How I owe my life to a pair of smooching canaries!

7:20 am

Heathrow Airport, London

As usual, it was a gloomy and overcast start to my day in London. The faces around me looked gloomier and sadder as each moment struggled to pass. As the never-ending string of escalators in the airport transported me from one floor to another, and then yet another again, I smiled rather quirkily at how much it reflected the present state of my life – forever in transit, with no sight of a destination.

I passed by one of those large LCD displays hung all across the airport’s walls and the weather report being presented in one of the news channels caught my eye. “A perfectly sunny day for Londoners to flaunt their bodies in two-piece bikinis and get some tan!”, beamed the rather pretty lady at the foreground of a digitally projected map.

“What the heck is she saying?!!” , I wondered aloud, much to the dismay of the guy one step ahead of me on the escalator, “Its freaking gloomy!”.

And then I realized. It was nice and sunny outside. The day wore a shine like a newly polished diamond! It was me who was freaking gloomy! The people around me were happy, men in their Hawaiian shirts and women in their polka dotted skirts.. they all looked so damn happy!! Oh yeah, I was the one who wasn’t exactly happy!

And what reason did I have to be? The love of my life had just deserted me after 4 years of courtship and here I am, my bags packed, a loopy sadness on my face, ready to leave London and land in Mumbai in the next 10 hours and then be dolled up and married off to some guy I haven’t even met!

7:32 am

“All passengers scheduled to be on board British Airways Flight no. BA1033 are requested to report to gate G3 in the next five minutes", came a rather dry announcement over the airport intercom.

I was sad and screaming mad at that horror of a person for dumping me! Didn’t he have any brains at all ?! Where the heck would he find a girl like me?!?!

I sat down in the departure lounge, my anger and sadness giving way to despair and then a feeling of helplessness.

7:42 am

My final thoughts before the next announcement were: “Heck! I wish this was one of those Bollywood movies where the hero would dash down the city roads to get back his girl ! Alas, there’s only 2 minutes left. He’ll never make it even if he were to try! L “

It was precisely at that very moment , a couple of hundreds of years ago, that two rather shameless canaries were circling the skies of 18^th century Iceland, dipped in dollops of romance and unable to control the pangs of passion developing between them. With their plumes in a shade of flaming yellow and set against the backdrop of a wonderful blue sky and a serene white ground , their public display of affection was even causing the few flakes of snow falling from the skies to melt mid-air!

Wing-in-wing, they danced to their own rhythm of divine love. They twirled , and then they swirled, and they whooshed and finally perched upon a drift of heavy air flowing northwards. They saw into each others eyes and felt their insides melt, and then they could hold back no more and in one outrageous display of bravery, the male pulled his girl close to him by her feathers, and planted a passionate kiss on her curvy beak! When it turned into a smooch, neither of them could tell.

Another thing they couldn’t tell either, was how that bravura act of theirs was to be responsible for a cloud of volcanic ash to be strewn up into the air, covering airspace over vast continents and grounding flights at the airports a couple of centuries later!

As would later on be discovered in a report by a crazy 21^st century Scandinavian scientist working for the United Nations Climate Change Council, the bodily heat generated by each kissing canary had approximately contributed to 1 zillionth of the heat let out in the atmosphere, which with many other factors like stupid humans making machines that emitted smoke and methane-emitting cows with digestive problems , eventually led to a pan-continental state of fear called ‘Global Warming’, which was basically a wonderful topic on which environmentalists and diplomats met each year in serene locations like Copenhagen ( of course, being flown there by supersonic jets which emitted an obscene amount of carbon!) and debated endlessly about ‘climate change’ over hot cups of coffee!

The particular report also mentioned something about global warming and volcanoes having a cyclic effect on each other, each adding fuel to the others’ venomous intentions!

As it turned out, on one particular day at around 7:30 am in the morning, the weather control officials at the Heathrow airport received a confirmed incoming report that a volcanic ash cloud erupting from something funny and unpronounceable called as the ‘Eyjafjallajokull’ in Iceland ,had led the government to take a decision to indefinitely declare flights as ‘unsafe’ to fly anywhere at all and an immediate announcement to this effect was to made to alert all staff and passengers.

The dry voice came on again on the intercom: “All passengers are hereby informed that due to an emergency of volcanic ash from Iceland causing weather disruptions, all flights have been indefinitely cancelled. Please proceed to the information desk for further queries".

I sat there, unable to react, perplexed. I picked up my luggage and started back on the tedious and boring journey along all those flights of stairs and elevators and escalators to reach an information desk.

