Will She Be Mine

by Subir Banerjee

  Subir Banerjee

  Everything is fair in love and war,

  but the question still remains…

  Will She Be Mine?

  (Book ONE of Series- With Bosses Like These)

  Copyright © 2016 Subir Banerjee

  All rights reserved.

  Om Namah Shivay

  To Ma and Babi,

  Who always allowed freedom,

  and taught me the value of hope

  DISCLAIMER

  This novel is a work of fiction and the names, characters, places and incidents in it exist only in its pages and are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Upon my selection to MSIT, one of the country’s erstwhile Ma Saraswati Institute of Technology colleges, happy friends and jealous ones alike congratulated our family. It was the opportunity of a lifetime to study engineering at a prestigious college and they wanted to take a closer peek at the boy who had just made it, who they never considered intelligent enough to make the cut, yet who’d sailed through.

  Father felt proud at being congratulated but I felt somewhat sad at the prospect of living in a hostel far away from the comforts of home. After the initial euphoria at my selection, I grew morose as the date of my departure neared. Kanpur was situated nearly five hundred kilometers away from Delhi, where I lived- or a distance of over three hundred miles- requiring an overnight journey by train, the cheaper mode of transport in India. As I sat by myself one day, mother eyed me silently for a long time, sensing the mixed state of my mind.

  “All eyes are on you,” she observed at length, in a somber philosophical tone. “Great achievements come at a cost and they generate great expectations.”

  “Perhaps I should have chosen to study at MSIT Delhi,” I said, referring to the MSIT college located in Delhi, not far from our house. “I could have still studied at an MSIT college- but stayed home.”

  “You did try, but didn’t get the subject of your choice here,” she reminded dryly.

  “Maybe I was wrong in being choosy about my major. I should have taken whatever engineering discipline they offered.”

  “At times one must be choosy. Don’t have regrets,” she said firmly. “Learn to look ahead, instead of moving in the reverse direction like this country.”

  “But, Ma-”

  “It’s natural to feel homesick, Rajat, but don’t encourage the feeling beyond a point. It’ll eventually pass away.”

  I fell silent. She was right in her way, but wasn’t aware of the extent of my crush on our neighbor’s pretty daughter. Honestly, more than homesickness, I was sad at the prospect of going away far from her. She was the girl of my dreams. When I retired each night, it was with thoughts of her, and when I woke in the mornings, it was with the enthusiasm of exploring new ways to be near her through the day. I loved everything about her, starting with her name, Shalini. It had such a musical flavor to it. One could almost sing it.

  I thought of the happy times I’d spent with her the last few years. She’d sometimes pop up at our door to ask help with her school assignments. In retrospect, when I thought about it, her visits to seek academic help or my occasional visits to her house to say hello, seemed the extent of my romance so far. I felt like a hopeless underachiever. Secretly I’d wait for her visits, hoping she’d run into newer difficulties in mathematics or physics each day, requiring my help.

  However superficial our contact and dry the content of our conversation, it was a pleasure to ruminate on those memories and think of her beautiful face and fabulous figure as she leaned to ask a point or ran a pretty finger along the line of text in her book, glancing at me once in a while to make sure I understood where her difficulty lay.

  “Which song is your favorite?” I asked once, keeping her book aside.

  “Shall I think about it and tell you later, RK?” she said sweetly with the hint of a smile, picking up her book again and promptly placing it back in my hands, leaving me wondering if the gesture was indicative of her seriousness to indeed introspect about her favorite song later or just a hint for me to stop acting cozy with her.

  She had a way of looking deep into my eyes that always left me feeling flustered. Like a gallant knight I’d explain her trigonometry and calculus, and later also statics and dynamics in physics, but always rued the quick passage of time with her.

  “Shalini, it’s important to relax the mind to concentrate it,” I advised on another of her visits. “That will help you understand complex topics fairly easily. It’s a technique you should learn.”

  I smiled at her benevolently, waiting for her to ask questions so that we could spend some time discussing yoga. I had been planning such a digression from her boring books for a while and looked up hopefully. There was actually a nice book on the topic I’d seen at a nearby bookstore which I could gift her if she showed interest. It was important to sit together and discuss topics other than physics and math to get to know each other better, so that she could experience the same yearning that I felt for her.

  She nodded, giving me some hope, but her next words floored me. “I realize I eat into your precious time with my stupid queries,” she said in a tone of guilt, and gathered her books. “Shall I come around some other time, if you’re too busy now?”

  “Hey, you misunderstood me,” I squeaked, snatching her books back. “Sit down, sit down- I’m not busy at all.”

  “Sure, RK?” she asked with a smile, the guilt gone.

  “Sure, sure.”

  She sat down and quickly opened her textbook again. Had her sense of guilt been real, I wondered, or was it a hint for me to shelve other topics and focus on her studies? Was she smarter than I thought? It was the same each time- no sooner would I guide her out of her academic difficulties, she promptly returned home, instead of sitting and chatting with me as I dreamed.

