Sujitha

What a lovely day.

A favourite day.

Spring breaks into bloom today.

Why is this song spinning round and round in his head today? It started as soon as he woke up—drifting in on the breeze from who knows where, slipping straight into his ears. And since then, whatever he’s been doing, the song’s been looping in his mind like a reel that won’t stop turning.

Is the song trying to say something? That something wonderful is going to happen today? Wishful thinking, probably. That old longing—hoping for something miraculous, imagining that someone, somewhere, is working some great kindness on his behalf. That fantasy where someone might fall out of the sky just for him. That pull towards flight—upwards, always upwards—rising so high no one could reach him, until the sky itself became his limit.

But no matter how high you go, you’ve got to come back down again, haven’t you? Step off the bed, set your feet on the cold floor. No use pretending otherwise. You’ve got to squeeze the toothpaste onto the brush and brush your teeth. Splash your face with cold water until the sleep fog lifts. Only then will this drowsy haze leave you. Then comes the newspaper, dumped at the doorstep by the boy who never misses. Leaf through it while eating breakfast. That’s the routine. No escaping it.

These are the ordinary things we do every day. But is it really impossible to live without doing them? Wouldn’t it be lovely to spend the whole day in bed, warm and dreaming, just drifting through sleep? But what’s the point if you’re the only one in the bed? Sarika’s not here, is she?

Where’s she gone—Sarika?

Sarika, who wrapped her body round his and carried him into a world he didn’t know existed. Sarika, who lit a fire of longing in his chest. Sarika, who drained him of blood and muscle and left him hollow. Sarika, who shaped him—soft and formless as clay—into something precious. Sarika, who descended from the heavens like Urvashi for Pururava, just for him.

And like Urvashi, who left Pururava behind and vanished into some endless ether, Sarika left him too. She flew from this world to some other plane, some unseen realm. Said she’d come back—but would she? Would she really return for him, this wretched man who waits for her every waking moment? Would she bring an end to this torment that burns like fire?

Days passed. Years passed. It feels like entire ages have slipped by. Pururava is still waiting. Still burning in the fire of separation. But Urvashi never came back. Nor did Sarika.

And so he burns on—consumed by the very love that once gave him life. Every atom in his body is slowly being offered up to that fire. Still Sarika doesn’t return. Yet the hope that she might never leaves him.

“This is an incredible opportunity. I can’t let it go. Please try to understand me, Vivek.”

“There’s no question of understanding. I’m not letting you go. That’s all there is to it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Vivek.”

“You’re the one being ridiculous—not me.”

“Every fool insists he’s not a fool. You’re no exception.”

“Fine. I’m a fool then. A fool for you. They say a fool can be stronger than a king. If I have to become a fool to stop you, then so be it—I’ll be a fool.”

“No one can stop me, Vivek. I’m a free person. I’m not prepared to give up my freedom for anyone.”

“Not even for me?”

“Not even for you.”

“Not even for our love?”

“I did love you. That’s true. But I’ve told you again and again—I can’t give up my freedom for love. My freedom means as much to me as love does. If someone asked me to choose between them, I’d pick freedom—every time.”

“Then you don’t really love anyone. Real love means giving yourself completely to the other person—freedom and all. It means offering up your whole self.”

“There’s no such thing as offering up your freedom. The moment you do that, you stop being a person. You cease to exist as yourself.”

“But when you love—truly love—you also stop being yourself.”

“How do you mean?”

“Love means becoming one with the person you love. Two people merging into a single whole. After love, you aren’t you. I’m not me. We become someone new—someone who didn’t exist before.”

“Nonsense. Absolute nonsense. You’re talking about losing yourself, me losing myself, and the two of us becoming one—yes, it sounds poetic. It’s lovely as an ideal, even as a dream. But it’s impossible. As long as we’re alive, we’ll remain in separate bodies. This idea that we’ll somehow merge into one being—it can’t happen.”

“We might not become one body, no. But our souls can become one. Our dreams, our tears—they can become one.”

“That’s another pretty idea. It’s fine for poems and fantasy. But the truth? Our bodies are separate, and so are our minds. And don’t even get me started on ‘souls.’ I don’t believe in some floating thing beyond the body called a soul. I believe in the mind, sure. But I think the mind is part of the body. Not something separate. This soul, this mind, this body—they’re all the same thing, parts of the same whole. What you call the soul or the mind, it all rises out of flesh and blood. When we’re hungry, our minds feel one way. When we’re full, they feel another. When we’re making love to someone we care about, the mind shifts again. The mind is a flow—it doesn’t stay still. What happens in the body shapes what happens in the mind. Just because I love you doesn’t mean our minds will fuse and forever think the same thoughts. That’s a lie. A comforting one, but still a lie.”