It was 8 am now. My flight stood cancelled. My life stood at a standstill.

And then, something moved. From behind a silhouette of a group of people set against the transparent glass walls, I could see him! With a bouquet of red roses in his hand and a ‘SORRY, COME BACK HONEY!’ placard held high up in public view! Realization had finally dawned upon him! He was here!!

And so you see, all is well that ends well. And he eventually made it upto me and thanked the volcanic ash cloud aloud for giving him those extra 15 minutes to make it to the airport through the impossible London traffic!

P.S:

A few years later, my nerdy husband would talk to me about an article published by a crazy Scandinavian scientist in one of those super-intelligent science magazines.

He told me how it talked about climate change and how the mad scientist had proposed that innocent kissing canaries contributed to it and how a team of medical archeologists who had nothing else to do, had planned an excavation in Iceland and had actually discovered the glorious mummies of two little canaries, their beaks still stuck in each other and locked for eternity in the act of love , and how they had dated back the love-birds to be more than a couple of hundred years old. They had then commissioned a team of biologists and mathematicians to confirm the facts. It then talked about how the biologists, with nothing else to do, had then actually conducted an experiment on two poor live canaries to calculate the exact amount of body heat they generated when they kissed ( there was a side article, supposedly detailing the pains the scientists had to go through to get the two birds to kiss, including showing them some unmentionable things!) and how the mathematicians, who obviously had nothing else to do, had used all of the available theorems and theories including the chaos theory or butterfly effect ( the mathematicians suggested renaming it as the ‘Canary effect’ from now on!) , had interpolated the exact amount of heat all such kissing couples in the sky could have amounted to over the years, thereby feeding the scientific world with irrevocable proof that the crazy scientist, was infact , not that crazy after all!

I commissioned an artist to get a portrait done, of those two kissing canaries set against a blue sky and Icelandic glaciers , and I had it laminated and framed against my bedroom wall , and it stays there, till date!

This story is pure fiction with imaginary facts interwoven with real ones! Please don’t question the scientific authenticity!

Happy Birthday, My Love

The night was damp and cold and his bed was even colder.

The only source of warmth in the room was a bunch of magic candles, set atop a double-decker chocolate and vanilla cake , strewn with filings of the finest swiss chocolate.

Her favourite.

They sat quietly in the bed, waiting for the clock to strike twelve.

He took one more look at the clock.

“Go on , my love, its time”

He proceeded to sing “Happy birthday to you…” with all his heart.

She’d always insisted that whether it was her birthday or his, he would always have a bite of a piece of cake first and then go on and feed it to her.

“Here sweetheart, this is for you … “

She’d always nibble off a portion of his fingers along with the cake or if she was in a naughtier mood, bite at them really hard, making him wince momentarily.

It was her way of being playful. And he didn’t mind it one bit.

He felt the nibble today, and not the hard bite.

“Do you remember the first time we were together on your birthday , my love? It was at our wedding. The dates had somehow fallen in place and given the choice, we jumped at the chance of getting married on your birthday.”

As he looked at her, she acknowledged her own memory of that day with a smile.

“We’d dated only for seven months and couldn’t wait a day longer to get married. After the wedding, I’d organized a surprise birthday party for you in the garden adjoining the wedding hall. I was stupid enough to think that I’d be able to keep you off the plan by lying to you that it was a special wedding party for a group of my friends.”

His face was lighting up at the next sequence of events that he narrated.

“As we were taking our wedding vows, you held my hand tightly and whispered into my ear,

‘I want all my birthdays to be spent with you, and you alone’.

And since then, we ‘ve always spent your birthdays alone, just you, me and the double-decker cake!”

His eyes welled up as he rose from his bed.

“We’ll always spend it alone , my love…. We’ll always spend it alone”.

He turned back to lift the gold-framed portrait of his dead wife from the bed, blew the few flickering candles left on the cake, packed the cake neatly and tucked it away in the fridge and hung the picture of his wife on the wall before leaving the room.

As he shut the door, he blew a little kiss to the portrait on the wall , and whispered in an inaudible voice,

“Happy birthday, my love”.

Twenty two minutes of love

The connection between them was obvious the moment their hands touched accidentally. She thanked the mandatory jerks that came for free along with the purchase of a ticket for a ride in a Mumbai local train.

It was 7:25 am in the morning , the start of another mildly romantic monsoon day in the month of June. It had been drizzling continuously for the past three days, and the air was moist and cold.

