About The Book

Again is a story that celebrates love in times where relationships end up at best as a marriage of convenience and at worst, separation.
Again is about living again. About life taking shape once again, about falling in love again. And about believing again. It is a simple story and is most of all about reality. People die and leave their impression; but time—and a strong and pure emotion like love—makes you get on with life.

Thank you

The people of Kasauli, a small innocent hill station in Himachal Pradesh (India), where the book is based, for Kasauli.

Chapter 1

He walks over the low barricade outside All India Institute of Medical Sciences, ignoring the many eyes that inevitably pause on him before passing by. He walks as smooth as the wind that is absent on the May afternoon. Holding a big bunch of white daisies with both hands, as if holding on for life, he heads towards the place he hates the most in the world. His short uncombed hair looks even browner in the glistening sun, his cheeks red because of the stinging heat. Wearing black-framed spectacles, balanced a little lower on the nose than usual, he walks on, continuing to make heads turn.

The guard at the entrance of AIIMS salutes him. He returns the gesture with a weak smile, which vanishes as soon as he walks past. He’s quite used to the chemical-like smell of a hospital, he almost expects it, but detests it still. There is a faint sound of a woman howling. He is used to that as well. Expressionless, he slowly goes further and further down the long curving corridor. There are ill people, about a handful, lying down on nothing but a sheet, on both sides of the narrow extension of the first floor. There are no beds vacant for them, for, either they don’t have enough money to bribe the ward-boys, or they don’t have a politician’s approach. They wait helplessly—for death. Inside the biggest hospital of the country.

His long walk ends just before Ward 139, at Dr. Shantanu Malhotra’s room; where the doctor is busily writing a case study.
"Hi doctor," Mark greets the familiar head in a very low pitch.
Dr. Malhotra’s pen stops and, with an effort, he looks up. There is no sign of greeting on his face; he just stares at the eyes staring back at him blankly.
"What?" he asks the doctor anxiously, trying his best to keep the fading smile on.
"She’s no more," he hears Dr. Malhotra’s voice, strangely in the distance, as if coming from far, very far, away. "I’m sorry," the doctor says heavily.
Mark wants to move, but he is unable to. The white daisies in his hands start to shiver. He can feel his eyes beginning to moist. He knows if he opens his mouth to say anything, anything at all, he will burst out into tears.
"Can I… is she still…" he chokes.
"Yes," says Dr. Malhotra, still staring at him, "go on in."

Mark looks down on his feet, pleading them to move. His continuous shivering seems to block all possibilities of movement, yet he somehow manages to lift his feet. He must take those few dreadful steps.

Looking through the small glass portion of the door, he can see Uncle Cedric, her father, on far side of the bed, hugging her 12-year-old sister Denise. He opens the door. Aunty Dianne, sitting on the bed by her head, starts crying louder after seeing the daisies in Mark’s hand.
Uncle Cedric takes Denise by her hand and walks up to him. "I’m sorry," he says in a broken voice, putting a hand on his shoulder. Mark isn’t looking, cannot look, anywhere else but at her. At her stillness.

Uncle Cedric walks out with Denise, signalling his wife to follow. Mark waits for the door to close behind them before walking up to the bed, and sits beside her. His glazed eyes stare at her closed motionless ones, hoping they would open, that they would move, even if a flick of the lashes…
He wants to touch her, but realizes his hands are sweaty from grasping the polythene-wrapped stems of the daisies that he still holds. He puts the flowers down on the glass table, beside the vase that is already full of fresh white daisies. Wiping his palms on his jeans, he touches her cheek with the back of his hand. His hands tremble. Her face is cold—too cold. He gets up and sits on the chair next to the bed, near a window. Outside, birds chirp happily and cars honk maddeningly… but he cannot hear. He cannot think. He doesn’t want to.

"Daisy…" he says softly, as if calling out to her, as if she hears. His eyes well up once again, and, finally, tears spill over. "Daisy…" He takes off his spectacles and keeps them on the bed, and with hands covering his face, cries silently.

Abruptly, he wipes the tears off his cheeks with his shoulders—a new determination clear in his eyes. "I’ll break the promise Daisy," he mumbles, "I promise, I’ll break the promise."
He gets up and bends down to kiss Daisy’s forehead.

The door opens behind him, and Uncle Cedric walks back in. "Mark," he calls out, with concern in his voice. Mark puts his spectacles on again before turning around. Aunty Dianne and Denise walk in too. With swollen red eyes, all three stare at him. He feels nothing. He has become numb.
"The funeral is tomorrow. We’ll take her back by the early morning Shatabdi," Uncle Cedric says, hoping to get a reaction from Mark. But there is still no movement. "When are you going back?" he asks, trying again, but gets no reply.
Mark lowers his head and starts walking towards the door.
"Mark…" Uncle Cedric calls out. Aunty Dianne and Denise follow Mark tensely with their eyes.
"Mark!" Uncle Cedric’s voice was a little louder than before as Mark walks out. They go out after him.

As if he’s forgotten his own name, Mark walks back down the same long curving, narrow corridor. Their eyes follow him till he disappears somewhere in the curve.

Chapter 2

For the first time Mark does not groan at the thought of walking the three kilometres from the Kasauli bus stand at the Mall up to The Retreat, where his mother Cynthia Rogers and he has lived for all the 23 years of his life. It has been two weeks since that horrible day at AIIMS but for him life has been one long endless day. Has he slept on that bus? Has he slept at all? Has the sun sunk since he left Daisy behind, cold and still, in that eerily innocent hospital room? Mark does not have the answers; he does not even know the questions.

All he has, as he drags his feet on the familiar streets of Kasuali, are memories. He can see Daisy point at the colour of the sky, he can see her cribbing about the colour of her brown bread at that corner shop, he can hear her laugh at a joke in her mind… he can see her eyes anxious and, yes, hopeful, as she sits on that rock and waits for him to come.

It is June and Kasauli is brimming over with tourists. He sees a bunch of foreigners sitting outside Hotel Alasia. Some smile at him and, strangely, it reminds him that people can see him. In a vaguely satisfactory way it makes him feel human. He wants to return the smile, as he usually would, but his lips do not move. Flustered, he turns towards first of the two ‘long stretches’ towards home. Mark called them long stretches because, well they were long stretches, but also because you could see the beginning and end of the narrow uphill road from its base. That’s how steep it was. And, easily a half a kilometre stretch, it was really a very long and tiring walk.

Beyond Ros Common, the last of the hotels on that road, he can hardly see any people, except those who zoom past in taxis, eager to reach Monkey Point, the end of Kasauli, before the sun gets to the west. Mark slows down a little ahead of Ros Common; his eyes glued to one of the many huge stones that reside here, one after the other on the edge of the road, forming a neat little border to the cliff. He stops near that stone that knows all his little secrets and with his bag still on his shoulder he sits on his haunches to read. Etched into the rock is a line that seems to speak to him.

Mark loves Daisy, forever.

He puts his bag down on the muddy corner of the road and sits on the stone, staring down at the deep valley, as he had done so many times before. The greens recognize his stare and turn their face away in the wind. No one can face Mark, no one knows what to say to him. He and Daisy would sit here for hours, until the orange sun sank behind the mountain across the valley. They had met every day here. This was the only part of the long road that didn’t have towering pine trees blocking the view of the valley. Daisy loved it. That was reason enough for Mark to love it.

The sun isn’t that orange today and the days do not start and finish anymore, they just go on. There will be no expectation with the coming of the morrow. There will be no Daisy. No Daisy. Mark gets up to take the final steps towards his house, the last structure on the road until the Air Force base. He can walk another 10 miles today, and feel equally lost and numb.

The rusty gate of The Retreat has a board hanging on it—‘Beware of dog’. There’s no dog inside. Most of the houses in Kasauli adopted the same lie to scare away the rare thief. Mark opens the gate and walks down the grassy pathway to the main door of this old-worldly bungalow.

"Who is it?" his mother shouts from inside, as he rings the bell. Getting no reply, she opens the door to see Mark sitting on one of the garden chairs staring down at the valley.

"Mark…" she says softly.
"Hi mom."
Cynthia walks up behind him and kisses him on the head. He turns around and hugs his mother tightly around her waist and suddenly starts howling like a baby. His cries have pain, as if someone is turning the insides of his heart around with a sharp blade.
"Shh… baby shhh," Cynthia tries to control him but is at a loss for words.
"Mom, I wasn’t there," he cries out loud, "she didn’t even see me before she left!"
"Don’t blame yourself baby," Cynthia starts crying too, "please don’t blame yourself."

As mother and son cry, holding on to each other, for support and understanding, even the greatest of artists cannot paint a more perfect picture of sadness. Cynthia does not know a moment worse than this, where she has to listen helplessly to her only son cry. Where she knows he cannot do anything but cry.

"Mark, you knew this was going to happen," she says, wiping her tears, "You knew all along baby. Please don’t cry like this."
She holds his head up and wipes off his tears. He turns around and faces the valley again.
"The funeral is at four," Cynthia informs him.
He looks up at Cynthia and shakes his head vigorously. He does not want to cry again but he is very near doing so.
"Alright, it’s okay," Cynthia hugs him again, "you don’t want to go?"
"No mom," Mark says a little firmly, "I can’t see her being buried."

