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  TRULY, MADLY, DEEPLY!

  Faraaz S. Kazi

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  © Author

  ISBN 978-81-223-1164-8

  Edition 2010

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means,

  electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission in writing from the author/publisher.

  Printed at : Param Offsetters, Okhla, New Delhi-110020

  Published by:

  An Imprint of

  Pustak Mahal®, Delhi

  Dedicated to

  Mr. Mohd. Amin Kazi, my late grandfather,

  who introduced me to the world of stories while

  I sat on his lap looking out at the fictitious world.

  What people say…

  “The first book of an author always has a piece of the author’s soul in it. Faraaz has his soul in this one.”

  -Abhijit Bhaduri, best-selling author of ‘Mediocre but Arrogant’ and ‘Married but Available’.

  “In his debut novel, Faraaz Kazi exercises his literary muscle by accurately painting the colours of heartache. With a natural knack for the written word, Kazi’s potential is clearly visible in black and white and will certainly be one to watch.”

  -Chandru Bhojwani, author of ‘The Journey of Om’.

  “Faraaz shows subtle facility with the pen as he flits conveniently between classical and contemporary styles of writing. With a story set to cater to the yuppie generation, he is conscious of his choice of words. And the making of a fine writer shows in his flourish of words, as it does in his case.”

  -Nishant Kaushik, author of ‘A Romance with Chaos’

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  It’s not easy for a writer to live with the hope that his work will see the light of publication. The will of a writer has to be stronger than an industrial adhesive and his attitude has to be like a shameless leech on a rhinoceros’ hide. Sadly, mine wasn’t!

  I broke down many times and almost gave up more than once after the rejection mails kept mounting, but some preternatural force kept the final result in my mind. It has been a tough journey for me, full of struggles, with more falls than rises and so many bruises that the Zandu balm at the nearby chemist store ran out of stock. This is my time in the limelight and I hope the excitement is not too contagious. I will try not to make it sound like an Oscar speech (Filmfare on second thoughts, let’s be realistic!).

  First of all, no achievement, big or small is possible without the support of your family and I have been lucky to have been blessed by two doting parents, Mr. Sadruddin and Mrs. Hanifa Kazi, who have looked after me – their only child – and nurtured me even though they lead busy work lives. It would be wrong on my part not to sincerely thank my relatives, especially my Appa, Mrs. Habiba Ansari without whose support my talents would not have achieved success. I am beholden to my friend, Mr. Ismail Sheikh for being there when I needed him and for being a patient listener, even though he might not have understood the ravings of a writer. I express my deepest gratitude to my students from whom I have learnt more than I have taught, thanks to our interactive sessions.

  I would also like to thank the publication houses I had approached, for considering my work prior to rejecting it and making me strong enough to face criticism. I would like to thank Mr. Rohit Gupta, my publisher for giving my book a chance to prove itself and my editor, Ms. Gurnoor Kaur for working on the manuscript at breakneck speed. I would like to express my deepest appreciation to Mr. Vipul Gala of Mahaveer Book House for helping me with the right contacts at the right time. It will be sinful to forget Ms. Divya Dubey, who went through the sample and provided me with valuable insights, in order to improve the draft. How can I not be grateful to Mr. N. Sampath Kumar, who is also an author and a friend, mentor and an angel in this hostile environment. I am also indebted to fellow writers like Mr. Tuhin Sinha, Mr.Shaiju Mathewand Mr. Chandru Bhojwani for guiding and encouraging me to achieve this dream. I can’t forget the motivating messages from Ms. Advaita Kala and Ms. Annie Zaidi, which came in the form of autographs on copies of their books. I would like to remember my alma mater and my creative writing classmates, who were the best critics of my short stories. I am grateful to all my friends on Facebook who ‘Liked’ the status messages related to my writing, whenever I was in the doldrums due to the evil writers block. I would like to salute the authors I have grown up reading, whose stories kept me hooked enough to inculcate a reading habit that has grown into a personal collection of thousands of books-my closest friends. Speaking of close friends, I wish my childhood pal; Raj was still here to see this day. I would like him to know that I miss him the same as I did seven years back. I wish to thank him for the hours spent at the staircase; gossiping, playing and sparking the imagination to create stories.

  Yes, I have saved the best for the last. Ms. Priya Raman, I’d like to thank you for being my informal editor, analyst, critic, motivator and friend and more than all that I’d like to thank you for being with me and not behind me. And above all, I would like to thank you, my reader, for having enough confidence in my work and spending your precious time and money on my maiden venture. I promise you won’t be disappointed. Yes, it’s finally over. Please give a big hand for… Ah, cut the crap… Read on! ***

  PROLOGUE

  The surviving leaves of the naked Acacia rustle softly as the gates of the park creak open. The park has long been shut with no one to look after its declining state and the tree has existed as a long forgotten song in silent nights such as these. Its dull yellowish flowers lie strewn on the ground, a tribute to the harsh autumn.

