nothing had happened. ‘What do you think of The Fountainhead?’

‘It’s a great novel.’

‘Well, yes, but what are your thoughts on it?’

‘I don’t think we should discuss Ayn Rand right now.’

‘What do you want to discuss about then? Sexual positions?’

Karan spilled the coffee on his shirt. ‘God, Jhanvi. What’s wrong with you?’ He took out his handkerchief, dabbed at his mouth and shirt. The stain on his shirt wouldn’t come off.

‘That wasn’t a rhetorical question. You said you didn’t want to discuss the book, so I thought you might as well discuss something else,’ she said, calmly.

‘Yes, but something else didn’t have to be … well, anyway, the reason I said we shouldn’t discuss Ayn Rand is that, one, it doesn’t make for a smooth conversation. And two, everyone perceives the book in a different way. It’s better to deal with it in the privacy of one’s mind, rather than letting his thoughts out in front of someone else.’

‘That’s utter nonsense,’ she said as she leafed through the pages. ‘Want to know what I think of it? By the way, you can drop your eyebrows now.’

‘You’ve read the book?’

‘Of course, I have, Mr Writer.’

‘Then why did you buy it?’

‘I don’t know. You recommended it. Felt like buying it.’

Karan shook his head. ‘Maybe women are from a different planet. Anyway, tell me.’

‘Well, I think Peter Keating is as good as Howard Roark. Shall I order two more cups of coffee?’

‘Forget about coffee. You got me interested. Continue.’

‘No, I think I’ll have another cup.’

Karan rubbed his forehead with his hand. Jhanvi called the waiter and ordered. A minute later the waiter served the order. ‘Well,’ she began, took a sip, and continued, ‘I strongly believe that the only difference between Howard Roark and Peter Keating is self-pity. Sans the guilt, Keating is as good as Roark.’

Karan leaned forward. ‘So you mean there are no Roarks in this world?’

‘There are Karans and there are Jhanvis. The point is, there is a bit of Roark in everybody, and so is Keating. The harder you try to be Roark, the more Keating you become,’

Karan felt like giving her a high-five. Six years ago, when he was pursuing his undergraduate course, he had tried to argue the same thing with a friend. In spite of having a lofty ambition of becoming a writer, he hadn’t been able to present his views as articulately as Jhanvi.

‘“Be yourself”, you mean?’ he asked, cradling his chin.

‘Exactly. That’s what Ayn Rand tried to say. But unfortunately, most of them started worshiping Roark, thereby breaking the first rule. They tried to copy Roark, and lost their own identity in the process. So did you talk to your mother?’ Jhanvi closed the book, and kept it back in her bag.

If Karan was taken aback with the sudden change of topic, he didn’t evince it. He said simply, ‘Yes.’

‘And?’ Jhanvi finished her coffee, and placed the cup in the saucer.

‘To repeat her remarks verbatim, “I remember a pretty girl from the neighbourhood, but don’t remember her name.”’

‘Fair enough. I’m going to sleep in your house tonight,’ said Jhanvi, getting up.

Karan knew better not to raise his eyebrows this time.

***

It was seven o’clock in the morning when Karan woke up. He wasn’t surprised to find Jhanvi gone. He quickly made himself a cup of coffee, and sat down to write. The story was shaping up nicely, he thought. He read from the beginning, making some minor corrections along the way. Gradually, as he moved the cursor along the lines, his mind slipped back to the previous night.

After dinner at a cozy restaurant, Jhanvi had come to Karan’s place for a nightcap. ‘I’ll sleep on the couch,’ she said the moment they entered the house. He nodded, excused himself, and went to his room to change. When he emerged, he was flummoxed to see her fast asleep on the couch. ‘What just happened?’ He gave a quiet cry as he took a step forward gently, and stood by the couch with his arms folded. She is lovely. He found himself at his writing table a minute later. After taking the story forward for about five hours, he hit the bed.

