Vows of Love

Growing up, Varun and I lived in the same neighbourhood. While playing with him and our friends in
St. James’s Park was a routine affair, it was my everyday walks with him up to the garden that I most
looked forward to. During the summers, he would wait under my house everyday at 6 p.m., before we
made our way to unite with our friends in the garden. One day, as I stood at the window on the second
floor of my Charing Cross flat, my mother came up to me. 

           “Tell Varun that I’m your mother and I have every right to feel concerned about my little girl,
especially when she is alone with a young boy,” she said in a fit of rage, as a reply for our daily commute. 

“Mom, you know we are a group of children who play together. And you know you would never
allow me to go if not for Varun’s presence,” I stated. It was two minutes past six and I was

growing anxious. Even during times when my parents showed restraint towards our being alone

and away from their glare, deep down they always found Varun’s presence reassuring. While my

mother stood helplessly, trying to control her smile, I looked out the window to see Varun waiting

for me. 

“Tell her I shall not leave you alone,” he gesticulated, pointing to my mother’s presence in the
window, before I ran down.

              Our walks to the park were the same almost every day. That day barely seemed any different.
Varun led me across from the road holding my hand and walked on the outer side of the pavement.
I spoke to him about my day at school and how my mother refused to give me a few pence to buy a
99 Flake. Varun, on the other hand, shared that he would be taking a trip to the British Museum, as part of his History project. He also shared how he managed to sell some Pokemon drawings to his classmates, which he had made by tracing the characters on a butter paper, and earned 22 pounds. Even though the distance we walked was short, I always looked forward to the time we spent walking together. We were almost reaching the garden when I realised I was melting in the scorching summer sun. As I looked for our friends there, I lost sight of Varun. Feeling lost and scared among the large groups of people, I went and sat on a bench in one corner. Suddenly, popping a Flake 99 in front of me, Varun held up the 20 pound note he had earned at school. “Tell your mother, I shall never betray you,” he said gently, with a megawatt smile.  

              The back of Varun’s hand brushed past my pink scarf, and I turned around, my legs continuing to work against the gushing winds, before my right foot crossed over the left one and I made way for a tearful end to our play. After moving in circles for what felt like an eternity, my eyes succumbed to the gravity of the earth before my petite frame. From what I could gather, Varun, who continued to take great strides around the fountain for almost 5 minutes, with his eyes firmly fixed on me, had become desperate in his attempt to catch hold of me, in order to win the final round of tag. Before I knew it, I was lying on the ground with bruises on my right knee. Varun went to the water fountain to fetch water in his cupped hands. He continued to pour cold water on my bruised knee until blood stopped oozing out of my wound. While my tears ceased to stop, I realised that Varun’s agony was probably greater than mine. He felt what I later understood to be a deep sense of regret. Holding me by the arms, he tried to help me get back on my feet. As I finally stood facing him, he brought his hands to touch my cheeks and gently wipe off my tears. “Tell her, I shall never hurt you,” he said, before embracing me in a hug. 

It seemed like the clouds had stopped moving and the air around me was talking in whispers. Amidst the sudden quietude that had taken over, the sound of his rapid breathing overpowered all my senses. My lips, raw and inexperienced, pursed in anticipation. The pressing of his lips against my forehead, strangely enough, felt comforting. He soon held my face to find my gaze, which was lowered. My eyes glinted at the reflection of the setting sun in Varun’s eyes. The eyes which had always reflected a world of hope, now gave me a glimpse of lasting loyalty. As I stood lost in the stillness of the moment, I felt a tickle of warmth pass through my body. Unwilling to lift my gaze, I leaned in to rest my head on his thin, boyish stature. His hands firmly clutched my arms in a bid to control the high-running emotions. Every emotion I had ever felt growing up with Varun’s friendship and our innocent banter felt conspiratorial in this very moment. It was in this very moment that we knew a new world of promises had made way into our lives. 

“Should your mother know that you will always have a shoulder to lean on,” he exclaimed, laughingly, as I stroked the back of his head.

***

It was 6 in the evening. It was July and the sun was hotter than ever before. Varun was nowhere in sight. I was sitting by the window on the second floor of my Charing Cross flat, with my eyes glued to the antiquated wall clock. My anxiety was increasing with every passing minute. I had already downed 5 cups of coffee and was resisting the temptation to pour myself a sixth. My mother was constantly fretting about the coffee spilling over my red-and-white outfit. A pair of ghagra choli with beautiful velvet drapes adorned what was now my enlarged frame, and I was every bit the bride in love, who could hardly wait for her knight to arrive. It was the day when the promises Varun and I had made growing up together would be solemnised into a lifetime of love and friendship. 