“So—are you saying love itself is a lie?”

“I’m not saying love is a lie. Wanting to be together—physically, emotionally—and feeling immense joy when we are, that’s real. The joy we get from love, we won’t find anywhere else. That’s true. But this business about two people completely dissolving and becoming one—that’s the lie. That’s what the romantics came up with. Look, just because I love you doesn’t mean I stop being myself. It doesn’t mean I hand over everything I am. Put bluntly, it doesn’t mean I become your slave. And the other way round, thinking you’ve stopped being yourself and turned into my slave—that’s just self-deception. No one should become a slave to anyone else. You have to protect your own self. And I have to protect mine. My freedom is mine. Your freedom is yours.”

“I don’t know what you’re going on about. All I know is this—you’re mine, and I’m yours. That means we belong to each other, completely. Every part of me is crying out that I can’t bear to be away from you, not even for a second. That’s why I’m asking you not to go to America. If I can’t bear even a moment apart, how do you expect me to survive a whole year? I’ll simply die. By the time you come back, I won’t be in this world anymore, Sarika. I’ll burn up in the fire of your absence. I’ll waste away. I’ll vanish.”

“It’s that possessiveness I can’t stand. That poetic nonsense. I know perfectly well why you can’t bear to be away from me—you want my body. You want the pleasure it gives you. You can’t imagine a love that exists beyond the physical.”

“So—so you’re saying sex has no place in love?”

“I’m not saying that at all. What I’m saying is—sex alone isn’t love. You’ll be in India, I’ll be in America. And we’ll still be able to love each other. Sex gives a fleeting kind of happiness. Love gives something deeper. Something lasting.”

“You really believe our love will survive a full year without touching each other? Without being together in that way?”

“If it’s real love, yes—it will.”

“And in all that time, you think I won’t feel desire? You think those urges won’t come?”

“Desire lives differently in men. For a man, sex is often for its own sake.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning a woman, when she loves a man, wants sex to create life. She accepts sex for the sake of security, of stability.”

“You’re saying women don’t have sexual desires?”

“They do. But not like men. Not constantly, not relentlessly. A woman’s desire doesn’t wake up on its own. Someone has to awaken it—a lover, a husband. Without that, it lies quiet. Nine out of ten women have sex not for their own desire, but to satisfy their husbands.”

“So… when you slept with me, were you only trying to satisfy me?”

“Yes. In the beginning, that’s all it was.”

“Then you didn’t love me at all? I thought you made love to me because you loved me. Didn’t it give you any joy?”

“It did. Because I knew I was giving you joy. That’s where my joy came from.”

“That’s it… Nothing more?”

“I do love you. But it’s not a love tied to sex. And that’s the part you can’t seem to grasp.”

“But my love for you—it’s not beyond sex. I want to be with you, always. I want to hold on to that joy, the kind that comes when our bodies become one. I wish we could stay like that forever—frozen in that moment. The second you leave, the hunger to be with you starts all over again. I can’t imagine satisfying that need with anyone else. It has to be you. Isn’t that love?”

“I’m not saying it isn’t. But you need to understand something—there’s a difference between how men love and how women love. A woman’s love isn’t bound to sex. A man’s often is.”

“But how can a woman’s love be so pure? You said it yourself—women want children, want security. Isn’t that selfish?”

“I was speaking about most women. Especially married ones. But there are women who love without wanting anything in return.”

“Like you?”

“You’re being sarcastic.”

“No. I mean it.”

“Why do you think I’m different?”

“Because you said you love me, but you don’t want to marry me. Most women marry for children, or protection. But you’ve said no to both. That’s why I think your love is truly selfless.”

“There’s another reason I don’t want to marry you.”

“What’s that?”

“Freedom.”

“You think marriage takes away your freedom?”

“Yes. The moment two people get married, they lose something. The wife starts to believe the husband belongs to her. The husband starts to believe the wife belongs to him. He wants her to do as he says. She wants him to do as she says. And then—how can they protect their own selves, their freedom? The minute they marry, husband and wife lose half of who they are.”