She liked the monsoons, the way the dark clouds hung so low when it was about to rain, the sound of rain drops falling from the roofs of dirty shops, the sweet smell of damp earth when it had rained for a while.

Oh, it was so romantic and she kept hoping that each subsequent day would turn out to be more romantic than the previous one.

Now, she was seated in a relatively empty compartment of the first local to Kanjurmarg, a small suburb in the outskirts of Mumbai. She would have to be in IITB by 8 am for the specially scheduled lecture. Usually, she’d not be able to take her mind off the events of the hectic day that was about to follow, but today, she was more interested in the man seated in front of her.

He was in his mid thirties, wearing a hand-printed white kurta teamed with beige cargos, a sling bag flung around his neck and a pair of nonchalant chappals. .With his intelligent eyes lurking behind the specs resting on his sharp nose, his unruly yet wavy hair worn till his shoulders, a pair artistic hands adorning his athletic frame, a few lucky charms hung around his neck and curled on his fingers, he looked no less than a charmer himself.

She knew she was always harmlessly attracted to such men – casual and ethnic, intelligent and artistic. But this time, it was different. She found herself being wildly drawn to this man.

From the moment she’d taken her seat , she didn’t fail to notice the attention he was showering her with. An endearing smile followed by a casual introduction, he was an ex- student at the JJ school of arts and an independent artist trying to make his own niche. The moment they got talking , it was as if they’d talked for years. The sort of a casual yet arousing conversation you’d have with your partner over bed-tea. Something she’d yearned for in years that’d gone by. He was talkative, yet a good listener, he had opinions but didn’t try to force them, was firm and precise but took care to sprinkle his conversation with a dose of dry humour.

She’d dressed in a hurry in the morning , but she knew she looked beautiful and elegant. Teaming up an off-white designer top with a bright floral knee-length skirt, and finishing off the look with her thick hair left open, a touch of kohl in her eyes and a dash of gloss on her lips, and a pair of cherry-hued jootis on her chiseled feet, she was all set to romance the monsoons.

He hadn’t failed to notice her beauty. Time and again, he peppered his conversation with how he’d love to paint her eyes on canvas and how her the colours on her skirt could inspire his palette. He knew how to complement a beautiful woman, without offending her.

She was charmed.

And then when the driver applied the brakes to slow down the train for a scheduled stop, the sudden jerk caused their hands to accidently touch, a moment of touch that made her realize how much she was attracted to this man.

Was she in love?

For a moment that spanned an eternity , she looked into his eyes, his firm gaze holding on to hers, she let herself go and allowed herself to bask in the pleasure of the moment, not worried about the past or the future.

The mobile in her purse rang.

“Where are you wifey?? I am waiting at the lecturers’ cabin in IITB for you. Hope you are not going to be late for you guest lecture! Love you, my girl!”

Unable to respond to her husband’s loving voice, she managed a “Yes” and snapped back to reality.

She managed a forced smile, managed to come up with a reason for looking busy and sat back deep into her seat.

7:47 am.

“KANJURMARG”. The yellow and black board announced to anyone interested.

She gave a warm look to the stranger who’d seemed like a life-long companion, said her goodbyes and made sure he wouldn’t ask her number.

As she got down on the platform and started walking towards the exit, she closed her eyes for a brief moment, remembered each detail , packed the warm memories in a basket of love and warmth, and made sure she locked away her twenty-two minutes of love in a deep corner of her mind.

As she thought fondly of her loving husband, she made sure an inner voice was there to remind her …

“Remember to throw away the key when you open your eyes”.

Sweet Memories of Tomorrow

Once again, the sun shines resplendently over the city center park. It has just rained last night, the skies unable to contain their anguish over the unfairly hot summer days. We walk down the muddy lane, hand in hand, careful not to trip over our undone laces. We are too old to take the effort to bend down and tie them , but too young to give up and stop by on one of the benches laid out around the circumference of the park. You are humming to your favorite tune yet again - ' 'til death do us apart' - how I love to listen to your sweet voice wrapped around that tune. As the birds chirp to their early morning songs, the dew falls drop by drop from the wavering leaves and the winds whoosh their way around the trees , it seems as if nature has organized an orchestra to further romanticize your singing. It is beautiful, this morning, and as we realize we can walk no more and stop in our tracks and turn our heads until our eyes meet, I realize my whole life has boiled down to this one moment - your eyes tell me how much you love me and the way you hold my hand tells me you'd be there for me whenever I'd fall. As the sun plays hide and seek inside your eyes, we share a quiet kiss, although our lips never touch.