  I was confident we could find sufficient common topics for discussion if we sat together long enough without her textbooks. But she seemed to avoid such encounters politely. I found her haste to return home quite unromantic and hoped in due course of time she’d realize just how much I appreciated her curves, her nearness and rosy cheeks, and how desperately I wanted to hold her close, and smother her with kisses. The very thought was so gratifying!

  Since she was a couple of years my junior, I decided she perhaps needed more time to understand the adult feelings coursing my blood, and gave her the benefit of doubt. It was possible she too felt something for me, but was too young to articulate her feelings. She’d learn if I persisted. I just needed some patience.

  I’d been fond of writing short stories during my high school years where I wrote for the school magazine. As testimony to my editorial prowess I’d penned a few lyrics in the form of a song about the future of our love as well, though none ever saw that poem or suspected anything of what went on in my turbulent heart. I never published it in the school magazine, but often read the song to myself in my pensive moments.

  I have loved you, More than I could show,

  Whether awake or asleep, Wherever I go,

  I think of you, and only, only you...

  You make up my dreams, and my heartbeats,

  Every moment I think of only you...

  With a thudding heart I mustered sufficient courage to show her the song’s lyrics one day.

  She glanced at my efforts and nodded. “Quite good.”

  I swallowed nervously. Fantastic! She’d finally understood what went on in my heart without reacting adversely! Was it a tacit sign of approval from her side? Emboldened, I decided to speak my heart out.

&nb
sp; “Shalini, do you know how long it took to write this poem? Can you imagine the intensity of the feelings it conveys?”

  She seemed preoccupied in turning the leaves of my collection of writings, and didn’t hear me, but I felt elated to note her interest. We had finally found a topic of common interest.

  “I forget the author’s name,” she said at length, as if trying to remember, and flipped the pages back to my song where we had started. “You must be really fond of poems to copy down the entire thing. I recall seeing this somewhere, but forget the author’s name.”

  I was flabbergasted. What did she mean she’d seen it somewhere else? Was I a plagiarist? Why should I copy down someone else’s works? Didn’t she sense the desperation in me, to hold her hands and talk of love?

  “It’s original!” I exclaimed.

  “It must be- but forgive me, I forget the author’s name. Rags is more interested in these things,” she added, referring to her kid sister. “You should check with her. She’d tell you.”

  What was there to check? She could have asked me directly who the author was. After this I felt sheepish telling her that I was the hapless author. The moment of discovery, hope, exultation and love was gone. She had a way of stonewalling my efforts in ingenious ways each time. I suspected deep down she knew my intentions, but acted ignorant on purpose.

  There’d be more opportunities later, I thought optimistically and let it go. Just as she and her sister were already aware of my interest in homeopathy, they’d gradually learn about my other interests as well- in painting, writing and music.

  It might be boring to read poems written by someone else and connect with the author’s feelings, but music was different. One could identify immediately with good, melodious music. With the right timing and marketing, there was also good money in it- besides its share of fame. It was a career worth considering.

  I had often tried composing melodies around my poems and lyrics, but it usually turned into a daunting task. I wondered how great musicians managed to churn out award winning songs year after year. On my part, I’d feel satisfied to compose music that had even a fraction of their appeal. I didn't have to be a genius- and realistically could never hope to become one- to sell my music for a living. It was worth broaching the topic with mother.

  “Can’t I learn music formally?” I suggested to her a couple of days later, as the date for my departure to Kanpur neared.

  She snorted. “And give up an opportunity to study at MSIT?” Her tone suggested I was mad.

  “Well, there’s a small amount of gamble involved in any big achievement.”

  “MSIT is your big achievement,” she reminded coldly in a tone of finality. “One big achievement at a time is sufficient. We’ve gambled enough.”

  I nodded wearily. The realities of life in a middle class family insisted on dragging me back to boring studies all the time. Otherwise, besides satisfying my creative urge, pursuing music would have also kept me close to the girl of my dreams. Sometimes I felt I’d planned too many things with her in my mind, only to stand by helplessly to see each of my wishful dreams disintegrate.

  Though I barely wished to leave the comforts of home and my love life behind to go to a different city for higher studies, I did eventually leave hearth and home to head for India’s premier engineering college, MSIT Kanpur, when the hour finally arrived. Apparently I was destined to become an MSITian.

  The job industry favored MSITians, educated parents of prospective brides preferred MSITians, MSITians were supposed to be bright, brainy and successful in whatever they undertook- in general, in those days there was still significant respect for MSITians all around. I tried to convince myself that in some ways my migration to MSIT marked my upward mobility in society and status, so I was actually supposed to be moving forward in life.

  But deep within I knew I was faking it and felt caught in a time warp, going through the motions of academic life in a daze, guided by some remote, unseen control, dragged forward against my will, to study complex subjects I didn’t care about.

  “Always tread on the path of righteousness,” father advised solemnly when he accompanied me by train to drop me at my hostel at MSIT Kanpur.

  I nodded disinterestedly, looking around my simple hostel room, wondering how I could stay away from my Shalini so far away.

