Romancing the Hills (Short story)

I always headed to the hills to recover from heartbreak, exhaustion, and sometimes sheer boredom. It’s difficult to explain why I loved the hills so much. It could be because I was born in the lap of the Nilgiris, and those blue mountains were where I spent most of my childhood holidays. Then my Tatha died, my family sold the house, and we became plain people.

In truth, I was a city girl. I loved crowds, lights, high rises, even the traffic. At 35, I had my own home (a few lanes away from my parents), a one-bedroom sunny studio with a balcony, where I grew succulents. I walked to work, to the restaurant, the supermarket, and to the parlor. I was an expert in ordering food, groceries, and even flowers for my mother’s birthday from an mobile app.
But I never gave up on the hills. Every year, I would escape whatever was troubling me, and spend time getting renewed.
This time, just as I was planning my trip, my cousin Asha called.
“Meghana, did you know that Tatha’s house is now a resort?”
I hadn’t known that. But thanks to the wonders of the internet, I could now look through the pictures of my now restored ancestral home. The room I was born in had been restored, and boasted of crisp cotton sheets, an attached bathroom, and traditional home cooked meals. I booked it for two weeks, with anticipation in my heart.

*

The wooden pillars and the beautiful red oxide floors in my Tatha’s home had been polished till they shone. My bedroom felt strangely familiar, and the copper bathroom utilities made me go back in time I was a little child, running away from my bath. I arrived to a meal of hot rice, a tangy rasam, some fried potato, and some splendid garlic mango pickle. It reminded me so much of my mother, that I actually called her and wept as I described the house that had been in her family for generations.
My room had a view of the blue hills, and I was content sleeping in, getting up to eat fabulous food, and reading from a well-stocked library.
I hardly met the other guests. Most of them would venture out sightseeing, or trekking, but not me.
It was on the third day of my stay, that I met Niren. He was sitting in the library, by the bay window, in a faded denim shirt and jeans, reading To Kill A Mocking Bird (for the 100th time I later learnt). The winter sun’s rays enveloped him in a warm glow, and as he glanced up to smile, I got an impression of warm chocolate brown eyes, and an immensely pleasing nose. His smile disarmed me, and it was easy then to strike a conversation.
Before I knew it, it was lunch time. We shared a table and he suggested items from the menu, which I hadn’t tasted before. He seemed to be so comfortable in these settings, I almost wondered if he, like me had once stayed here.
I mention this to him.
“Emmm”, he said, “Megha (the shortened form of my name I hated, but which coming him seemed normal), I own the place.”

*

If there was anyone who was not a city boy, it was Niren. Over the next few days, I kept bumping into him, both by chance and by choice. Each time, he would show me something new, his organic herb and vegetable garden, the little hen coop at back of the house, his mother’s special groundnut chutney recipe, the little reading alcove. Time spent with him was special, and for the first time in years, I chose to spend my hill time not alone, but with someone. He made me laugh, at the silliest jokes, and he could also discuss with élan, the world, politics, and the joy of eating drumstick sambar for lunch.

As the time neared for me to go back, I knew I would miss this. I would miss the ginger tea he got me when I sat on the porch admiring the roses in the garden, I would miss the food he so carefully ordered for me at lunch, I would miss the evening walk, where he held my hand to ensure I didn’t trip over the bumps on the unruly path. I would miss him.

I was hesitant to ask for his number. We’d not used the phone once in the time I’d spent there, and now to ask, would be to presume so many things. And a city girl and a hill boy, such a romance would bring only tears.

So, when he asked for my number, I was relieved, but also a bit worried. I couldn’t imagine having the same conversations over the phone, would Niren’s jokes seem as funny then? I had done the long-distance relationship before and it had not ended well. And this was not even a relationship. I couldn’t even define what this was. Friendship? It seemed too intimate to be just that. Whatever it was, I was going home, and Niren would stay on.

*

When I was a little girl, I had never dreamed of my life turning out the way it did. You only think, “I’ll grow up, work (my mother worked, and I wanted to wear a crisp cotton saree and march off with a tiffin in my hand, ah childhood dreams are so different from reality), and have a family.”
What I hadn’t predicted, was that I wouldn’t meet anyone I wanted to marry, or who wanted to marry me. The one person who had come close, had broken my heart, and as I continued to hear about marriages full of compromise, and ruin, I think I stopped wanting or hoping for love. Instead I chose to focus on myself.

My life was organized just right. My house was arranged the way I wanted it to be, and I had help, who knew how I needed my coffee (mild, cold, no sugar). My favorite Chinese restaurant knew that my orders needed to be sans mushroom, and my work let me write about travel, what I ate, or even introspect about life and things like that. I had some close friends, several people I could hang out with, my parents lived a few lanes away, and fed me home cooked food once a fortnight (this too I wrote about).
The jigsaw puzzle that was my life, was complete. Where did Niren fit in all of this?