The quiet breeze from the sea makes the hot day somewhat bearable. At this time of the year, Bombay is usually soaked in knee-deep rains, but it is different this year, the rain-gods apparently not too happy with the way the entire city is turning into a concrete jungle. We are relaxing in the 'Jhoola' in the little garden we have nurtured at the back of our house. I guess this has been the best gift Ram has given us. You are busy with your knitting needles and balls of coloured wool, weaving a sweater for the apple of our eyes. Daksh is 9 now and I keep telling you he might not be too happy to wear a sweater knitted by his grandmother - he's been used to the Monte Carlos and Raymonds that Tisha keeps pampering him with. But you keep reiterating that nothing can win against the 'love' you interwove between those knits!! I can't possibly take you up on that! My memories go back to the time when we had taken Daksh to the planetarium in Hyderabad. His American accent would keep you in constant splits , and the innocence with which he'd ask a thousand questions would win me over. We'd spend our nights discussing how intelligent our grandson was and what all we'd like him to grow up to be! I'd settle for no less than an Investment Banker, while you'd be persistent on a Classical Vocalist!! Little did we know that he'd grow up to be a respected Astrophysicist. Guess that visit to the planetarium had a real impact on his impressionable mind!

It is a tense day for us. Our only daughter is about to deliver her first child. As we sit in the hospital with our hearts pregnant with a mute fear, the nurse comes out of the operating room, a concerned look on her face. You look at me, your eyes heavy from having had no sleep at all. I know they are searching for an assurance, a quiet, firm look that can calm you down. I am unsure myself, having prayed all night at the little worship-place near the entrance of the hospital, cajoling Him to take care of our princess. But one look at you and I know I have to be the stronger one.

And then we see the most beautiful sight ever. The doctor who was operating on our daughter appears behind the nurse, in his arms, wrapped in layers of soft clothing, our bundle of joy. I can see two tiny feet popping out of one end, a mop of unruly hair on a tiny head out of the other and can hear a high-pitched sound of incessant crying emanating from those little lips. As the doctor hands over the tiny tot into your trembling hands, I see little braids of anxiety trickling down your forehead. It is only when the doctor tells us that the baby and the mother are both fine, do your lips begin to take the shape of a small smile. As you cuddle the tiny guy in your arms and kiss him endlessly on his chubby cheek, our happiness knows no bounds as we cry and cry till our eyes are dry. Tears of pure joy , they are.

California is snow-bound. It is that time of the year again when the cold winds blow across the streets, soft snow trickles down the leaves of trees and people are dressed in layers and layers of warm clothing. As we sit in our apartment watching T.V. , enjoying a quiet family dinner with Tisha and Ram, the street-singers down the alley are playing 'Hotel Kalifornia' on their saxophones and guitars. Tisha , looking beautiful in a soft yellow evening gown that Ram had gifted her just last week, comes out of the kitchen , barely holding on to the serving dish full of your favorite food - Moong dal khichdi. It has been 3 years since they had married in a quiet ceremony in Kochi, and here we are , miles away from our home, living a life in an alien country, unprepared for a life full of unknowns. And yet, it feels so right. I remember the night when the phone call came. Your eyes had welled up with tears when Tisha asked you and me to join her and Ram in the States. We had not seen her for over a year and I knew how much you were looking forward to this. We had been lucky to find Ram for our pretty daughter. He had been the perfect husband so far, taking care of her with the same genuine warmth that we had. And now, as Ram and Tisha discreetly hold hands under the dining table, unable to contain their chuckles over this act of forbidden love in front of their elders, we manage a chuckle ourselves - little do they know that under the table, my feet are gently brushing against yours.

All the love filled in our one bedroom apartment in the heart of Bombay was not enough for her. We'd known from the beginning that Tisha had a rebellious streak inside her. But for this, we aren't quite prepared. A curt 'No' from you had been reason enough for her to start packing. Her choice of a Bengali man as a possible suitor had irked you no ends, and the entire night had been spent in verbal duels with our dear princess. 'Princess Tisha', we called her lovingly till the age of 15. And now at 23, just out of college and barely into her first job, Tisha is already on her way to moving away from us. Forever. I knew you'd always wanted her to get married to someone we knew, someone from our extended family and friends circle, so that she wouldn't be away from us, even after marriage. And this was the last thing you'd expected. I'd tried to calm you down, tried to instill some rationale in you but you didn't relent. And now, our only daughter is ready to pack, and leave. After a entire year of deliberation and reasoning, you'd finally agree and I knew, in all the later years, you thanked me from the bottom of your heart for convincing you to let our princess marry Ram.

