A Regency Romance

Lucy Bartlett sat in her box high up at the opera, her eyes fixed delightedly on the stage. Around her people were talking languidly, but she tuned them out (a habit she had formed many years ago) and focused on the tragic story unfolding below. The evil Count Malicio had laid his plan cunningly and the beautiful and innocent Valencia was about to be entangled in his spider web. She leaned forward eagerly as the Count rounded off his song with a chilling chuckle. "Soon she will be mine!" he gloated, disappearing from the stage with a grand flourish of his cloak.

"Are you interested in such predictable tales, Miss Bartlett?" enquired a voice behind her, and Lucy started. So far the grand society ladies and the debonair men had left her alone after addressing conventional remarks to her, but now someone she had probably been introduced to at some dreary ball had come to make meaningless small-talk, and she would be forced to reply with civility, grace and wit. Schooling her expression into the bright, fake welcoming smile she had been taught to assume, she turned to greet her interlocutor.

He looked rather familiar, but she had no memory of being presented to him before. He slipped into the empty chair beside her and surveyed the company in the box opposite, giving her enough time to study his profile closely. He was a fair-headed young man, probably around twenty-seven years of age, she judged, strong-jawed and garbed in a military coat with several badges pinned on. No doubt they had been introduced, or he would not have dared to address her so boldly, but until he chose to reveal his identity, she had to pretend that she knew him. She answered his question with one of her own. "Do you think this plot is predictable? I confess I cannot think what might happen next! Valencia must be rescued, of course, but how Vandermark can do it when he is at the moment drugged and trapped in that huge dungeon I cannot fathom."

He was amused. He had the bright blue eyes that often go with fair hair, and they were now twinkling. "Oh, I could tell you that easily enough. But I won't, " he added quickly as her expression became protesting. "You probably want to find out yourself."

She nodded and wondered how long her visitor would sit beside her. The next scene had already begun, she knew, for though her face was turned politely towards her guest she could hear Valencia's sweet voice lifted in a lilting melody as she walked among the corn grain without any suspicion of the malevolent plans being laid for her.

Her unknown visitor, though, almost as if he had read her mind, civilly asked her to continue watching her opera and not mind him. "I'll gain my pleasure in watching your rapture as you find out how Valencia is saved from her fate. It is rather contrived, but I daresay you'd like it." Lucy, though feeling that her duty lay in politely declining this offer, gratefully accepted it and turned to the stage. She forgot all about her companion in the next few minutes as she watched the events onstage. Vandermark's faithful servant was come in search of his master, and Valencia, though trapped in the Count's castle, had befriended a little ragged urchin page who, on pain of death, was valiantly helping her escape. Would the Count return before she had made away to safety? Lucy knew that he could not, of course, but her eyes were wide with expectation and apprehension as they followed the Count, rubbing his hands together and bragging in his deep baritone, around the stage.

"My, what big eyes you have," said a quiet voice next to her, and she started for the second time that evening. She stared with a sudden suspicion at the man next to her, whose smiling features suddenly became known to her . "Jack?" she asked, disbelieving. He neither accepted nor denied it, but she gave a squeak of excitement. "Jack, it is you. It's been seven years since you said that to me. Mama, oh I must tell Mama! She said that you went away to join the army. I was so disconsolate when I heard that I cried so long, you wouldn't believe! Why didn't you tell me?"

Jack admitted that he had been afraid of her reaction. Upon Lucy severely admonishing him to be an awful coward, he meekly accepted it, adding that he did not think she would remember him after he left. "You were, after all just ten years old then, and you did tell me that I was important to you only after your doll, Cynthia. I did not think you would miss me as long as you had Cynthia with you."

Lucy, considering this thoughtfully, pronounced decisively that he was just making excuses, and added, seeing that he looked appropriately contrite, "Besides, even if that was true, I did miss your stories, and so did Nurse. She thought your flights of fancy quite wonderful. What impossible situations you entangled your heroes and heroines in! They seemed always to be in some scrape or another."

"It took all my ingenuity to come up with enough adventures to meet your insatiable demands for a story. I remember your two words 'And then?' used to strike terror in my heart," he said ruefully. "You used to stare at me just like you were looking at that stage now - with huge, wondering, credulous eyes. I half-believed in my stories myself when you gazed at me like that."