Some mornings, when I got up early, and Niren still slept, I would examine his face. His hair lay in soft curls, which often refused to behave. His eyes were tinged with soft thick lashes, his lips full and kissable, and his nose was Grecian and was my favorite feature.

And as I looked at his face, I would feel a surge of love, lust, and longing, but a part of me always would wonder how long this would last.

*

When you fall into a relationship you were not looking for, whom do you tell?

My best friend? The last time I told Sneha that I still hoped for love, she said, “You are 35, you really think you’ll meet someone?”
I didn’t tell her then, that her words hurt, but it just meant when I started falling for Niren, I didn’t tell her who he really was. “Just friends” was what I said, when we bumped into her at the local Social.

My parents?
If I had told my mother I was dating someone she would have immediately asked for his date of birth, gone to the astrologer, and checked if we were compatible.
His caste, region, and religion would have come second. His parents and family would come third.
I bet the thought that I would dare to sleep with him, without the 3-pound gold mangalsutra around my neck would be an idea alien to her. She’d mostly stop talking to me, if I told her that he stayed over when he visited.
My father would have checked for Niren’s job, wondered why he left a perfectly respectable one at a MNC, and opened a resort, and if he was solvent enough to take care of me. That I was fully capable of taking care of myself would be something that neither he nor my mother would understand.
So, well, I didn’t tell them.
I wasn’t really trying to hide anything (apart from his clothes and toiletries, which I shoved behind mine. My mother told me my deo smelt too masculine, and I just thanked the powers above that she thought it was my deo.)

But I wasn’t saying much either.

The only person who knew, was my help, and Radha akka only asked Niren how he liked his coffee, and then smiled when he said, “filter coffee with sugar”.

*

It was strange this relationship thing. I’d thought I knew about heartbreak, and relationships. With Niren, I realized there was so much more to discover. Some days we thought and acted was so differently, that it seemed like a ravine separated us; some days we thought the same things, felt the same way, like we were two identical units

I learnt to make space for his roses, among my cacti, he learnt to sleep on the right side of the bed, we learnt to use technology on the days we spent apart. It was more difficult than I had imagined it to be; it was easier than I had thought it would be.

And while, I had hidden all traces of Niren from my life (except Radha akka, who must be discussing my debauchery among the other helpers with glee), he had told his friends, his cousins, and though I didn’t know it then, he’d even told his very conservative parents.

I was at the resort (where to Niren’s staff, I was the “akka” to his “anna”) writing my latest travel piece, when Manju, a member of the housekeeping staff who often took care of me, called me on the intercom.

“Amma is in the dining room and is asking for you” was all she said.

Why was my amma here! I panicked, my hands went cold. How had they come to know that I was here? Did they know about Niren and me? Had Radha akka spilled the beans?

I hurried to the dining room, but the lady who sat there, in a Mysore silk saree, and an elegant bun, was not my mother. She was Niren’s.

*

When I was in my early twenties, and my friends were getting married left, right and center (arranged of course!), I would often wake up from these nightmares, where in very “Shankarabharanam” style (an old classical music-based movie that my parents loved) I would be singing in front of the prospective groom and his family.

I would be dressed in a kanjivaram, flowers in my hair, and I would make a mistake in the sruthi (or something, I learnt classical music because my mother was interested in it, by the time I appreciated those lessons I was too old to really improve my singing). If you’ve seen the movie, the bride sings the stanza in the wrong tune and is reprimanded by her father, in mine, for some reason that reprimand came from my prospective mother in law, and I would get up gasping with fright and vowing never to marry.

Even in my wildest dreams, I hadn’t anticipated meeting my boyfriend’s mother like this. I was wearing Niren’s University T-shirt, his shorts, and my hair, which had been massaged lovingly with coconut oil by Manju that morning, hung in a gloopy mess.

Niren’s mother looked at me, her eyes (so much like Niren’s!) twinkled mischievously and her lips twisted in a smile, as she in one glance, recognized my clothes.

I wanted to disappear into the earth. Where was Niren? Where were men when you wanted them around!

As if reading my mind, she said, “Niren never gets you home, so I thought I’d visit instead. Come, let’s sit.”

Manju appeared from nowhere, with coffee, and Niren’s mother and I sat down at the dining table.

“I’ve got this for you” she said, pointing to a cloth bag on the table. “We usually give the girls in the family something for Deepawali, and I thought I would give it to you when you are visiting.”

I hesitantly opened the bag, as her words sank in. She knew about me? Niren had told her? And had she just called me a “girl in the family”?