Not after he had seen her so full of life.

Chapter 3

13 months earlier…

"Mark!" Cynthia screamed from the drawing room, "Mark!!"
"Yeah mom! I’m coming, I’m coming."
"There’s a call for you. And can you please lower that volume?!" she said, pointing towards Mark’s room where some trance-y beats were trying to break the sound barrier.
"Who is it?" he asked, coming out of his room, ignoring her request.
"Shaira."
"Mom, please pass me an apple from the table," he said, as he sat on the sofa beside the phone, holding the receiver in one hand. Cynthia picked up the fruit and threw it to him.
"Hey there fatty," he spoke into the receiver, mouth full of apple.
"I am not fat you ass," Shaira retorted, "and in any case you are the one stuffing your face right now."
"Yeah right."
"Like hello, there is no girl in Himachal sexier than I am."
"Like hello, misconceptions."
"Oh shut up," she said, "what’s happening?"
"Nothing much. Just checking out a new Enigma CD I got."
"Oh my god Mark," Shaira said in mock horror, "hasn’t anyone told you that Enigma’s like outdated?"
"Hey," he said, irritated, "you don’t know jack shit about music, so just save it."
"I knew you’d say that," Shaira laughed out. "Anyway, so what’s Mr. Good Looking wearing tonight?"
"I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet. What…? Are you planning on wearing something extraordinary or what?"
"No, nothing extraordinary. For me, it’ll be ordinary, but I bet you’ll find it extraordinary."
"Whatever…" Mark said, rolling his eyes.
"Man, my stomach’s hurting so bad," Shaira mumbled out of the blue.
"Why, you’re chumming again?"
"What do you mean again?"
"Well didn’t you just have your periods last week?"
"Shut up Mark. I don’t get periods every week. That was last month."
"Chup be, you chum every bloody week," he laughed.
"Shut up loser. And tell me what time are you picking me up?"
"Pick you up?" Mark continued to mess with her, "why should I pick you up?"
"Mark, stop fooling around," she said impatiently, "tell me the time."
"Around 8.30 I guess," he said, giving up, "and make sure you finish your make up before that."
"I don’t put make up."
"Oh please. You put like tons of it on. I don’t understand why. No guy falls for you anyway."
"Mark, every guy in town like drools at my sight, and you know it."
"You wish."
"Screw you Mark," she said casually, "OK, I’m hanging up now. I’ll see you at 8.30."
"OK fat ass."

Mark flung the receiver back and went to the kitchen. A cookbook was open, standing against the wall near stove—Cynthia was engrossed in cooking Chicken Goulash.
"What are you cooking for? Mark asked, throwing the remains of the apple into the dustbin, "aren’t you coming for the party tonight?"
"No sweetheart," Cynthia replied sweetly, "someone’s coming over for dinner in the evening." She turned and gave Mark a sneaky smile.
"Who?" he asked, curious.
"Someone," she said, raising her eyebrows twice.
"Oh man. Another date! Mom, you’re pathetic. You just dated that piano guy last week."
"Yeah, so?"
"So, you’re such a flirt," Mark said, walking out of the kitchen.
"Well sweetheart, I’m much better than you. At least I don’t change my dates every day," Cynthia called out.
Mark came back to the kitchen entrance. "Mom, it’s time for a reality check. I’m 22. You are like a 100 years old."
"No darling, I’m only 45. And at 45, I can still turn a lot more heads than you can at 22," Cynthia said, throwing her beautiful head back. And she was dead right.
That made Mark think. Shaira, 22, was undoubtedly gorgeous to look at, Mark considered, standing five and a half feet tall, unusually silky golden straight hair falling up to just below her shoulders, a near-perfect figure and red-tanned flawless skin… But Cynthia, double her age, could give Shaira a complex any day. With regular workouts and a proper diet, for years, Cynthia could easily pass off as Mark’s elder sister. And Cynthia liked that. She was happy to let people mistake her to be her son’s elder sister—or perhaps even younger?

Chapter 4

Baldev Singh was a mad man. The big flamboyant chandeliers at his place were never on, the high-end flashy sound system he owned never played any music, and his house was called Jazzy.

If you knocked on the rich doors of Kasauli and found no one home, Jazzy was the place to look. Baldev Singh’s parties were popular, and regular. Jazzy was on the other side of the mountain, a little ahead of the very British Kasauli Club, and was Baldev’s summer residence. He could not stand extreme temperatures and so, much like a maharaja, he lived in Delhi in the winter. His father had left him so much money that he could afford to live such a life—and another!
Apart from throwing wonderful parties Baldev Singh did little else. He spent his time well. Listening to jazz music, his favourite, carefully putting up a million candles to light up the house (he hated to waste electricity), sipping chhang, a homemade beer made with fermented rice… oh yes, he spent his time well.

He was either the perfect host or the most imperfect, depending upon what you expected from your host. He would never fuss over his guests or offer them things to eat and drinks to down. He would never insist on someone staying on till late or coming on time. Instead, he just let you be and roam around in his tracks and St. Stephan sweatshirt and an orange cloth cap over his black patka doing his own thing. At times he wore the cap without the patka, and his slip-ons were just short of being qualified as bathroom slippers.

MNCs were another thing Baldev Singh hated. So you would never find a Coke or a Pepsi at his place. But you could bring your own. Chhang was all he offered his guests and rum, vodka and whiskey were was all under the category of BYOB. It’s not like he cared so much that he would stop his guests from drinking these, he would simply stay away from them himself. Baldev Singh was a man who respected individual differences.

But not when it came to music. Jazz was the only thing that played at his place. A live band that he would bring down from Delhi would incessantly play excellent jazz, only occasionally giving way to people who wanted to sing (especially Mark who was the only guy Baldev Singh wanted to sing) or play the piano. Food was always ready on the dining table—eat when and if you want. Drink as and when, and as much as you want, and leave whenever you feel like. Even if Baldev Singh had long gone off to sleep.

Chapter 5

"Mark, please go slow!" Shaira said. Once again.
It was the same scene always. Everywhere Mark and Shaira went on his Yamaha RD 350, he speeded, she screamed, he ignored her screams.
"Mark!" she screamed, as he took a steep turn at 60 kmph with a deafening screech, "go slow you ass!"
"Stop screaming in my ear you loser," he said, as they zipped past Hotel Alasia, "this baby doesn’t go any slower than this. You can walk it if you want."
"I’m feeling cold Mark," Shaira tried from a new angle, "and my hair’s getting spoilt."
"So who told you to wear this skimpy bloody dress?"

They reached the Club Road, leading up to Jazzy, which was absolutely drowned in darkness. Kasauli did not have streetlights but most of the roads borrowed the light of the many houses and hotels that lined them. Here there were none.
"OK, now at least go slow here," Shaira pleaded.
"Look Shaira, you know I know Kasauli roads like the back of my hand. I could ride around with my eyes closed. So shut up and enjoy the ride."
"Oh stop, stop," Shaira suddenly exclaimed. They were just about two minutes from Jazzy.
"What?!" Mark braked abruptly.
"We forgot to buy rum."
"So?"
"So turn back."
"No ya Shaira. Just drink whatever’s there."
"No way! I am not drinking that shitty chhang."
"So, someone or the other will get rum. Chill."
"What if no one does?"
"Then can’t you do without alcohol one day?"
"Of course I can. But I just want to drink today."
"You want to drink everyday."
"And you don’t?"
"I do, but I don’t have to drink. I can adjust, unlike you."
"You know," she sighed sarcastically, "you’re just wasting time. By this time, we would have already bought the rum and reached Jazzy."
"Bloody alcoholic," Mark said disgustedly, starting his bike and turning around. "And if you scream in my ear again, I swear, I’ll go even faster."
But Shaira could never control her fear when she was on Mark’s bike. She screamed each time and again and again. And the more she screamed the faster Mark drove, annoyed and to annoy. They reached the wine shop down in the mall in about 30 seconds.
"Go buy your rum fast," Mark said, taking his helmet off.
"Who, me?" Shaira asked, surprised.
"No, no, not you, should I ask your neighbour?"
"Mark, how can I go to a wine shop ya?"
"Listen the whole of Kasauli knows you’re an alcoholic, so just move your ass."
"You go get it ya… please," she said cutely, putting her hand around Mark’s waist.
"Shaira, are you getting it or should I start?"
Shaira didn’t waste any more time trying to convince Mark It was almost impossible to change his mind when it was made up and she knew that only too well.
"Damn man, you’re pathetic." Shaira said instead and walked up to the shop across the narrow road. Midway she turned and showed Mark her pretty little middle finger, which made him laugh in his usual loud, high-pitch manner. Shaira teased him that he laughed like a girl.