"You'll be glad to hear I know now at least the difference between stories and reality," Lucy laughed, "Yet the tales are so gripping they always draw me in completely like yours used to. You were the first and best storyteller I know, Jack."

Jack was about to reply suitably to this when Lady Theresa Bartlett, who had finally disengaged herself from the very determined cousin who had monopolised her for the past half hour, announced that she would now take her daughter home, and came forward to do so. When she saw who Lucy was sitting with, she stopped, frowning, for a moment, and then her blow cleared as she recognised him.

"Hello, Mr. Banning," she said graciously, holding out her hand to him. "You must be glad at the success of your play."

Lucy frowned in puzzlement from one to the other. "The success of your play? What can you mean, Mama. Not this one surely?"

"Certainly, my dear." Playwrights were not generally recognised in society, of course, but a young Major of good birth and handsome fortune could do what he liked. Every young person had some sort of eccentricity nowadays.

"It's sentimental tripe, of course," muttered Jack so only Lucy could hear. "But if you liked it I suppose it wasn't as revolting as I thought it was." He was smiling, but Lucy jumped hotly to its defence. "I did like it, and I think it was much better than those horribly depressing modern novels you get nowadays. But I missed the ending and I don't know what happens to Count Malicio!"

"If you would allow me," said Jack, bowing gallantly, "I would be happy to visit one day to clear up that issue. I also would be honoured if you would listen to the new tale I have drafted. Life in the army would be rather dreary if one did not make up stories to liven it up a little."

"Oh, yes, please do," said Lucy, turning to Lady Theresa, her eyes sparkling. "Jack must visit as often as he can, mustn't he, Mama?"

Lady Theresa asserted that indeed he must, and after engaging him to dine on Friday, swept off with her daughter. She was well satisfied with the young man. Seven years ago, he had treated her daughter like a little sister, patiently devoting many hours to her amusement, but now she was grown up, and she could see that Jack had noted the change. Her mind automatically jumped ahead to certain plans, and she nodded extremely affably to all her acquaintances.

Meanwhile, Jack stood where he was, staring at Lucy till she disappeared from sight, a tender look in his eyes, and a warm smile on his lips.

Writer's block

Aunt Petunia opened her door and beamed fondly at the pretty pink Pegasus at her door. "My, don't you look lovely!" she crooned, as she deposited a fistful of hugs and kisses (she never bought any else) into the open sack. "Oh dear, your wing fell off!" She bent down to pick it up. The child just stared at her solemnly.

"You're Aunt Petunia," she said in her lilting accent.

"Yes, I am, dearie. And what is your name? There, your wing is properly fixed back."

"My brother said you were jealous of your sister and starved your nephew," continued the child, looking at her wide-eyed.

"I - what?" blinked Aunt Petunia. She could have hardly been more startled if the girl had accused her of being a certified axe-murderer. "Your brother-"

A loud guffaw from behind her made her turn to see her nephew John, Patch to friends, a dear soul whom she practically doted on and stuffed full of nourishing home-made salads and pies (for after all, cooking was one of the few pleasures she had left) whenever he came over to stay, holding his hand to his tummy and nearly collapsing with laughing so much. "Your expression, Auntie, oh, it was priceless! It's your name."

"What about my name?" asked Aunt Petunia, a little offended. She liked her name - all the females in her family were named after flowers: Daisy, Rose and Marigold. That was much better than her cousin, whose family members were named after birds: Pelican's dislike of her name was well-known in the family circle.

Patch affectionately shooed the little kid away with a "Don't believe all you hear!" and explained to his aunt, "You share your name with Harry Potter's aunt. She did all those awful things you were so falsely accused off." He gave another great shout of laughter, imagining his placid, motherly aunt in the role of villain. He shoved her playfully. "Come on, it's Halloween, and I can't wait to have the roast pig.

**********

"I'm stuck," she wailed, chewing on her pen. "I can usually finish my Wordzzle challenges without too much of effort - the words connect themselves into a coherent story, you see - but I'm dashed if I can think of how to work a paddle into this tale."

"Maybe you can have their pet poodle chew it randomly. And the family is distressed because he just came in fresh from a large puddle and his paws are all muddy."

She thought it over. "Ingenious," she conceded, "but I think I have a better idea."