“But if there’s no such thing as marriage, how can society stay stable? How do children grow up safely? If everyone just guarded their own freedom and went wherever they pleased, what would happen to the world?”

“Not everyone is like me. Most people don’t think like this. In any society, people like me are rare. The majority marry, live as husband and wife, raise children, and pass their lives in that way. They become servants to one another, then servants to their children. They help keep the structure going. This whole idea—marriage as the ‘crop of a hundred years,’ living for the sake of children—it’s all part of keeping society steady. And most people believe it. That’s why they marry, have children, and carry on with life. They don’t even realise they’ve given up their freedom. They don’t see another path. They live and die inside the rules.”

“And what if everyone did think like you? What if no one married? What if no one had children? Then what happens to society? How does it survive?”

“If a world filled with free spirits like that really came into being—it would be extraordinary. But for such a society to exist, we might have to wait centuries. Perhaps not until the twenty-third century, or even the twenty-fourth, will such a world take shape. And when it does, maybe children won’t need to be born the way they are now. Maybe, to keep the human race going, there’ll be some entirely different method. Who knows what kind of changes this society will go through in the next two or three hundred years? How can we possibly say now?”

“But even test-tube babies still need someone to raise them…”

“They do. And by then, maybe there’ll be special institutions set up just for that—systems that take on the responsibility of raising children. Think about it—twenty years ago, could we have imagined society would look the way it does today?”

“Fine. Let’s say all that comes true. But right now, you’re saying you’re going to America. You won’t give up your freedom—not even for me?”

“When you say ‘not even for me,’ I hear your ego speaking. I hear that sense of entitlement you think you have over me. You’re not my husband, but you already feel you have a say in what I do. And if this is how you feel now, I can’t even imagine how much control you’d try to exert if we got married. That thought frightens me.”

“I’m not claiming any rights over you. I love you—that’s why I want to be with you. That’s the only reason I’m asking you not to go. There’s nothing else behind it. I don’t see you as something I own. I don’t think I have any power over you. And if you believe I won’t feel any pain when you leave, you’re wrong—but if leaving is what you’ve decided, then go.”

“I’m not saying you don’t love me. I’m not saying it won’t hurt to go. But for me, going matters more. Freedom means choosing what matters most when you have more than one path. And right now, this matters more.”

“So I don’t matter, then.”

“You do. But going to America and doing this research—on something I truly care about—that matters more. The Ford Foundation is offering me a fellowship. They have the facilities I need. I don’t want to throw that away.”

“And when you come back, will you be with me the way you are now?”

“Of course. If, a year from now, you still love me and I still love you—then let’s be together, just like we are now.”

“You’re not sure our love will still be the same in a year?”

“It’s not a lack of certainty. It’s just honesty. Who knows what will happen in a year? The mind doesn’t stay still. It shifts. It flows.”

“Maybe so. But my love for you won’t change. I’ll wait for you—no matter how long it takes. From here to eternity. As long as the sun and moon keep rising.”

“Don’t turn this into poetry. Let’s talk plainly. If, after a year, you still love me and I still love you—then yes, we’ll come back together. Agreed?”

“You really think you might not love me a year from now?”

“That’s not it. I do believe in this love. But anything can happen. We can’t predict what we’ll feel after 365 days.”

“You’re being very harsh.”

“I’m sorry, if it sounds that way. But Vivek—I love you. Right now, in this moment, there’s no one else in my heart. Wherever I go, you’ll be with me.”

As she said that, she pulled him close and pressed him to her heart. Her touch reached every part of him. It heated his blood. It stirred something deep, something intoxicating. It opened his eyes to another world. Could the union of a man and woman really hold such bliss? Could someone who had climbed to such ecstatic heights ever come down again and be just an ordinary man? Strange, how creation works.

She was leaving for America in a week—but that week, she stayed with him. Entirely. Day and night blurred. They were no longer two people. They lived as one being. And then, when she left—how much pain he felt. How brutally his chest ached. How did he bear it? It’s hard to imagine. It felt like every ocean had rushed into him at once. Like he was sinking into something bottomless. But nothing stopped. Everything carried on just as before. She left. The plane rose into the sky. She crossed oceans and disappeared into another world. The distance between them stretched into infinity.

They say railway tracks meet at infinity. That’s where she went.

