There's been a hiatus. There's a series waiting to be finished. There are a million thoughts. A million ideas. One short story. One real-life tenth-standard type meaningless non-romance to write about (just for the sheer hilarity of the thing). One movie to review. Couple of super-interesting train journeys to share. But, since I have limited internet time, it is 2.20 am and I have a long day ahead tomorrow, I shall just state some brief observations on the Season so far:

1. The crowds at the Music Academy canteen have thinned since last year. The food is still equally good, though prices have gone up.

2. After many discussions with various Mamas and Mamis over the last week, I conclude that it is better to hit the T Nagar Sabhas - Vani Mahal, Germal Hall, Bharat Kalachar - all of them have 3 hour concerts in the evening. As opposed to Music Academy or Narada Gana Sabha, where the slot is two and a half hours. Sanjay Subramanian for more than three hours at Vani Mahal was one of the most satisfying kacheris I've been to in a while.

3. The girls at Academy have gotten prettier. Or maybe, my expectations and standards have come down.

4. Some people working at NGOs know nothing about the world they're out to change. They still are self-righteous about their work and take great pride in it. The attitude sure helps them. You don't want chronic acute self-doubt in NGO people.

5. Abhishek Raghuram's Neelambari was simply exquisite.

6. I have severe internet addiction.

6. Short story written a while ago. Tried to strip down my writing to its barest essentials. Lots of description, emotion etc was actively deleted. Some sentences make me cringe. I must edit this, but I don't have the requisite energies. Here it is:

His Daughter

He was relieved when he heard the man say, "She got married. Lives with her husband now." But he didn't end his search there. He had to make that trip to his hometown in the hills to see her. His friend (and prime advisor) never understood this part of the plan. "But you know she isn't a whore or a cabaret dancer or a terrorist! That's a huge relief. She's married. Now leave it at that!" He never listened. He found her address and made the trip back home.

Now, he stands at the gate of her house. Her garden is lush and beautiful, like the rest of the little hill town. There is a jeep in the driveway and a driver sleeping in it. "Hi. I am a friend of Mr. Nayak, your neighbour. I came here for a holiday, but I don't have the keys. Mr. Nayak is on his way. Can I wait inside? Its a little cold..." he practices. It wont be that easy when she actually stands before him.

He gathers courage and walks to the door. An ornate door has an even more ornate knocker. He hasn't seen one in ages. He knocks. He waits. There isn't any response. He knocks again. This time, the driver wakes up, walks to the door and rings a bell hidden behind a bag hanging next to the door. The driver goes back to his jeep and resumes his nap. After an eternity, the door opens.

She opens the door, they look at each other, and freeze.
***

His last trip home was eight years ago. That was a year before he got married. It was a month before he met his wife. A week before his college results came out.

The bus made its way up the narrow, snaking road. It was off-season for the tourists, and the bus was nearly empty. He sat at a window reading a book. A girl sat at the other window on the same row. Twenty minutes into the climb, the light faded, and he put down the book.

Almost immediately, the girl asked him, "What book?"
He noticed in the semi-darkness that she was pretty. Plain, but pretty. He showed her the book. She said, "Oh! I love this book!"
"You do?" he asked, "That's lovely. I like it so far..."

They smiled and said nothing for a couple of seconds. Then she asked again, "Are you a lawyer?" He was. He asked her how she had guessed.
"Oh, you have an advocate sticker on your bag."
He smiled. Without asking him, she sat next to him. She made conversation over the din of the bus. At times she was screaming to be heard, other times, she whispered in his ear. He said a lot of things too, whenever she gave him the chance to speak.

Soon, her head was on his shoulder and his hands were in hers. He was telling her something about his hometown, and how it had changed over the years, when he realised that she had fallen asleep. He rested his head on hers and dozed off. When he woke up in half an hour, she had her arm around him. He watched her sleep until they reached the town at the top of the hill. He woke her up. She looked around groggily, stood and left without a word. By the time he could collect his bags and his thoughts, she had disappeared in the market.

The next afternoon, his friends convinced him to accompany them to a whorehouse. Though he always knew it existed, in all his years of living in the town, he had never been there. He almost predicted that he'd find her there. But when she appeared at the end of a hazy, dingy corridor, he hoped he was imagining things. He wanted her to be a student at the college, or a caretaker at one of the tea estates. But she wasn't.

It was like a scene from his dream. She was dressed in exceedingly white clothes, and she didn't walk towards him: she floated down the corridor. Mist entered through every inlet and blurred the scene. She came to him and said, "Thanks." He asked her why. She said, "I wasn't okay last night. I tried running away. This guy who used to come here quite often promised he'd take me away. I was to meet him in the bus stand down the hill. He never turned up." He asked her what she was thanking him for. She said, "You held me. And did nothing more. Few men do that to me."

He wanted to ask her why she left, but he couldn't bring himself to. They stared at each other for a while before she said, "Can I kiss you?" He was embarrassed. She said, "Don't be shy. People do a lot more here." She kissed him, and he could feel her gratitude. At first, he had an inexplicable feeling of guilt, but that soon turned into a strange sort of affection. The kiss degenerated into a lot more, like kisses tend to do. Especially in whorehouses.

It was morning when he got up to leave. He asked her for her name. She smiled, "You don't need to know."
***

The resemblance is evident - the same lips, the same eyes. She gave birth to his adopted daughter! Now, if his daughter asked him, he could tell her that her mother was the loveliest of women. He had planned to subtly find out who the father of the girl was, but he struggles to say anything. He mutters something about having come to the wrong house. She asks him a couple of questions about his life before he leaves.

As she watches him disappear beyond the bend towards the market, she hopes that the girl they conceived all those years ago found a good home.
***