The Awakening

Dr. Siddhartha Roy, the famous physician at the Indian Institute of Medical Sciences, New Delhi, had just gone through the ritual of a bath. And when he gobbled up a few morsels, his estranged wife Kranti, looked at him disapprovingly—she derided his being in a sick-hurry even on a holiday. To her chagrin, she failed to engage him in a talk—he would simply nod to convey an ambiguous yes or no to her harangue. She was interested only in things mundane which her husband abhorred.

Siddhartha, an intuitive talker, could converse for hours on end, but only in the company of those who had the mind of his mould. Unfortunately for him, Kranti was a diminutive—nowhere near his tall scholarly stature. Even after being with her husband for over two decades, she was unable to fathom his heart and probe the goings-on in its inner recesses. Siddhartha knew that she was incapable of it, as for that one had to be in love—and love, it was something alien to her. She had only a concern for him and that too for her own well-being.

"Concern is a need based and utterly selfish relation. All worldly relations are concern based and love is a causality of such relations." Siddhartha mused to himself.

In fact, it was the tragedy of decayed biological relations and not love which would compel Kranti to travel all the way from Kolkata to Delhi, twice or thrice a year, to see her son, Manav. Separated from her husband and son, she had preferred staying in Kolkata for the last five years and supported her kin by plundering Siddhartha. Manav, who was studying law and stayed with his father, would go to Kolkata in vacation to be with his mother. So, far all purposes, Roys were divorced, though not legally. But Siddhartha was still a prey to Kranti's wiles—she was a wretched extortionist.

All of a sudden, Siddhartha's expressionless dull face lit up at the very thought of someone who loved him and was selfless. His love for her too was no less—in her love, he found solace in his otherwise painful and miserable existence. In fact, he was impatiently waiting for her—she was expected to deliver a note resolving some of his queries addressed to her earlier. Those queries pertained to her feelings for him, her own well-being and her whereabouts once she left Delhi, may be not to meet him that frequently—may be not to meet at all. The most sought-after query, though absurd at the physical plane, was concerning her being with him in case they were reborn—Siddhartha firmly believed in the continuity of mind through reincarnations. For him, mind never aged nor did it die, it only evolved and matured. He knew for certain that she too shared his belief. In fact, his love for her was born out of matching of their minds. He considered her to be as mentally mature as he was, if not more and that too in spite of an embarrassingly yawning age gap between them. He would never have addressed such puzzles to lesser minds even if he loved them.

Those moments of wait hung very heavy on Siddhartha and were simply killing. Gripped by restlessness, he shuffled inside-outside his room while looking breathlessly at the entrance of his sprawling New Delhi residence. A few minutes had passed the appointed hour and it added to his misery as she was known to be punctual to the proverbial tick of the clock. He was awfully worried and cursed himself for putting her into such a gauche and inconvenient situation. Anybody else in her quandary would simply have shuddered at the very thought of answering such a riddle regarding their relationship in the next birth or might have even objected to that. But their relation was beyond all the relations this world knew of. More so, he knew that his boon companion was no ordinary lady—she was gutsy, intelligent and of a matching mental level. She was capable enough to handle such situations. But more than anything else, she was in love with him and he too with her, much more deeply. He was confident that it was their love which would bring her to him as she had not learnt to say no to him.

Time seemed to have frozen for Siddhartha. Nothing mattered more to him than the reply to his poser regarding the relationship she would like to be with him in case they were reborn. It was her reply which might place their love in a proper perspective—a perspective he had failed to visualise so far. For him, his love for her oozed out of an abundant affection he had for her. He recalled as to how deeply he loved his Dadi Maa. She also loved him no less and that too without any expectation. He was also in love with his parents, his siblings and his son. And for his wife, he was nothing more than a money-churning machine. But his loved one was different from all those relations. Somewhere in the recesses of his heart was enshrined his love for her, a love which was unusually intense, very pure, very selfless, very spiritual and that too for someone not related to him. He adored and worshipped that love. Their love was the love of souls and not the least fleshly—they had never even touched each other. Though their bodies lived far apart, in minds they were always united. Both felt the same way. In spite of all that, he was baffled and was unable to define his love for her. What kind of love was that? She might unravel the mystery by answering his call. But all the same, he desired to be with her for ages, relationship notwithstanding. She could be a loving daughter, a caring and an affectionate mother and what not. How did it matter to him if he were to be born to her as her son or even if he fathered her? It was her proximity, her company and above all her love for him that mattered. He could not imagine his life without her love, a love the kind of which none else could give him.

