Literally in Love

The words still did not come. Words had always been easy for him. The open window let in the bountiful morning sun with the mildly scented air. Mrigank stared outside, not looking anywhere in particular. On the desk, in front of him, lay the few handwritten pages of the manuscript of his current novel.

In the past, Mrigank had invented brilliant characters. The hilarious Bantu De, the very lovable Snigdha Sreemala, the conniving Tejram Tokus and the very evil Kaushik Mistry had all formed the tangy pastis that had been his previous bestseller. He had laughed and cried with them for days. If only it would come back to him now. He wanted to create the magic again. He wanted his character. He wanted her. The only problem was he couldn't see her yet. Unable to write, Mrigank decided to go for a stroll.

He put on a casual khaki brown shirt, and his old, worn out slippers. The road in front of his house was already alive with the chaos of the vegetable market which sprang up there every morning at 7 a.m. He loitered in between the carrots and the tomatoes, as if in tandem with the cow who was busy chewing the spinach leaves strewn on the road. It was then the voice caught his ear. It had the timbre of a drum beat dying away slowly, after being struck with great violence. He looked around, and saw the most alluring face he had ever seen. She was dressed in a faded green cotton saree, and was busy sorting her stock of vegetables into piles.

He watched her for a while. A dark face with eyes which shone with the lights of a wildfire. Her black locks were carelessly tied in a bun behind her head, with a few wayward strands crisscrossing her face. She was humming a song to herself, and every time she parted those mesmeric lips he lost all bearing of space and time. This had to be her. He just knew it. Then as if suddenly snapping out of her spell, he darted back home.

He could not wait to put pen to paper, and draw her out of hiding. He gave her the face he had just seen, and the voice he had just heard. He gave her the purity and freshness of Vermeer's `Girl with a Pearl Earring.' And he gave her the love of Meera. Finally, he christened her Nivedita. When he put his pen down, he could see her, sitting quietly, among his written word. He could feel every tinge of life that radiated off her. He was most certainly in love.

He had only one thought left in him now. "Does she love me too?"