And he—he kept waiting for her. Calling her name until the corners of the sky seemed to crack. “Sarika!” His voice echoed from every direction. His heart felt like it would split open. She didn’t hear him. But the hope that they would meet again—that kept him alive.

Before she left, she made him promise not to ring her constantly, not to disturb her. She’d be busy in the labs, always working on something new. Her focus had to be absolute. She couldn’t afford distractions. She needed to concentrate. That was all.

She had gone away, into a kind of concentration camp she’d built for herself. She was a prisoner in it now. And yet she called it freedom.

Freedom. That was the word she clung to above all else. But where was her freedom now—in that camp she locked herself inside?

 

* * *

 

A full year had passed since she left for America. And still, her research wasn’t finished. They had granted her a six-month extension.

He had spent that year counting each day, each hour, each breath, as though his life depended on it.

“You’ll have to wait another six months. There’s no way around it,” she said, when he rang her to ask when she’d be coming back.

“Another six months?” His voice cracked with disappointment.

“Yes. I presented my work to them. I asked for more time to finish the project—just six months. They reviewed what I’d done so far. They were impressed. Said it was excellent. So they gave me the extension.”

“But in doing so, they’ve strangled me. And you—you’ve forgotten that in this godforsaken land, there’s someone waiting for you, someone who’s counting every day like it’s an entire age.”

“I’m sorry, dear. Six months will fly by. Don’t worry. It might not even take the full six. I could finish early. And the moment I do, I’ll be on a flight home.”

So he waited again.

One month passed. Then two. Then three. Today marked four full months. And he was still waiting.

Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Days. Weeks. Months. They all passed. But she didn’t return.

And the hope that she would—it never left him. This waiting had no end.

The phone rang. A long ring. Another. And another. Somewhere in the distance—or no, not far at all. It was ringing inside his house.

He snapped out of his daze. Sat upright.

Every time the phone rang, his heart raced. Maybe it was her. Maybe she was calling to say she was on her way.

The phone was still ringing.

He ran to it.

“Hi, Vivek!” It was her voice. The sound of it sent a thousand strings humming in his chest.

“Hi, Sarika!”

“What took you so long to pick up?”

“Your memories had carried me away. Took me a while to come back.”

“Fair enough. I landed in Mumbai an hour ago. I’m waiting for the connecting flight to Hyderabad. I’ll be there in another hour and a half.”

“Really?”

“Really!”

“Why didn’t you tell me before you left?”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“I thought your project still had two months left?”

“I finished it early. Two months ahead of schedule. Completing that project—it’s the biggest achievement of my life. Ah—there’s the boarding call. They’re asking us to board. I’m hanging up now.”

She was coming. She was really coming.

He wanted to run into the street and shout her name until the whole world echoed it.

Just ninety more minutes. And she would be here. The wait—his eternal, aching wait—was finally ending. Sixteen months. Four hundred and eighty days. Eleven thousand five hundred and twenty hours. One million, fifteen thousand, two hundred minutes. Nine hundred and seven million, eighty-two thousand seconds.

And in all that time, he hadn’t been able to erase her from his mind—not for a single moment.

Even in sleep, she was there—in dreams. Every book he opened, she was there. Every beautiful face on the television reminded him of hers. In the cinema—her. At college, while teaching—her.

She lived in his innermost thoughts. In every atom of his body. In every vein of his blood. In every layer of his brain.

He had lived those millions of seconds by remembering the moments they had shared and imagining the moments yet to come. It wasn’t food or drink that had kept him alive. It was her memory. The fact that she was coming back. The thought of being with her again had lifted him into a dreamworld of its own.

She was returning—like a bird with wings of light, soaring across oceans and continents. She was coming back to him.

These sixteen months—his love for her hadn’t wavered for a second. She had left him with a test. “If your love for me stays the same until I return,” she had said, “then let’s meet again. Let’s live together.”

He had passed her test—with full marks.

And her love for him—had that too remained untouched? Had it stayed just as strong?

Of course it had. She’d finished her project early. She was returning—for him.

He stood up. Switched on the music system. Hariprasad Chaurasia’s flute filled the room. A melody in Raag Malkauns. The rising and falling notes floated through the air, carrying him away—through mountain trails, thick forests, waterfalls, rivers. The music touched his heart like waves brushing the shore, nudging memory after memory to the surface.

The first time he met Sarika. What he had said to her. Where they’d met again. The first time their bodies had come together.