In fact, biological relations had long lost their meaning to Siddhartha. It was the intensity and purity of relations that mattered to him the most. He laughed at himself when he imagined what if she preferred to be his Dadi Maa. So what—he would sit in her lap and relish its warmth. In fact, whatever relation he imagined with her, she fitted into that so well as that would seem to be the only befitting relation between them. He held that love was the binding force in relations and it was with love only that relations became beautifully meaningful.

Inundated with feelings for his love, Siddhartha's mind roamed back to that eventful day when she was introduced to him by a colleague as Miss Bharti Anand who had joined a prestigious hospital in Delhi as a psychiatrist. Strangely enough, their eyes had then remained glued and did not blink for long while looking longingly at each other. Perhaps, they had been discovering themselves. On occasions, when she visited Siddhartha accompanied by her parents, Kranti would also join, but only to snoop on them. In fact, she hated them like all others who loved Siddhartha. But her ire was especially focussed on Bharti. Her fault—she was extraordinarily charming, well-mannered and articulate. She had inquisitive looks which could size up anybody, and Kranti was damn scared of those looks. Whenever Anands wished Roys to visit them, Kranti would cold-shoulder their invite. Thus, Kranti showed them her true colours much earlier than expected. Bharti had also by then understood Siddhartha's predicament—he was in a hostile and rotten company. Without Siddhartha's asking, she too told him about her miserable life—her parents had always been at loggerheads with each other. And that was how their acquaintance steadily grew into mutual admiration and they began confiding in each other.

Whenever depressed, Bharti would seek Siddhartha's company who too found solace in talking to her. Reincarnation, karma, death and what follows after death would be at the centre of their discussions. And then there were those eternal questions crying for answers:

"How does soul leave the body at the time of death, and then occupy another body?"

"How does one know the soul?"

"Where do the impressions stored in the mind from the previous lives go?"

"Is life born from matter or matter is generated from life?"

As they discussed everything under the sun, it was not unexpected when one evening Bharti asked,

'Sir, what is love?'

Siddhartha gently smiled at the way she addressed him.

'Why call me sir—am I in any way more enlightened than you are in matters spiritual? What if I happen to know a bit more about medicine? Simply Siddhartha would do. We're companions in our journey to appreciate the mysteries of life.'

Bharti was touched by his humility and was thrilled to be in the company of a saintly intellectual. But her heart fluttered when she recalled her query: Love?

"Am I in love with him?" she mused.

When Siddhartha found her lost in thoughts, he awakened her,

'Where are you, my friend? Just listen. All of us are creation of love, I am love, you are love and so are our souls. And then, it is the force of this love that has brought us together. Love, in fact, is the essence of all creation. In love, matter is exalted to the level of spirit. And then love is also a complete surrender to the object we love and worship. But sadly enough, love and lust have now become synonymous. Lust is a sin. In love, we worship the object of our love, but in lust, it becomes an object of our gratification where life is not considered holy.'

Bharti was enthralled—her musing had been justified. From that moment onwards, Siddhartha had become an object of worship and love for her. That meeting became momentous because it steered the course of their relation.

But on that very fateful evening, when Kranti found Siddhartha and Bharti closeted in the study for that long, she became suspicious. While eavesdropping on their conversation, when she heard Siddhartha say "love", she was stung. For her, love meant only sex—being in bed with somebody. She angrily barged into the study and cried hoarse,

'This is what you do here? Don't you feel ashamed talking about love to this young lady? Look at your age and status!'

Siddhartha was angry, but reined himself—he did not want Bharti to be embarrassed anymore. He only discontinued the dialogue. And Bharti quietly extricated herself from that husband-wife brawl, for years she had been a daily witness to such fireworks in her own home.

But there was no stopping Kranti and she kept on blurting,

'Remember, she's a woman of easy virtue and wears her heart on her sleeve—it's just a matter of asking. She's charming and smart enough to entice any man with her wiles anytime to further her interests. Have you ever thought that she comes here to advertise her proximity to you? Will you stop her or else I ...?'