'And for her consistent performance in studies, her enthusiastic participation in all extra-curricular activities, her pro-activeness in handling the issues of her peers and the dignified manner of her conduct, the Best Outgoing Student Award is presented to Tisha Nair'! . The entire auditorium stands up and claps whole-heartedly as our princess walks up to the podium to collect her award. Seated in the 10th row from the stage, I can see you crinkling your eyes to catch a clear glimpse of her. I remember having scolded you a number of times at having forgotten your spectacles on occasions when they were most needed, but I knew you'd never listen!! Dressed in a sparkling white uniform, a red tie crisply knotted at her collar, her thick hair neatly made into two long braids, Tisha looks every bit the student who deserves the award. I remember the nights you'd come home exhausted from work, and yet put in extra hours to teach Tisha - things they taught at school , and things they didn't - and I suddenly felt a touch of gratitude towards you for having imparted such good values in our daughter. Later on, I thanked my stars for having married you , for the wonderful wife you were and for the wonderful mother you'd turned out to be.

The wedding is a traditional Maharashtrian one. Your parents had insisted that we do it that way. My parents hadn't given up either. A Malayalee-style wedding would soon follow. As the pundit holds on to his nerves in the blazing heat of the sacred flame, and recites the mantras one-by-one, I hold your hand tightly as you follow me around for the saat pheras. As I look around , I can see your parents and mine, their faces bursting with happiness, ready to give us their blessings. I feel your fingers curl around mine - in just a few seconds, we'd be entwined in a relationship of a lifetime. My mind races back to the days in college when I'd courted you and wooed you with flowers and cards and candle light dinners. Rashmi - the name and persona I'd fallen in love with. Later on , as years would go by , I'd wonder if life would ever have been the same, had one of my friends not got you along with him on my 21st birthday.

The candles are about to be burnt out in the mild breeze that is circulating the room. Twenty-one of them. I sit back, a bit unsettled, but manage to relax myself with the technique I'd taught myself over the years. The room is full of people, waiting for me to blow them out, so that the celebrations could begin and they could binge on cake and coke. My own mind is lost in the events that occurred at 1:10 am last night. Like each year, as I was deep in sleep and my mind was owned by the subconscious, a series of memories had flashed inside my head - the sweet memories of tomorrow. Slices of my life, which hadn't yet occurred - events that my life would eventually pass through. It was on my 4th birthday at 1:10 am that I became aware of this extraordinary gift I was born with. I was completely disturbed by this at first, but over the years, as my maturity and understanding grew, I learnt to tackle this unique vision I had with utmost grace. I learnt not be ruffled by the bad ones, I learnt to remember and savour the good ones.

Now, as I am about to blow the candles and cut the cake, I am simply happy that at the age of 82, I'd still be able to walk through beautiful parks, have a faithful hand to hold and still be able to feel the love.

All except one of the twenty-one candles have gone out. As the stubborn flame flickers about, I can see an angelic face slowly reveal itself through it. Finally ,as one more whoosh from me blows it out, a pair of beautiful almond-shaped eyes connect with mine.

Seeing the unhidden interest on my face, one of my friends shouts out across the room, "Hey Ashwin , that's Rashmi!".

I smile and quietly thank Him for the gift. Before me, stands the woman who'd share my entire life with me , and the sweet memories of my tomorrow.

The Magical Flower of Ranganathapuram

Chapter 1

It was a quite day in the village of Ranganathapuram, located in the small municipality of Kallakkurichi , in the farmers heartland of Tamil Nadu. The rows of freshly grown sugarcane basked in the afternoon sun, in fields that ran on both sides of the sole tar road in the village. A bunch of local farmers in weather-beaten clothes – clothes which were shredded gradually each day as they moved about the sharp crop in the sugarcane fields – were busy harvesting the fully grown sections of the fields. Little children, with glowing faces but unkempt and shabby in appearance, ran about amongst the tall crops, lost in their game of hide-and-seek.

Four year old Ramakrishna was quick to hear the sounds of the old, rusty and only cycle in the village coming towards the fields along the tar road.

“Look, look there ---- !!” , the little guy cried out in Tamil to his friends , “Looks like someone from the cities is coming to meet Aiyaah!!!” .