**********

They didn't really have roast pig, of course, but in the spirit of Halloween Aunt Petunia's table was piled with unusual delicacies including 'original' pumpkin pie with a scary face artfully drawn with icing, bat's ears with a monkey fluid sauce (dark-brown nuggets with Aunt Petunia's special ketchup recipe), beetle juice (grape cordial) and 'Parched man's poison'; this last named when the children were much younger, and their Uncle Mortimer effectively cautioned them away from it by saying that the more one drank of it, the more thirsty one felt till one died of too much fluid while believing that one died from dehydration. "That's not good," he had assured his children. Patch now drank it in a gulp without the least hesitation : it was, in fact, whiskey.

"What a diabolic imagination Uncle had," Patch said affectionately. "All these goodies' names were his idea, weren't they? He had a way with spooky stuff."

Aunt Petunia, who had never got used to calling her delicious food by those horrible titles, and had only conceded to this 'tradition' after her husband's death, merely said, "Yes, he had. He always said he would be a great horror writer one day; he was obsessed with horror stories - especially by that Poe guy."

"Edgar Allan Poe," smiled Patch. "One of my earliest memories of Uncle is him relating 'The Pit and the Pendulum' to me in the library. He made the tale sound freaky without giving me nightmares." Patch pulled up a chair and sat down on it, his face abstracted in the flickering lamp-light. "I miss him."

Aunt Petunia nodded quietly. As they ate the food, Aunt Petunia thought, "Patch's holiday will soon be over, and I'll be alone again. It is lonely here in this huge house without Mortimer." But she did not feel as sad as she usually did at the thought. "Maybe I'll organise a cooking class as Patch suggested," she thought. "I can keep it on weekends, in the morning." A new thought struck her, and she smiled, the wrinkles around her mouth deepening. "And the rest of the time, I'll occupy myself by reading Harry Potter."

A book of poems

Maithri held her poetry book at arms length and squinted at it. Her handwriting had changed quite a bit in twenty years, but her 'y's and 'g's and 'f's were still the same scrawls peculiar to her. She flipped it to the first page and began reading. The first poem was Frost.

'Two roads diverged in a yellow wood and sorry I could not travel both, and be one traveler, I stood' ... there a huge inkblot disfigured the next verse. She could decipher it if she peered closely, but with the beginnings of a headache caused by Peesh, her German Shepherd, she felt it unwise to make the attempt. Instead she opened a page where her handwriting was much neater and she'd actually written within the margins.

The poem was Daffodils, which she had decided to memorize for her English class poetry recitation day. It was a beautiful poem, but when the day came, she had recited 'Leisure' instead. That poem was there too in the next page; She turned the sheet and read,

'What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare?' It went on for a few verses, but she didn't read it; she looked at her illustrations instead. After transcribing every poem, she'd drawn a little picture at the end related to the poem.

The yellow flowers could pass for daffodils, especially since the name of the poem said it all. The fortress of the lady of Shalott was a little wobbly due to lack of space, but the leaves flying through the air before the West Wind were rather well done. She'd coloured them every hue possible, like it said in the poem, and they did look pestilence-stricken.

She thought back to when she had started keeping this book. Her sixth standard English teacher had suggested that they all have a little book where they pasted any interesting articles on English they found; or those which contained errors of grammar, spelling or punctuation, and they could discuss it in class. This proposal had not appealed to her classmates, involving as it did superfluous work with no scoring potential, and she'd been the only one, she thought, who'd taken to the idea. Instead of pasting articles, however, she copied out poems. This was in imitation of the self-same English teacher who always carried her worn-out poetry book in her slim handbag: Maithri had seen it often.

When asked why she simply didn't buy a book of poems, the teacher had replied, "Because I like having my own copy of poems with me. Also, since I have eclectic tastes in poetry, I don't want to buy different volumes simply for one poem. I prefer whipping out my book and adding that poem into my book which I can then read whenever I want to." Maithri had thought that was a great idea.

Settling herself more comfortably on her pillows, Maithri flicked through the rest of the book, which she hadn't touched in so long. After the first frenzy, she'd lost interest and had written only occasionally, when she encountered a really great poem. When she was fifteen Wordsworth had been a favourite. She'd painstakingly transferred even his longer poems. Most poems were of the Victorian poets, though there were a few modern ones here and there. Of the eastern poets, Vikram Seth was the sole Indian, and there were a few English translations of Japanese haikus. The ninety-two page notebook was filled up.