And now, as he read the story he realized how different the characters were from himself and Jhanvi. As a rule he never fell in love with his characters, and, never recreated the characters from his life. He was happy his story was not influenced by reality. Good to go. He rubbed his hands together, and started writing.

Three hours later the phone rang. Jhanvi. He didn’t mind the disturbance. He walked across the room, and picked up his cell-phone from the chair. His eyes automatically fell on the computer screen. The cursor was blinking, as if asking him to get back to writing. It can wait. ‘Hello…’ he said into the phone.

- 3 -

‘You look beautiful today.’

‘Am I? This is the first compliment in two months, you know?’

‘Maybe,’ said Karan, getting closer to her on the couch.

‘You didn’t comment when I wore a Sari the other day. You never comment when I wear a nice dress. But now when I’m in an old capris and top, you say that I look beautiful?’

Karan put his arm around her. ‘Every girl looks good when she’s dressed well, sweetheart. There is no magic in it. Real beauty of a girl can be observed when she is being herself, when she is not trying to be presentable to the outside world.’

‘Probably the next thing you are going to say is that I look more beautiful when I’m naked, huh?’

Karan tossed his head back, and laughed wholeheartedly. ‘Possible,’ he said.

‘Nice try, Creepo.’

Jhanvi picked up the newsmagazine from the teapoy, and started leafing through the pages. ‘By the way, some people say that I suck.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Jhanvi sucks, they say,’ she said, tossing the magazine back on the teapoy.

‘I pity them. Poor souls.’

‘But I think they are right. Just like one of Eminem’s songs says, “I am whatever you say I am”.’

‘Now that’s new. I didn’t know you listened to rap,’ said Karan.

Jhanvi smiled impishly. ‘There are still a lot of things you don’t know about me.’

Karan winked at her. ‘I love challenges.’ He paused for a few seconds, and said, ‘I think I’m in love with you, Jhanvi.’

‘You think? I know you are in love with me,’ she said nonchalantly.

Karan had expected her to be shocked, but instead, she had surprised him. He smiled, and let the moment pass.

***

Two months had gone by smoothly. But juggling with two women had not been easy for Karan: when his fictional heroine, Akansha, was uncomplicated and sentimental, Jhanvi had a complex personality; the former tapped the doors of his heart, whereas the latter tickled his brain.

Jhanvi was unlike any of the girls Karan had met in his life. The girls he usually made friends with, or perhaps the ones he got attracted to, were like his fictional heroines: emotional, simple, mushy, worshiped Nicholas Sparks and Erich Segal, and watched movies similar to their novels, listened to soft music, introverts, wore nothing but typical girls’ outfits. Jhanvi, on the other hand, was quite a challenge. She wasn’t opposed to any of the above, but along with the same attributes she had her own baggage. The common denominator was the mood swings, or at least Karan thought they were. Nevertheless, he enjoyed those unpredictable moments.

It was sometime during the third month that Karan decided to introduce Jhanvi to his friends. He invited his friends to his home for dinner. Three out of his four friends showed up. Jhanvi arrived at eight o’clock in the evening. Karan introduced her, and his friends were enchanted by her person. One of them even admitted to being jealous of Karan.

Dinner was served, along with Vodka and Wine. The conversation took off with Karan’s novel, then moved to movies, books, authors, politics, cricket, corruption, each other’s love life, and finally, Jhanvi’s unconventional choice of working in a Life Insurance company, when, according to everyone at the table, she could have easily made a career in Banking or Finance. According to Karan, she could have been a successful cyclist as well. Everyone laughed as they got up.

Several minutes later when Karan’s friends were about to leave, Jhanvi put her arms around Karan’s neck, and started kissing him on the mouth. The silence that followed was interminable. It was too conspicuous that everyone, except Jhanvi who looked her regular self, was uncomfortable. None of Karan’s friends reacted. Instead, they hugged him, wished him luck for his next novel, as if nothing had happened, and bid farewell.

‘What the hell was that?’ Karan asked when his friends had gone.