Everyone in the small population of 200 in the village knew which house the tar road lead to, and whose cycle it was.

Venkata “Aiyaah”, they referred to him with utmost respect.

Venkataswamy Rangarajan was the man whom the whole village belonged to , in one way or the other. Coming from a family whose ancestors laid the first crop of sugarcane in the village and owned most of the lands on which the farmers depended for their living, Venkata Aiyaah, at the ripe old age of 56, was the only remaining scion of the Rangarajan family tree. Having lived all his life in the village and having had to do nothing to earn a living, he had become haughty and pompous over the years. It had taken him hundreds of lakhs of rupees , a 100 labourers and 4 long years to build the only cement structure in the village - a 3 storey, marble-laced, eyeball grabbing villa which was meant to send out a clear message across all the neighbouring villages – ‘look-who-has-all-the-money’!

As the sun glistened on the tar toad - a man in his late thirties, in a Levi Strauss stone-wash blue denim jeans , a white Polo T-shirt and a beige Armani cuodroy blazer , a Nikon SLR camera strung around his neck and feet firmly in his Nike special edition shoes, was atop the rusty, dust –laden cycle.

“This crazy bike must be as old as me” , Ravi thought to himself , struggling to keep his energy levels up as the effort required to push the ungreased pedals in the blazing sun sapped up all that was left in him after the 42 hour long train journey from Kolkata.

He had alighted from the Kolkata-Kanyakumari Express exactly 20 minutes ago, onto the 10-feet long by 5-feet wide stony ‘platform’ of the Ranganathapuram railway station.

Upon inquiring for local transport to get to Venkataswamy’s house, a passerby had gladly offered to him the use of Aiyaah’s cycle , a privilege generally reserved for landlords visiting from nearby villages. All other locals had only means of transport within the village – the use of their sturdy legs.

Now ,as he made his way inch-by-inch down the village road, Ravi’s mind was lost back to the conversation that made him visit this place.

It was a cold winter day. Back home after another one of his hectic days as Sales Director of a multinational company , he was surprised to find his 72 year old mother awake at that hour of the night .

Quick to grasp the worried and nostalgic look on her wrinkled face, he ran an assuring hand through his mother’s thin hair.

“What is it , Ma? “

“Nothing dear. I was woken up by a strange dream I had”

Ravi looked up at his mother. This is the first time she had said something like this to him in so many years.

“I think you should share it with me, Ma”.

His mother smiled.

“Do you know that one of your maternal grandfather’s distant cousins was a big landlord in the small village of Ranganathapuram in Tamil Nadu. As a child, my father used to take me to the village once a year. I’’d spend a couple of weeks in the village, enjoying the hearty meals the women in the house used to cook, playing around the sugarcane fields in the hot afternoons and listening to my grandmother’s stories in the chilly nights.

She would gather all the children around the old oak tree in the village and regale us with her folklore.

It was during one of these story-telling sessions that she spoke of ‘The Magical Flower of Ranganathapuram’.

It was said to bloom once in 110 years, in the middle of the muddy patch beside the well in the village. A wondrous mixture of blue , pink and white , this lone flower would bloom only after midnight and be gone with the first rays of the sun.

This is how the folklore went --- that any person unfortunate enough to step on the flower during the one night that it bloomed, would be absolved of his memory and lose all sense of people, direction and purpose.

If none of the locals found him that night and administered the specially prepared herbal potion before sunrise, which snapped him back to reality, he might wander into the neighbouring villages and be lost forever, roaming fields, barren lands and forests for eternity.

It was said that after that night passed, none of his known people would recognize him even if they saw him and vice versa “

Ravi was listening with complete curiosity now. This was not what he had expected.

“Tonight, I dreamed that I stepped on the magical flower while walking through the village at night” , his mother continued, “And no one found me until sunrise”.

“I roamed the nearby lands till the end of my life and just as I was about to die, I saw the face of my grandmother, a knowing smile on her face, asking me , “Why did you stop coming to my village, child?” “ .

Ravi’s face transitioned into a series of random feelings. Perhaps , he thought later on, he’d expected what his mother would say next.

“I want you to go to Ranganathapuram, Ravi” , his mother said with a concerned look. “I am too old to travel now. But I am sure this dream meant a lot. My paternal grandmother was very close to me and didn’t take too well to the family feuds that lead my father to never visit that village again. I think she wants us to connect again”.

Ravi was perplexed.

His mother simply smiled at her son’s dilemma.

“Don’t say no, son”.