  The boy walks over them, crushing the petals under his steady

  feet. He looks neither left nor right but heads straight for that wooden bench in the corner of the park that has an expanding crack in the middle. He lowers himself on the old bench, the

  only thing that stands in this park apart from the handful of Acacias. He plucks out a dry blade of grass from the ground and wraps it around his fingers. Tugging at it from a corner, he yanks it away, snapping it into two and in the process, leaving circular red marks on his skin.

  He turns his hand, facing the palm and just near the forehand, he sees the letters swimming around, forming stories of their own. They are the result of an abhorrently sharp compass that not just drew perfect circles in the past. Almost unconsciously, he traces their shapes; a slithering S, followed by two enchanting Es, next to which lies a melodious M just before concluding with an amorous A. They are the marks of his love, handcrafted by himself in her memory. They are the only epitaph to his heart, spectral remains of old recollections in the presence of lost love. The name cuts through him like forked lightning a
nd he swallows the pain in humble acceptance. As his fingers brush past the last alphabet, a sudden chill sets in the atmosphere bringing everything around him to a standstill.

  The solitary streetlight near the pavement flickers once, twice, before going off inexplicably and plunging the area into darkness. The rusty hinges of the iron gate creak and clatter, their echo reverberating throughout the park. The haunting sound of the nightjars penetrates the still air. A doleful hoot of an owl echoes in the eerie ambience. The forgotten Acacia trees start casting scary shadows on the almost barren ground, the kind that magnify ten times their actual size. But he is unfazed. The only shadows that envelop him are the one in his callous heart which feast on his loneliness, sheltering his sorrow and confining his joy. His expressionless face is undeterred but betrays the early maturity of his troubled mind.

  Absent-mindedly, he looks up at the sky, counting the jesting stars whose lights cannot reach his soul. He glances up at the full moon with expectant eyes and it does not disappoint him. A familiar face; the same enticing eyes, the same wavy brown hair and the same delicate smile swirl on its surface. He senses the vacuum in his heart widen and the teeth around its concavity gnaw at his living flesh, swallowing him like an impervious sinkhole. With a cry of anguish, he falls down on his knees, clutching his throbbing head in his hands, willing for the excruciating pain to go away.

  The noiseless night further darkens, extending its shadows in the crevices of his desolate heart. The rustle of the trees now soundsso remote, so strange. He hears the soft, slow sound of distant laughter and wraps his legs in his arms while lowering his head in between. Unfortunately, there is no covering for his wounded heart and that is where he feels the chill enter. He flinches. His body quivers in a morbid trance, and then like the final whiff of an extinguished candle he surrenders, like always, to the ghosts of his past. The stars take their leave. They don’t wish him goodbye. Not yet.

  ***

  LIVING, NOT LEAVING THE LONELINESS

  “AND STILL TODAY the heady fragrance

  Of sandalwood reminds me of

  Her curving body, slender in the waist.

  No one but she, a river crystal-clear,

  Can quench the devastating flame of love in me.

  She was and is the radiant treasure of my heart.”

  The Secret Delights of Love, Pundit Bilhana.

  The surrounding atmosphere now suddenly stood out as a study in contrast, when the guy with the long, jet black curly hair, sitting cross-legged on the classroom bench as per his leisurely habit, compared it with the rich ambience in his life that had enveloped him months back. With a long-fingered hand acting as a barrier for his slipping head, he was lost in a world of his own. He seemed a little rumpled, sleepy as if he had been deprived of slumber for a hundred years. His eyes closed, his handsome face now bore signs of maturity that his age would have proved otherwise.

  The dusky fair skin and contours of his perfectly symmetrical face proudly proclaimed his Indian heritage. His nose was perfectly curved as if God had taken care to make it geometrically correct while creating him, and his narrow black eyes, contained a lot more than appeal – a myriad of emotions irrefutably. His long neck with a prominent Adam’s apple protruding from the middle, housed a sweet voice once upon a time, but today it had become as rough and brief as his exterior disposition. With a five feet eleven inch frame, he was tall and lean, with broad shoulders, not that he was ever fat but the past had been equally treacherous on his body as it had been on his mind.

  No one here had seen him in his heyday, and besides he was least bothered about people in his present avatar. Heck, he did not even care for himself. Once if someone told him his thick curly hair appeared messed up, he would immediately rush to the washroom, pull out his ivory pocket comb from his back pocket and run it vigorously along the scalp to emerge as a slick Raymond’s model. But today, the curls had reached the nape of his neck, making him appear like a punk master one usually comes across in countries such as where he was surviving.

  He failed to remember the last time he had gone for a haircut or had thought of shaving his grown beard. His facial hair was lot more than that of a young adult of his age, crisp strands sticking out in a mass, but he shaved it once in a month or so and as a result, usually looked out of place amongst a band of young schoolchildren. Not that he hung around with them but they gravitated towards him, more out of curiosity than anything else. His demeanour was calm and calculated and gave the impression that he was partially hard of hearing which suited him just fine. However, what nobody realised was that the emotions churning his being had paralysed his senses long ago.

