“But?” His tone is a bit uplifted, and that’s a relief. Can’t say the same about me.
“But…some people fell in love.”
“Okay…” Raag’s tone picks a slightly lighter edge.
“My father didn’t like that there was an extra gift apart from the regular tradition. But it’s just not that. He is going to be a little bit unhappy for one or the other reason. And I do not know for how long,” I murmur sadly.
“I think I owe him an apology.”
“For being half-Punjabi?” I ask, and finally, my ears are rewarded with those lovely chuckles.
“No, my sweet love. There is nothing I can do about that!” Raag responds. And I am all smiles. He continues, “For being ignorant of your father’s feelings…he has every right to get mad at me. After all, he is your father. He took care of your needs ever since you were born. What I did could be seen as flashy as well as a takeover of responsibilities. I crossed the line,” Raag says with utmost sincerity. “While I have no control over my birth, I could at least try to explain a few things.”
I smile weakly. “So, what exactly do you have in mind?”
“I will call and talk to him,” Raag replies, and my heart sinks as I know my father. I have to forbid any one-on-one conversation between the two very important men in my life. I can’t afford anyone getting hurt.
“Do you really have to?” I ask and do not stop for his reply. “Look, he has a tendency to get mad at many people for many reasons. Besides, my cooking and sari issues are not that important for you, but this is? Can’t you just let it go this one time?” Again, not stopping for his reply, I plunge forward. “You don’t always have to do the right thing, which I think I am learning about you.”
“Mayuri…” Raag uses my full name for a change, and now he has my full attention. “He is your father. He is important to you and to me,” he says each sentence distinctively. “Fathers are very important,” Raag muses. “I don’t have one.” There is so much pain in his words that my heart sinks.
There is a perpetual silence on both sides in which I hear him breathe. I see why this is extremely sensitive and trivial for Raag.
As I feel the desperate need to break the silence, I whisper, “I am sorry…sorry for being so ignorant. I understand how important this is for you.”
“Don’t worry, Mayuri. I will take care of this.”
CHAPTER 8
The Detain List
It’s fascinating how nothing is consistent in this universe but time. It’s almost the end of the seventh semester. At times, it feels as if Raag and I are oceans apart, yet so close.
Waking up to hearing Raag’s soothing voice humming good morning, being lost in the dreamland of talking with him, seeing him through the magic portal, passing the day savoring over his thoughts, falling into a slumber to his goodnight has become a ritual.
When Raag and I are not on a call, talking with each other, I am still thinking of him. It is as if my soul has found its long-lost mate. Why would it be at peace otherwise?
My life, at this point, cannot get any better than this. The more I talk with him, the more I love him, and the more I have grown impatient to see him in person.
The dry land of Information & Technology was always unattractive and too logical to me. Now that Raag has enlightened my brain with clear-cut fundamentals of programming and in-depth understanding of tools and technology, I don’t feel so lost in this world of threads, loops, and exceptions. I could picture myself working in IT and having a career.
However, Raag doesn’t just encourage me in terms of technology, but also in terms of exploring my writing skills. He asks me to put my thoughts in a document, which were initially limited to my diary. Though I love writing, I never thought I could actually sit down and write a story or an article. But with his encouragement, I think I can.
The only side effect of my writing adventure I think is that I make Raag read what I write. He happily bears all the pain of reading them.
Raag keeps reminding me never to let go of that creative side of me. He says that creativity is the fuel to our mechanical existence. At times, I think that he has carved a path for my aimless wandering. However, Raag is the path and the beacon of my life. He is like my own personal powerhouse.
People around us, the social community, find it rather odd that Raag and I agreed for arranged marriage without seeing each other in person. The norm is to briefly meet a person for a few minutes and make the decision.
Well, doesn’t that sound odd?
I believe that sometimes people could physically coexist for years together and still be oceans apart by means of heart and soul. While some simply find a warm unbreakable connection, merely by sight or in my case a couple of phone calls. If that strong connection, that bond is called love, Raag and I are bound by love.
Well, isn’t love a riddle that many of us attempt to solve?
Our parents are happy as we agreed on their choice. Even my father has eased up about the whole Gujarati and Punjabi boundaries. It started with a simple call by Raag to my father, which I don’t know anything about. The two men talked, and ever since my father has been a slightly different man.
Raag has undoubtedly initiated a revolution in my father’s thought process. Mr. Satish Bhatt has slowly started seeing people beyond their caste and religion, at least he is trying. I think.
Baby steps!
It is 8:45 AM and I am already late for the first class that Professor Rawal teaches. At the bus stop dedicated to my college, the CNG bus comes to a well-calculated stop. It also breaks my chain of thoughts. I rush off the bus and start walking toward the college, almost running a few steps now and then. The winter breeze moves my loose hair in the crisp air.
After fifteen minutes of walking and jogging through the mechanical and electrical division, finally, I reach my classroom located at the corner of the IT wing. I wish my college building were smaller than it is, and my class was a bit closer to the front entrance. Like half an hour closer.
Panting and holding my red bag, I stand at the threshold of a significantly bright classroom in which Professor Rawal stands next to one of the two blackboards. Rawal looks like a hungry tiger ready to catch prey, and the sight of him makes me shiver. He wears his usual plaid red shirt, black pants, and black pointy shoes. He glares at me through his thin rimless brown glasses.
I know I am in trouble.
I gather some courage from deep down in my belly and ask, “May I come in, sir?” All sixty students divided into two sides of the class—girls sitting on the girl side of long benches in the groups of threes and fours, boys sitting on their side of benches in the groups of four—turn their heads at me, at once.
It can’t get more embarrassing than this. My mantra of keeping a low profile is slowly fading.
What all one has to bear in the name of love.
“Of course, Ms. Bhatt.” Rawal’s words are a sharp knife.
Quickly, I march toward my lately usual place—the last bench. It is always available for me that it never betrays. My dear best friend, Anju, and I have it reserved. Sitting next to her by the edge of a brown bench, quickly I shuffle through my side bag for my notebook and a pen.
With a pen in my hand and an open book on the bench, I pretend to understand whatever it is there on the blackboard, avoiding the gawkers.