"Why did you get a full bottle?" Mark asked, when she came back.
"Why? Won’t you drink?"
"Of course not," he said, as if he had never touched alcohol in his life.
"Why?"
"I don’t feel like it."
"Oh shut up Mark. You say that every time and you always end up drinking."
"Oh puhlease. I am not like you."
"Fine, if you don’t want to drink, don’t," she said irritated.
He laughed his girlie laugh. "So, have you seen me do a wheelie?"
"What’s a wheelie?"
"A wheelie," he said to her widening eyes, "is when I ride my bike on one wheel."
"Mark," she said sweetly, "you’re not going to do that, are you? You’re a sweet, good looking, no, very good looking man. You won’t do that, right?"
"I know I am very good looking. But that has nothing to do with the wheelie," he smiled innocently and accelerated his bike on neutral.
"No Mark… NOOO!!!" she screamed, as Mark zoomed on second gear, with the front wheel in the air. Shaira wrapped her arms around his waist, her face dug deep into Mark’s back and eyes tightly shut.

"You drive like a maniac!" she said as she stood outside Jazzy, settling her hair with the help of his rear view mirror. That was something she said practically every day and she knew Mark’s answer well.
"I don’t like wasting time reaching destinations. I like to spend more time at the destination," he said, sounding bored. "You want me to repeat that once again?"
"I hope you know that’s a bullshit philosophy."
"At least I have one," he mocked.

They could hear the band from the gate, about 30 yards from the living room, where the party was.
"It’s quite crowded already," Shaira said, looking at the crowd that was gathered in various small groups outside in the lawns.
"Here come the good looking people of Kasauli," a familiar voice said. Mark and Shaira hated the owner of the voice, Ashok Malhotra, also the owner of Hotel Alasia. He was, as usual, very drunk. They turned to spot him and gave him obviously fake smiles. But Malhotra never noticed, for he always got fake ones. He didn’t know what a genuine warm smile looked or felt like. In general, Malhotra was a pile-on, and a torture when drunk, or otherwise.
"How are you my children?" Malhotra asked and hugged them without waiting for the reply. "It is so good to see you. How have you been?" Malhotra’s eyeballs travelled all over the place.
"We’ve been good," Shaira replied. Mark smiled.
"And how’s college?"
"That’s good, too," Mark answered hastily, "will you excuse me for a second? I need to go to the loo." He turned around and headed inside without waiting for a response, followed by Shaira.
They met a handful of their close friends inside, and a few oldies who pretended to enjoy and understand jazz. And there was Baldev Singh, in his usually informal outfit, with a glass of chhang in his hand, dancing alone. He was so into the music that he didn’t even realize new guests had arrived.
"Hi Mr. Singh," Mark went up to him.
"Hi Mark. Good to see you. Where’s…"
"She’s there," Mark pointed towards Shaira, who was standing across the room with her friends. She waved and smiled. Baldev Singh retuned the gesture.
"So when did you come to Kasauli?" Mark asked.
"Last week. It’s beginning to get really hot there."
"I love the heat," Mark said."You’ve got to be crazy. What’s there to love about the burning heat?"
"Well, it brings you to Kasauli, and with it your parties."
Baldev Singh laughed, which was rare. He’d smile, but very rarely did he laugh. Mark was one of the few who could make him. Mark had an enviable knack of getting people to relax in his company within a short span of time.
Mark walked back to his group of friends.

"Hey, where did you get these leather pants from," asked Karan, Mark’s classmate.
Before Mark could reply, Shaira did. "What? You’ve never seen them before? He never gets out of them. They’re like his second skin."
"Whatever," Mark said, rolling his eye, "where’s the rum?"
"Ahan… I thought someone didn’t feel like drinking?"
"Really? Who?" Mark said coolly.
"You, you loser."
"Shut up and tell me where you’ve kept the rum."
"On the bar table," she answered.
"What are you guys drinking?" Mark asked the gang.
"Chhang," Karan replied. So were Saurabh and Smita, the only couple in the group.
Mark went to the bar and returned with his and Shaira’s drink. "Let’s go outside," he said. Everyone agreed and walked out onto the chilly night and the green lawns.

A while later Mark noticed a girl, standing against the fence, with four people he knew—Indu, Divya and their respective husbands Deepan and Vishwas. Both the couples had mastered the art of boring people to death.
Shaira noticed Mark’s eyes constantly looking over her shoulder. She turned to see what was behind her and then turned back to Mark smiling.
"Find her hot?" she asked.
"What? Who?" Mark pretended he didn’t know what she was talking about.
"Do you find that babe hot?" she repeated. All others in the group looked around the park to see who Shaira was talking about.
"Which babe?" Karan asked.
Mark came and stood next to Shaira, so that his back was towards the girl.
"The one standing with the loser couples right behind me," Shaira replied.
They all looked over her shoulder. "She’s cute," Karan said after scrutinising her for a few moments.
"So, do you find her hot?" Shaira asked Mark again.
"No ya. What is wrong with you?"
"Just asking. Why are you getting irritated?" Shaira said.
"Mark, I think they’re talking about you," Saurabh said, his eyes glued to where the group stood.
Shaira turned around instantly, and saw the girl looking at Mark’s butt while Deepan whispered something in her ear.
"Yes, I think they’re talking about you," she said.
"Hey you people," Mark said irritated, "get over it. Why should they talk about me?" He glanced back to see all five of them looking at him. Deepan and Vishwas waved at him. Mark smiled.
"I think she likes your butt," Shaira laughed.
"Whatever, I’m going to get a drink," Mark went inside.

Rarely or never did Mark fall for conventional good looks. His girls didn’t have to be fair, or have long hair, with big black eyes and a perfect body. There were very few that he just found extremely beautiful, without an obvious reason. As if he could almost see through them, right inside, and see that they are intelligent and uncomplicated beautiful people.
This girl too didn’t look the regular dumb type of female. She was dusky, about the same height as Shaira, had absolutely straight hair barely reaching her shoulders, and was thin enough to look anorexic.
Mark found her attractive, but he wasn’t the kind to let it show. He always played hard to get. And he wasn’t as careless as he liked people to think.

His thoughts were disturbed as Baldev Singh brought a mike and handed it to him. "May I have you attention, people," the by-now-pissed-drunk Malhotra immediately shouted from the door, "Mark Roger, the pride of Kasauli, has taken the mike in his hand. Please come inside and allow him to soothe your nerves with his voice."
"What a joker," Shaira said, disgusted with Malhotra’s drivel. Everyone walked inside. They knew Baldev Singh must have insisted that Mark should sing. He did that every time.
Those who had not heard Mark sing before were impressed and surprised at once, as he started singing Everything I do, Bryan Adams’ famous song. Mark could easily make it as a singer had he wanted to. He sang La Bamba on the insistence of the crowd. That got the crowd moving, and the dancing continued much after Mark handed the mike back to the Delhi vocalist.

Mark poured another drink for himself, took some food and sat out in the garden on a swinging bench. Most people went inside, as it was almost midnight and it was getting quite chilly in the open. Shaira and his other friends were merrily dancing.
"Hey," said a soft voice.
Mark looked up to see the ‘girl with the loser group’, as Shaira had put it.
"Hi," Mark responded with a smile.
"You don’t smoke by any chance, do you?" she asked, her small brown eyes staring at Mark intently.
"No, sorry," he replied politely.
"Damn, I could kill for cigarette right now," she mumbled.
"Kill him." Mark pointed towards Malhotra who was just coming out again.
"You hate him, don’t you?"
"How did you guess?"
"I noticed that disgusted look on your face when he hugged you."
Mark laughed. "Yeah… well he’s a nice guy. Just that he gets on your nerves."
They fell silent for a while. She broke it. "By the way, you sing really well."
"Thanks. Hey, why don’t you sit?" he shifted.
"I’m Daisy," she said accepting.
"Mark," he said and shook her by the hand.
"I know. I heard the weirdo’s announcement."
"So, you’re here on a holiday or something?"
"Na. Dad just got transferred here. We shifted about a week ago."
"He’s in the Air Force?"
"Yes."
"So, how do you like it here?"
"Well, it’s ok, peaceful… quiet… boring," she laughed.
"Where were you before this?" Mark said, smiling.
"Delhi."
"No wonder," he mumbled.
"No wonder what?"
"No wonder you find it boring here."
"Yeah, I guess. What about you? Been here all your life?"
"As long as I can remember."
"So, what do you do?"
"I’m doing my post grad in English Literature."
"Want to be a professor or a journalist?"
"Wanted to be a journalist, but changed my mind midway."
"So what do you want to do now?"
"Interior decoration."
"That’s unusual. For a guy like you, I mean."
"What do you mean for a guy like me?"
"Well, I don’t know… you don’t look like a guy who’d be interested in something like interior decoration."
Mark let that statement pass without a comment. "I’ll just go put my plate inside," he said instead.
"Sure."

He returned to find her still sitting where he left her. He had a cigarette and a matchbox in his hand. "Here," he offered.
"Hey, thanks," she said happily, "how did you manage that?"
"Just bummed one from a friend," he said vacantly.
"Can we go out for a while? I can’t smoke in here," she said.
"Why?" Mark looked around.
"My dad’s here."
"Oh. Yeah sure, let’s go."
"So, how come you don’t smoke?" Daisy asked as they walked outside the gates of Jazzy.
"What sort of question is that?"
"A straight one."
"I just don’t," Mark replied with a shrug.
"Why?" Daisy lit her cig and took a long satisfying puff.
"It stopped giving me pleasure."
"It stopped, is it? So you were a smoker?"
"Yeah, till about six months ago."
"So, is that what you do with people too? Leave them when their company stops giving you pleasure?"
"Leaving them is a very harsh word. I’d say I start avoiding them if I don’t enjoy with them."
"You must be losing a lot of friends then."
"No, I don’t as a matter of fact. I am very careful while making friends."
Daisy finished her cigarette fast and as they headed back, she popped a mint.
"By the way, your hair and clothes smell more than your mouth when you smoke," Mark informed her.
"I know. But I don’t have a deo to spray on. Nor do my hair and clothes have a mouth to suck a mint," she smiled.
"They don’t? Which planet are you from?" Mark laughed.