  He did not look his best today but nature had maintained him in his current frame. His tough composure and fair features combined imbued him with a raw animal appeal. He looked poised and centred, but he was far from that on the inside. Though he had not been around that time, these lines written by an ancient wise man seemed to be written exquisitely for him,

  “His scent is musk and his cheek is rose

  His teeth are pearls and his lips drop wine;

  His form is a brand and his hips a hill,

  His hair is night and his face moonshine.”

  He sat alone now, isolated from the world and from himself, not caring to look up when a buzzing fly sat on his hair. He barely noticed the fly that was perhaps feasting on his dandruff. But he did hear the metronomic thud thud of footsteps ambling towards the class he was occupying.

  The classroom was empty just like his heart but for a couple of flies that enjoyed their mating ritual going all over the place. Their low, irritating sound was met with an imperturbable, disinterested reaction. Being indifferent to his surroundings seemed a well-inculcated habit somehow. Perhaps failure in love and ultimately failure in life teaches a person to be a winner at least in the art of supreme indifference and other such unworthy aspects, he would think lazily, but what would occupy his mind were still the same deep thoughts of the matters that ruled his heart.

  “Hey Rahul, what man, what are you doing alone in here? Soon the Primary will be hopping in. Don’t you want to reach the hostel?” A fair, confident guy approached him from behind. His height came into notice when he stood shoulder to shoulder with Rahul, who was a couple of inches shorter than the boy, though in reality no one would dare call a five foot eleven inch boy short by any standards.

  Rahul did not reply audibly, he just nodded.

  “Come on dude, cheer up! Until when are you going to maintain that sick face? It is … ” the shorter guy with the taller one stopped him with an aggravated look. The look made the tall guy draw the line and he hold himself back before spilling something that could further intensify Rahul’s emotions. In his mind, he knew there should be nothing to remind him of that, after all he needed to be there for his friend.

  The only problem was that Rahul did not like to be close to anybody. He was helping, cooperative and all that but when it came to maintaining relationships, Rahul had learnt to be on the back-foot. And of all those people, only Sahil knew it because he was the closest ‘friend’ Rahul had made ever since he came to Philadelphia six months back to take admission in Delaware Valley High School for his plus two, after completing his tenth grade back home in India.

  ***

  Delaware Valley High School, named after the beautiful Delaware River in North-east Pennsylvania, was a huge public school run by the School District of Philadelphia, which ran more than three hundred and fifty public and charter schools in the United States. The country high school was about ten miles on the outskirts of the town and was attended by youngsters, who had a passion for studies and sports. It also played host to many Indian students, as the area was friendly to migrants; and the atmosphere, positively inviting.

  Sahil, fair skinned, blue-eyed – thanks to his half-American father – had looks that would make Marilyn Monroe drool. Hair as dark and thick as the devil’s velvet covered his head and high, proud cheekbones chiselled ou
t of a face of sweet beauty; but, lately his growing potbelly had become the butt of all classroom jokes. In class, he would be the person asking the maximum number of questions (howsoever dumb they would sound), but being quite good in academics and the class in-charge-of the eleventh grade, he was a prominent figure in school. He was always ready to help his classmates—a responsibility that fell upon him being the class in-charge. However, he remained humble about it. Sahil’s subconscious mind still registered the suffering and pain written all over Rahul’s face when Rahul first attended the school and was introduced to him by Mrs. Wilson, the Principal of Delaware High.

  “Sahil, meet Rahul. He has done his schooling in India and from now will be continuing his studies in the States. He has joined our school and as both of you will be sharing a classroom from now, I would want you to show him around the school and acquaint him with our rules and procedures. Is that clear?” Mrs. Wilson had commanded him from behind thick round glasses in her cabin a few months ago. He had merely nodded and exited the cabin as quickly as possible, not noticing that Rahul had followed him rather lazily, as if he was least bothered about faking respect for a lowly mortal like a high school principal.

  Rahul Kapoor carried a ‘not to be messed with’ look on his handsome and uncaring face ever since he stepped inside the school boundary. Sahil had sensed his lack of interest and ‘balls to rules’ attitude while going through the customary new student induction program.

  It was Sahil’s job to familiarise new arrivals with the code of conduct, the various assignments that needed to be completed and submitted on time, the important days that deserved high-octane celebrations, the long-winding corridors of the school, the playgrounds that stretched ahead, and on a more informal note, also warn them about the people not to be messed around with. Sahil attributed the task being assigned to him to his Indian origin. Perhaps, Mrs. Wilson believed Indians understood their countrymen better, which was a fact Sahil disagreed with as he was a true advocate of global humanity and believed that colour, caste and creed were no parameters for judging people.