Thankfully, those were better days. Although love and a marriage of choice was judged and often criticized beyond a point, the families later accepted. There was no honour killing. Our parents still loved their children more than society or religion. Love was rare—and respected. Choices made were honoured and promises kept. No one could stop lovers who decided to be together. No one approved of them either. But we had our own way with the world. We painted our own world away from norms. We were romantic warriors. Our cousins and friends worshipped our actions while their parents winced at it. Did we care? Once I knew my house had become a home for her, I gave her all the love I could. I was complete. We were complete.
Today, my son introduced his choice to us. Her religion was different. Her family threatened to kill him when she confessed of their relationship to them. He looked unsure of what they were doing, their commitment and love, if their earnings would be enough to sustain them and whether they could live through their differences and make a home in harmony. His questions troubled me. His mother looked worriedly at him, then at me, as though she’d read my thoughts—like always. I looked at my son’s troubled eyes as a thousand insecurities showed up in them. He was not ready to commit to her, on a life threat. He was practical, unlike us. He knew he had choices. I accompanied him to file an FIR against the girl’s parents and hope for the best. And somewhere between the legal formalities of threat and protection, I found that today love had lost a battle with society—the love that his parents had lived was simple, blameless and boundless . . .
It was a feeling of pure, unadulterated love, without the complexities of society’s imposed boundaries that made us doubt our feelings for each other, and the commitment it needed—to choose each other against all odds, every single day, for the rest of our lives.
15
Yesterday Once More
Sarbani Ray
As the figure approached her, smiling, treading on the red-brick walkway of the garden, Ananya experienced a sense of déjà vu. The chant of the morning hymn from the prayer hall, together with the red sky, a prelude to the rising sun, resurrected the past in perfect precision. The years lost their numbers as she went forward to meet him, with the light steps of thirty years back, on the other side of life. She was about to call out the familiar name, when, out of nowhere, Urna appeared.
‘Oh, you are here on time, for a change. That’s really great! Mom, this is Ahan, my friend and the class topper. I told you about him.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Ananya stopped, suddenly feeling heavy on her feet, and slightly drained from the moment’s agitation. Still, she kept looking steadily at the face of the young man in front of her.
Ahan, an otherwise smart person, smiled nervously, uncertain of the intense gaze fixed on him. Ananya could sense his discomfort, but couldn’t take her eyes off the face. The young man was a spitting image of Rohit!
Was it real, or her imagination, fuelled by the surroundings of their youth?
‘That’s an exaggeration, Aunty. Urna herself has done so well, grabbing an excellent package in campus recruitment!’ Ahan responded to Urna’s outburst, and the friendly exchange that followed helped Ananya regain her composure.
Urna had always been an independent girl. Studying in her mother’s alma mater was her own choice. Ananya never interfered with Urna’s decisions, unless absolutely required. Fourteen years back, when she and Ranjan had decided to part ways, Urna, aged only six then, had decisively expressed her willingness to stay with her mother. Ranjan, too relieved, never looked back, severing all ties with them. He always blamed Ananya’s success in her career for his own failures.
Surprisingly, Urna never seemed to care much for a father figure. From a very early age, she was a strong woman, quite capable of standing on her own. Sometimes Ananya sensed a role reversal between them. Her corporate job took most of her time, in the city or on tour. Urna, meanwhile, managed her studies and home all by herself. Ananya wished she had been that strong at Urna’s age!
As Urna and Ahan talked about various programmes that had been arranged during the course of ceremony, she sat there in the familiar setting of her youth, counting the changes that had appeared over the years. She had come here on Urna’s admission day but hadn’t got a chance to look around, as the stay was too short.
The main garden, with the prayer hall at the centre, still remained the same, so did the old banyan tree. The vice chancellor’s house, which stood adjacent to the north gate, had been converted into a library now. She wondered what had happened to the old library building, where she’d met Rohit for the first time. It was really odd that two shy and silent people like them had fallen so desperately in love soon after their first meeting!
There was not much left of that girl in this strong and confident corporate manager of today. She was still soft-spoken and reticent, but now the silence had a strength beneath it that had been absent earlier.
Urna never showed any of her traits at her age—always bursting with energy, talking, debating and making friends. The courage, which in Ananya’s case had been acquired while traversing the rough paths of life for years, was an inborn quality for Urna.
Being a natural leader always, Urna led her mother and Ahan towards the famous dhaba, outside the main gate, for breakfast.
On reaching the dhaba, Ananya enquired about Sahuji, the owner from their time. It was his eldest son who ran the place now, and Sahuji, he said, had gone back to his village.
Sitting on the wooden bench outside in the sun and gorging on tasty aloo parathas, the three of them chatted about various issues.
Ahan had overcome his earlier awkwardness and Ananya, too, had started enjoying their youthful conversation, leaving aside the reminiscences of her past.
On their way back to the guest house, Urna reminded her, ‘Mom, you are coming to our class dinner tonight. Earlier, it was for us students only, but now, on popular demand, families have also been included.’ Ahan echoed the plea.
Ananya gave a sigh—this was probably the time to meet her nemesis. Perhaps destiny had their meeting planned this way, for, after watching Ahan closely, she was certain he was Rohit’s son.
Not only his face but his build was also similar. The difference lay in their mannerisms. Ahan had a cheerful countenance, whereas Rohit always bore a serious, almost gloomy face.
But then Rohit had not been lucky enough to have the carefree days of youth Ahan enjoyed. He had had to worry about the situation at home, especially after his father’s sudden demise, which had left the family with very little means. His ailing mother and sister had been waiting for Rohit to get a job soon and improve the condition at home.
Still, in those moments of intimacy, he would smile silently at her, and the love in his eyes would make his features soft, malleable. How Ananya longed to wipe out the creases of worry from his face and bring love poems back to his pen!
On reaching the guest house, Ahan left to make arrangements for the night. Alone with Urna, Ananya decided to have a straight talk with her daughter.
‘Ahan is a nice boy, I don’t remember you mentioning him before. What took you so long to introduce me to him?’
‘Why, mom? You have hardly met any of my friends from college as you . . .’ Urna stopped mid-sentence and looked thoughtfully at her mother. The very next moment, she burst out laughing,