“Life happens to us in unusual places, Karishma. I failed twice in marriages. I had to call up an escort service to find a woman who helped me understand that I was looking at women the wrong way.” She still didn’t look up. He continued, “And I am not the only one. You have also found your love in the most unusual place. In a middle-aged man, who has failed at least twice.”

When she still didn’t look up, he got worried. He gently lifted her chin up. “What is bothering your so much? There is absolutely no pressure on you; you know that, don’t you?”

“I feel like such a… gold-digger.”

“What?” he was surprised and then laughed softly, “Some people have a huge ego. You, dear girl, have a huge conscience. And troublesome one too, at that. But I think it is unfair if your conscience troubles come in way of my happiness, Karishma. Don’t you think so?”

“Mr. Sen…”

“Siddhartha…”

“Please listen to me,” she sounded miserable.

“Go ahead.”

“You have done a lot for me. A lot. I don’t want any more favours from you.”

“Unusual conditions too,” he sounded amused, “But what option do I have? I accept.”

“I don’t know what I am doing.”

“Me neither. But we will figure out.”

She smiled for the first time during the exchange, albeit weakly, “You have solved all my problems till now. I guess you will continue to have to do that.”

“Trust me that’s a man’s dream,” he chuckled.

“Mr. Sen…”

“Siddhartha.”

“Siddhartha…” she repeated self-consciously.

“Yeah?”

“Do you have some time now?”

“I have all the time today. What do you want?”

“Take me someplace. Someplace away from all the humbug. I am tired of fighting with myself.”

“You don’t have to go back to work?”

“Not today.”

He smiled, “Will you come home?”

“Home?” she looked uncertain.

“Nobody’s there. Don’t worry. No family, I mean.”

She nodded.

“Let’s go.”

—

Siddhartha led her to his bedroom and excused himself to go to the bathroom. Karishma ambled around the room and found a neatly arranged stack of printed sheets. “At the Fringes by Manthan” the first page read. She turned over. “To K. For bringing back perspective and inspiration in my life” went the second one. She smiled and put the pages back.

When Siddhartha came out, he found her standing at the window, looking out. She had taken off her cotton jacket and was wearing a sleeveless top. He realized that it was the first time he had seen her bare arms. He went up to her and held her from behind. He caressed her shoulders and planted a kiss on one. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

“Karishma. It doesn’t have to be sexual, our relationship,” he said.

“Why not?” she replied.

“Why not, indeed!” he mumbled. He was no longer a client. She was no longer “working”. He bent down and kissed her shoulder again.

She turned around to face him. “But not today.”

“And why not?”

“I am wearing very plain lingerie.”

He was taken aback and then laughed softly on seeing the mischievous glint in her eyes. “So, you will do the lingerie talk and expect me to step back, eh?” He reached over her shoulders and pressed a switch. It drew the blinds on the window and the room grew dark. “The problem is solved now. I can’t see anything.” He slipped his hands inside her top at the back. “But I can feel every bit.”

—

“Why had you stopped writing?” she looked up from the book she was reading and asked suddenly. They were in a bookshop on a book-buying spree.

“My father decided to step away from business. He emotionally and financially blackmailed me into taking up his responsibilities. My first marriage, which was already in shambles, broke down soon afterwards. The peace of mind that it takes to create a fictional world and weave a story in it was lost. And so was the inspiration. I was annoyed with myself, with life.”

“Angst is often a good motivation to write.”

“Didn’t work out for me, I think.”

“Why the pseudonym?”

“When I published the first book, I didn’t want my parents to know. They didn’t approve of such wasteful exercises.”

“Interesting. These days it would almost be impossible to make a name for yourself, if you didn’t always show your face and stay in limelight. Only writing, howsoever well, doesn’t work. Anonymous and pseudonymous writing would be lost, unless you are writing something really scandalous. Like that fake IPL player.”

“Yeah. Our publisher is apprehensive about publishing my new book.”

“Really? They are crazy.”

“They aren’t. Things have changed.”

“It’s getting published, right?” she asked apprehensively.

“They will publish it, yes. They won’t say ‘no’ to me.”

“Thank God!”

“You don’t need it to be published to read it, Karishma,” he smiled at her.

“But I would like to hold a real book in my hands.”

“All right. You shall have it, whether or not they publish it.”