Each image returned in vivid detail.

She had brought him joy. And she had made him weep.

If she was spring breeze, he was frost in winter. She had been the queen of patience. He had been a slave to longing.

Time sets the boundaries. Love breaks them.

That hour passed like a moment.

In just thirty more minutes, she would arrive. She would land at Begumpet Airport in Hyderabad.

He had to go. He had to run—to gather her, to hold her.

 

* * *

 

The doorbell rang.

Who could it be now?

The sound felt ominous. Like a warning.

Vivek walked to the door and opened it.

Standing there—Sumanth Reddy.

“Hi, Sumanth! What a surprise!”

“I wanted to surprise you. So I didn’t call ahead.”

“Wonderful! When did you get back from the States?”

“Two days ago. I came running to see you.”

They both sat down on the sofa.

“How was the States? What was it like?”

“Fantastic. But for us to catch up to them—it’ll take at least another hundred years.”

“And who knows how much further ahead they’ll be by then?”

“Exactly.”

“Are you going back?”

“Of course.”

“Did you meet any of our folks there?”

“Plenty. You see them everywhere.”

“Our folks? You mean—?”

“Telugu people. Everywhere.”

“Anyone I’d know?”

“Oh yes. I almost forgot. I met your sweetheart—Sarika.”

“You met Sarika?”

“Yes. She lives in the same area I was staying.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“But—Sarika’s flying into India today.”

“Today? That can’t be right.”

“She rang me from Mumbai just now. Said she’d landed and was waiting for the Hyderabad flight.”

“You’re saying she’s already reached Mumbai?”

“Yes. She called me half an hour ago. She’d just landed and was waiting for the connecting flight. By now, she must be on the plane.”

“That’s strange. Because from what I know—she wasn’t supposed to come to India yet.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t just mean I heard it—I saw it.”

“What did you hear? What did you see? Tell me—quickly.”

“I’m afraid you won’t like it.”

“Why assume that? Just tell me.”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“If I told you she’s living with someone else in the States, wouldn’t that upset you?”

He was hurt—but decided not to show it. His heart had already suspected something. And now this man had turned up, it felt like he was here to stir trouble. Still, Vivek kept his voice steady.

“No. She’s free to live with whomever she chooses.”

“But you two were planning to get married, weren’t you?”

“I was. She wasn’t. She always said love and marriage shouldn’t be chained together.”

“But deep down, you must have hoped she’d change her mind one day?”

“Change is natural to all of us. Yes, I thought she might. But I never believed I had any claim over her. So whatever you say now—there’s no reason for me to feel hurt.”

“In that case, I’ll say it. She’s living with someone else in the States. That’s what people there told me. They said they’re a couple, living together, travelling together. I saw them myself. I even heard she’s planning to settle down there with him. That’s why I was so surprised when you said she was coming to India today. I still can’t believe it.”

“Believe it or not—she’s on her way. She’ll be landing in Hyderabad shortly, and I’ll be there to meet her. If you want to come along, you can.”

“From what you’re saying, I can only come to one conclusion.”

“What conclusion is that?”

“She spends her time in America with him, and her time in India with you. Seems like wherever she goes, she finds someone new.”

“Then say she does. What’s it to you?”

“I’m not the one who should have a problem with it. You should.”

“From the way you’re talking, it sounds like you’re the one with the problem.”

“Not at all. But tell me this—after knowing she lived with someone else for a whole year, do you still love her? Hasn’t your opinion of her changed even slightly?”

“No. Nothing’s changed. I still love her. I still worship her.”

“You say that, but I know it’s eating you up inside.”

“You don’t know the half of it. You can go now—I have to get to the airport.”

“I’m sorry, Vivek. If I’ve hurt you—I’m sorry.”

Vivek walked out. Started the car. Drove off.

Was it true?

It could be. It might not be. But even if it was—would it change anything between him and Sarika? Would it change how he felt about her?

Not at all.

So why waste time thinking about it?

He had to go. He had to get to Begumpet Airport and meet her. After sixteen months, he was going to see her again. He would hold her close. Wrap his body around hers. Merge his soul with hers. Let their two selves dissolve. Be reborn as one.

Sarika’s been with other men, they say. Nonsense. Absolute nonsense. She’s never been with anyone else. She’s only ever loved him. Sumanth said it out of jealousy. But Sumanth—his best friend—would he lie? Why would he need to?

