I’m sure even Shah Jahan wouldn’t have felt as excited, had Mumtaz risen from the dead, as I was when I saw him. Imagine meeting him after all these years at the Taj Mahal, symbol of eternal love. For a moment my heart raced like a teenager’s, faster than the car I drive on the LA freeway. I felt as though I were walking on a cloud like in the old hindi movies, where the girl glides across the heavens in a white dress.

He finally reached me, with the same dreamy twinkle and the same naughty smile on his lips. My world stopped dead in its tracks.

“Hi Priya,what a pleasant surprise.” He hugged me quickly and let go before I could react. I looked sideways at my husband, who smiled at me. This startled me. I looked at my kids, who were by now staring at me and the stranger who had hugged their mom.

“Hi Rahul,” he said, shaking hands with my husband.”Nice to meet you.” That shocked me all the more. How did Rahul know Nishant?

“Sorry Priya,” Rahul explained. “I wanted to surprise you, so I didn’t tell you Nishant was coming to meet us here.” Rahul still had a warm smile on his lips and I didn’t know how to react. Here on one side was my dear husband of 10 years and, on the other, my first love, who had disappeared from my life when I was in college, to re-appear only now after 12 long years.
Words appeared to float from Rahul’s mouth, as I stood staring at both of them. The words had sound attached to them ... “Nishant wrote an email to you … I read and deleted … wanted to surprise you …”

But where in the world did Nishant get the email id? From Suhani? From Nupoor? Or was it my best friend Sirish who betrayed me? Betrayal? Wasn’t I happy to see Nishant? Wasn’t I happy to meet him after so many long years, when I had thought of him so many times, wondered about his whereabouts?

No, all I wished was that I had not met him here at the Taj, where memories flowed in abundance along with the Yamuna river.I looked around and wondered how much Rahul knew about my memories.

* * *
Every day for 356 years, the white marble of the Taj has changed colour - from soft gray and yellow to pearly cream and dazzling white. Dawn presents it in delicate shades of pink, while the setting sun washes it in orange. However, the beauty of the Taj reaches its peak on moonlit nights, especially under a full moon. Bathed in silver light, it seems then like a dream
that has just come true. And for people like Nishant and me, 12 long years before, it was indeed fulfilling all our dreams.

Nobody was allowed near the Taj at night. But we were sitting on the banks of the Yamuna and could see the Taj from there. Nishant had his hand in mine, and we gazed more dreamily into each other’s eyes than we looked at the beauty of the Taj.

Nishant always had a perfect gift for me and, this year, it was a small diamond nose-stud. He fitted it and kissed my nose. He enclosed me in his arms and pulled me closer. I snuggled closer and the warmth of his body sent ripples through my veins.

He looked into my eyes and, with his habitually naughty smile, said: “ You are so beautiful, Priya. Please allow me to kiss you.”

I pushed him away, and leapt to my feet. “No way! Come, we must go now. Suhani and Sirish will be waiting for me. I promised to take them for a treat.”

Every year since we had met three years before, we’d come here on my birthday. We would look at the Taj and have romantic talks. Sometimes, I would sing old melodies for him. I was a part-time singer for the TV and that’s where we had met.

Nishant had been a director in the advertising department. When I had finished my shooting of a song one day, I was waiting for Nupoor, my co-star, when a man emerged from one of the many rooms. I forgot that it was rude to stare. It was as if he had stepped from a dream. He was so light on his feet as he walked, and the unfading smile and naughty gleam in his eyes struggled for supremacy.

He stopped in front of me and, as if we were long lost friends, smiled at me and extended his hand. “Hi,” he said, and before I could answer: “You have such a good face.Why don’t you try modelling? You would look fabulous in pictures.”

I was speechless. My dream was broken when Nupoor came out and, with her usual breezy style, pulled me along with her, saying a quick hi and bye to the man. I turned back just once before the door closed and my heart missed a beat. He was staring back at me with that same smile.

* * *

My eyes were red and dry. I felt weak from hours of crying. I had never seen Nishant’s dad or brother before, so I couldn’t recognise them. I suspected, though, that this visit had something to do with me and so I had eavesdropped. I couldn’t hear much: scraps of words and sentences flew to my ear, making it hard for me to decipher their conversation. What was clear was that nothing good would come from this call.

A shiver passed through me. What were they telling my dad? In just half a minute, I discovered why they had come. My dad left the room, spoke first to my mom, then called me to his study. My dad kept this room spic and span and had never allowed us kids to play there. Being summoned there brought home the enormity of my situation.

