For days Anamika looked inside the postbox. It was to form into a habit. She hadn’t cried since Rajbir left. She didn’t cry when her letter didn’t receive a reply, when the telephone didn’t ring or when the clouds returned and brought memories of childhood’s first rain showers. She didn’t cry when the local theatre screened Mirza Ghalib again. She didn’t cry when she heard the familiar couplets of poignant Urdu poetry played and replayed and embedded in the deepest recesses of her mind.
And what was destiny? An unknown path taken after making a conscious choice? And if I had decided to paint, then why not one person, not two but the world became collectively responsible for my choice as they got to decide whether or not I could paint? I felt as though the world were just a giant accomplice to destiny. And the way towards my future was through an ajar door, open wide enough for me to peek and hope and yet not wide enough for me to see what lay beyond it.
Ravina leaned back on the sofa and sighed. She emptied her glass and stood up for a refill.
“The way I see it, there is no such thing as a real life character,” she said and disappeared into the kitchen to fetch ice. “The mind only has perceptions and could one person’s version ever be the truth?