Jhanvi switched on the TV. ‘What the hell was what, dear?’

‘Are you crazy? What’s with the kissing?’

‘Why, you didn’t like it?’ she asked, picking up the remote from the couch.

‘I would have, if we were alone. But in front of my friends? What has gotten into you? The worst thing is that you are not even drunk. How do you justify that behavior?’

‘Oh, come on. I don’t have to explain anything. Hey, come, sit. Die Hard is on.’

Karan stood with his arms akimbo. ‘Are you even listening to me?’

‘Maybe, maybe not. Now, come on. Let’s watch the movie. By the way, could you get me a glass of wine, please?’

Karan threw up his hands in the air. There was no point in arguing. He slumped on the couch beside her.

A couple of minutes later Jhanvi switched off the TV, turned to him and said, ‘All right. I’m sorry. This won’t happen again, I promise.’

Before he could respond, she switched on the TV again, and stayed glued to the TV. Karan didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t.

***

Karan was upset, and he made sure he expressed it. Jhanvi went about behaving as if nothing had happened. Karan didn’t bring it up again.

Now, after three months, they had stuck to a routine. Karan wrote throughout the day, and met with Jhanvi in the evening. Everything came back to normal again. Or at least he thought so.

Karan wasn’t sure whether Jhanvi had always been like that, but lately he had started noticing her dressing sense. If she was dressed elegantly one day, she would dress up in rags on another day. The occasion didn’t matter to her. Sometimes, when they had planned to spend the evening at Karan’s house, she came wearing a Silk Sari; and when they had planned to go to a movie or a restaurant, she dressed up in her night dress – capris and an old, dirty top. She snubbed him every time he commented, and changed the topic.

Nothing she did made sense to him anymore. But then again, some days were delightful to him. Those were the days when Nischal and Akansha made some startling decisions for themselves, and thereby taking the story in an unconventional path. Everything that happened to Karan affected the story; not the content, but the voice and the mood. Although he was happy that the story was taking a good shape, he felt that somehow he was not in control. Some unknown entity was guiding the story, and not him.

Slowly, but steadily, the routine started changing. Jhanvi would call him in the morning, and ask him to meet her in a café or a bookshop. Scheduling his work for the evening, he would spend his day with her. Later on, he was compelled to spend his evenings with her, too. Although he was uncomfortable with the disturbance, he went ahead with her plans, thinking it wouldn’t turn out to be regularity. But it did.

One day he made up his mind to talk it out with her, but before he could say anything, she admitted to being selfish, and left him alone. She neither called nor showed up at his place. He called her the next day, and they watched a movie together.

- 4 -

Crossword Book Store was filled with bibliophiles, and for a reason. Ruskin Bond was invited to the book releasing function: Renascence by Krishna Patil.

A few kids looked busy with Harry Potter, Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys; some adults were trying to make friends with Archer, Rushdie, Ludlum, Puzo and the lot; and some were ambling around the bookshop, with their hands clasped behind their backs. The place was buzzing with words like Language, narration, voice, grammar, characters, twists, entertaining, boring, etc. In the midst of all this was a man who stood silently in front of a rack, going through his favourite passages from J D Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye. No sooner had he closed the book and kept it back in the rack than he felt a tap on his shoulder.

‘Jhanvi!’

‘Am I late?’ she asked.

‘Actually you are early. We both are,’ said Karan as he put his arm around her waist.

‘Great. So Ruskin Bond is coming, eh?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hey, look. Your friend’s here. Didn’t know he was coming.’

Karan waved at his friend.

‘Hey, Jhanvi, how are you?’

‘I’m beautiful. How are you, Rakesh?’

‘Ha. Can’t argue with that now, can I? Well, I guess I’m OK.’

