Love Will Find a Way
ANURAG GARG
LOVE WILL FIND A WAY
PENGUIN BOOKS
PENGUIN BOOKS
Contents
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Follow Penguin
Copyright
PENGUIN METRO READS
LOVE WILL FIND A WAY
Anurag Garg is an engineering graduate and works in the IT industry. He’s the author of two national bestselling novels, A Half-Baked Love Story and Love . . . Not for Sale. He loves to be close to nature and believes in creating circles of love and service around him. He lives in Delhi with his family.
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‘Once you choose love, anything is possible.’
Love you, Mom and Dad!
To Gitanjali,
I don’t know if there’s anything beyond right and wrong.
What I do know is that I want to be with you.
I love you, beyond forever!
Prologue
10 July 2016
New Delhi Railway Station
As soon as the delayed train reached the platform, passengers rushed to board. We quickened our pace as clouds began to gather in the sky. Looking up, I saw insidious grey encroaching on the blue expanse. The city was ready to welcome its first rain.
As the first few drops fell, we entered the carriage along with the other disgruntled passengers. When we found our berth, Gitanjali grabbed the window seat, as always, and asked me to buy a bottle of water from one of the stalls in the platform after placing our luggage in the overhead bin. I gave her an exasperated look. She looked outside as raindrops began to trickle down the window pane. She was wearing a pair of skinny black jeans and a turquoise T-shirt. Her warm chestnut hair rested on her neck and her long eyelashes swept alluringly against her rouged cheeks, from time to time.
‘Get me a packet of chips, too.’ She thoroughly enjoyed it when I catered to her every need, especially when we were on vacation. Three years into our relationship and we still bickered like teenagers! I handed her the requested goods while she plugged in her headphones.
I rummaged through my bag to find my neck pillow and settled down with my Saadat Hasan Manto book as the train pulled out of the station.
There was a couple with two children in the seats next to us. We exchanged smiles as a man selling tea came our way. They attempted to engage me in small talk even though I tried to keep to myself and buried my head in my book. Gitanjali, however, adores making conversation. With her legs folded under her and her hands gesturing wildly, her face glows when she narrates one of her tales. She began talking to the couple and playing with the kids. It made me immeasurably happy seeing her bright eyes and animated smile.
The TTE came to check our tickets.
‘They’re on your phone,’ I said to her, as she continued playing with the little boy.
‘No, they’re not with me, Anurag,’ she said, her attention focused on playfully tickling the boy, oblivious to the TTE who was breathing down our necks. She turned to me when the little boy suddenly started crying.
‘Were you asking for the tickets?’ she asked as she showed the TTE the IRCTC message on her phone. I heaved a sigh and said, ‘Thank you, madam!’ Gitanjali just smiled and began consoling the wailing kid. She had this uncanny ability to comfort those around her.
Just as the train left the Anand Vihar station, I went to the toilet to change into comfortable clothes for the long journey ahead since mine were slightly wet from the rain. On returning to our compartment, I saw a beautiful middle-aged woman sitting there, dressed in a floral knee-length kurta and smart trousers. I presumed she had boarded at Anand Vihar. The woman wore spectacles and had green eyes, just like Gitanjali. As she smiled at me, I was struck by an eerie feeling, as though I somehow knew her.
Most of the passengers were going to their home towns for the summer vacations, whereas some of them, like us, were going to Nainital on holiday. We had to get off the train at Haldwani, which was the closest town to Nainital, from where we had to take a taxi or bus to reach the hill station. I gazed at the scenic vistas as the train trundled through the countryside.
In Amroha, we saw farmers harvesting crops and cows grazing in the paddy fields. Little huts made of bamboo and mud dotted the scenes that rushed by. Gitanjali nudged me as I wrote down the plot points for my next book.
‘Have you decided on the theme of the story?’ she inquired loudly.
‘Yes, I’ve been thinking about something . . . but I’m not sure. I want my character’s motives and emotions to be driven by some sort of psychological disorder.’ My words drew the attention of the beautiful woman and she looked up curiously from her book.