Maybe he was telling the truth.

And if he was—so what?

Could he stop loving her?

He’d counted every moment for her—how could he now pretend she didn’t matter?

His body—burning like fire—would find peace only in hers.

But what if her body wasn’t waiting for him anymore?

What if it had already been offered to others?

He didn’t want that body—tainted, used up.

He would rather waste away—in pain, in longing—than reach for something that no longer felt sacred.

No. This was doubt speaking. Nothing more. Sumanth had lit this fire inside him—and it was burning him alive.

He was feeding it. Fanning it. Letting it grow.

His male pride hadn’t died.

It was that same wounded pride—thinking someone else had touched what he loved—that was tearing him apart.

This was it.

This was male chauvinism.

You’re a male chauvinist pig.

Until you destroy that beast inside you, you’ll never be free.

If he wants to be worthy of Sarika’s love—he has to rise above this. He has to overcome his jealousy, his resentment, his pettiness. Let there be nothing in his heart but love. Nothing else.

He has to grow.

He has to shed his skin, burn through his ego, and rise as tall as the sky.

They say every person contains both a dwarf and a giant. Most of us live somewhere between the two. But the one who constantly strives to rise from dwarf to giant—he’s the one who becomes truly human.

You must become that man.

No, no.

He’s not a giant.

He’s just a man. A small, ordinary man.

He hasn’t conquered his jealousy or his pride. He’s full of anger, desire, envy, and fear.

He’s a dwarf.

A pygmy.

Not a giant.

And he doesn’t even want to be one.

Yes—he is a male chauvinist pig.

To him, a woman should be pure. She should love only one man. Marry him. Stay with him for life. Honour him. Obey him.

In the kitchen, she should be like Annapurna. In the bedroom, like Rambha. In duty, like a servant. And never—never—should she say, “I’m your equal.”

The man earns. He supports his wife and children.

The woman cooks. Bears children. Guards them like her own eyes. When the husband returns home, weary from the world, she should serve him, soothe him, lie beside him and take away his fatigue. She should become a goddess of love and offer him heaven.

This is tradition.

This is dharma.

Society has defined the roles of man and woman with perfect clarity—for the sake of stability, wellbeing, continuity.

No one has the right to reject that—not even Sarika.

Oh God.

What is happening to him?

How can he think like this—so crudely, so blindly, so backwards?

What’s come over him today?

It’s like he’s been possessed—by some demon called Tradition. By some ghost named Custom. This isn’t him. This isn’t who he is.

He has always believed in equality—always argued that men and women deserve the same respect. He has said it again and again—no one loves only once. That’s a myth. No one belongs to anyone forever. That’s a prison.

Sarika and he—they agreed on this, didn’t they?

So why is he now, this very moment, thinking such senseless thoughts?

This is madness.

This is decay.

What a fall, my friend.

He was on his way to becoming a giant. And now he’s shrunk—back into a pygmy.

No.

He’s always been a pygmy.

He’s never been anything else.

He believes in tradition. He believes a man should have one woman. He believes marriage is sacred. A crop that yields for a hundred years.

And when people marry—they should stay together. If they don’t, what happens to society? What happens to the children? Where’s stability?

Sarika doesn’t even believe in marriage. She says it destroys love. Maybe she’s right.

But if everyone thinks like her—no marriage, no children—then what happens to the world?

What happens to the next generation?

All of this—our culture, our values, our progress, our comforts—aren’t they meant for the future?

If there’s no future, what’s the point?

Sarika’s fallen under the spell of the West. She’s forgotten who we are.

And yet—he still loves her.

His love is endless. Unshaken. Unmatched. Unreachable.

 

* * *

 

Begumpet Airport.

There she was—Sarika.

That walk. That gaze. The slight curve of her lips. The playful rise of her eyebrows. The way her sari clung to her—effortless. That smile, etched into memory, never fading. There was such beauty in her bearing. Even the indifference she wore like armour held its own kind of elegance. There was pride in her eyes—like forget-me-nots that refused to be forgotten. Pride, confidence, a quiet self-respect. Perhaps all her beauty really did reside in her eyes. One glance from her, and it felt like a cascade of gold.

She rolled her luggage towards him, her trolley clicking softly across the floor.

“Hi, Vivek.”

“So you’ve come. You’ve really come.”

He struggled to find the right words. His throat felt as if it had forgotten how to speak.