Ruskin Bond made his entry as everyone greeted him with raucous cheers. The organizers and Krishna Patil, whose book was to be released, escorted him to the podium. Everyone on the podium took their seats. The programme began with an introductory note by the head of the organizing committee. It was to be followed by Ruskin Bond’s speech, and the unwrapping of the book. Finally, Karan would be called upon the podium to deliver a two-minute speech. It was Karan’s agent’s idea.

A few minutes later when Ruskin Bond took over the microphone, the bookstore suddenly grew silent. That silence could only have come from the respect the readers had for Bond. Everyone listened with rapt attention. He held the audience captive with his subtle humour and wit. There came a point during his speech when everyone broke into a prodigious peal of laughter. It was then that Karan felt a rush of blood to his cheek. He looked around, and noticed a few people staring at him. Rakesh had a bewildered expression on his face. Jhanvi crinkled her eyes, and flounced from the store. Karan and Rakesh followed suit.

‘Jhanvi!’ he called out as he jogged.

Jhanvi neither stopped nor responded. Karan was too confused to chase after her.

‘What was that all about?’ Rakesh asked him. ‘Why did she slap you like that?’

‘I have no bloody idea,’ said Karan, his voice rising with every word. ‘All I know is that I’m utterly humiliated.’

***

If Karan was honest about it, his attempts at forgetting Jhanvi’s misdemeanors turned out to be difficult. After deciding not to take refuge in alcohol – which, according to him, would have been silly – he tried to enter the colourful world of Charles Dickens. But that, too, turned out to be futile. Tossing the book on his writing table, he lay down on the bed. Sleep wouldn’t come either. He got up from the bed, switched on his computer, and ran the game, Call of Duty. Two minutes later, he exited, and ran Sniper Ghost Warrior. He couldn’t last thirty seconds with it. Goddamn it. He moved the cursor to start menu, and selected Shut Down. His phone rang when he was about press enter. He jumped out of the chair, happy to have been released from the captivity of confusing thoughts, and made a dash towards the hall.

‘Hello?’

‘How is the novel coming along, Karan?’

‘First draft is almost complete, Mark. Only the climax part is remaining. Six more months, and it should be ready to go.’

‘Hmm. All right.’

Screw Jhanvi. I have a story to finish. Placing the receiver back in the cradle, Karan went to his room, sat at his writing table, steered the cursor away from the Shut Down button, and opened the file named, Dusk. He glanced through the last paragraph, and began to write the concluding part of the novel. The denouement of the story lay not on his mind, but at his fingertips:

The city was throttled with cold wet chill. The people in the park went about their matutinal activities with flourish. Akansha and Nischal met in the joggers’ park like they had every day. But unlike most days that had been filled with laughter and happiness, a decision had to be taken today that would alter their lives forever. It would be agreeable if things in this world always finished with all the ends neatly tied up, but that is seldom the case. If Nischal and Akansha hadn’t agreed with this before, they did now…

Karan wrote for three hours, without being disturbed by his troubling thoughts. But then he knew in the back of his head that he’d have to deal with them later. Writing was his only sanctuary now.

He finished the first draft of the story with Akansha’s final words:

‘I’d read somewhere that every departure is the new beginning of a new meeting. I don’t know if this is true, Nischal, but let’s hope it isn’t. Instead of being together and dying everyday, let’s stay apart, and live with our memories.’ A tear trickled down her cheek. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it? Funny how things change in this world. There are no reasons, and no answers for the unasked, but obvious questions. In the end we are left with nothing but memories. That’s all we have now. Memories.’

Nischal opened his mouth to say something. Akansha put a finger on his lips. ‘Don’t, love. Don’t spoil it by saying it aloud.’ A jet of cold breeze hit them. Nischal shuddered. But Akansha knew it wasn’t because of the breeze. She moved into his arms, and he held her tightly. She lay in his arms for sometime, then pulled herself away. She looked at him one last time, kissed him on the cheek, turned round, and walked away, without looking back. Nischal didn’t take his eyes off her until she had completely disappeared from his sight, thereby his life.

