by Savi Sharma
My friend shook his head and absently cleaned the counter between us. ‘He doesn’t talk much. However, I do know his name because he pays by credit card every time. His name is Vivaan.’
‘Vivaan,’ I repeated, tasting the name on my tongue. ‘When does he usually come to the café?’
Kabir shrugged. ‘Oh, when I say he is regular, he comes in often, but there is no fixed time. He drops by anytime he feels like it.’
I thought for a minute. ‘Do you think you could text me the next time he drops by?’ I asked.
‘Sure,’ Kabir said. ‘But why are you asking so much about Vivaan?’
‘He is the traveller about whom I am writing the story,’ I answered.
I couldn’t help but grin as I left the café with Kabir standing there, his mouth open in shock.
VIVAAN
3
Twin Dimples
I stumbled over a small rock on the road as I walked up to my office. My mind was definitely not on the office building I was walking into. In fact, I almost resented having to go to work at all.
That was unlike me. Yes, I wanted to be free to travel, but I tried to make the most of where I was. Life had dealt me some rough blows, but I was always grateful for the constants in my life, my job being one of them.
My shoes squeaked on the polished floor, announcing my arrival before I could even get to my office. I couldn’t wait to get past the sterile entrance and escape to my own area, where my shoes wouldn’t make a sound.
‘Sir,’ the receptionist called after me. I groaned; so much for a quick escape. I turned to her, with what I hoped seemed like a genuine smile. It wasn’t her fault that at this very moment, I hated my job. ‘I have several messages for you. Your voice mail box is full again.’
Now, my smile was not faked. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said apologetically. ‘I appreciate you taking the messages.’
‘It’s quite all right,’ she said happily. I reached out and, as I took the slips of paper from her hand, her fingers brushed against mine. It occurred to me how attractive the receptionist was, but that was not where my interest was focused.
The woman crowding my mind was the young woman who had sat in front of me during Arjun Mehra’s talk the other day, the same woman who was breathlessly talking to the café manager a short time ago.
I did not go back to the café seeking her out; at least, that’s what I told myself. I merely wanted the best cup of coffee in the district.
But she was there when I arrived.
I was almost disappointed when she did not notice me, but after I sat down, I caught wisps of her conversation with Kabir.
I want to spend hours beside a rushing river, feeling the wind in my hair and listening to the secrets hidden in the waves.
It has been a long-time dream of mine and, as I set out to do this, I realize that this must be what it feels like to be a baby bird, perched on the edge of its nest, ready and anxious to fly to other places.
Kabir spoke the words, but in my mind, I heard her voice echoing as the sentences replayed like a favourite song.
The words could have been written for me, I mused as I sat down in my soft leather chair, immediately pivoting to look out the window. But that’s foolish. She couldn’t know my heart’s desires.
As she and Kabir had talked, I could hear the hesitation in her voice. She lacked the courage to present the talent that she possessed. I hoped she wouldn’t give up; I could sense her writing was as much her dream as travelling was mine.
I blushed, thinking about the impulsive note I had left for her. BEAUTIFUL. It was meant to be taken one of two ways: her writing definitely had a deep beauty to it. But as spellbound as I was by her words, I was even more drawn to the girl.
She was petite, I laughed as I recalled, but amazing. The night she sat in front of me, I stared long and hard at her back, silently begging her to turn around. Her thin legs were tucked delicately under her chair, and I couldn’t stop thinking about the soft brown skin that was too hidden by her flowing blue skirt.
But, mostly, I wanted to lose myself in her deep twin dimples and her dark eyes. Barely noticeable when she was concentrating, her brilliant smile brought multiple layers to her face. Like two angels were kissing her at the same time.
I shook my head to clear her image from my mind. I vowed to go back the next day, to see if she had any reaction to the hastily-written note I’d asked the waitress to hand her.
I’d hurried away before; I would not hurry away a third time. I wanted to learn more about this blossoming writer in the café.
MEERA
4
Miss Writer
Life throws unexpected turns at you. Only a few weeks before, I was looking for a story. And then, when I had one, I only had the smallest taste of what I knew could be a full tale. But I knew I had a story, and it would be the most touching story I had ever heard or written.
It was about six-thirty in the evening and I was about to leave the office. It had been a long day and my head ached. There seemed to be problems piled on top of other problems, and I had no solutions in sight.
My phone buzzed, but I was so tired, I nearly ignored it. I put my hand in my pocket, and then drew it out again, leaving my phone in its nest. A few steps forward and my hungry writer’s curiosity was too much to ignore. Sliding my hand in the pocket a second time, I drew out the phone and tapped a few buttons. It was from Kabir. ‘Your traveller is here.’
I forgot my headache and started to rush to the exit as I tapped buttons furiously.
‘Keep him engaged. I am coming.’
Moments later, I was on my way to the café.
~
I saw him through the window as I slowed my fast walk to a casual pace. I met Kabir’s eye as I came in and I nodded my thanks.
I strolled to his table as I did a mental check of my clothing, my hair, and my makeup. Since I had worked through lunch, at least I knew I didn’t have any embarrassing stains or pieces of food stuck between my teeth.