“You didn’t think I would?”

“I didn’t.”

“No, you’re not being honest. You thought I’d never come back, didn’t you? That I’d stay abroad forever?”

“No. I thought you’d come—at least before I left this world for good.”

“That much hope?”

“That hope kept me breathing.”

“You must be angry with me.”

“Why would I be?”

“You know why. You’ve always had a bit of a temper.”

“Being angry with you would be the same as being angry with myself.”

“You’re not the only one like that. Plenty of people take the anger they carry for themselves and throw it at someone else.”

“You’re still the same. Always with the maxims and the moral lessons. Anyway—was the journey alright?”

“It was fine.”

“Are you staying in India now? Or planning to fly back again?”

“I don’t know.” She smiled as she said it, but he couldn’t bring himself to smile back.

“You told me you wouldn’t go back—not after the project.”

“That’s what I said then. But are you and I still the same people now? A person—man or woman—changes every moment. Just like a river. Does the water in a river ever stay still?”

“You can explain all your theories later. For now, where shall we go?”

“Wherever you take me. Right now, in this vast world, you’re the only one I have.”

“Sarcasm?”

“No. Truth. As true as me standing right in front of you now.”

“Am I really that lucky?”

“Why assume the luck’s all yours? Maybe I’m the lucky one. Isn’t it fortune that someone like you would come running through this huge city just for me?”

They loaded her luggage into the boot and got in the car. He drove.

“How were your days in the States?”

“They passed before I even noticed they were passing.”

“So you lived with only one thought—to finish the project?”

“Not entirely. Sometimes my thoughts veered towards you. I’d lie down in my room at night, and those sweet, endless nights we shared would come back to me.”

“Are you joking?”

“No. I’m serious.”

“Didn’t you meet anyone new over there?”

Why did you ask that? That demon’s waking up again.

“I met plenty of people. But they were all ‘hi’ and ‘bye’ people. In America, everyone says ‘hi,’ then moves on. They never stop.”

“Is that all? Nothing deeper than that?”

There it goes again. The demon is dancing now.

“What are you imagining?”

“Nothing. Just asked.” Trying to laugh it off. Trying to put the demon back to sleep.

They fell silent for a while. He drove. She thought.

“I’ve let go of some illusions I had about America,” she said, her voice more serious now.

“What kind of illusions?”

“I used to think it was the land of liberty. And yes, people there have freedom. But too much freedom makes people mad. That’s what I saw.”

“And?”

“Everyone’s obsessed with themselves. No one lives together. Marriage, children—they’ve all become optional. Disposable.”

“Before you left, you thought the same. You used to say marriage and children take away a person’s freedom. You said you’d never marry.”

“Yes. But don’t you remember what else I used to say? That people are never the same. That they change constantly.”

“So—have you changed?”

“I think I have. That mechanical way of living—smiling, saying ‘hi,’ then vanishing—it started to get to me. Over there, sex matters more than love. People treat it like a meal. You feel hungry, you go out and eat. You feel desire, you go out and find someone. No emotion, no connection. Some fall in love and marry—then divorce within weeks. Marriage there is breaking down. They see it as a burden. People want no responsibility. Just personal pleasure. Five days of hard work. Two days of wild release—eating, drinking, sex. That’s the American life. What they earn in five days, they burn through in two. No homes. No wives. No children. No parents. No grandparents. No roots. I couldn’t stand that chaos.”

“That’s surprising.”

“I’ve started to feel that love matters. Bonds matter. The love you get from parents, from friends, from a partner, from a child. The love children get from grandparents. All of it matters. Life isn’t just eating, drinking, and sex. Yes, freedom is important. But freedom without responsibility is meaningless. You can’t separate the two.”

“What brought about this change in you?”

“I already told you. Watching how they live—that’s what changed me.”

“And in your personal life too?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you fall in love? Live with someone? Any experiences like that?”

There it was again. That demon in him, dancing wild.

He had promised himself he wouldn’t ask. And yet, the words kept coming.

“I did live with someone—for a few days. But I didn’t love him. It was only for security.”

She said it plainly. Fearlessly. Without shame.

Incredible. She was incredible.

They reached his flat, parked the car, brought the luggage inside. She said she was going to take a shower and disappeared into the bathroom.

And he—he was left with his thoughts.

So Sumanth had been telling the truth.

And not just one man—who knew how many?

Maybe that was why she grew sick of the American way of life.