In it was a beautiful block print material, in shades of beige and blue, colors I was partial to.

“There are also some snacks and sweets in this bag”, she said, pointing to the murukku, chakli, and mysore pak she had packed, “I know you are busy with work, and it’s nice to have something to munch on.”

She asked me about work, and about how I liked the resort. The whole time I felt I was in my dream, only here was someone who was the exact opposite of the typical mother in law. And over the half an hour that I spoke to her, I began to feel I knew her. To say Niren was like his mother, was an understatement. The resemblance in features and style was quite strong.

She talked about how she wrote in her mother tongue, and about how she enjoyed reading a few of my articles. Throughout our conversation, there was never a moment I felt bored, or judged. She talked about Niren, but more in the context of me, which left me feeling rather pleased.

When she got up to leave, she said, “This time, before you leave, come and visit.”

“And do give this to Niren, he asked me to collect it” she said thrusting a small pouch in my hand.

As I waved goodbye to her, I held onto to that cloth pouch, and my fingers involuntarily examined the shape of the object it held. I almost dropped it when I realized what was in there.

It was a ring.

*

Niren

I was the youngest of my parent’s brood, which is why I suppose they had no expectations from me.

My brother stayed abroad, my sister in the nearby town, and only I, the one my parents had no expectations from, stayed near them.

I had always been close to my mother, I resembled her quite a bit, and staying near them meant that she visited often, cleared up after me (which I didn’t want!), and took active interest in my love life (which was very embarrassing).

I had always thought of my parents as traditional. They followed quiet strictly the rites of their religion, wore traditional clothes, fasted on appointed day, lit lamps, and cooked elaborate festive meals. But as I grew older, I recognized in them a flexibility that wasn’t always there in people who appeared to be modern.

As my father told me once, “We want you to be happy. I know you don’t believe in the same things as we do, but as long as you don’t cause harm to anyone, do as you please”

So, it was easy to tell them about Meghana. My mother had already guessed something was in the air, because of my frequent trips to the city, and because she said she hadn’t seen me happier in a decade.

The truth is, I had never imagined I would ever find someone who complemented and contrasted me. I thought I knew it all, and then Meghana arrived, on one sunny day, at the resort.

She was funny, affectionate, and had an ability to make you feel comfortable. When she spoke about her writing, I recognized a passion that mirrored mine (though mine was for organic living). Her eyes were as dark as the night, her smile welcoming, and her hair, which fell to her hip in soft waves, made my heart race.

I came home late that night and had expected to find her fast asleep. But she was awake and waiting.

In the past two years, I had learnt to read her immensely mobile face.

So, I knew something was brewing.

“Still awake?” I said, slipping into bed, beside her.

“Your mom came visiting, yesterday” she said.

Meghana 

Niren, was as expected,  nonchalant about the fact his mother visited. When I told him  I had looked like an oily rag, he laughed.

“And she gave me this” I said as I hand him the pouch. I’d resisted all temptation to open it.

“Ah finally!” Niren said, opening it, as I waited with bated breath. I’d been thinking about this the whole day. And the worst thing? I was not sure if I wanted him to propose, or not (No, actually I didn’t know if I wanted to accept or not, or wait—I was very confused.) I’d grown up on chick lit, and romantic movies, a diamond ring had always been a part of the equation.

It was a silver ring. With a garnet. And the moment I saw it, I was 5 again. I felt wrapped in a memory of  a sunny morning, in this very same house, sitting on my grandfather’s lap, examining his ring. His silver garnet ring. The one that Niren now held. I remembered telling Niren about it some time ago.

“Where did you get this?”

“I bought the house from the man your Mama had sold it to. He hadn’t stayed here at all, it was still in the same condition that it was sold in. I had the house professionally cleaned, and we found this ring, wedged in between the arms of the long-armed chair that was left in the verandah. I wanted to give it to the owner, but he’d left the country by then. I somehow held on to it. When you told me the story last week, I knew it should be yours, so I had it polished.”

As I slipped on the cold silver ring, and I gazed into the eyes of the man, I realized I loved. I also realized he loved me more. And whatever this was, fate, destiny, or serendipity, had brought us here.

Outside the cock crowed, it was almost day break, and as we settled in, I suddenly knew that the future was clearer than it had been when I woke up.

20 years have passed since that morning when I recognized that I loved Niren. It was an admission that had taken more than two years, though I supposed I had loved him from the day he turned up at my doorstep, a week after I left the resort. My fears had overshadowed my love, but not anymore.

I still wear the silver ring with the garnet. Most people ask me if I wouldn’t rather have a diamond. I tell them, I already have a diamond, I am married to him.