“How?”

“I will have one printed for you.”

She laughed.

“You know it is so good to see you laugh like this. Unburdened.”

“Thank you and thanks to you. I have been meaning to ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“Had you suspected who I was before I had told you?”

“Karishma and Krystal, you mean? Sometimes I did. When I tried to put a face on Karishma who wrote me those letters, I often ended up thinking about you. The first letter had come soon after our first meeting. So, there were reasons to suspect. But somehow I didn’t take the idea seriously.”

“Hmm…”

“You had mentioned that you liked reading, but had never said anything about writing. What about you? Did you suspect?”

“Not even in my wildest dreams. The ruthless industrialist and the sensitive writer. Never!”

“Ruthless, eh?”

“That’s what I had initially thought of you. Did you fire your assistant?”

He laughed, “No. I have often wanted to. But I didn’t.”

“Thank God. Although now that I think of the envelope with address, it feels stupid that I didn’t suspect.”

“Envelope with address?”

“The first time I had met you, there was an envelope address to Manthan with a postbox address in your room. You had said that it must be that of an earlier guest and they didn’t clean the room well.”

“Ah! I had forgotten about it. So, that’s where you got my address from?”

“Yeah. Postbox address was easy to memorize, thankfully. Otherwise I would have cried out when you asked me to throw it in dustbin,” she grinned.

He smiled.

“You had been really wicked in Dalhousie,” she continued.

“Wicked?”

“Even after I told you who I was and you found me with your book, you didn’t tell me about your real identity. Or rather your pseudo identity of a writer. You had, obviously, made the connection, hadn’t you?”

“I had made the connection. But… I wasn’t sure how you would react. I was afraid of embarrassing you. In your world, your favourite author didn’t know anything about the part of your life you were uncomfortable with. I thought I would let it be that way. That’s why I didn’t even try to meet you later and focused on getting your book published. But I couldn’t stop myself from attending the launch function and got caught.”

“Thank God for that.”

“Yeah. Thank God for that.”

“There was something else about Dalhousie…”

“Yes?”

“I wanted to apologize. I had said something about your writing that was… It was audacious of me…”

“About the female characters?”

She nodded, “I shouldn’t have…”

“But you were right. I have been terrible in understanding or choosing women, Karishma. It reflects not only in my writing, but also on my life. My failed relationships…”

“No. You can’t take something I said about your characters to your heart like this. I am not an expert. Neither in writing, nor in relationships.”

“But I am,” he chuckled, “And trust me that you were more correct in your observation than you would ever realize. Anyway. I don’t think we are talking books any longer. If you are done, let’s pay and go to the café.”

She agreed and followed him to the counter and then to the café.

“Why me, Mr. Sen?” she asked after they had ordered coffee and food.

“Siddhartha.”

“Siddhartha,” she smiled sheepishly. She was still not used to calling him by name.

“I could ask the same thing.”

“No. You couldn’t. It’s a no-brainer. You gave me everything I needed. Money, of course. But even more importantly a dignified treatment.”

“I have told you how I felt when I first met you.”

“And why did you meet me again?”

“I think… I got curious. The curiosity of a writer, in a potential character.”

“Hmm…”

“Yeah. It was rather selfish.”

“Come on…”

“And then, slowly, I discovered something more alluring than just a character whose miseries I could portray in a story. I discovered a woman of substance.”

“Woman of substance?” she looked embarrassed, “You are joking.”

“I am not.” He paused and looked at her. When she continued to look unconvinced, he explained, “When you look at yourself, you probably think of a woman who tried to sell her body for money. But what I find there is a woman who accepted her responsibilities, and did whatever it took to fulfill them. She didn’t just whine and crib about her fate, while doing nothing about it. Try to see yourself with my eyes.”

“A liberal writer’s eyes,” she looked away as she mumbled.

“A liberal writer’s point of view isn’t always ridiculous or unreasonable,” he smiled.

“No,” she looked back at him and smiled herself, “I don’t know what would have happened to me, or my self-esteem, if I hadn’t met you.”

“Sooner or later, somewhere, somehow, someone else would have seen the substance that I did. But I would have been pretty unlucky in that case.”

She blushed and her eyes moistened. Siddhartha looked around and found the café rather empty. He lifted her hands to his lips and planted a soft kiss on each of them.

– The End –