Taking a deep breath, I slid into the chair in front of him. ‘So, Mr. Vivaan, how are you?’ I gave him my most brilliant smile, as if we had planned this meeting for ages.
He looked up and blinked twice. ‘Excuse me?’ I could tell by his voice that he was astonished by my forward greeting. Or perhaps it was because I knew his name.
I crossed my legs and leaned back in my chair. My deliberate movements didn’t betray my racing heart. ‘I am sorry,’ I began, ‘but before you leave me for a third time, I think we should at least talk.’ I turned to signal to Kabir to bring my cappuccino.
‘Well, I never left you,’ Vivaan said, looking deep in my eyes for the first time. For a moment, my calm movements began to falter. I could feel my hands begin to shake as he captured my gaze and refused to let it go.
I flexed my fingertips, silently commanding my hands to behave. I shook my head the same way my mother used to shake her head at me when I snuck away a chocolate cookie. ‘But you never stayed. You escaped every time,’ I replied with my eyes fixed on his. I felt myself discovering a new universe.
A frown creased his forehead. ‘I love to travel. Don’t you know that?’
‘I know.’ My voice was low, quiet. I didn’t know what to say anymore. His eyes had cast some spell on me and I was completely mesmerized.
He spoke so softly, I could barely hear him. I absorbed his words by watching his full lips move as much as I heard the sound. ‘And what makes you want me to stay?’
I wanted to stay in that universe for a very long time, that much I knew. And instinct told me that going soft would not hold him here. I cleared my throat, forcing attitude back into my voice. ‘I love to write,’ I responded. ‘Maybe that’s why.’ I gave him a quick grin. ‘Don’t you know that?’
He smiled for the first time. It was one of those rarest smiles you encounter i
n your entire lifetime. The crystal hidden deep within a plain rock. These smiles have the power to change you from within.
‘There is nothing to write about me,’ Vivaan declared, and shook his head.
I plunked my hands on the table, lacing my fingers together. ‘Everyone has a story to tell,’ I insisted. ‘Everyone is a writer. Some are written in books, and some are confined to hearts.’ I was proud of my answer.
And there was silence for a few seconds. As we stared without blinking, I thought about the childhood game I used to play with my sister.
I felt, rather than saw, movement beside me and a cup was placed in front of me. ‘Here is your coffee.’
I had no idea who supplied the cup, but I thanked her without breaking my gaze and delicately sipped my cappuccino, finally lowering my eyes.
I refused to speak next. It was his turn.
I counted three deep breaths before he finally spoke. ‘You are good with words,’ Vivaan said as he broke the silence.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘And what are you good at?’ I was eager to know more about Vivaan. He seemed so mysterious, and yet so wonderful.
Before I could get my answer, Vivaan’s cell phone began to ring. He quickly reached down and checked the caller ID. His eyes were regretful when he looked up at me, disappointment rippling across his face.
Then he chuckled. ‘I guess I am good at escaping,’ he said.
Disappointment soared. ‘Again?’ I asked in a low voice.
‘Always,’ he whispered, leaning across the table so I could hear him.
‘Why?’ I prompted. I didn’t want him to leave. I planned to keep him talking as long as I could.
He shrugged, the shoulders of his coat lifting nearly to his ears. ‘Love.’
I wanted to cry, but there was a glint of teasing in his eyes. ‘What?’
‘I love to travel,’ he explained. ‘I can’t stay in one place.’
Not yet, my mind called out. ‘Will you meet me again?’ I asked.
‘Why?’ he asked with a challenging tone.
I mimicked his tone. ‘Maybe you are my story.’
‘Miss Writer,’ he said as he stood up. ‘I am real, not fiction.’ He laughed and started leaving.
I stood up as well and held his arm lightly. ‘I am Meera,’ I said sadly. ‘Not Miss Writer.’
And before he could escape, I left the café first.
VIVAAN
5
A Late-Night Call
I sat on the edge of my bed, my hands draped over my knees as my mind raced from thought to thought.
I rolled my cell phone over and over in my hands, and then scrolled through my contacts until I found the one that I wanted.
She answered, her voice singing as she spoke my name. ‘Vivaan! How are you, my love? It has been so long since I’ve heard from you!’
‘I know,’ I responded, shame running though my veins. ‘I have been so busy with work…’
I heard her groan. ‘Yes, work. Work is all you ever think about,’ she said scornfully.
‘That is not true,’ I argued. But it was partially true. I carefully constructed my life so I was too busy for friends, family and thoughts.
Everyone wants to run away from one thing or another. At times, I want to run away from my own self.
‘So,’ she said, her voice brightening. ‘Tell me what is going on. I want to hear all about what my darling nephew has been busy with.’
I knew I was forgiven. Priya Aunty never called me her darling nephew if she was mad at me. Oddly, I felt lighter with those few words. I thought fleetingly about how important words are, and how both the spoken and written word can harm … or heal.
‘Well,’ I began, turning my attention back to my aunt, ‘you are right; I have been busy with work.’
‘Work is boring,’ she interrupted me before I could ramble on about loans and interest rates. ‘It is necessary, but not a topic of conversation for today. What is fun in your world?’