"That's a shame actually," Maithri said to herself as she got up, taking care not to trip over the two-feet long cane that Peesh had left lying around. She could put it away, but Peesh went mad if it wasn't there for him to roll around when he woke up, so she'd learned not to touch it, unless she wanted to face some unpleasant music. "Victorian poets are all great in their own way, but there are many Indian ones as well who have written very well. I'd like to find out more about them."

She helped herself to some pumpkin cookies and opened her laptop, eager to begin right away. However, before she could, great rumbling, heaving and panting sounds from upstairs told her that her 'best friend' had woken up, and would presently trudge down for his customary diet of vitamin-enriched fish-flavoured doggy food. And then, he'd worry her till she took him for a walk. She shut her computer with a snap. "Just like they say in the movies," she addressed it, "I'll be back."

After being dragged through the winding roads by her maniacal dog, who salivated every time he saw a squirrel - which was plenty, since it happened to be squirrel season - she returned home with her slippers water-logged, or rather saliva-logged. "Ugh," she said, removing them gingerly, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself."

But Peesh had already bounded away happily to play with his cane, and after shaking her head in disgust, Maithri went up to have a bath. Her poetry book had slipped between the sofa and the wall. When she came out after a long, luxurious bath, she'd forgotten all about it and she sat at her laptop to compose a new story. After all, the book had served its purpose. It was what had led Maithri to decide that what she wanted to do was become a writer, and it was satisfying work. It's pretty good, isn't it, when a humble book of poetry can make a whole career?

One word

If you could choose one word to describe yourself, what would it be?

One word.

Pain.

Green.

Blur.

Headache.

Beach.

Number.

Nine.

Twelve.

Go.

Stay.

Pink.

Tired.

Death.

Keyboard.

Forgetting.

Love.

Passiveness.

Why?

Paper.

Shut.

Hope.

Hunch.

Bright.

Smile.

Nothing.

"That's an interesting list," murmured the teacher. She glanced at the girl, the girl who sat with such a vacant face and asked, gently, "What does it mean?"

"Everything I feel," said the girl. She still stared straight in front of her. Another man came over, a fat, prosaic-looking unemotional man.

"It doesn't make any sense." he said flatly, and looked suspiciously at the girl. "Are you trying to make a fool of us? In any case," he continued without waiting for an answer to his obviously rhetorical question, "we asked for only one word."

"One word can't describe me. Even that list didn't, " said the girl, imperturbable. "I need years and years before I can do justice to the question."

The man turned purple. The teacher intervened, trying to defuse the strange situation. "Alright dear, go out and play now." She glanced at the man next to her, now a dull red and striving to formulate an appropriate reply. She was sure that reply would be completely mundane and didn't bother to wait for it. "I'll go after her."

The girl was sitting, watching the others play. "Don't you want to play with them, darling?" asked the teacher quietly, sitting down next to the girl. "Or do you prefer a doll?"

"I would like a doll. A golden-haired doll with purple eyes and a rosebud mouth and wearing a blue-checked gingham frock with little peep-toe sandals."

The teacher hesitated. "I'll check if it's there in the toy store." she said eventually.

"Don't bother. It isn't." replied the girl, never turning her head.

"The teacher stared at the back of her palely brown head, unsure of what to say. In a rush of emotion she said, "Is there anything you want, sweetheart? Anything I can do?" But she was sure there wouldn't be. Children like these were hard to fathom - they were broken, bruised, battered, most of them lost in some world of hurt and darkness, never coming out. She was aware she could do only so much for them, a pitiful amount compared to what ought to be done. What she tried to do but never could in a million years.

But then the girl replied, "Yes, I want a mommy." And for the first time looked at her directly with those black little eyes of hers, eyes seemingly blank but not really. The teacher could see the difference between this girl who wanted to live, this girl with spirit, and the others who were no more than dully existing day after day.