The steam from the “six” hot cups of coffee had managed to cover a sizeable part of the window in mist. Barely able to wait any longer, my fingers drifted towards the perspiring windows. It was in the moment of looking through the clear lines of the now heart-stained window that warmth breathed life into me. Varun stepped out of the car looking every bit the prince I had always dreamed about. The boy who once used to sheepishly hold my hand while crossing the road, was now a man waiting to hold my hand as we both walk down the path of life. As I stood up and waved at him, he pointed to my mother’s presence in the window and said, “Tell her, I shall always love you.”

Imprinting My Indian Conscience In London

My first memories of London include roaming around the streets as an 8-year-old, overflowing with patriotism upon seeing the wax statue of Mahatma Gandhi at Madame Tussauds and feeling a deep sense of deceit at the sight of the magnificent Kohinoor diamond.

It’s been 17 years since that eventful trip, and the national pride still remains well-intact. At 25, I have decided to come back to the English capital as an international student. It has been exactly 5 months from the time I left my homeland, and every single day away from it only serves an opportunity, and a rather big one at that, to be reminded that being an Indian forms a bigger part of my identity.

As the croaky sound of my alarm sets off amidst stoic silence, I open my eyes to the most serene view of clear skies and the gigantic Wembley Stadium arch. Just when I’m about to turn around and pull my blanket over my face, my thoughts chase me to seek an update on the weather to vaguely assess the rest of my day. Having lived in the perennially hot and humid weather of Mumbai all my life, checking the weather app regularly and seizing my spotlight in the sun is certainly no mean feat and that’s not it; the unpredictability and randomness of the rains in the city make it is hard to miss the sight of my spotted yellow umbrella in my bag at any given time. How the city of London has ably triggered new responsibilities!

With the zip of my jacket pulled up to cover all the bare skin, I take a brief look into my bag to check for all the essentials for the day, including my spotted yellow umbrella. I pace up to the nearest Underground station to catch a 9:23 a.m. train to Baker Street. Despite a careful attempt to place my steel lunch box and my flask in two different corners of my bag, the two make the most engaging sound banging into each other, as I climb up the lengthy stairs of the station, attracting the attention of most passers-by. I run across to the platform before I can even catch my breath, only to find the train beginning to move. “But it’s not even 9:24 as yet!” I exclaim, out of breath, as an expression of disappointment takes over my face.

The aroma of the sabudana khichdi wafts across the compartment of the train. Surprisingly, this is one of the first times I actually feel at home after moving to London. While I relished my amateur cooking, oblivious to my surroundings, I, for once, remind myself that it is okay to let myself slip in the realms of familiarity and revel in the joy of what remains explored. I allow myself a   chance to exploit and reunite with the selfless joy of belongingness. I, for one, proudly represent the food I’m eating.

I get off the train taking the potent smell of the well-garnished sabudana that lingers in my hands. The journey from the platform to my class is precisely seven minutes, including the wait time for the lift and I have only 5 minutes to get to my destination. Not withstanding the state of pandemonium my mind is in, I wait at the signal for the pedestrian sign to turn green. It is one of the few moments when I feel like I don’t want to begin something new for the fear of having missed the initial moments. The feeling of being late for my class by 2-3 minutes in a foreign country triggers a sense of hopelessness and defeat.

It is ironic how the things that have consistently been within a focal range in my life have often been the ones most overlooked. More often than not, it is these things that usually bring in the element of stability and allow one to engage in other, so-called “more important” activities. I have realized the hard way that nothing in life comes free, and that includes the independence and freedom I have been explicit and vociferous in demanding. I force myself to think that the reason I’m late for my class is because I tried to spend a little too much time trying to replicate the taste of my mother’s cooking. I convince myself to believe that I’m late because I got busy ironing the clothes I had to wear. I want to tell myself that I’m late is because there was no one that I could ask to clear the mess in my house. How I miss witnessing magic around me when my mum is around!

Most of the people I know here have often been at the receiving end of the endless stories and incidents from India, that I carry around in my headspace. I have already taught some Hindi words to some of the people I bond with and one of the most endearing things I experience is watching them greet me in the most anglicized Hindi I have ever heard.