Siddhartha had learnt long back that reasoning and Kranti did not go the same way. More so, she was here for money only—once she got it, she would rush back to Kolkata, just like on all earlier occasions.

'Kranti, let me talk about you—you're upset over the delay. The money you asked for is in your almirah. I hope you're now comfortable.' Siddhartha wanted to get rid of her obnoxious presence.

Kranti marched out triumphantly, warning, 'Enjoy your new found love. I'm leaving tonight, but remember, she'll sully your name and ruin you.'

And after that episode, Bharti had become an object of love for him. And since then he had been trying to decipher that love.

When Siddartha was lost in myriad thoughts, the doorbell buzzed. Bharti had arrived. While handing over the note, she looked into his eyes as if conveying to him that she cared for him the same way he cared for her. He also looked into her eyes conveying his gratitude for ridding him of that wait—a wait that had seemed to be of centuries a few moments ago. Both knew the futility of exchanging words and just gazed at each other. Bharti had left. Kranti's suspicious nature inhibited Siddhartha from asking Bharti to be with him at that crucial juncture when he would be going through her note. It would have been enthralling for both to see their love taking a definition. But how did it matter as Bharti who had penned that note, knew that its contents would electrify her love—Siddhartha. He on his part had already read the message flashed by her eyes when she parted. The message was loud and clear—it had only to be seen in her written words. But still he was impatient as each written word of Bharti had always been spellbinding and kept on ringing in his ears for a long time. She was a master par excellence when it came to expressing herself cogently. Of course, her eyes spoke to him more explicitly than the written words did. In spite of all this, his heart throbbed when he opened the note.

Bharti was candid as usual when she professed,

'I love you because you're the only one I rely upon. You've never betrayed my trust and sure you'll never do. You understand me in pain—nobody else can do better than you. Your words act like a balm on my sore wounds and enrich my soul—you're my comforting pillow. Above all, my reason for loving you is that you love me too. I wonder whether I deserve your love or not.'

Siddhartha was overwhelmed by such intense feelings of love she had for him. Nobody ever loved and trusted him like that. He started musing,

"Sure my love, you deserve much more than I've given you so far as you're my soul. Your love and trust are locked very safely in my heart. Nobody can ever reach there—no, not even me. Your pain is mine. I cry in solitude when I recall your beautiful eyes welled up in tears. I yearn to take you in my arms and let these tears dribble on my lips to quench the thirst of my soul—leaving your eyes sparklingly beautiful and shining as ever. But I'm helpless. These tears roll down your pink cheeks and then fall as pearls on the ground. None except me know their worth."

Siddhartha was sad as he could do nothing to alleviate the pain of his love. But as he raced through that beautifully worded note, he was overjoyed to discover when Bharti revealed that,

'I've never loved anyone so intensely. It's a kind of love which is beyond definition—a love which can never die or even fade away with time. It'll stay forever even after I die.'

Siddhartha pined for Bharti's company at that moment more than ever before. Had she been with him, he would have embraced that beautiful human being, lifted her face and asked her to look into his eyes which would then seem to say,

"My love, I too have not loved anybody the way I've loved you. I could only not express it. You proved to be more courageous than I and that you are. But my dear, our love is beyond life and death. We have loved each other since ages and so shall we do for ages to come—we are soulmates. Our love is eternal and it will blossom further—so let us never think of its fading away. It's the physical love that fades and eventually vanishes. Spiritual love is fragrant till eternity. I'm only trying to seek a definition of this love between us. We've been changing through ages but love between us in its essence has always remained steadfastly the same."

With eyes wet for his suffering soulmate to whom he could not even offer a sip of water—she had come all the way in scorching heat, Siddhartha picked up the thread where Bharti went on to assure him of her whereabouts once she left Delhi forever.

'Of course, I'll keep in touch with you. Wherever and in whatever condition I am, you'll be the first to know about me.'

Siddhartha paused for a moment and mumbled,

"My love, you talk of keeping in touch with me only in this birth. But we had always been together in the past since times immemorial. We'll be so in future for ages. We're the souls in love. Our transcendent love defies space and time."

As Siddhartha went ahead into the note, he found Bharti complimenting him,

'The way you consider me to be the most beautiful creature on earth, I cherish you to be the most beautiful soul in the whole universe as you are not only beautiful in your thoughts but in your deeds as well.'