Ones Upon a Love

it was in the early seventies that I lost my father. at eighteen,barely and adult, I had took with my studies quite reluctantly enjoying the first job I could find two sustain my widowed mother and little brother. the working hours at my factory we are quite long and I didn't mind them, only for the smile of relief I received from my mother when I handed over my hard earned money to her. I had it all planned how to progress with work and make sure my brother's education was not hampered until life happened unexpectedly one day. everyday I passed by her lane a shor tcut of my way back home. I could reach my house of you old minutes before time. in the fairly empty dark alley, veranda provided the only light on my way. she would sit there, on the first floor veranda on a swing, her long hair braided on either side. she would swing gently, reading a book or humming being a tune to herself. I would often see her gazing up at the star studded sky. It was pretty late for anyone to be on the streets my job was new and at odd hours. The city sleeped by the time I managed to get out of the factory. the light from her veranda wood fall on the concrete plane below, helping me see in the dark. I would look up on an impulse, handsome days are eyes would meet briefly before I would work away. I was always in hurry. My mother would be awake. I needed to get home. At times, it felt thought her eyes would light up every time I looked up at the veranda hoping to find her there.

Had it become a habit seeing her there, or did she actually wait for me everyday ?

One evening, first storm shook the city. It poured heavily at the street were waterlogged. I struggled to find my way through the alley, cursing myself for not bringing an umbrella. summer thunderstorm where unpredictable. As I neared the illuminated veranda, looking up at it all most out of habit, I sohar holding something in her hand. I neared her house, and suddenly there was a plastic bag thrown down at me. Jolted by this unexpected gesture, I ducked, yet at landed on my head. she giggled. I looked up with a smile and she ran inside, conscious of the fact that I'd heard her laugh at me. inside the plastic back was a blue umbrella. with little yellow flowers printed on it. I started at the empty swing before putting umbrella over my head. It protected me from the raindrops for the rest of the way. I smile in gratitude. My my mother was surprised to see me dripping wet, yet with an umbrella over my head. she asked who it belonged to. I didn't know why I lied. I said it was a colleague's. was it difficult to see it was hers because a stranger had help to me? Or because she was no longer stranger?

The next day I carefully wrapped it in the same plastic bag. With unknown saying 'thank you' in my native language. I was not sure if she would understand it, but my knowledge of languages was limited. she had been my saved your owner disastrous night. she needed to be thanked.

That night when I hurried I stop below her veranda. I look around to check the empty alley. her eyes opened a little wide, watching me stop. she got up from her swing and came up to the railing, leaning over just a little, watching me anxiously. I was a pretty good thrower in my gully cricket team skill that once got me the newspaper boys job in the neighbourhood in my early teens to support my school education. the day my skill help me land the umbrella safely back on to her veranda. To my surprise, she waved at me.I obliged.

Days turned into months without any words exchange. Sometimes it was a wave of a hand, sometimes just smiles; most of the times we just give each other acknowledging stares before I walked past her veranda and she went inside. Something in me knew she would wait, no matter how late I got; something told me shinu that I knew that I knew. how words ever could ? I could never have believed the poets if not for her.

One of the days, however, she was not on the swing. Instead, she was standing on the edge, leaning over the veranda railing and steering at my end of the lane. I frowned. I notice that her skirt didn't match the blouse she wore with it. and that she had Kajal in her eyes. Her braids were always neatly oiled. Her cheeks shown in natural radiance and she had a tiny mole on her chin. I was a little embarrassed as she blushd when she saw me stare. In in a trance, as though captivated by her deep dark brown eyes, I waved. she waved back with a smile lighting up her eyes. Then she was gone. I wanted to talk to her that day. Shipra Babli wanted to hear me as well. But not a word came out of my mouth. It was as though I was stripped of the ability to speak. I had never expected such feelings, never even dreamt that a well spoken person like me would not know what to say to someone. I had also research in my mind so will times during work what I wanted to tell her things about me, who I am, about my family and, most importantly, where I stayed. My slum house was nothing compared to the mention she lived in. I sighed and walk away.

for the next few days I tried in vain to bring words to my mouth. It feel like forever. everyday I would work hard and wait for the evening. every evening I would take the shortcut home. Once in a while, when I stop to wave, a toffee, a chocolate or a packet of biscuit Woodland my way. I carefully saved the wrappers after eating the goodies.