For most of the joggers in the park, a beautiful day had just begun. The early rays of the Sun symbolized hope. But hope was blighted for two souls, for Dusk had arrived in their lives.

Karan saved the file, switched off the computer, put on his jacket, and wended his way out of the house. Two hours later he was sitting at the top of a hill.

- 5 -

Karan wasn’t a religious person, but Chamundi Hills was one of his favourite spots in Mysore. He went past the temple, and reached an empty spot, hidden behind rocks and bushes. He reached the edge of the hill, and sat down. With the whole world below him, he reviewed his past, or to be specific, his past six months.

Karan admitted that Jhanvi had given him some inspiration by questioning his intellect, by mocking at his stories, and sometimes, by openly encouraging him. Still, he never believed in the concept of a muse, saying it was a myth. But then, even if it was a myth, it was shattered, too. Was he in love with her? He wasn’t sure. At least not anymore. He was a practical man, and he couldn’t be in love with someone who disrespected him. Was she a friend? No. He had better women friends; and friends don’t slap you, especially not in front of others. Then what was she to him? He stared into emptiness for a few minutes. The Sun had set. Dusk. He laughed at the irony. He looked up to see the shimmering orange unevenly spread across the sky. The darkness was about to seize the dusk. It was in that moment of partial darkness that it hit him. Jhanvi was a bad habit; and he was addicted to her. Like cigarettes and alcohol, she sometimes acted like a tranquilizer. He needed her to question his abilities and challenge his emotional intelligence. But like any other bad habits, she, too, came with harmful side-effects. He had to quit her. Karan nodded, as if saying yes to his alter ego that had provided him with a plausible answer. No sooner had he got up than he heard a familiar voice:

‘It was not that hard to find you, you know.’

He swiveled round. Jhanvi stood in front of him with a sense of repose on her face. She was wearing a maroon sleeveless salwar suit - a gift from Karan.

‘You?’

A sudden gush of wind blew her hair. She brushed her curls delicately to the back of her ears. Karan had always loved to see her do it.

‘Whom were you expecting? Katrina Kaif?’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Another silly question. Was it rhetorical? Never mind. I came looking for you.’

‘It’s over, Jhanvi,’ said Karan, putting his hands in his jacket pockets.

‘What is, Karan?’

‘Us.’

‘You are wrong.’

‘No. This story is over. The end.’

‘You are wrong again, Mr Writer. This is only the beginning.’

‘You must be crazy. Anyway, as I said, it’s over. You are just too much to handle. You are too unpredictable.’

‘Really, Karan? Unpredictability is the very essence of romanticism, didn’t you always used to say?’

‘Yes, but everything has a limit. And you crossed it. Kissing me in front of my friends, showing up in your night dress when we are going out, mocking me, ridiculing me, making fun of my writing, my stories. Once in a while it’s all OK. I can take harsh criticisms. No problem with that. But there has to be a reason for everything. Lately, your whims had become obstacles to my writing as well. And slapping? What was that all about? Have you any idea how humiliated I was?’ Karan said it all in a single breath.

‘I slapped you, because I felt like it.’

‘What?’ Karan almost screamed.

‘Yes,’ said Jhanvi, as calm as ever. ‘You are wrong, darling. Everything doesn’t need to have a reason. I don’t need reasons for the things I do.’

‘God, what the hell are you?’

‘To quote Oscar Wilde, “To define is to limit.” And I don’t have limits.’

Karan opened his mouth to say something, but words wouldn’t come out. He stood there, like a rock, staring at her.

Jhanvi continued, ‘Oh, come on now. Don’t be a sissy. Can’t you take a slap in the face now and then? I mean, what harm can come from that, huh?’

‘What harm can come from that? You slapped me in front of fifty people. One of them was my friend.’