I have made an exhaustive list of the things I need to purchase on my way home from my university. Knowing the peculiarities of my Indian brain, I’m carrying 4 large plastic bags in my handbag to save myself from any additional costs. Once in the store, I carefully scan through every aisle, making sure that I don’t miss out on any essentials. As I’m checking things off my list, I stop at bhindi or ‘lady finger’. I wander across the aisle in search of the name tag for the green vegetable. I catch hold of one of the staffers, trying to explain what I’m looking for. Watching our animated discussion from afar, a brown man walks up to me and tells me “I think what you are looking for is okra. You will find it in the aisle behind this” in what sounds like a typical Indian accent. There is an inexplicable joy in the feeling of being surrounded by your countrymen when you’re away from your homeland. Through the rest of my time in the store, I’m reveling in the comforting exercise of decoding the mannerisms of the man in a bid to declare him a man form my land.

As I step out of the store with bags brimming with what seems like my stocks for the rainy day, I see droplets of water sliding down the overhead roof. It’s only mid-March and I’m all ready to take out my spotted yellow umbrella.

60 minutes in a London café

As a child, I found bars and cafés to be mysterious places which saw shady people enjoy sinful indulgences. My distorted conjecture was born out of my parents’ unwillingness to let me walk alone past a bar close to our house, which had been busted by the police for its illegal activities. Over the years, I visited a few bars and cafés reluctantly, almost judging everyone that I saw around.

After what seems like an eternity, I recently visited Little Portland Café which is situated on Little Portland Street, London, as part of my blog assignment. The cafe is a tiny, frenzied place which is brimming with a diverse crowd, right from selfie-loving teenagers to typical English gentlemen, coffee aficionados to the vegan youth. I was fortunate enough to find a table on a Saturday afternoon.

I felt dreadful for the first fifteen minutes after taking my table, reconsidering my decision to sit in a “café” and observe the ongoings. The menu was listed on a giant blackboard. “One hot chocolate and one cheese chilli sandwich please,” I said to a speedy waitress, before she asked me to be comfortable. It wondered if working in the café and dealing with hundreds of visitors everyday, with each one coming from a different walk of life, had taught her to read their minds with consummate ease.

The table on my left was filled with an eclectic mix of food items. It turned out that the bunch of teenagers seated there were making the most of the student discount that applied to their orders. The sound of constant giggles, gossips and incessant laughter coming from the youngsters demanded that I loosen up, but then, the two elderly Englishmen on my right held their own. Black suits and matching hats adorned their tall statures, while their self-standing (and black) walking sticks were placed exactly parallel to their right legs. They bonded like two old friends who were reminiscing their past glories and reveling in their life learnings. Upon further observing them, I noticed how none interrupted the other while talking. It seemed that one could see the wisdom through their wrinkles.

I was almost going to spill my hot chocolate on my white pants in a bid to keep up with the activities on both sides. I pulled myself back in my chair, before realizing how I was actually bridging a vast generational gap between both the tables. While the group of teens were full of young energy, dreams and rebellion, who could blow up with the slightest provocation, the gentlemen on my right were oozing wisdom and laughing away all their misgivings with calm.

As easily as I could laugh with contentment in the comfort of the knowledge that I was well past the phase of my life that the teenagers were experiencing, and marvel at the sight of the two elderly men who took pride in the wisdom and perfection attained with age, I wasn’t able to see myself in them. It was one of those rare occasions when I didn’t want to fit in. I just wanted to pause my thinking and live in the moment. For once, all I wanted to experience was what being a twenty-five-year-old really felt like.

My state of mind had changed completely from the time I entered the café. I soon finished my hot chocolate and sandwich and decided to make an exit. Just as I was about to leave the café, a voice behind me went “Bye, ma’am. I hope you have been comfortable.” My doubt had been confirmed. The waitress could indeed read minds. 

The Halo of Pride

                                              

April 7, 2002

“I shall take you wherever you wish to go,” my father finally made the promise to his ten-year-old daughter, who never ceased to dream about traversing the world with her dreamy eyes. It was the day when months of anticipation and persistent efforts had come together, to give me something that eventually set the tone for the rest of my life. My father was obliged to fulfill his child’s wishes only to see her give an outstanding performance in academics.

 
My father had always been a man of his words. He was honest to the point where he would choose to get reprimanded for his actions over speaking lies to cover his mistake. He was a proud man, for he was one of those people that had achieved success with sheer integrity and goodwill. Growing up, his principles interfered even in the most innocuous of my actions. So clearly was the picture of the right and the wrong embedded in my mind, that I had grown to fear any encounter with mistakes. But then, my father always stated, “All you must ever fear is fear itself.” Knowing full well my father’s regard for truthfulness, I mastered the art of keeping conditions in exchange for all that he expected of me.

In May 2002, we took off to explore what urban dreams are made of: London. Having grown up in Mumbai, India, what I really fancied about the Western countries was the cleanliness and the  kind of space dedicated to public entertainment and refreshment. One of the best things about having a wish granted on a condition was that it entitled me to make many subsequent demands along the rest of my trip with barely any objection.