“Do you know the boy Nishant.” His voice was grave. I nodded.

My father raised his hand and slapped me. I stood holding my cheek as he lifted his hand again. My mother calmed him and sent him from the room. She repeated the question. I stood silently, not meeting her eyes.

She sighed and sank into a chair. “Do you just know him or....” I believe that she feared to complete the sentence. Sometimes, we can feel a rush of blood that brings with it tremendous bravery. In a moment, meekness can turn on its head and show a brave heart in love.

I took a deep breath and, looking into her eyes, said: “We love each other and he promised to marry me.”

I will never forget the echo of the sound of her hand meeting my cheek. My legs lost balance. Many mothers show their concern in the form of tears. But my mom was a strong woman, and I had never seen tears in her eyes, even when I suffered a severe attack of jaundice as a child, and even the doctor had given up hope.

That day though, when her trust in me broke, tears flooded her eyes and wet her bosom. I flung myself at her and pressed my face against her. Only our weeping made a sound in the silence of the house. My dad sat silently in the next room as my mother and I wept.

I never learned exactly what they said, but over the days that passed, I pieced it together from the snatches of talk I heard between my parents. Nishant’s people had found out about us, and planned to send him away to study. They wanted to warn my parents, in case the two of us took some drastic step together.

They gave my proud father a piece of their minds on the matter of controlling girls. When I heard him telling my mom, his shoulders drooped and he dropped his head.

I waited for some sign from Nishant, knowing that even if he was forced to leave me forever, he would still have wanted to say goodbye. I waited until I could not wait any more, until I knew he wasn’t coming.

All the happiness I had felt over our first kiss had been washed by my tears into an uncertain future, where Nishant was “the past”.

* * *

From the day I met Rahul, our moments had been memorable, filled with affection and love. He had a warm smile and caring personality.

Over time, as we moved to California and left India behind us, Nishant became a distant myth. Until now. Here he stood, a hand’s distance from me – the person who had dashed the first love I ever felt, and left me without saying goodbye.

Rahul and the kids were happily talking and laughing with Nishant as they ate their dinner, oblivious of my presence next to them. I was silent, as all my memories with Nishant rushed back and seemed to overshadow the life I had so lovingly built with Rahul and the kids.

Even the best menu of the Oberoi Amarvilas’ could not whet my appetite. I rose, ignored their queries and solicitous questions, and returned to our hotel room. I don’t know how long I stood under the shower, but eventually I heard a knock on the door of the bathroom.

“Priya, Nishant wants to leave. Please make it quick and come down.”

Nishant and Rahul were standing near the entrance of the hotel when I emerged. The kids sat in the lounge chairs and played “Miss Mary Mac”.

“Priya, next time you come to India, you have to come to Hyderabad and let me and my wife host you.” I looked straight into his eyes for a second, searching for any teasing or mockery. There appeared to be only genuine pleasure.

Suddenly, the kids began fighting for reasons known only to them. Rahul excused himself and walked over to them.

“I know that you didn’t like my meeting you or your family …” I didn’t speak, but kept looking at him.

“After my father’s visit to your home, I was in such turmoil, I rushed over to meet you … I should have waited until I was calmer, of course. But I couldn’t wait.”

“But you didn’t …”

“I wasn’t paying attention and … there was an accident. I was in a coma for one long year, Priya. When I awoke, I learned where you’d gone and I went into a depression … I am so sorry for all the agony my father caused your family. I am happy to see that you are happy.”

“Nishant....” I began, when Rahul returned with the kids.

“Okay then,” Nishant said, I’ll make a move, Rahul. Bye kiddos. And Priya … goodbye and take care.” He shook my hand, gave me a quick hug and was gone.

As I gazed through the window on the flight back to the US, I could feel a small smile appear on my lips. I took the paper from my purse, on which Nishant’s number and new email id were written, and tore it into pieces. Now I had my goodbyes right. A forever goodbye!

Copyright © Anita Ayela

Anita Ayela is from India and has been living in the USA for the last eight years. The thesis for her PhD was on Kamala Markandaya’s novels- post colonial social ethos, to be precise. Her Masters was in English Literature and she has seven years of experience teaching English in India as well as in the USA. She writes short stories and poems whenever they come to her. Someday, she would like to become a full time writer, and win a Booker, maybe!