"Hello there stranger," Shaira said, seeing Mark walk in with Daisy.
"Hey," Mark said. Daisy smiled at Shaira.
"Hi, I’m Shaira," she said holding her hand out to her.
"Daisy," she shook her hand, and then added, "there comes my dad."
Mark and Shaira turned around to see the man and smiled.
"Hi darling. Should we go?" he asked, putting his arm around her shoulder and kissing her temple.
"Dad, meet my new friends. Mark and Shaira."
He took his arm off Daisy’s shoulder and shook their hands in a solid manner that only defence officers can. "I’m Wing Commander Cedric Carver," he said, and placed his arm around Daisy’s shoulder again. "You sing very well young man," Carver complimented Mark.
"Thank you."
"Are you kids from Kasauli?"
"Yes," Mark replied.
"Good. So Daisy will have some company now."
"Of course she would," Mark said.
"Why don’t you both come over for a drink sometime? We are in the Air Force base. Bungalow 18."
"Definitely sir. We’ll drop in sometime."
Carver looked at Daisy. "Shall we go darling?"
"Yeah," she replied.
Daisy said bye to Mark and Shaira and went away with her father.
"Where are Karan and all?" Mark asked, as she got out of sight.
"They left a while ago."
"So early?"
"Yeah, Smita had to reach home. Some problems with her folks."
"Hmm…you want to drink more?"
"No, I’m done."
"Finished the bottle?"
"No, Mark, you finished the bottle."
"Whatever," he said his favourite word, as they slowly walked outside the gates of Jazzy.
"So, where did you go with her?"
"Outside."
"Well yeah I know. Outside where?"
"Just outside the gate."
"Why?" Shaira said, with a sneaky grin.
"She wanted to smoke. That’s why. And wipe that stupid grin off you face."
"You like her, don’t you?"
Mark’s rolled his eyes. "Shaira, I am not like you," he said, "I don’t fall for everyone I meet."
"Oh shut up. You so like her. You’re almost blushing."
"Don’t talk shit, and sit down fast."
"Wait ya Mark. I can’t find the leg rest," she said fumbling with her dress, "okay I am ready now."
"Good, so tell me have you seen me do a wheelie?"
"Mark, I’ll kick you, Mark no, MARK! NO…!!!"

Chapter 6

"Hey there!"
Daisy was fairly startled. She was in such deep thought, sitting on her favourite stone in her favourite spot facing the valley, that she hadn’t heard Mark come up behind her on his bike or his first (softer) hello.
She turned around to see Mark and Shaira.
"Hey Mark… Shaira," she said with a warm smile.
"Hi!" Shaira said cheerfully.
"What are you guys up to?"
"Just coming back from college," Mark replied. "What in the world are you doing here sitting alone?"
"Just… sitting," Daisy said. "Why don’t you join me?"
Mark looked at Shaira. "You want to sit for a while?" he asked.
"No, I’ll go home," she said.
"Why? You can go home after a while."
"No Mark. Drop me home and you can come back."
Mark turned to Daisy and shrugged his shoulders. "She’s chumming."
Shaira gave his back a whack, making Mark laugh out. "Okay…" he said to Daisy as he started his bike again, "later then. Have fun."

Shaira lived on the same road, half a kilometre before The Retreat. Mark went straight home after dropping her off.
"How was your day sweetheart?" Cynthia asked as Mark entered. She was coming out of the kitchen drying her wet hands in the red and white apron she wore over her dress.
"Okay," he said throwing himself on the sofa and then asked: "How was your date last night?" Mark had come too late at night and left too early in the morning to be able to talk to Cynthia.
"Good. Just that he’s too formal and proper—know what I mean?"
"So? You expect your date to jump on you or what?"
"Not really! But I thought he could let himself be a little, you know…"
"What does he do?"
"He’s a writer."
"Cool! What sort of a writer?"
"Writes for some travel magazine. Anyway, have you had lunch?"
"Yeah, I ate in the college."
"If you are hungry there’s pizza in the fridge. I’m going to Auntie Katey’s house," she said, taking off her apron.
"Cool."

Mark went into his room and started folding his clothes, which were all over the bed, and putting them back in his cupboard. Then he sat on the cane chair next to his CD player and went through his CD file, but couldn’t make up his mind about what he wanted to listen to. He was fidgeting. He walked restlessly about the house.

The Retreat was an interesting place. Though it was massive, it was essentially two rooms. The bigger room, which the main door opened into, was a bedroom-cum-drawing room-cum-dining room—it was huge enough to be all that and more. The furniture was exquisite. An ancient looking king-size bed lay in the far corner of the room, beside which stood a small wood magazine stand with intricate carving. The near end had the wooden sofa with a round mahogany table in the centre. A fireplace that was seldom used was hidden behind a one-seater. Near the kitchen, which was on the right just as you entered through the main door, was a gleaming wooden dining table that could seat four. Even after all this, the place was largely empty and seamed sparsely furnished.

Mark’s room was beyond this room, its door directly in line with the entrance, making the first room appear even larger. His room was much smaller in comparison but he had decorated it beautifully. Wrought-iron lamps, which he bought from Delhi, stood on both sides of the comparatively smaller bed. The television was kept on a glass-trolley and was frequently moved about—the wire was long enough for it to come out to the first room. A pair of square mirrors were fixed exactly in the same position on a wall, about three metres from each other. There was a tube-light in the room, but Mark liked dim lighting and almost never used it. One of the two bathrooms was attached to this room, while the other was next to the kitchen. Both were relatively small but neatly tiled.

Mark sat on the sofa once again, flipping pages of Cosmopolitan in an absentminded fashion. He threw the magazine on the sofa, and walked into the kitchen; opened the fridge and took out the pizza. He opened the box, and then closed it. Suddenly, as if making his mind finally, he went back to his room, put on his jacket, came back to the kitchen, picked up the pizza box and headed straight for his bike purposefully.

Mark drove down the road and, to his relief, saw Daisy still sitting in the same place, in the same position, looking down on the valley.
"Hey there, again," he said as he parked his bike on the side.
. "Hi," she said, a little surprised, "wasn’t expecting you."
"I know. I have a habit of surprising people."
"So what made you come back?"
"You," he laughed. "Kidding. Don’t get ideas. I was just getting bored at home." Mark opened the pizza box and offered. "Here, I thought you’d be hungry."
"Is this homemade?"
"As good as homemade. From Henry’s bakery, the best in Kasauli. Try it."
Daisy picked up a piece. "So, where’s your college?" she asked.
"In Solan," he replied. "About 20 kilometres from here."
"That’s far."
"Not really, doesn’t take more than 25 minutes on my bike."
"Why? Does your bike have wings?"
"Sort of," he said taking a bite of the pepperoni pizza. "By the way, what do you do?"
"Enjoy life."
"Okay… I meant what do you do for a living?"
"Breathe."
"Come on Daisy, you know what I mean."
She laughed and said: "Kidding. Nothing as of now."
"Why?"
"Don’t feel like doing anything."
"So, you’ve finished your studies?"
"Yeah, I did my post grad in History."
"Completed? When?"
"Two years ago."
"How old are you?" he asked with raised eyebrows.
"25," she replied, staring at the mountain right across the valley.
"Didn’t you like it?" Mark asked.
"Liked what?" Daisy asked, looking at him again.
"The pizza. You still haven’t finished the first piece."
"Oh. No, it’s nice. Just a little too spicy."
"Oh, okay… you don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to."
"Will you have it?" she asked.
"Of course I will. I don’t waste Henry’s pizza."
Daisy smiled and handed over the piece to him, which disappeared into his mouth in a flash.

For some moments they sat in silence as Mark enjoyed his pizza and Daisy her view. Then he spoke. "So tell me, why have you been sitting here for so long?"
"I’m waiting to see the sun go down."
"You’ve never seen the sunset?"
"I’ve never seen the sunset from here," she said sombrely.