  “You’re beginning life as a solitary fighter away from home,” he continued sagely. “It won’t be easy to ignore the distractions and temptations of freedom from parental supervision. So keep reminding yourself of your goal. You’re here to study. Give it your best, son.”

  I wanted to board the return train to Delhi along with him, but nodded silently, bored at the very thought of spending life in an unknown environment, as if in exile.

  However, despite my tepid enthusiasm for higher studies away from home, life at MSIT wasn’t as gloomy. Gladly this particular MSIT wasn’t boringly all about studies. The ragging, contrary to my fears, turned out to be fairly stimulating intellectually and the fear and panic of being harassed by seniors gave way to the thrill of creative duel, where you pitted your wits against their weird sense of humor. After the first month of ragging, a grand party on freshers’ evening marked the onset of the real fun and freedom of being an MSITian.

  I loved the movie weekends, the film festivals and the occasional movies on weekdays organized by the cultural secretary's team. The movies were screened in a huge lecture hall, numbered 7, or L-7 as it was popularly called, on most weekdays and weekends, including the week just preceding the exams. Usually when the hero of a movie found himself in a weak position, with his back against the wall, struggling to cope with adversities, the hall would erupt with cheers of ‘fight, fight’. It was my first introduction to a philosophy of survival that I’d carry for the rest of my life.

  The movies were a good way to live a virtual life, away from the pressures of boring assignments, tough exams and horrible grades. It was the time to freak out. In those days, this large lecture theater L-7 served the dual purpose of a classroom as well as auditorium. There were several other lecture rooms starting from L-1 which were quite big too, but none came close to L-7 in size. Apparently, many years later a much needed auditorium was actually built at this academic institute.

  At college I naturally liked most things other than studies. I joined the photography club where I learned to wash film negatives in a darkroom and print photos, picked up lawn tennis, played table tennis, frolicked in the joy of spending late hours in the hostel canteens with friends- often up to 2 or 3 AM in the mornings- discussing philosophy, material goals and the yearnings of teens with the like minded, and occasionally also traveled over weekends to meet my grandparents in a nearby city called Lucknow when not visiting my parents in Delhi.

  Lucknow was less than sixty miles away from Kanpur and involved a rickety bus ride of two hours or a journey of over an hour by train. I usually preferred Fridays once a month for my travel and boarded the evening train which ferried office goers between Kanpur and Lucknow.

  Gradually, I started looking forward to the late night canteen sessions in the hostel. We called them bullah sessions, where restless souls gabbed away with dreamy eyes for hours on topics passionately close to their hearts- girls, grades, creative urges, money, fame, or anything else riding the current wave.

  What was irreconcilable was the passion with which my friends switched mental gears and tore into their lecture notes and textbooks after returning to their hostel rooms. I never understood how they could rapidly abandon, so dispassionately, the lingering taste of our wonderful discussions. I could never be like them. The canteen discussions would continue playing on my mind, more graphically than ever in the solitude of my room. I often took them to bed and sometimes into my dreams as well! Everything usually left a deep imprint on my psyche, including the pondies- as porn magazines were called by the boys- which frequently did rounds of the boys’ hostels. I was sometimes also blessed with uncensored d
reams of the stuff I encountered while flipping through the pages of the adult magazines.

  But most of the time I liked to sit back on my bed and think about my interactions with Shalini or how she had looked at me on a particular day and whether there was any deeper significance to her stare. It was a pleasure to let my mind run wild to the days of my past, right back into my schooldays.

  Back then, in my school days of courtship with her, one could call me a mixed breed for I had many tastes but not the time or energy to pursue or do justice to any single one profitably. During my high school years till class 12th, I’d developed a fascination for oil painting, writing lyrics, and even composing some drab musical tunes which fell dismally short of my goal of aping my idol, R. D. Burman, besides looking up homeopathic remedies for ailments or studying religious scriptures once in a while. Ironically, formal higher education later tried breeding me into an engineer by profession. But for me there were enough reasons to think of myself as the century's undiscovered wonder boy.

  I daydreamed of achieving fame and glory someday in the not-so-distant future- without thought as to how I’d do it- and imagined how impressed my girl would be by any such rise in my stature. I often lay down in bed and thought about the brief chats I used to have with her and wondered if she thought about me too...

  “Shalini, have you heard of Leonardo Da Vinci?” I remembered asking her on one occasion while solving a mathematics problem for her.

  She nodded, waiting for me to go on.

  “He was a genius from Italy, known as a Renaissance polymath?”

  “What’s that?”

  “He was a painter, sculptor, architect, musician, and scientist- practically everything one can think of. A mathematician, engineer, inventor, botanist, and writer too.”

  “Wow.”

  “It’s rare to find such a creative combination in one single person,” I said with pride, happy to share my stock of knowledge. She seemed impressed. “He was mainly renowned as a painter though.”

  She nodded, picking up her book, without asking why I was telling her all this. Before she could flip it open, I quickly spoke up.