I had bought some ribbons and chocolates with the money I'd saved from my tiffin and given those and return. she had a smiled the next day, flaunting on her braids the ribbons I had given her. What if she judge me after knowing who I was ? what is the education or the status I never had was important to her ? could I afford to get hurt and end the dream that was keeping me going ? I often lay awake at night and wondered about the possibilities. I was no match for a girl like her will brought up, educated and beautiful. but could I ever feel this way again ? Did I even want to feel this way with another person ?

one day her paranda was empty. The lights wear off. I shuddered. Was she unwell ? head hope parents found out ? a sudden fear of losing her gripped me. a stranger urge to knock on their door over took me. but I restrained myself. what would I say? who was I? the question was left unanswered.

2 days later, she was on the veranda again. my eyes lit in happiness. she smiled, knowing I had been worried. I waved my hand in a questioning gesture: where were you?

she touched her forehead: Fever

Worry swept across my face. But just then, someone called her inside. that was the first time I got to know her name. I walked away with a smile of relief. She was fine. Everything was fine.

The next day a piece of paper landed softly on my head. I look up as she read back inside and shut the door to her room. Frowning, I picked up the piece of paper. there was a scribbling in pencil that couldn't be disappeared in the shadows of the alley. That night, while my mother slept, I read her first letter to me. her handwriting was childlike. The pencil seemed to have been shocked more than once in the letter. She had asked my name, where I stayed, why I was late every night. I stayed awake till dawn, heart thumping, writing my first letter to her.

The letter continued for the three years. the pencil scribbling turned to scented paper and ink. I improved my vocabulary just to impress her, in started reading books again. Shri recommented quite a few. We discussed poetry in our letters.

Once evening a long with a letter, her teary eyes haunted me: Taken me away with you. my marriage has been fixed.

Her unsteady scribble didn't let me sleep that night. I twisted and turned in my bed. Was I have enough to hold on to love? I didn't know the answer. she had unknowingly put too much faith in me. Her face, her smile, har giggle, her tears, her fearful eyes haunted me. I got up early at down. I found myself outside her veranda in board daylight, sleepless. It was like the heart was fearless now. It wasn't afraid to hold on. I threw a stone at her paranda and waited. she ran out. Did she know it was me? Of course she did. The the twinkle in her eyes meet my smile. Her her eyes were questioning. I nodded. I saw her cheeks wet with dear drops. I wanted to wipe them off. I wanted to hug her and never let go. I wanted to hear her talk, listen to her Sing, no what she smelt like, how soft her touch felt. I wanted to know everything then and there.

Almost like a flash of lightning, things happened. Her sister cough exchanging letters. Her father walked out and threatened me. People gathered, gasping and whispering comments on my character and my unbringing. Her brother held my collar and pusged me down to the ground. My my eyes didn't leave here as her mother held her arm tightly. She wept, she begged and she said she loved me. For a moment my heart stopped, before it started beating faster. Amid the noise, her voice was all that mattered, we are all I could see. The proud was looking at US like we were criminals. Her present ordered me to leave. I shoved past her family;. I give her my hand. I asked her to take it. I told her I promised nothing but love. she said she didn't need anything more than that. Her father slapped me. Her brother beat me up. The neighbours hurled abuses at me and threatened to hand me over to the police. I returned home bruised in heart and mind. They locked her up.

For 3 days I tried to catch a glimpse of her in vain. On on the 4th day I was the warrior. I knocked on her door, surprising her father. She run out and I give her my hand again. this time she let go of her mother and run to me. Her soft, warm hand touched mine. For for the first time. And for the first time I felt like I was complete, a man with a purpose. She made me that. Her eyes spoken thousand emotions. She hugged me, and I promised to never let go. People gasped. Her family threw out her belongings. They reminded her that their door was shut to her forever and that she was dead to them.

My mother first look shocked and disgusted when I brought her home, after learning about what I had done. The neighbours said a love like that happened in stories. Real life was different and harsh. The girl was making a big mistake, and that I had my eyes only on her money. My my mother put up with all the taunts hurled at us and soon become a biggest supporter. Thankfully, those were better days. Althoughlove and a marriage of choice was judged and often criticized beyond the 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 honoured and promises kept. No one good stop lovers who decide to be together. No one approved of them either. But we had our own way with the world. We painted are own world away from norms. We where romantic warriors. Our cousins and friends workshipped our actions while their parents winced at it. Did we care? Once I knew my house had become a home for her, I give her all the love I could. I was complete. We were complete.