The Secret Wishlist.Pdf
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Preeti Shenoy is a bestselling author and artist. She has several academic qualifications, but believes life is the biggest teacher. She is an avid blogger, poet, nature lover and yoga buff. She loves playing basketball, travelling and spending time with her family and her dog. Preeti Shenoy is currently based in Bangalore, India. To know more about her, go to preetishenoy.com. westland ltd Venkat Towers, 165, P.H. Road, Maduravoyal, Chennai 600 095 No. 38/10 (New No.5), Raghava Nagar, New Timber Yard Layout, Bangalore 560 026 23/181, Anand Nagar, Nehru Road, Santacruz East, Mumbai 400 055 93, 1st Floor, Sham Lal Road, New Delhi 110 002 First published in India by westland ltd 2012 Copyright © Preeti Shenoy 2012 All rights reserved 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 ISBN: 978-93-82618-18-8 Typeset by Ram Das Lal Printed at Thomson Press (India) Ltd. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, circulated, and no re- production in any form, in whole or in part (except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews) may be made without written per- mission of the publishers. For Satish, Atul and Purvi And for Mum and Dad Heart! We will forget him! You and I— tonight! You may forget the warmth he gave— I will forget the light! When you have done, pray tell me That I may straight begin! Haste! lest while you’re lagging I remember him! —Emily Dickinson Prologue THE CONVERSATION WITH TANU HAS REMINDED me with startling intensity, of the person I used to be—a person with hopes, ambitions and a desire to live life to the brim. I was just like Tanu—bubbly, enthu- siastic and positive. I think about Ankit. I think about that kiss. I have replayed everything that happened on that day at least a million times in my mind through all these years. I loved him with all the purity and innocence of a sixteen-year-old heart. I was certain at that time that he loved me too. I wonder how he looks now. I wonder what I will feel if I were to ever meet him again. It is ironic how the years change you and yet you remain the same. Even if you are married, become a parent, deep down you are still the person you were before you became all of that. Later, as I cook the afternoon meal, Ankit dances around in my head. He refuses to go away when I serve my mother-in-law her meal and make inane conversation with her. He is still with me when I greet Abhay, back from school, and remains there when I help him with homework. And later that night when my husband, after his usual round of television viewing, comes to bed and squeezes my breasts and has sex with me, he is still there. I lie awake a long time that night, the darkness of my bedroom punctuated by Sandeep’s rhythmic post-coital snoring. I realise with a jolt that Ankit had never really left. He has been in my head all along. And now that the possibility of reconnecting with him has been presented to me on a platter, it makes me intensely restless. It is as though someone has poured a can of gasoline to the already blazing fire and turmoil within my heart. Somewhere at the back of my mind, warning bells are clanging, but their sounds are very feeble, al- most muffled. The voice of my heart is too darn loud. When you cannot get someone out of your head for eighteen years, it has to be true love. One THE HEAT AND HUMIDITY DIDN’T BOTHER ME back then. I guess when you are sixteen and in the throes of adolescent crushes (each of which you are convinced is the real thing, with feelings that chug at the speed of a locomotive, with an intensity just as strong), minor things like being drenched in sweat do not affect you as much as they do when you are an adult. You are enthusiastic, full of life and you be- lieve that the world is yours to conquer. I cycle back home after my Bharathanatyam classes which are thrice a week. I do not much like this difficult South Indian dance form, but Mother insists I learn it. I would much rather prefer Bollywood dancing or even ballet to this. ‘Look, now that your Papa is posted here, you should make use of every opportunity available to you here,’ says Mother. ‘Tamil Nadu is truly the cultural hub of India. You will never get such accomplished Bharathanatyam teachers elsewhere. So you might as well make the best use of it,’ she argues. It has been a year now since we moved from Pune to Chennai. I did not like Chennai initially, but once I got used to the heat, I realised it was as good a place as any, even Pune. In fact, the co-ed school I attend here is far better than the convent I used to go to in Pune. But I will never admit this to my parents. Some things are best not revealed. When I suggest, very timidly, to Mother that I want to take up Bollywood dancing, her reaction is far worse than expected. She shouts and raves and promptly calls up her sister who lives with my grand- mother in Ernakulam. Both take turns to admonish and lecture me about how great our Indian tradition is and how hard it is to master the Indian classical dances. They go on about how far superior Bharath- anatyam is to Bollywood dancing which is crass and crude, only about shaking your booty and wiggling your hips. Like all the western dances which, according to my mother, aunt and grandmother, any fool can do. ‘Good Lord! What are you saying, Diksha? How can you even talk about the two in the same breath? Where is Bollywood and where is Bharathanatyam?’ Meera Mausi yells so loudly on the phone that I have to hold the receiver away from my ear. I stifle a giggle at her hysteria, but she catches on. ‘Is that a giggle I hear? You shameless girl. What is so funny?’ she reprimands angrily. ‘Meera Mausi, I just pictured you as Goddess Durga,’ I say amidst helpless giggles now, whereupon she quickly changes tracks sensing that being so far away, she cannot do anything and that her anger is not having the desired effect. Her tone becomes gentle and persuasive. She tries to explain the ded- ication and discipline involved in classical dancing, and that I am fortunate to get admission in Natya Kesari Dance Academy, run by the renowned, Padma Shree awardee, Mrs Subhalaksmi. Finally, under the weight of their collective persuasion, I agree and now find myself waiting for the dance class to get over so I can cycle home leisurely along Elliot’s Beach, watching the waves as I do. I love this part of Chennai where we live. Besant Nagar faces the beach and I enjoy the tiny garden which our modest middle class home boasts. I cannot help thinking how unfair it is that my brother, Rohan, is never forced into doing things he doesn’t want to. A year older than me, he is the school captain and is on the school debate team. I think my parents are very proud of him and never miss an opportunity to mention his achievements to anyone who visits us. Being a popular boy, his friends come over to our place often. They lock themselves in his room for hours and plan and prepare for all the upcoming school functions like plays, debates and dumb charades. They are an active bunch, very involved in the interschool cultural scene and have won many laurels for the school. Somehow our home has turned into their hub, probably as Mother is friendlier and sweeter to our friends than most other parents of teenagers. ‘At least they are sitting indoors,doing useful stuff, right under your eyes and not loitering about and wasting time,’ Meera Mausi had commented to my mother when these meetings had first started. My mother had nodded approvingly. So far as I am concerned vis-a-vis my brother’s friends, I merely say a ‘hello’ to them when they arrive and a ‘bye’ when they leave. That is the extent of my interaction with them. I am a junior at school and the senior guys do not really talk to juniors unless they are ‘cool’, and I have not yet quali- fied to gain entry into this category. Sometimes Mother asks me to make chai for them and when I take the tea tray to his room, Rohan opens the door, takes it from me and shuts it again. In those brief seconds, I catch a glimpse of his friends. Some are sprawled on the floor, some having animated discussions, some practicing their lines. My best friend and classmate, Tanu, thinks I am very fortunate to ‘have access’ to the senior boys. ‘I so wish I had an elder brother, Diksha. You are so lucky! How cool is it that these guys hang out at your place.’ ‘It’s no big deal, Tanu, I hardly interact with them,’ I say, but that does not convince her. Ankit Uttam is one of my brother’s many friends. Tanu and I would have never dared speak to a senior, that too someone as cool as Ankit, but for a blue canvas satchel with two large buckle-down flaps in the front and a red-piped border.