‘I don’t know, Gitanjali. I can’t think any more. I am out of ideas,’ I said, frustrated, looking out of the window, hoping the trip to Nainital might clear my mind. A couple of minutes passed as we continued discussing the plot. The woman opposite us occasionally glanced at us, but remained reticent.
‘I just don’t know how to take my idea further,’ I said.
‘Perhaps I could tell you a story?’ The woman finally broke her silence. Her voice had an enchanting inflection.
I wondered if I should squander my time listening to her story but, perhaps, this was the right time, the right place and these were the right people to help me figure out my book. I believe that a story often chooses its writer.
‘Yes, please,’ Gitanjali gleefully agreed on my behalf.
‘This is not a conventional story. It deals with more than just a disorder. It deals with discovering buried secrets, lost relationships and the power of love,’ she said, putting her book aside.
‘That sounds fantastic! I mean, why not? We want to hear your story for sure,’ Gitanjali exclaimed. She lived for serendipitous moments such as these.
‘It might take a good while, perhaps the next few hours, till we reach Haldwani,’ the woman cautioned. Her low voice was like that of a midnight radio jockey. She was so captivating that we couldn’t say no to her.
Gitanjali folded her legs under her and cupped her chin. I looked at the woman who had briefly closed her eyes. The train seemed hushed now. The sky morphed from grey to a burnt orange, piercing the rivers and streams that ribboned through the forests outside. The woman sighed and began to speak.
1
7 December 2011
New Delhi
Everything looked and sounded unreal. Nothing was as it should be. That’s what I wanted, to be alone with myself in another world where the truth was untrue and life could hide from itself.
As Madhav read these lines, sipping the last of the whisky in his glass, he wryly thought about how these words had seemed more tangible earlier. He was a tall, fine-looking man with dark brown hair and eyes that had the startling clarity of a mountain stream. His features were sharply defined, especially his lips, which at the moment eagerly sought the alcohol.
It was the time of the night when the dark turns oppressive. A dimly lit lamp in his cosy room illuminated the tiny raindrops on his window. The cold moon was peeking through the clouds, barely discernible in the tar-black sky. Other than the petrichor emanating from the grass outside, he could only smell the whisky on his breath. He had been trying to write a collection of poems for four years now, a glaringly futile endeavour. He was stagnating in an abyss of alcohol and self-loathing.
Staring at the calm face of the Buddha on his wall, Madhav felt a violent urge rise up inside him.
‘I cannot write.’ He told himself this every other night. The last time he had written a somewhat meaningful poem was ten years ago. He attributed the present success of his poetry blog to the trending misanthropy among the angsty youth. Moreover, it probably became popular because the blog’s name was, almost absurdly, Love Makes Me Angry. He never thought he would feel this kind of loneliness despite having hundreds of Facebook followers. But he did.
He had been a happy-go-lucky person once. Years ago, he’d enjoyed the company of his friends and family. But the suppressed itch of mistrust and insecurity had destroyed his will to socialize and connect with the world. He was still talkative and engaging but inherently wary of revealing his true views to anyone. There was something else, something strange he could feel in himself but could not express.
Many regarded his mood swings and bitterness merely as symptoms of his millennial angst. But that did not begin to compare with his daily self-inflicted torture of goading his reflection in the mirror, reiterating his own worthlessness. He would then refuse to reply to anyone’s texts, avoid nights out and conversation, preferring to wallow instead, convinced everyone was better off in his absence.
Immersed in the memories of his past, he went through his e-mails and found one response to his poetry submission.
Dear Madhav Mehra,
We hope you’re doing well. We read your synopsis and unfortunately it doesn’t fit our publication criteria. We wish you the best for your future projects.
Another publisher had rejected him. Well, he was used to it by now. A feeling of loneliness plagued his every waking moment. It was this that blurred his thought, rendered his creativity impotent and saturated his soul. It was present when people lauded his achievements at parties. The only questions that echoed in the twenty-five-year-old’s mind were, ‘Who is Madhav? What does he actually want to achieve? What led to this state?’