I laughed. ‘There is not much time for fun, Aunty.’
She would not give up. ‘Have you been to the movies?’
‘Not lately.’
‘Any good restaurants?’
‘Nope.’ I heard her sigh in frustration. I could picture her sitting at her kitchen table, drumming her fingers impatiently. I grinned. ‘I have been to a new café though,’ I said.
‘Really?’ Her interest rose again. ‘With friends?’
I laughed, knowing what she meant: friends of the female variety. ‘No,’ I said. ‘They have a great French roast coffee that I love and the atmosphere is very fun. And they have writers coming in to speak…’ I broke off, thinking of her. Meera. Her name to me was like a warm evening breeze.
‘That sounds interesting,’ she said. ‘But you are still alone.’
‘It is what I want, Aunty,’ I said. ‘You know I want to travel. I need to explore the world, see the Grand Canyon, the Great Wall of China.’
‘The pyramids,’ she offered, continuing my path of thinking. ‘I know, Vivaan. And I know you would not have the opportunity to travel if—’
I broke in, anxious to cut off the rest of her sentence. ‘But I can, and I will.’
‘When?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘Perhaps soon.’
‘Won’t you get lonely?’
‘Maybe,’ I admitted. ‘Maybe I will. But a person needs to learn how to be alone.’
‘I do hope you find what you are looking for in the great, vast world you encounter,’ she responded.
‘And what would that be?’ I teased.
‘Only you know, Vivaan.’
MEERA
6
Mr. Lover
I decided not to visit the café for the next few days. A part of me was dying to go, but another part of me was still crushed by Vivaan’s abrupt departure and I felt that I should stay away to heal my heart a little.
Not a single day had passed without my thinking about Vivaan. There was something about his mysterious persona that drew me towards him. I wanted to know more about him. I needed to know more about him. I needed this time to discover myself in someone else’s story.
~
A few days later, I found myself wandering the gardens of Shaniwarwada. Growing up in Pune, this was one of my favourite places to visit. I loved walking around the fortification and its grounds, running my hands over the steel gates.
As a child, I used to look up at the spikes in the gates—put in place to protect the entryway—and wish for the time when I was an adult and able to reach them.
Why is it we are so anxious in our need to mature? It only opens us up for the possibility to get very, very hurt.
My phone vibrated as I was strolling down a stone walkway. I took it out of my pocket and looked at the sender. I didn’t know the number. Curious, I read the message. ‘Sorry.’
‘Who is this?’ I texted back.
‘Let’s meet.’ The sender didn’t identify himself.
My heart fluttered. I had a feeling I knew who it was, but I wanted to be sure. A part of me was excited, but another part was slightly annoyed.
I ignored the message for a few minutes. Let him wait. Finally, I responded. ‘Tell me who this is,’ I demanded.
‘Don’t you know me, Miss Writer?’
I was surprised by the fact that it truly was Vivaan. I wondered if he had got my number from Kabir after I left.
‘I don’t know you yet. You keep escaping,’ was my reply.
‘Then come and get to know me. Tomorrow, 7 p.m., Coffee & Us.’
I wasn’t going to make this easy on him. I texted: ‘I will handcuff you to the table so you cannot run.’
~
One whole day seemed like an eternity, waiting and longing for the answers that Vivaan held in
his mysterious persona. His story seemed to call me and intrigue me, beckoning me to unfold it slowly and write about it.
I intended to get to the café early, but by the time I finished getting ready, I was no longer early. In fact, I was thirty minutes late. The café was already packed and I glanced around everywhere, hoping Vivaan hadn’t left. I looked over in the corner and saw him sitting as far away from the crowd as possible. He looked up from taking a sip of his coffee and smiled. Vivaan looked as good in casual clothing as he did in a suit and I ran my eyes over his jeans and black polo shirt as I made my way toward the table. Dark colours suited him well.
‘I was starting to think you were never going to get here,’ Vivaan joked as I sat down.
‘Sorry for being late,’ I said, but didn’t offer any excuses. ‘I am eager for you to tell me about yourself.’
‘I will,’ he promised, ‘but first, how have you been since I saw you last?’
I forced myself to be patient. ‘My work is going well,’ I said briefly.
‘Have you done anything fun?’
I smiled. ‘Yes, I went to Shaniwarwada. I find a lot of peace in the gardens.’
‘I love it there,’ he said. ‘So much history, so close to us.’
Then why do you want to travel? I was desperate to ask him, but I wanted to keep his focus on our table. I wanted his mind on me, in the coffee shop. Not roaming the world. ‘Now, tell me about the mysterious Vivaan,’ I demanded.
‘I was born and brought up in Mumbai,’ Vivaan started. ‘I lost my mother when I was a child and my father raised me with lots of love and care.’ I watched the pain flash in his eyes when he spoke of his mother, followed quickly by a wave of happiness when he mentioned his father. If emotions were colours, I know I would have witnessed a beautiful piece of artwork in a few seconds’ time.
‘I am so deeply sorry for the loss of your mother,’ I said. My eyes started to fill with tears.