But this change in her—did it mean she’d marry him now?

She, who once wore her radicalism like a crown, had circled the world only to land back here. Back to tradition. Back to marriage. Back to believing this system was worth something after all.

Now what?

Could he still love her?

Could he live with her?

Could he let his body join with a body that had already belonged to others?

No. He couldn’t. He couldn’t even touch her now.

He didn’t want a body that had been passed from hand to hand.

A ‘soiled’ body?

What nonsense.

What matters is the heart.

She said she didn’t love him—only stayed with him for security.

She never loved anyone else.

Only him.

And he—he never loved anyone but her.

He still wanted her.

He had waited sixteen months. Counted every second like a lifetime. Lost count of how many lifetimes had passed. He had thought she’d never return. Thought the distance between them was too great. Thought he didn’t deserve her love.

And now—when she came back, searching for him—would he turn her away?

Could he?

What kind of jealousy was it, that made him think her body had been tainted?

Could he see how much of that thought came from pride—male pride?

Did he even realise how much ownership was hidden in that one poisonous idea?

Isn’t his reaction proof that he still see her as a possession—his possession? She’s his property, isn’t she? That’s why, in his eyes, no one else should touch her. How selfish. How narrow.

And before she ever entered his life, was he some saint? Has he forgotten how many women he wandered through in those days? How many bodies his intertwined with? Doesn’t that make his own body “impure” by the same logic?

He slept with women to satisfy a physical need. The moment it was over, he forgot them. But Sarika—could he forget her just as easily?

No. He couldn’t.

He couldn’t forget Sarika, who had dissolved into every cell of his being. She wasn’t someone he could wash off. Her body hadn’t been tainted—his mind had. And unless he freed himself from that filth, he’d never find peace.

To cleanse his mind, he’d have to confront himself. He’d have to fight that battle. And he’d have to win.

“Ahh, that feels so good,” she said, stepping out of the bathroom, towel in hand, rubbing her wet hair. “There’s something about a proper bath every day. Washing away everything the body picked up in the past twenty-four hours—it’s such a release. Such a renewal. If we don’t cleanse ourselves like that every day, we can’t keep our bodies or minds clean.”

She was speaking in general, but it felt to him as though she was speaking to him.

“Yes… you can wash dirt off your body. But to cleanse the mind—you have to fight your own demons.”

“Is that what you’re doing now?” she asked, tilting her head, eyes narrowing.

He stiffened.

“Yes… how did you know there was a war going on inside me?”

“It’s written all over your face. Your friend Sumanth met me in the States. I can guess what he told you.”

“What do you think he said?”

“That I’d fallen in love with someone else. That I was living with him. That I’d given him my body, my mind—and that you should give up on me. Isn’t that what he said? And are you really starting to believe it?”

“Whether he was right or wrong… I don’t care anymore,” he said, his voice low and steady.

“Do you really mean that? Is that coming from your heart?”

“It is. I’ve had to fight myself to get here—to pull that truth out of my own chest.”

“And who won that battle?”

“You did. Or maybe I should say—I won, the part of me that was fighting for you.”

“You don’t need to fight yourself. Not for me. Not for anyone.”

“I know. Because I love you, Sarika. I love you—with all my heart and soul.”

He moved closer to her.

“I love you too, Vivek. And I’ll keep loving you—as long as you don’t see me as your private property. I’ll even marry you. But don’t call that marriage a lifelong harvest. As long as this love between us stays alive, we’ll stay together.

“We might change over time. Change is natural. But unless we change so much that we can no longer stay together, we can go on loving each other—for as long as we want to.

“I respect marriage. But if this marriage ever turns into a prison for either of us—”

“You don’t need to say it. I can already imagine what comes next,” he said, stepping even closer.

“Thanks,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around him.

“You’re my Sujitha now,” he said, searching for her lips.

“A new name?”

“Yes. Sujitha means the one who has been won over. I’ve won you.”

“Or maybe—I’ve won you.”

“Then I suppose we’re both Sujithas.”

In that moment, they weren’t two people anymore. They had become one, each fully alive in the other’s heart.

* * *

First published in Swathi Weekly, 23 September 2005

Reprinted in Nishkriti (Pratyusha Prachuranalu, 2007)

For the Telugu original: సుజిత_నవీన్_పుస్తకం (ప్రత్యేకం)_20071201_106743_కథానిలయం