He read another e-mail.
Hey, Madhav! I love your poems. I was crying by the end of it. I feel like I’m stuck in this vicious cycle too.
Such e-mails and messages made him shudder. There were thousands of them and they dogged his thoughts even though he tried to ignore these strangers’ attempts to resonate with his art.
He poured some more whisky into his glass, and tried to empty his mind. He played some Bob Marley as the alcohol’s familiar burn began to overtake his senses.
He closed his eyes, his lids weighing down heavily. Something was consuming his thoughts, something he had never shared with anyone.
He’d recently moved into a room on the terrace of his family’s house. He had just finished the last semester of MBA from Delhi College of Management Studies after completing his graduation from an engineering college, where he was the university topper. Companies had started visiting the campus and he was supposed to suit up for an interview with a big marketing firm. He went through the guidelines he had received from the person in charge of training and placement.
He couldn’t find a reason to stay awake. No words, no friends, nothing except those fan mails and a nagging girlfriend.
He went out on to the terrace and looked at the sky exhaling its last few spurts of rain before the onslaught of the Delhi winter. He gazed upwards, but could not see any stars.
He returned to his room, gulped down another glass of whisky and stood in front of the mirror placed in a corner of his room; the only thing that he would talk to at night. He stared at his face, framed by thick black-rimmed spectacles. His vision started to blur. He realized with a slight jolt that he’d become markedly lean and pale. The image became hazier. He placed his hand on the mirror and slowly caressed the bearded cheek in his reflection.
‘How are you?’ he asked the image.
Suddenly he saw someone else in the mirror. ‘Please save me, Madhav,’ said the image. Madhav jerked back, terrified, and fell to the floor. He stood up and looked at the mirror. The image was erect and staring at him. He tried to speak, despite his swollen tongue.
‘Why are you here?’
‘Because I will always be with you.’
‘Please leave me alone, please . . . please,’ he said to himself, hunched on the floor, until the whisky took its toll and he fell asleep. His mother, who later came to check on him, peeked through the keyhole and found him lying on the floor.
Madhav woke up the next morning to the sound of the housemaid shouting. ‘A hundred times I’ve told him not to shove the garbage behind his bed. He’s completely out of control,’ she complained to Madhav’s mother. Snigdha Mehra, Madhav’s mother, was a housewife. She used to be a banker like her husband, but being in the same office had created friction between the couple and so she eventually quit. Madhav’s parents had sent him and his elder sister, Vihana, to different boarding schools when they were quite young. Somehow, even on their return to Delhi, the family had never really reconciled as a whole. They lived under the same roof, struggling with each other, every single day.
His mother placed his breakfast on the table in his room and left. Last night had been his parents’ anniversary. He hadn’t attended the family dinner, choosing, instead, to lock himself in this room, as he had done so often these past few months.
Madhav realized he’d forgotten to put the whisky bottle back in his cupboard, but his mother had ignored its presence, just as she had ignored all his other misdoings. He once used to be famous for his good looks, dark poems and gold medals. But he had always felt incomplete. And now he repeatedly suffered from blackouts and fits of violent anger. His parents were worried for him as they knew there was something strange about him.
He took a quick shower and slipped into his formal clothes. He picked up all his certificates and put them in a sling bag. Walking towards the door, he felt as though his limbs were being controlled by an unseen puppeteer.
‘I have an interview today,’ Madhav announced to his father, mother and sister who sat at the dining table. His father, Yashveer Mehra, was one of those typical dads who’d spent a lifetime earning money and only realized later in life how much he valued his family. His beautiful sister, Vihana, was a PR manager in the US. She lived abroad with her boyfriend; she was in Delhi for a project.
‘Which company?’ his father asked, his eyes still fixed on the front page of the Economic Times.
‘Ernst & Mark,’ Madhav replied and sat down on the couch. His father adjusted his glasses and looked at him.