"You are quite unpredictable," Mark said after a while, staring into the valley as if trying to understand what she was seeing there.
"What makes you say that?"
"After the chirpy girl I met last night, I didn’t think I’d see you sitting in one place for hours watching the sun go down."
"Neither did I," she said quickly. "Anyway, forget all this. Where do you live?" Daisy turned towards him.
"Just up this road," he gestured, "The Retreat—the last in the line of the bungalows down this road."
"Were you born here?"
"No," he replied.
"OK, you sure do make the other person ask a lot of questions. Where were you born then?"
"Dubai."
"So how did you land up here?"
"My parents got divorced when I was very young. So, my mom brought me here with her."
"What does she do?"
"Enjoys life," he said, with laughing eyes.
"Very funny. And I know she breathes for a living… but, you know what I mean Mark."
"I don’t intend to imitate, but she does nothing too."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, she had never worked. After her divorce, my grandfather asked mom to come to London and live with him. But she didn’t go, chose to live here. The Retreat is my granddad’s house."
"So, how do you guys survive, I mean, where does the money come from?"
"My grandfather sends her money every month, enough for my education and our bread and butter. Plus, he also has a huge house in Delhi, which is in my name and we’ve rented that out."
"Why didn’t your mom go to London?" Daisy continued with her questioning, "I would have thought that to be nice."
"She says she wanted to lead a peaceful, hassle-free life," he shrugged.
"And you’re stuck here too?"
"Not stuck. I like it here. Even if I had a choice to live in a bigger town I’d still live here."
"How old are you?"
"22. Why?"
"You talk as if you’re 52."
Mark smiled.
"So, Shaira and you are seeing each other?"
"Yeah, everyday."
"Shut up. Are you guys going around?"
"No. What made you ask that?"
"Curiosity."
"No, we’re just very good friends," he said. "What about you? You have a boy friend?"
"No."
"Ever had one?"
"No."
"No?"
"No. Not one. Quite a few."
Mark cracked up. "So, what went wrong with them?"
"Nothing. Something went wrong with me. I got bored of them," she said, grinning.
"Are you a only child?" Mark asked, eager to know more about her.
"Nope. I got a very irritating but very cute 11-year-old sister."
"What’s her name?"
"Denise."

Mark sat staring at Daisy. She was looking down at the stone she was sitting on. He tapped her thigh gingerly with the tip of his fingers. "What?" she asked him.
Mark, with his eyes, signalled her to look towards the left. Behind a still and brooding mountain, a gorgeous orange sun was sinking, slowly hiding itself from prying eyes. She stared at the spectacle in front of her. Mark stared at her. No sight could have been better, for either of them.

Chapter 7

"Hey good lookin’! What’s up?" Shaira sounded as cheerful as ever.
"Nothing much," Mark replied lazily, "was just lying down."
"How are you feeling now?"
"I’m okay now. Had a Crocin after lunch."
"By the way, guess who dropped me back home today," Shaira said.
"Who?"
"Guess."
"I don’t know, tell me na."
"Sujoy," she replied.
"Oh my god, that loser!"
"Shut up, he isn’t a loser, trust me."
"Whatever."
"Mark, I’m serious. He’s a really sweet guy," she said. "And he’s quite cute," she added giggling.
"He’s a major pseudo. And if you hangout with him, I’ll stop hanging out with you."
"Oh shut up. Okay, listen."
"Hmm what?"
"I’m meeting up with him at Alasia in the evening and…"
"Oh my god…" he interrupted.
"Mark, shut up," Shaira interrupted him in turn, "I want you to be there too. Just meet him."
"No man I don’t want to meet him."
"Mark please yaa. We’ll drink up. It’s on me."
"No Shaira. I’m not free in the evening anyway."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I’m busy."
"Busy with what?"
"I have to meet a friend."
"Which friend?"
"A friend," Mark said casually.
"Look. I’ve known you for five years and the only friend you hang out with is me, so cut the crap."
"Whatever."
"So tell me. Who is this new friend?"
"Daisy," he answered, again as casually as he could.
"Uh oh… okay. A friend eh?"
"Well, yeah."
"What time are you meeting her?"
"4.30."
"So, why can’t you come to Alasia after you finish with her?"
"OK OK fine. I’ll see you there at about 7," Mark gave up.
"Cool. I’ll see you then."

Mark spent an extra ten minutes on what he wore that day. One of his many boot-cut butt-hugging denims of course, and that black sleeveless vest and, yes, a green shirt on top, unbuttoned. Yes, the guy in the mirror looked perfect. He flung a long muffler around his neck and went out to meet Daisy.

She was already sitting on the rock when he reached, facing the valley, her eyes glued to the sun as usual.
"Hey there," Mark said.
"Hi," she responded, screwing her eyes a bit as she struggled to focus on Mark after the luminous sun.
"When did you come here," Mark asked, as he sat on the stone beside her.
"15 minutes ago," she smiled.
"What’s wrong with you?"
"What do you mean?"
"You look pale."
"I don’t know…"
"Hmm, maybe I didn’t notice it earlier because of the heavy make up," he laughed.
"Yeah right."
"So what did you do the entire day?"
"Nothing much. Just watched a little bit of TV and wrote some stuff, nothing too great."
"Wrote stuff eh? What stuff?"
"Just a part of all that is inside me. I like to jot it down on paper every now and then."
"Why? You like to remember the past?"
"It’s not about weather I like it or not. It’s there. I don’t have a choice. I just like to write everything down."
"Well, I don’t think about the past or the future. I live in the present. That’s the only way to be happy."
Daisy laughed out loud.
"What’s funny?" Mark asked, unable to hide a little irritation.
"No, nothing," she replied.
"No. Tell me," he persisted.
"Okay… you are funny."
"You found what I said funny?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I just did."
"You have to have a reason for finding it funny, don’t you?"
"I don’t know… I just found it funny. Maybe because it’s not true and I have heard this before," she shrugged.
"Maybe you didn’t understand me. I can explain."
"Sure, go ahead."
"Okay… I think there are two situations that make people unhappy. One, when they think about the past. Two, when they think about the future. If the past has been good, you crib about the fact that it’s not that good anymore, and if it’s been bad, it makes you sad anyway. And you worry about what’s going to happen in future. Live in the present—that’s the way to be happy," he explained.
Daisy laughed again.
"Are you going to tell me which part of that is so funny?" Mark was obviously pissed off.
"Well, that is your opinion. I don’t know about others, but as far as I am concerned, thinking about my past makes me smile. And thinking about the future gets me excited. And I like both."
Mark stared at her. He was speechless. He had no reply to her answer. It was difficult for him to believe that a person can be happy in a way other than he had imagined. He had life all worked out and here was this girl filling his mind with doubts.
"No one’s ever defined what heaven looks like, but I gather it is a place that makes us happy," Daisy continued to explain her point, "and it’s a place on earth. It’s here. It could be different for different people. It’s living in the present for you, it’s living in the past, present and future for me. You are right, and I am right too."
"You think a lot, don’t you?" Mark stared right into her eyes.
"Don’t you?"
"Why can’t you ever answer a question straight?"
"Sometimes, a question is an answer in itself. Don’t you think so?"
Mark smiled but didn’t answer.
"So, how was college?" Daisy changed the topic.
"I didn’t go today. I wasn’t feeling too well."
"What happened?"
"I had fever. Not too high. Just didn’t feel up to it."
"You had any medicine?"
"Yeah, took a Crocin. I’m okay now."
"The Crocin helped eh?"
"Yeah, it always does."
"Lucky you."
"Lucky?" Mark said, laughing. "Well, in case you didn’t know, Crocin is for that purpose."
Daisy laughed too, but her laugh wasn’t natural…

The sun sank. No one talked about going home. Even when Mark and Daisy were at a loss for words for a few seconds, or minutes, or even hours—they both realized very quickly—they wanted to be together. Sharing silence became more comfortable and more and more special with each passing moment.
"Shaira called in the afternoon," Mark told her.
"How is she?"
"Happy. She managed to get a guy for herself."
"What do you mean she managed? She’s good looking enough to get guys to run after her."
"Whatever," he laughed.
"So who is this guy?"
"A major loser. Well, he’s okay to look at, but a bloody pseudo intellect."
"Why?"
"I don’t know ya, he’s just too unreal. Know what I mean?"
"Not really, but you’re going to explain, right?"
"I don’t know… he’s too not himself."
"Hmm."
"Anyway, she’s called me to meet him at Alasia today."
"So, you got to go right now?"
"Well, yeah I do."
"Okay, go if you have to."
"Would you want to come along?"
"Would you want me to come along?"
"Tell me Daisy. Do you want to come along?"
"Do I have to repeat my question?"
"Yes, yes, I want you to come—happy?"
"Well, okay," she said shrugging, "I don’t mind."
"You don’t mind, or do you want to come along?"
Daisy cracked up. "Why did I know that was coming?" she said laughing.
"Whatever."
"I love to irritate you."
"Yeah, I can see. So, you want to come along?"
"You don’t give up, do you?"
"I do, but not very easily."
"God… yes, I do want to come along. Don’t you understand body language?"
"Nope. I took Sanskrit as my second language in school."
"Was that supposed to be a joke?"
"Why should it be a joke? I did take Sanskrit."
"Shut up Mark."
"I love to irritate you," he said mischievously.
"Oh you just love to imitate me," she laughed.

Mark drove to Alasia with Daisy—in his usual speed. Only Daisy didn’t ask him to slow down.

Chapter 8

Alasia wasn’t exactly The Ritz but it was undoubtedly the best (and the most expensive) hotel in Kasauli. Its bar, though superbly furnished with antique furniture, was not a glamorous set-up. A grand piano, kept in a corner, was its only source of glory. ‘Expensive’ was a relative word when it came to Kasauli—a small peg of rum at Alasia’s bar cost only Rs.30 and some drinks were even cheaper.