Soon after we landed in London, I chanced upon some people riding their bicycles around Trafalgar Square. “Look, there are so many cyclists here! I, too, want to ride a bicycle. Please, Papa,” I exclaimed in sudden desperation. My first wish on the trip was granted in a flash, much like how I decided on the destination for our trip.

The best part about the London summer is its long days. It was almost 10 p.m. and the sun was beginning to immerse amidst its plentiful rays. As the winds started blowing with more gusto, I began pedalling harder. For the first time, I was experiencing a sense of coming closer to my dreams and there was no way I was anywhere close to ready to let go of the fervour of freedom. The feeling of independence was indeed addictive. Everything around me soon started to get dark. Not realizing how far I had come, I turned around to look for my father. I was filled with trepidation when I did not find him anywhere around. People around seemed too occupied to even glance at my distraught face. With every passing minute, the shade of red on my face was intensifying. Little did I know, then, that my father was always going to have my back.

I was almost on the verge of tearing up, when I saw my father silently watching me from the corner of the lane. I shoved aside my bicycle and ran towards him. “You were so engrossed in soaking up all the excitement of your freedom, that you may probably not have realized that your father had not moved an inch from where you began cycling,” my father said, placating me, while I firmly clutched his hand. “But why did you not reach out to me when you saw me looking for you?” I asked, while my tears seamlessly continued to roll down my eyes. Wiping my tears, he said, “The reason you got scared was not because you had taken off in another direction, but because it got dark and you were unable to find me. In order to get a taste of thrill and success, you ought to step out of your comfort zone. Most of the times, we restrict our own success, for we fear that we might become alone in the journey of life. Through the rest of your life, I want you to be your own motivator. I want you to find solace in your company, for you can tap into unlimited potentialities if you learn to enjoy your company. And if you ever happen to lose your way, you can always turn around to find your father waiting to show you the way.”

 
As I tried to wipe away my tears and catch my breath, I promised my father how I would dutifully follow his advice, provided that he allowed me to stay in the embrace of his hug for a little longer. There came the second wish! Little did I know, then, that my father was holding back his tears.

Through the rest of our journey, I cycled into every by-lane of London, with every sunrise and sunset marking the start and end of my two wheeled expedition respectively. With every step that took me further away from my father, I was given an assuring smile that allowed me the freedom to choose my own path. I realized how warm and eclectic London was. It had presented itself as a potpourri of world cultures. It was an unusual combination of countryside-like beauty and unstoppable frenzy. The entire city felt like it was a part of some systematic chaos. Maybe it was the tall buildings that my ten-year-old self got lured into counting, or witnessing men and women dressed in the most elegant manner on the busy Oxford Street, racing against time, or just being in close proximity to Buckingham Palace, the enchanting landscape of the city was hard to miss, but there was one thing that I wasn’t able to get enough of. The British Library captivated my attention right from the time I set eyes upon its larger-than-life presence. Little did I know, then, that my father had well anticipated my third wish.

The British Library was a world within itself. It looked every bit the biggest national library in the world. There was an air about the gigantic structure that was quite stimulating. I was quick to grab my favourite Harry Potter book and sit in one corner. The Harry Potter books had created a massive rage in India then. It had become a common topic of discussion among the students in my school. For someone who was obsessed with literature and the arts, I couldn’t stop fantasizing about writing novels and becoming famous. “One day, you will find my books in the British Library!” I exclaimed to my father with new-found pride. Little did I know, then, that my father was the loudest one cheering for my success.


April 7, 2012

The moment I had most carefully envisioned had finally arrived. I was setting foot in London after ten years. London was still the same; warm and eclectic. Summer was settling into the city, while the sudden showers continued to add to the spontaneity of a Londoner’s life.

 Surprisingly, I found myself to be the same girl who never ceased to dream about traversing the world with her dreamy eyes. Almost everything in my life had changed from the time I had first visited London, but then, a lot still felt the same. I was still around unknown faces. Men and women were still dressed in the most elegant manner. Oxford Street was busy as ever.

 
The British Library, over the years, had carefully nurtured my dream, only to bear testimony to the promise I had made to my father in its premises a decade later. After fighting countless battles and taking many an unassured stride along the years. I was back amidst the grandeur of The British Library and a frantic bunch of book lovers and aspiring writers, that had turned up to witness my first ever book launch.

As I was called upon the stage to launch the book, a packed auditorium roared to give me a loud cheer.  This time around, even with hordes of unknown faces surrounding me, I did not worry about finding my father. All I did was silently look up for the skies to see my proud father smiling back at me and giving me an assuring smile.