‘Look, listen,’ Jhanvi spoke at length. ‘This is what I am. This is what I’ve always been. Right from the day I was born to this very moment. And trust me when I say this. I shall always be like this. It’s in my nature to do things that can’t be reasoned with. I am unpredictable way beyond your capacity to understand. It’s just the slap you’ve experienced till now. Someday I might even kick you in the gut or punch you in the face, when there are people around. If you are lucky, and if I’m in the right mood, I’ll do that when you are alone. So you’d better accept me for what I am. There is no other go for you.’

‘You are totally insane.’

‘Am I now?’ Jhanvi retorted. ‘Let me ask you something. Have you asked your mother about me?’

Karan knitted his brows. ‘Yes.’

‘What did she tell you?’

‘That you were our neighbour.’

‘Did she confirm that? Does she remember a girl named Jhanvi?’

‘Not … exactly.’

Jhanvi shrugged her shoulders, and kept mum. Karan felt his heart beating faster. It took a few seconds for him to understand the implication.

‘Oh, my god. You are not real, are you? What the hell has happened to me? Am I hallucinating?’ He cried as he reeled back. Jhanvi stepped forward, and pulled him towards her.

She gave him a few seconds, and then said, ‘Relax, you moron. I’m not your imagination. You are not suffering from Multiple Personality Disorder either. We are not some characters in your story. This is real. I’m as real as I could be. Everything that’s happening right now is real.’ She paused, and then continued, ‘This is your problem. You always want your stories to come with twists in the end. They are not always necessary. Some stories are better off without twists and turns. And I can assure you, there is no twist in this story.’

Karan buried his head in his hands. Jhanvi went on. ‘Your mother clearly doesn’t remember me. That’s all. But I’m quite sure your friends know me well. You can ask them later.’

Karan didn’t respond. Jhanvi said, playfully, ‘See that? I got you for a minute, didn’t I? This is what I do. Mess with your head. Why? I don’t know. I just love to do it. It’s pure fun. Am I a sadist? Hell, yes, I am. Sometimes. So be a man, and deal with me. Don’t try to understand me, for you’ll definitely fail. Don’t try to change me, for you can’t. I love me. You’d better love me too. Take me for what I am, and you’ll be happy. And mind you, as you once admitted, I’m beautiful.’

Karan opened his mouth. Only a single word came out of it. ‘Bitch.’

Jhanvi smiled. ‘I am whatever you say I am.’

‘Jhanvi?’

‘Yes, honey?’

‘Get away from me.’

‘I can’t. And you have only two choices. Believe me.’

Karan tilted his head sideways, as if asking her to go on.

‘You are at the top of a hill. Look where you are standing. Look around you. You are just one step away from death, and one step away from me. Take a step back, and you’ll die. Take a step forward and embrace me, and you’ll live. Make your choice soon.’

A heavy drop of silence hung in the air. Jhanvi waited patiently. She had said everything she wanted to. A thin layer of darkness had started to hover above the city. Karan stood silently with his eyes shut as his whole life flashed before his eyes: starting School, getting bullied, beating up the bully sometime later; coming first in class, then failing in a subject, first crush, a slap from the teacher; friends; starting college, friends, girlfriend, breakup; reading hundreds of books, then falling in love with writing, falling in love with another girl, writing the first story, appreciation, getting obsessed with writing, ignoring girlfriend to spend time with authors and words, breakup; finishing college, starting the first novel, finishing it, getting rejected, finally finding a publisher, getting a pat on the back from Dad, getting a kiss on the cheek from Mom, moving to Mysore, living alone to write, novel not doing well, failure, confusion, chilly morning, coffee, girl in a bicycle, Jhanvi, the first words, ‘Whatever happened to chivalrous men?’

The following chapters of his story began to unfold in a lightening speed. And it was when the story came to a halt with Jhanvi’s final words did he understand that the end of his story was actually the beginning. Jhanvi was right. He was only a step away. He opened his eyes and took a deep breath. He had made his choice.

********************The End********************

Copyright © Karthik 2012

P.S. Although it’s been a few weeks already, 2012 is still taking its baby steps. Hoping and believing it’s still new, I wish you all a Happy New Year!