The bar was packed with tourists when Mark and Daisy walked in and found Shaira and Sujoy sitting on a sofa in the far corner just beside the piano. Shaira seemed happy to see Daisy.
"So what’ll you guys drink," Shaira asked, after Daisy and Sujoy were introduced to each other.
"I’ll just have Coke," Daisy said, when Mark looked at her questioningly. "Without ice," she said.
"Why?" Mark asked.
"What why? I just don’t want ice."
"I don’t mean the ice you fool, I mean why no alcohol."
"Because I don’t drink."
"Why?"
"What do you mean why?" Shaira said, jumping into the conversation, "if she doesn’t drink, she doesn’t drink."
"Am I talking to you? Just keep your trap shut." Mark said irritated, and then asked Daisy: "So why don’t you drink?"
"Well, it stopped giving me pleasure."

Mark didn’t say anything after that. He got her Coke and rum and cola for himself. About an hour later Malhotra spotted Mark and almost forced him to play the piano.
"I didn’t know you played the piano too," Daisy said.
"Of course you wouldn’t, I never told you," he said, as he got up from his chair and walked to the piano.

The buzz of people’s chatter died the moment Mark struck the first notes of Love Story. Beethoven’s Fur Elise and Love Story were the only tunes Mark could play on the piano—he couldn’t read music, he just knew these songs. And he played them flawlessly.

Daisy got up, as if pulled by an unseen thread, and stood behind the piano facing Mark. With her elbows resting on the instrument, her eyes on his face… she listened mesmerised. Mark concentrated on the keys… as his eyes missed what he most wanted to see—hers staring at him.
The song ended but everyone screamed for more so he played Fur Elise, at the end of which people screamed for more yet again. That got too much for Mark. This wasn’t what he had come to do here.
"Whatever," Mark mumbled, but loud enough for Daisy to hear.
"Why? Play more," she requested too.
"Shut up. That’s all I know," he whispered. Mark turned to the crowd with a huge fake grin and said, "Thank you very much. I’ll get back to my drink now."

Sujoy offered to drop Shaira and they went away in his black Opel Astra, while Mark sped away with Daisy on his RD 350. In the chill of the night Daisy held on to Mark close, and silently, through the ride.
"You want to come in for a while?" Daisy asked, as she got off outside the Air Force Base.
"No. It’s pretty late. Some other time maybe."
"Okay," she smiled and turned around to disappear into the darkness.
"Hey Daisy?" Mark said.
"Yeah?" she said, turning instantly, desperate to be stopped.
"I have a feeling that you are going to fall for me," he said smiling.
Daisy looked at him for a while and said what he was not expecting to hear. "I hope that does not happen. And if it does, Mark, I’ll never tell you."
The smile on her face had vanished.
"Do you always stick to your word?" Mark asked.
"Yes," she replied firmly, "always. Bye Mark."
"Bye."
The smile on his face had vanished too.

Chapter 9

The best part of summer in Kasauli was that it was never purely summer. It would rain suddenly and then sweaters and jackets would come out again. It rained for two days now and washed Kasauli clean with a new beauty. The clouds came to pay a visit, the sun played hide and seek with them, birds sang and the wind danced to their tune… and locals could appreciate once again the beautiful place they took so much for granted—their Kasauli, their heaven.
Their heaven was drenched that day but neither rain, nor the changing winds could stop Mark and Daisy from meeting.
"It’s so cold today," Daisy said, as she sat on her stone, wet with the rain that had stopped for now. Her teeth clattered in the chill, as she put her head on Mark’s shoulder.
Mark took off his muffler and wrapped it around her neck. "Here, take the jacket too," he said, taking it off.
"Are you mad?" Daisy protested, "You’ll die!"
"No way, I am used to this. You’re not. Put it on before you catch something," Mark said, as he helped her put on his brown suede jacket.
Daisy put her arm around his; the weather god played a part in their sitting closer than usual.
"There’s no sun today," she mumbled.
"Of course there is. We just can’t see it."
"How can you believe something’s there if you can’t see it?"
"I just do Daisy," Mark said resignedly, "I just do."

That answer surprised her. In the little time that Daisy had known Mark, he never said something without logically proving his point. This time, he didn’t even try.
"So, is there anything else you want to tell me?" Daisy asked after a long gap of silence.
"What’s that supposed to mean?"
"Just exactly what I said."
"Well, I guess I don’t. Is there anything else you want to hear?" Mark looked at her with a confused expression.
"Yep," she replied.
"And what’s that?" he asked eagerly. He could feel the flutter of butterflies in his stomach.
"You think I’m going to tell you?"
"I certainly hope you do."
"If you have anything to tell me, you will. But like you said, you don’t, so too bad."
"Bad for whom?"
"For me."

As usual Mark couldn’t tell if she was serious or joking—Daisy had mastered the art of turning a conversation into a joke or a serious discussion and then back to a joke, all in a flash of a second. He didn’t know what to say, but he was sure that he wanted this conversation to continue.
"Well, I do have something to say actually," he said, egging the talk on, "but don’t think I should."
"Really? Now you’re talking!"
That made Mark laughed even though he didn’t want to. He hoped Daisy wont laugh off the conversation. She didn’t.
"What’s funny? I’m pretty serious," she said instead.
"When did I say I was not serious?" Mark said, quickly changing his expression to a sombre one.
"You didn’t say, but you laughed."
"I don’t always mean what I say, do or express."
"Okay in that case…" she looked him in the eye and said, "I love you."
Mark laughed again. "Okay, this time I was really laughing."
"And this time I was kidding."
"I don’t think so," he said teasingly.
"Exactly," she said instantly.
"What exactly?"
"I could still not be meaning what I said."
"What?" he said, baffled. He had no clue what she was trying to say.
"Want me to explain?" she asked.
"Of course!"
"You said you don’t always mean what you say, right?"
"Yeah, so?"
"So, I said I love you. I may or may not mean it. But then I said I was kidding. But I may or may not mean that. Get it?"
"Well, yes I do. It is a different matter that I said I don’t mean what I say, and not you so you didn’t have to illustrate with an example," Mark pointed out. "But now since you have done so," he added, "there is definitely one part that you don’t mean. And we’ve got to figure out which part that is."
"Keep guessing," she said laughing.
"Guessing ain’t my job girl," he said coolly, "I know my answers. I don’t ever need to guess."
"Mr. Roger," Daisy said laughing, "if you knew the answers to any questions in life, you’d have a life by now."
"How are you so sure that I don’t know my answers?"
"I’m not sure really. But then you’re such a…" she paused.
"I’m a what?"
"I don’t know the word," she said honestly.
"You don’t know the word!" Mark laughed again. "Miss Carver, you’re pathetic. You know that, right?"
"Yeah, you just told me. But you’re nice. You’re a nice person. Really."
Mark stopped laughing and looked straight into her eyes. "You confuse me," he said openly.
"I do," she asked, "why?"
"I don’t know… it seems I’ve known you for ages, but I haven’t yet figured out what’s on your mind."
"By the way, you’ve known me for just been a few days, though they might feel like ages. And I’m just having to beat around the bush because you say you know your answers when you don’t."
"But I really feel I do."
"Anyway," she said with an air of finality. "Thanks for the dance last evening," she swiftly changed the topic drastically.
"Thanks? What for?" he asked, trying to cope with the sudden turn in conversation.
"For the pleasure, you’re a good dancer."
"Yeah, and so is Sunny Deol," Mark said laughing at her abrupt formal behaviour.
"I was just going to say that."
"Well, sorry for stealing your words."
"You do it quite often."
"I do? How come this is the first time I’ve realized it?"
"How would you realize when you’re stealing my words?"
"Hmm… point. I wouldn’t know," Mark mumbled. "So you should point out na," he added, "give me a couple of examples when you were left tongue tied because I stole your words."
Mark was trying hard to get a cue from her so that he can tell her what he felt for her. That he was completely in love with her. Daisy had given him several, but he wanted more, he wanted to be sure.
"I don’t remember Mark," Daisy replied, "but I know you’ll do it again."
"I hope you are aware that I spend each moment with you solving the riddles that you keep throwing my way."
"That’s what you think. But only I will know for sure if you’ve really solved the riddles or you’re just fibbing."
"How will you know unless I tell you?"
"Right now I don’t know, but I know I will."
"But there is a faint possibility that you’ll never know, just a possibility?"
"Yes, but then neither will you."
Mark tried to figure out what she was trying to say. "Do you think it’s possible that we both are perceiving things differently?" he asked finally.
"It could be," she shrugged, "or perhaps I’m perceiving right and you’re perceiving wrong."
"Or perhaps I’m perceiving right and you’re perceiving wrong?"
"Perhaps. I don’t mind being wrong once in a while. In fact, this time I wish I’m wrong. I just hope you don’t keep things in your stomach and come out with the truth sooner or later."

