Dear Karishma,

Writing stories is not like writing exams. There are no model answers against which it can be compared and judged. Deviations from norm do not become wrong in story. The improvements have to come from within you. Only if you feel that a character is not quite there, or an expression is out of place, will you be able to alter the writing to make it better. If someone else has to help you improve, he has to know you first.  We would like to bring objectivity into every damn thing in the world. But objectivity is an illusion; particularly when it comes to stories and writers. Stories cannot be understood separately from their writers.

I just repeat what I said earlier. Keep writing.

Best wishes
Manthan

—

“Good evening, Miss!” Karishma mechanically responded with “Good evening” to the greeting as she hurried out of the school gate. But after a moment she realized that it was an adult voice. So, she stopped and turned around to find a tall, fair man whose smiling blue eyes and mischievous grin were unmistakable. “Akash!”

“How are you, Karishma?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Meeting up and surprising old friends. I am back in India.”

“Wow! That’s great. Listen. I have to leave today. Have an appointment I can’t miss. Can we catch up later?”

“All right. Busy woman! Is your number still the same?”

“Yes. It’s the same.”

“I will call you.”

“Sure. See you.”

—

“You look lost, Krystal.”

“I… I’m sorry. Looks like you were working here,” she looked at the table strewn with several loose sheets of papers.

“Yeah. Sometimes it is important to get away from the humbug of office.”

“I’m sure,” she smiled sweetly.

“Krystal. I don’t know your real name, I don’t know who you are, what you do… It’s not like I can ever find you in this sea of humanity called Mumbai. You can’t possibly invite any risk if you talked about your day with me.”

She chuckled, “What do you want to know about my day?”

“Why were you so lost?”

“Met an old friend. Was thinking about the old days.”

“Let me guess. An old boyfriend?”

She shrugged.

“Do I see some regret there?”

“No regrets. We parted on good terms, with mutual understanding.”

“Right!” he smiled and did not probe further. She had an uncomfortable feeling that he did not believe her. But how did that matter?

—

“So, you are an investment banker now?” Karishma asked, as they sipped coffee sitting in the spacious balcony of Akash’ one-bedroom, but posh apartment. The balcony overlooked swimming pool, which was deserted at that time. The carefully architected greenery in the apartment complex, though not natural, was soothing, even from the dizzying height of the twenty-eighth floor on which Akash stayed.

“Yep. And now even Dad doesn’t tell me to join him in his ball-bearings business.”

Karishma chuckled. That had been Akash’ peeve since college days. His father would hear of nothing other than him joining him in the business. Akash had managed to convince him that an MBA from US would be helpful if he were to join the business. That’s what had kept him away from India for last two years. Now he had come back to join the Mumbai office of one of the big investment firms.

“Why did you come back at all?”

“I missed India.”

“Hmm…”

“And I missed you.”

She laughed self-consciously.

“How is the teaching treating you?” he continued the conversation.

“Fairly well.”

“Are you in touch with other people from college?”

“Some of them, yeah. Don’t get much time to meet up though.”

“We will correct that. I am back now. And I’d host enough parties for people to get together frequently.”

She laughed softly. The evening wore on. Akash did the talking for most part. He related his experiences in the US, narrating them in an entertaining, funny way that was his trademark; that had won her heart four years ago.

When Karishma entered her home that evening, she felt strangely depressed.

—

“Why are you calling me now?” she was furious at Bittu.

“I’m sorry K. I don’t usually do it. But your regular has been insisting that he should meet you today. He doesn’t want a lot of time. I told him you are not available today. But he won’t let me off if I didn’t ask you once.”

“But…”

“Please try, K. He has been good, hasn’t he? He doesn’t even want all three hours. If you are okay, he would meet you over coffee. He will pay the full amount.”

“What time?”

“Six or seven.”

“Fine. I will manage. Where?”

“Same hotel as last time. Coffee shop.”

—

“I’m sorry,” he looked genuinely apologetic, as he discreetly pushed an envelope in her hands.

“What is it? This was unexpected,” her annoyance was evident.

“I know. But I just had to talk to you.”

She nodded.

“Let’s get a table and order some coffee.”

She followed him to a corner table.

“I needed to see you because I am going to be away for four weeks.”

She will have to see other clients!

“Oh!”

But she was not his girlfriend. He didn’t need to inform her.

“I know that this is an odd request. And you do not have to agree to it. But I will make it anyway. Can you… not see… others in the meanwhile?”

Odd was the request! She wasn’t doing it for finding love or a monogamous relationship. She was doing it for money.

“I will pay for those eight days, of course.”

Of course?

Her face coloured. This wasn’t exactly the kind of conversation that you learned how to tackle while growing up. She desperately tried to think of a way to answer him. If he is paying…

“I guess… That should be fine by me. But you really want that?”

“Yes,” he was unhesitant.

“I have to leave now.”

“Yes. But wait…” he opened his briefcase and took out a envelope thicker than usual.

“For next eight meetings,” he said as he handed it to her.

—

Dear Mr. Manthan,

It took me some time to write again. Because your last mail really challenged me and made me think. You said that stories cannot be understood separately from their writers.  That sounds ominous. For the story writers, as well as the readers. If you need to know the writer to understand his stories, a writer would have a very limited audience. And I wonder what I have been doing as a reader till now. I don’t know you. So, is all I have understood of your stories wrong and pointless? Is reading pointless then? If you don’t know the writer, why read the story? And if you do know the writer, why read the story?

Sincerely
Karishma

—

To be continued