She reached out and hugged this girl, this girl she could help, and whispered, naturally, easily, "I will be your mommy. I've always wanted a daughter just like you, sweetie." And the girl hugged her back, and sort of choked, and said, "I know." And they both looked up and saw the most beautiful golden sunset ever, with a tinge of blue and pink and purple and crowned with orange, and somehow knew that everything was going to be alright. Maybe not magically, in a moment, but still eventually alright.

wordzzle maxi - week 142

Let my introduce myself - My real name is Tara, but I'm called Ocean by everyone. Don't ask me why. I don't even like beaches, and my eyes aren't anything close to sea-blue-with-flecks-of-gray like my friend Laila's either. The person who gave me that nickname must have had a warped sense of humour.

Laila, Kriti (musical genius and my other best friend) and I together share a cramped hostel room with hardly any closet space. We are all as different as chalk and cheese and chewing gum, but we coexist beautifully, and have become fast friends in the process of keeping each other awake before exams every month, fighting over who gets to wear the sole existing pair of silver earrings to the fresher's party, and watching cricket matches breathlessly on the tiny television during the IPL season.

Laila is the college babe, for whom life is a soap opera. Her aspiration is to become an actor/model, but I'm warning you, cliches vanish before her. Sure, she may not be completely endowed in the top story, but she has a lot of native intelligence and is, besides, the most heavenly cook. She once made this baked corn that was perfection itself. I've stopped ordering corn in restaurants after that. They seem somehow tasteless and bland after hers.

Kriti, as I've mentioned, is a gifted musician. I'm not exaggerating: nothing less than the extraordinary talent she possesses would have induced Laila or me to allow her to have a piano in our already rather cramped room. There's more to Kriti than music though, she's the very epitome of sweetness and light - the calm and warm glue that binds all three of us into something closer than mere friends. She's a mother without ever having been pregnant.

As for me, I'm a bookworm, a nerd, whatever you like to call it. The library is my most favourite place in the whole world and I can get through five 'hardy' classics in a row without flinching (pun intended). I'm an aspiring writer, with a weakness for horrendous puns and word puzzles of any kind. I never go anywhere without my favourite leather jacket (now rather worn and tearing at the seams) on. Some people have blankets; I have jackets for security.

That's it about the lot of us. When I say we don't have much in common, perhaps that's not entirely true. All three of us show a flagrant disregard for rules of any kind and we love to crib about life, work, and study in that order(bad habit, I know, but it's the only weakness we indulge in besides chocolate).

I'd better get to the point soon. The only reason I undertook this operation of writing about the lot of us is because

a) The other two are too lazy to do so

b) I'm completely convinced that I need a snapshot of these moments, not on camera, but something that gives a more lasting idea - words. Years later, when my kids are all grown up with moustaches, I can bring out these old, faded diaries, and show everyone my authentic thoughts as I was going through college, because mere memories are too shaky and unreliable.

This is only my introduction piece, but that's all for now, folks! I'll be back when the urge to write strikes me again. Till then, I'd better hide this book somewhere safe where no one goes, like the shower.

Wordzzle mini - week 140

"You can get this bug spray at a ridiculously cheap price." announced the salesman in a hopeful tone. He looked as if for two pins he would wave the can in front of his prospective customer's face, while chanting, "buuuuuuy it! BUUUUUUYYYYYYY IT!".

Theo shook his head. He was allowing his imagination to get away with him. This salesman looked harmless enough when you looked at him; but then again, didn't that serial killer in that horror movie yesterday look like a mild-mannered sheep?

"It is my ambition to charter a flight to New York for underprivileged kids" the salesman was continuing. "And any contributions you make will be most welcome."

His tone was definitely menacing now. Not so much menacing as very honeyed and sweet. It made him think of sweet little sheep in fresh meadows and of rosy pink clouds. Man-eating sheep and thunderclouds.

What was wrong with him?

"Um", he said nervously. "I don't want a bug spray, thanks. I have no bugs at home, fortunately." He tried to smile but faltered on seeing the salesman's face. He looked murderous. No, merely disappointed, that's all. The salesman heaved a tiny sigh, so tiny it could hardly be heard. "No, no one in this part of town has any bugs at all. Lucky for you."

"Unlucky for you, I know, but you can try someplace else." said Theo encouragingly.

The salesman looked even more melancholy. "Ah, but I don't want to leave this town, you see. Too many memories." He walked away, looking even more forlorn with every step.

Theo felt relieved as the salesman disappeared around the corner. The air of gloom which seemed to have lighted on him vanished. "It's back to business as usual, Flossie," he told his pet cat who was yawning contentedly on the rug.