Mark registered Daisy’s words and deliberated on them. Each word she said held some hidden meaning that he wasn’t able to grasp instantly. He re-heard the words in his mind, hoping to find that meaning.
"What are you thinking?" Daisy asked.
"Trying to figure out what you’re saying."
"Any luck?"
"Maybe. Not sure though."
"Not sure, and then you say you know your answers!"
"And by the way," Mark said, waking from some thought of his own, "I don’t keep things to myself, but some things are better left unsaid. Don’t you think?"
"No, I don’t think. I know."
"Silence speaks volumes," he said, ignoring that, "don’t you think, oops, know?"
"Yes I do. I normally keep things in my stomach, but then some things sound better aloud."
"So, why do you like keeping things in your stomach?"
"So that I don’t feel hungry," she laughed.
"So, why do you like keeping things in your stomach?" Mark asked again.
"Oooo… business now eh?"
"Should I repeat my question?"
"Why are you trying to get something out of me when I want to keep things in my tummy?"
"I never asked you to take them out, just asked why you like to keep them in."
"As of now, I am keeping things to myself for a reason. I have a lot on my mind. It’s driving me nuts. And if I get this feeling out of my stomach it’s going to play havoc with my mind."
"Need help?"
"Help’s always welcome."
"Empty your mind, that’ll create space for something that’s inside your stomach."
"You’re clever."
"Thank you. I always knew that, but no one believed me."

Laughing loudly Daisy’s eyes went to her watch.
"Oh my God Mark, It’s 8.30!" she said, panicking.
"So?" Mark said casually. Inside he felt awful that the conversation was coming to an end.
"I promised mom I’ll be home by 7.30," Daisy said getting up, "let’s go. Get up fast."
The conversation had ended, but Mark hoped this was just a pause. He didn’t want to admit too easily. He enjoyed the who-says-it-first game. But he also knew he’d say it anytime now.
"Tomorrow then. Same place, same time," Mark said, as she got off the bike, but didn’t wait for an answer. He knew she’d be there. And so did she.

Chapter 10

If anybody crossed Sunset Point they would, without doubt, see two people sitting on a stone every day, seemingly doing nothing but staring at the sun go down—and evidently enjoying it like no other thing in the world. It became a universal truth. Like the sun that always rose from the east and the sky that did not have an end; like birds could fly and people could die; like night was always dark and blood always red… Mark and Daisy always met.

"Do you love her?" Shaira asked one day, on their way back from college.
"No!" he said quickly. "Are you mad?"
"I’m serious Mark."
"What’s wrong with you?" he looked back at her on the bike, obviously annoyed. "I don’t love her. I just enjoy spending time with her."
"Every single day? For hours? Doing nothing but sitting on a stone?! Mark, who are you trying to fool—me or yourself?"
"I’m not trying to fool anyone Shaira."
"You are definitely trying to fool me. But it’s not happening," Shaira adopted a patient tone. "I see it in your eyes. I feel it in every word you say about her. I think you should just tell her."
"Tell her what man?" Mark was getting uncomfortable with this conversation.
"That you love her like crazy. That you can’t do without her. That you can’t have a conversation with me without mentioning her. That you love her Mark," Shaira said emphasizing each word, "like no one has ever loved anyone before."
"Shaira, I think you’ve completely lost it. I am not in love with her. Yes, I am extremely fond of her. But that’s it."
"Is it Mark?"
"Yes."
"It’s sad that you can’t even open up with me. You’re doing great Mark. Keep it up. Keep it hidden inside you," Shaira said angrily, getting off his bike outside her house, "and spend the rest of your life sitting on that stone waiting for her to say it to you!"
"Have you fought with someone today? Why are you acting so weird?"
"I am not acting weird Mark. Fine, you don’t want to tell her, don’t. I just don’t like the fact that you won’t tell me the truth. I see it so clearly, and you know that."
"Fine. You want me to say it, I’ll say it if it makes you happy," Mark said raising his voice, "I love her. Fine? I love her. I am crazy about her, and I cannot imagine my life without her. Just the thought of not being able to see her, or talk to her, even for one day, makes me want to erase that day from my life," he said animatedly.

Shaira came forward and hugged him tightly. "Idiot," she said lovingly, "how about telling her all that?"
"Tell her what?"
"That you bloody love her," she said exasperated, "stop playing dumb!"
"Love her?" he laughed, "I don’t love her!"
"Get out of my sight Roger!" Shaira shrieked, "get out before I start kicking you!"
Mark laughed and zoomed away on his bike.

"Mark, come here," Cynthia shouted from the kitchen, as he announced his arrival by saying a cheery hello to his mom.
"What are you cooking?" he said, seeing her busily cook something that smelt delicious.
"Lamb."
"Smells nice!"
"Hmm, anyway Mark I want to know something," she said, dismissing the topic of food, "who is this new girl you’ve been hanging out with?"
"What new girl?" Mark’s tone changed, "What’s wrong with everyone today?"
"Everyone’s been talking about you and this pretty looking girl you apparently are always with. So who is it?"
"No one mom. Just a good friend."
"What’s her name?"
"Daisy."
"Hmm… you like her?" she asked looking at him from the corner of her eyes, continuing to do stir the lamb.
"Stop looking at me like that. Everyone’s lost it."
"Do you like her?"
"Of course I like her. That’s why I hang out with her."
"Mark, do you like her?"
"Mom, what the hell’s wrong with you?" he said, raising his voice.
"Do you like her?" she persisted.
"Oh lord. Yes. I mean, kinda. I don’t know. I think I do. Yeah, she’s nice," he muttered incoherently, "I love spending time with her. I might… I don’t know, really. Only if people let me be for a while, maybe I’ll realize if I love her or not."
"Okay then," Cynthia said smiling, "take all the while you want. Let me know though. Even though I already know, it’ll be nice to hear it from you."
"You’ll be the first to know mom."
"Really?"
"I swear."
"Don’t lie. I am not the first to know."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you already know. I could be the second to know," she said with a clever expression on. "So, can I be?"
"Yes mom," Mark smiled affectionately at his witty mother, "you are the second to know."
"Hmm… so now that it’s out, why don’t you invite her for dinner sometime."
"Sure. I’ll ask her today," he said. "Hey, what’s the time!"
"4.45."
"Oh damn, I’m late," he said, picking up his keys.
"Late for what?"
"Late to meet Daisy," he shouted, as he hurried out of The Retreat.

Daisy wasn’t there. He parked his bike and looked around. She was nowhere in sight. He sat down on the stone, looking at the narrow road that stretched emptily in front of him every now and then. She had never been late before. Nor had he.
Just as he was getting really upset, someone whacked him on the head gently and he turned around to see a smiling Daisy.
"What the hell Daisy?" he said, obviously upset. "You’re late!"
"No you were late. I heard your bike and went and hid behind that garbage dump," she pointed. "You were trying to pass off your blame?" she added naughtily.
"Shut up Daisy," he said, without looking at her.
"So that’s what you do when you have no answers? You try and end the topic?"
"Daisy," he said crossly, "you’re bugging me."
"Am I? Okay then. I’ll leave," she said and started walking.
"Hey, are you mad?" he ran after her. "Come back!"
Daisy laughed and stopped. "Don’t worry," she said, "I’m not going anywhere. Not yet, at least."

They both walked back and sat on the stone. And for some comfortable silent moments stared at the familiar sight that lay ahead.
"So, why did you get late today?" Daisy asked grimly. "Just when I began to think that you’d never be late to meet me."
"I was talking to mom," he told her, "…about you."
"About me? What about me?"
"Someone must have told her that we’ve been meeting quite regularly. She was just wondering…"
"Wondering what?"
"Wondering what’s going on."
"Between us?"
"Hmm."
"What did you tell her?"
Mark kept silent for a bit.
"Hello?" Daisy persisted. "I asked you something. What did you tell her?"
"Nothing."
"Mark, you can’t lie to save your life, so don’t try."
"What do you want to know?"
"What did you tell her?"
"I didn’t tell her anything. She guessed."
"Guessed what?"
Mark turned to look at her. "Stop troubling me Daisy," he said miserably, "please."
"I am not trying to trouble you Mark," she said seriously, "I want to know what she guessed."
"What do you think Daisy? What do you guess when you look at me?"
Daisy was a little taken aback by the gravity in his voice. "Umm… I guess that… oh, forget it!" she said lightly.
"Forget it?" he said, confused. "What do you mean forget it?"
"Let it be Mark."
"No. We will not let it be," he said resolutely, "I will say it to you right now. Right at this very moment."
Daisy looked at him speechlessly. He stared at her and then in a faltering voice he said: "Daisy, I think I…"
"No Mark," she said urgently, "Please. Just stop."
"Why?"
"Because I say so," Daisy suddenly screamed.
"So why should everything go according to you?" Mark screamed too, he was really upset with what she said, now that he was finally ready to face what he felt. "I love you," he said loudly, "I am crazy about you!"
"Mark..." she said but he didn’t let her finish.
"No, let me say it out Daisy," he said in rapid words, "I love you. May god die, if any word that I say is a lie. I cannot imagine my life without you."
Daisy buried her face in her hands and sat silently for many moments. Mark had poured his heart out, finally, and the air was heavy with the intensity of his words. The clouds stopped on their way home, the sun forgot to set, the wind paused and the mountains watched breathlessly. They all waited for Daisy’s response.
"Say something Daisy," Mark pleaded when she didn’t say anything for a long time.
"Say what Mark?" she said sadly, as she looked at him with pain in her eyes.
"Do you feel the same?" he asked nervously.
She looked at him for a full minute without saying a word. She had been crying and so had he. And then she spoke:
"No Mark, I don’t."

