Where Love Is

I had no inclination to write about the love story of Satish, when he begged for it. But by the time I resolved to write about him, he had simply vanished, leaving me in the void without a good friend.

  It had all happened in my early thirties, when I used to turn out cart loads of fiction.

  When I recollect Satish now, I cannot help but a tear in my eyes.

  On that day Satish charged into my study. “Rao” he said, panting “don’t disappoint me this time, you must pen the beautiful love story of Sarada and myself.”

  The moment he hopped in, I guessed the purpose of his visit. Satish and Sarada were happily married for five years and since then he had been pestering me to write about their love story. I tried in vain to explain to him many times that a writer needs an impulse from within to produce anything worthwhile.

  “Ish” Satish used to sigh; ‘Rao, whatever you say is Greek and Latin to me. Aren’t many others spinning out boy meets girl stuff.? Our, on the other hand, is a true love story. Can’t you realize the charm of it.?”

  Helping himself to a cup of coffee, Satish resumed, “Rao, do you know what happened the other day? While returning from the office I lost control of my bicycle and hit a scooter. Of course it was a providential escape and I escaped with minor bruises. I got the bruises dressed up at a clinic and  went home. Believe it or not, when Sarada saw my bandaged arms and forehead, she shrieked and fainted. I bet Rao, any other woman in her place would have been just worried for a while. That’s all. But great love only can cause a terrible reaction as Sarada’s. Rao, will you accept now that my Sarada loves me with all her heart and soul? In what way is our love inferior to that of Romeo and Juliet and Laila and Majnu?”

  His tone was charged with emotion. But for me they seemed just man and wife devoted to each other, like many other couples. Nothing more than that. But for fear of losing his friendship, I did not tell Satish how I felt. So I said soothingly, “Satish, right now I am working on a novel. On finishing it, I will think about your story definitely.”

  Later he was transferred to Delhi. When I accompanied him to the station to see him off, he entreated me again to take up his story. I smiled and assured him.

  Years passed by. Meanwhile the letters which I used to receive from him once in a fortnight gradually ceased. On my part, I also forgot Satish and the story I promised to him. Meanwhile  I suffered severe setbacks in my writing career as publishers refused to publish my works, complaining that they were stereotyped. 

  But in due course of time the wheel of fortune turned in my favor again. I caught the attention of the public with a classical novel and won the Academy award for the same. I left for Delhi to receive the award.

  On my way back, when the train halted at Bitragunta, a man in shabby clothes and a long beard got into the compartment and sat opposite to me. He put the suitcase on his lap and began to drum on it. “Love is illusory,” he muttered under his breath. Suddenly his eyes were fixed on mine. “Hello Rao,” he said.

  I stared at the unfamiliar figure and it took me a good minute to recognize the emaciated, careworn man as Satish. “Satish, It is you.” I cried.. “Where were you all these years?”

  For a while he did not speak. Then he began to talk as if talking to himself. “Rao,”he said, “life is like a detective story with a lot of suspense in it. You do not know what will happen the next moment.”

  He stroked at his unkempt beard and gave a little laugh. “Last year when I was in Delhi, on a fine sunny evening I was sitting with Sarada with a cup of coffee in our garden. “Honey,” Sarada said, sipping at the tea, before I had met you and married you I thought that my parents were everything to me, But now”she added looking into my eyes adoringly, “It is you, you only what means everything to me. You’re my world. There is nothing else.”

  I was overwhelmed with love for her. I held her tight in my arms and kissed her again and again.  Suddenly we heard a hissing sound. We were startled and got up. A white king cobra of about six feet was standing on its tail with a raised hood. It was ready to strike. I let a cold sweat run all over my body. I was perplexed for a while. But soon I was myself and threw the table cloth on the dangerous hood of the serpent.  As luck would have it, a snake charmer was passing by. I gave him ten rupees. He enticed the snake into his basket and took it away. 

  When it was all over I looked around for Sarada. I thought that she was by my side all the while. But she was not there. She had locked herself in the house safely and came out only after I had convinced her that the snake was not there any more. Then she came out. She hugged me and kissed,”Honey,”she said, “how fortunate I am! God heard my prayers. You’re saved.”

  I disengaged myself from her serpentine embrace. I wished I hugged the cobra instead. I thought that at the moment of impending death she was by my side. But she was not.It was a deadly shock for me from which I could not get over forever.

  The train stopped at an outer signal near Secunderabad station.

  I saw nothing unusual in what Sarada had done. Instead I pitied Satish for having not realized the basic instinct of human nature. When death stares straight into your eyes, self preservation comes first and every other thing is secondary. I closed my eyes and pondered for a while as to how to explain to Satish this elementary truth in a delicate way.

  When I opened my eyes, the seat opposite to me was vacant; Satish was no longer there. Through the window I saw Satish disappear into the darkness gradually. Looking at his diminishing figure, I muttered to myself that I must write about Satish and this is it.