Felicity

Ashna was making a list of cat names just before we bumped into each other for the first time.

I'd met her on a park bench one morning. Parched and panting from having run for over 30 minutes, I heaved myself on a bench just when I noticed a hand reach out and offer me a bottle of water. Ashna and I broke into a conversation which later turned into a banter.

She was easy to talk to, bright, friendly but most importantly she was all heart.

Ashna chose compassion over everything. She helped people without expecting anything in return. If she had one of something that someone fancied, she'd give it to them. If a person needed a hand to cross the road, she was the first to lend hers. She'd jotted down the list of names for people who offered a home to strays. “It's always their primary dilemma, what should we name them, they keep asking.”

“Do you know what is the best gift we can offer someone?” She'd asked once.

“Time?” I'd given a cliched reply.

“Happiness. You never know how a simple act of kindness would affect someone in return.”

Ashna lived alone. She'd lost her family a few years ago in a tragic accident. She understood loss and longing deeper than most of us did. And I learnt that one day when we were taking a stroll outside her house and saw a lady in her mid thirties panicking and asking passerbys for having seen her little boy who'd gotten lost on the street.

Ashna alerted the guards and added the two of us to the search party. I could see her grow impatient everytime we found a corner but couldn't find the boy.

It was a large tree just outside the park where we found him holding his broken arm. He'd reached there while chasing a stray cat. The guards reunited him with his mother. Needless to say it was his mother's happiest moment. A hoard of emotions filled Ashna’s face just when a stray cat leapt on her shoulder.

Ashna opened up her home to the stray.

She pulled out the list of names she'd jotted down to name her first furry friend.

“How about Felicity?” I asked.

“What does it mean?”

“Happiness,” I replied. An outcome of a virtue she always stood by - kindness.

Expression

"I fancy a man who is expressive," said Niharika.

She also fancied poetry. Between college lectures, Niharika would show Bhavin musings on instagram from renowned poets. She also read books. Bhavin had visited a poetry slam with her where he'd kept gawking at her as she smiled all evening. He kept thinking about her while on his way home.

Later that night he pulled out a piece of paper and decided to pen something for her before crumpling it in his hand and hurling it across the room. He was no writer. He could barely stand reading. He was terrible at academics or sports. He was bullied by his friends because of his frame. He feared rejection. He pulled out another piece of paper and began to scribble again. Words let him down this time, so did his self esteem.

Niharika visited the canteen after the final lecture. She sat alone downing a cup of coffee with the poetry she was deeply immersed into. Bhavin sat beside her while trying to keep a distance.

"Your girlfriend will be lucky," she said.

"Why do you say that?"

"You're expressive."

"I'm not expressive. I can barely say what I feel."

"Not via words. You say a lot otherwise."

"Can you read it?"

"I can but I can't say for sure I'd be right. By the way, Shikha and the girls were whispering that you have a crush on someone from our class."

Bhavin pulled away. "I don't think I can ever tell her."

"Why not?."

"She's out of my league."

"You're thinking too much. I can help you. Really."

"Thanks but she's not single."

"Ah tough luck! Well, don't worry. You'll find someone amazing soon. Anyway I've to catch the 5:40 local home. Do you want to come?"

"No, you carry on. Thanks."

Niharika bade goodbye to him and he watched her walk away. He wanted to tell her that she looked pretty in Indian. Even more when she smiled.

He read a few pages of the book she left behind. There were metaphorical verses on love, longing, pain and hope. He wondered if the reason writers used metaphors was because direct expression of feelings failed many like him.

He flattened the crumpled piece of paper and placed it among the pages.

It fit right in.

Stranger in the City

My evening routine consisted of climbing down the stairs at Andheri station, stepping into the west and walking for a few minutes till I reached a Starbucks outlet at Juhu Scheme.

I ordered a Caramel Frappuccino and took the cornermost seat. I flipped through the pages of a book I'd purchased.

I glanced over to look at a guy seated on the table near the door. He seemed to be in his early thirties and wore black t-shirt over blue denims. He stared at the laptop screen while pressing keys as if typing, occasionally running his hand across his prominent jawline as if in deep thought.

“Cappuccino for Roy” the counterboy screamed and he got up to fetch it. I caught a whiff of his cologne from the distance. He caught me off guard staring at him and I instantly looked away. Unfazed, he walked back to his table.
I saw him daily for a week.

The cafe was unusually crowded on Sunday. I failed to get a seat.

“We can share the table,”I heard a voice from behind.I turned around. It was him. He pulled the laptop away.

He stirred his coffee while I sipped the cold one. I felt awkward seated in front of a man whom I had never spoken to but knew exactly how much sugar he liked in his coffee and how black seemed to be his favourite colour.

"I'm not a local. I'm a writer on visit," he said. I see you're reading Austen."

“I prefer classics.”

“Or maybe you're just a romantic.”

“Maybe. I paused. Cappuccino is boring. You must try this.”

“Coffee is not really my thing. I just need it to write.”

“Are you always moving?”

“Yes, I hate settling."

“What brings you to the city?”

“In search for a muse,” he smiled.

A month had passed since he'd stopped visiting. Occasionally I'd smell the cappuccino on the counter mixed with a whiff of his cologne while his tall, athletic built hovered in the distance. His voice rang in my ears.

I left the cafe and walked back to the station. I noticed copies of a new book at a book stall nearby. ‘Stranger in the City,’ The gist spoke about a girl who roamed the old parts of the city, Austen in hand, seeking answers while on the verge of falling in love.

I spread it open.

'Dedicated to the girl who loves Caramel Frappuccino.'