He turned into the kitchen and failed to notice Flossie sitting up with a jerk and scratching herself very hard all over. She rolled on the rug frantically from side to side, like a million fleas were on her back.

A few days later, a small paragraph appeared in the local newspaper. It stated that a Mr. Theodore Windermere, inhabitant of The Larches, Newton Road, Tewkesbury, had died on Thursday due to accumulation of formic acid in his body. The newspaper noted a curious feature that the dead man's body had been entirely covered with 'bite marks', as though a thousand bees had stung him simultaneously. 'This is a fantastic description of the body, and no doubt a logical explanation will be provided', concluded the report.

No logical explanation was ever provided.

Wordzzle midi-week 139

"I must be growing old," she thought to herself, and sighed. She was as old as this museum, and the huge jade carving at the entrance was 60 years old. A plaque on top of it announced, 'The Mahatma Gandhi memorial museum. Set up in 1951. Please do not litter. Thank you. Enjoy your tour!'

She looked around for her grandson. "Kanna, come here and look at this," she called. He was loafing around, staring at some fake icicles that hung over the door, his hands deep in his pocket, and earphones plugged in his ears. She closed her eyes and sighed again. Here they were, in the museum filled with memorabilia of freedom fighters, and her grandson was gazing at it all insolently-as though saying "whatever", his favourite expression. She wondered if he even had the least bit of patriotic fervour at all.

She thought of how she'd tried to get him to learn the sacred slokas. "What do they do?" had been his first question.

"This chanting is to invoke the sacred Gods and ask them to bless us with health, prosperity, and longevity."

"Uh-huh."

"The Aditya hrudayam invokes the sun god, Surya. You remember that Surya goes around the world in his chariot? We pray to him because without him, there would be no life."

"Uh-huh."

"This sloka must be recited before sunset. It isn't very tough to learn, there are a few difficult Sanskrit words, but I managed to pick up an English print in Bhavan's printing press."

"Uh-huh."

"So are you ready to start learning?"

"Right. Hey grandma, could I, like, not do it right now? I have to go to my friend's place for a school project. It's due tomorrow. I'll get around to learning the thing later."

"What's the project about?" Maybe she could help.

"It's maths. Parallelograms and stuff. Geometry. See you!" And he'd left.

She was affronted, but also amused. Did the boy think she didn't know maths? Why, she'd been given the most liberal education by her father. She was the first woman in their whole community to go to college. And she'd received a gold medal as well for excellence in academics, especially maths. But her dreams of going abroad were gently but firmly curbed by her family, who believed it was time she settled down. She received a marriage proposal from a boy with good prospects and excellent family, and accepted it. In those days, though feminist movements were rampant, there were still very orthodox families and communities in the cities itself which frowned upon the woman doing anything outside her home. She'd not been rebellious enough to fight that in her day. Nowadays, it seemed people rebelled at everything, though opportunities were so numerous and unrestricted.

"Open sesame." A voice said into her ear. She obediently opened her eyes to the command to find her grandson grinning at her. He'd finally removed the wires from his ears and his hands from his pockets. He pointed to an exhibit of the various weapons used by the British on Indians during the freedom fights. "Wow, grandma, I never really realized what it meant to fight for Independence until I saw those. I mean, imagine marching on the streets, waving flags peacefully, and have policemen with those weapons charge you and beat you to a pulp and not raise a finger in your defence. Those weapons look scary, don't they? And evil."

He stepped up to another exhibit. "And look, this one talks about the story of a brave fifteen-year old girl who defied the British and saved her brother from being killed by shielding him with her own body. She was my age. She was awesome! Grandma, why don't they talk about this kind of stuff when they talk about the Civil Disobedience Movement? The way my teacher tells it, you'd think it was the biggest goof-up in history. And, oh, look at this..."

She smiled affectionately at her grandson. She forgave him for his disinterest in his religion, and his cool assumption that any one above 25 was 'ancient'. She wished dimly too that the history teacher had taught her class about the real wonder of their past, because nobody could go anywhere unless he had pride in his roots. She was proud that she'd brought him here, sullen and uncooperative as he'd been, and happy that he was actually enjoying it. She bent her head to listen to his chatter, and gave herself up to enjoy it as well.