Chapter 11

The phone at Shaira’s house rang loudly, cutting through the stillness of the night.

"Hello," Shaira said groggily.
"Shaira, come out," Mark said, "I’m coming to meet you."
"Mark, have you completely lost it?" Shaira was more than surprised. "It’s midnight!"
"It’s not midnight. It’s 11," he said gritting his teeth in irritation, "just cut the crap and come out."
"Why?" she said, equally irritated at his officious tone.
"Because I want to talk."
"Mark," she said firmly, "we’ll talk tomorrow."
"Please Shaira," all of a sudden his tone was soft, almost sad.
"What’s wrong?" for the first time Shaira realized something was not alright.
"Just come out, please."
"Okay fine," she said quickly.

Ten minutes later Shaira came out of her house with a blanket wrapped around her to find Mark standing beside his bike.
"What’s the matter?" she asked, coming near him. She couldn’t believe what she saw: Mark’s eyes were all swollen and red.
"Hey," she said tenderly, holding his hand, "what’s wrong?"
"I told her," Mark said, words barely coming out of him.
"And?"
"That’s it,’ he said a little more firmly, "I told her."
"What did she say Mark?"
"Nothing much," he said in a mock casual tone, "she said she doesn’t feel the same about me."

Shaira’s heart went out for her friend. In so many years she had never seen Mark go through such emotional upheaval and she wasn’t sure he could deal with this. She went close and gave him a warm, understanding hug.
"I’m so sorry baby," she said softly.
"Naah, don’t be," he said pulling away, "it’s okay. I love her Shaira. I really do. But that doesn’t mean I need it back. I just love her—unconditionally."
"You want to walk for a bit?" Shaira suggested.
"Sure."
It was dark and silent, much like Mark’s mind.
"So what are you going to do about it?" Shaira asked as they started to walk aimlessly in the dark, comfortable in each other’s company.
"Nothing. I have told her how I feel. As long as she doesn’t get uncomfortable meeting me, I’m fine," he said, and as an afterthought, added: "But if she stops meeting me because of this, I’ll never be able to forgive myself."
"I’m sure she isn’t that foolish," Shaira said comfortingly, "why would she stop meeting you!"
"I know," he said. "Damn! It would have been so much easier had I not said it. Things would have been normal then."
"Nonsense Mark, if you feel something for someone how can you not say it just so that things remain so-called ‘normal’," she said strongly. "Things would be a lie. And then the rest of your life you’d wonder what if you’d said it. It’s good to say what you feel. Don’t you feel relieved?"
"I do actually."
"I knew it. You have nothing to be guilty about. You love her Mark. She deserves to know if nothing else."
"I know that Shaira. But what I’m bothered about is how am I supposed to act in front of her now? Am I supposed to act normal, as if nothing’s happened? Or…"
"You’re supposed to be yourself Mark. Don’t plan. Just say and act how you feel at that particular moment. Be yourself."
"I never thought she’d say no…" he confessed. "You know what Shaira, I don’t care if she doesn’t love me. I love her, and that’s enough for me. I just want to be able to spend time with her. Just the way we used to. I want things to be the same. I don’t care how she has me—as a friend, as a brother, as anything. I just want to be with her."
"So, what’s stopping you? Go ahead. Make things the same," Shaira said encouragingly. "It’s in your hands Mark. You’re a charmer. Charm her again. Make her feel comfortable around you once again."
Mark looked at his friend and smiled warmly. "I just hope she comes to our stone tomorrow."
"If she doesn’t, she better have a damn good reason for it," Shaira said pressing his arm fondly. Their walk was almost over and they were back near her house.
"Thanks Shaira," he said meaningfully.
"Oh no Mark, please don’t act weird with me!" she said laughing. "This niceness doesn’t suit you. Anyway, I’m going in now."
"Bye," Mark said laughing, as he sat on his bike.
"By the way," Shaira said just as he was going away, "this makes two—Daisy is only the second girl to reject you."
"Second?" he asked genuinely confused. "Who’s the first?"
"Me!"
"Yeah right" they both laughed "you so wish!"

As Mark was turning in from the gate of his place, he almost fell from the bike. Daisy was sitting on a stone outside the gate.
"What in the world are you doing here?" he asked shocked beyond his wits.
"I called, your mom said you had gone out. So I thought I’d wait for you here."
"You are so mad," he said, opening the gate, "come inside." Mark was conscious of a rising excitement inside him. What did she want to say?
"I can’t stay for long," she said, breaking into his thoughts, "I’ve sneaked out of my house."
"Why?"
"Because my father would have never let me out," she said in a matter-of-fact way, "and I had to see you."
"Okay, at least come inside for a bit," Mark said, becoming more and more impatient to know what was in her mind.
She got up and followed Mark inside.
The sound of the door opening woke Cynthia up. "Mark, is that you?" she asked from her bed at the end of the room.
"Yes mom."
"Where did you go? Daisy called for you."
"Put the light off!" Cynthia said agitatedly, as Mark switched the light on.
"Mom, wake up," he said gently, "you have to meet someone."
Cynthia got up lazily and saw a thin meek girl standing with her son.
"Mom, this is Daisy."
"Isn’t it too late for dinner?" Cynthia said good-humouredly, still rubbing sleep off her eyes.
"Mom, wake up man!"
"Hi," Cynthia addressed Daisy, finally managing to open her eyes, "I’ve heard a lot about you."
"You have?" Daisy said sweetly.
"You bet."
"Anyway," Mark interrupted the happy conversation, "go back to sleep mom. We’re going into my room."
"Yeah, thanks for waking me up."
"Sorry!" Mark laughed.
"Nice meeting you Daisy," she said, ignoring her son. "Have fun you guys."
"Mom!" Mark said, embarrassed. "Are you nuts?"
"Huh… what did I say?" Cynthia looked confused.
"Never mind, just go back to sleep."
"Good night," she said and promptly put her head back on the pillow.

Mark and Daisy went out into the garden instead of his room; he was too self-conscious to take her in there after her mother’s harmless yet damaging remark.

"So tell me Daisy," Mark said as they settled down on the plastic garden chairs that were usually kept there.
"Are you upset Mark?" she asked softly.
"Upset about what?"
"Mark, please don’t pretend. You know what I am talking about."
"No, I am not upset Daisy. I told the girl I love that I love her. Why should I be upset?"
"Why do you love me Mark?"
"What sort of a stupid question is that?"
"Answer it. Why do you think you love me?"
"Well here’s an equally stupid answer—I don’t have the slightest idea," he said. "There are no particular things about you because of which I love you. I love you—everything about you. I love every breath you take, every word you say, every…"
"And," Daisy interrupted, "you aren’t the least bit upset that the person you love so much doesn’t feel the same about you?"
"No, I am not. No conditions. I love you. You don’t. I wish I could help it. But I can’t," he said delicately.
"Mark, you’d be happier without me. You don’t need this."
"I might be happier without you, if you insist. But I’d rather be unhappy with you than be happy without you."
"Mark…" she said, tears welling up in her eyes.
He looked up at her curiously. He was almost sure that she was going to admit she loved him too. She was very near admitting. He could feel it almost.
"I am HIV positive," she said instead.

He stared at her blankly. "I’m sorry—what?" he said disjointedly, "I don’t think I heard properly. What did you say?"
"I am HIV positive," she repeated.
"No you’re not!" Mark started shouting. "You’re lying just to get rid of me," he said looking at her unbelievingly, "aren’t you?!"
"No Mark," Daisy said gravely, "I am not lying."
"Yes you are," he said, his tone changing as he began to realise, much as he didn’t want to, the truth in her words, "please say you are lying Daisy. Please." Mark was desperate, he didn’t wait to hear even his mind’s voice, he didn’t want this moment to sink in. "Please, please," he said again and again, "please say it’s not true."
"It’s true Mark," she said, her eyes fixed on his, "I am HIV positive, face it."
"No, I won't," he said adamantly, "I don’t believe this. You are lying."
"I am not Mark!" she said, and then took out a sheet from her pocket and handed it over to him. Tears started flowing down freely down Mark’s face, even before he took the paper from her gingerly. With unsure hands, he held the paper high in the poor light that shone from the dim bulb outside his house, and saw the dreaded words.
Daisy Carver’s blood test report for HIV said in big bold undeniable letters: POSITIVE.

"That’s what I came to say," she said when mark did not speak for many minutes. "I’ll go now." Daisy got up, brushed Mark’s hair with her hand, wiped his tears and started walking.
"Daisy," Mark started howling, "This is not true. Not true!"
Daisy continued walking without saying anything. Mark ran after her. "At least let me drop you home?" he said.
"Sure," Daisy said, wiping his tears, and smiled faintly.

They rode in complete silence; Mark was still stunned by all that had happened. Daisy sat close, holding on to him to provide support and comfort. She knew this was more difficult for him than her. For the first time Mark drove slowly. But as he dropped her off outside the Air Force Base, things were clearer in his mind.
"I’ll see you tomorrow. Same place, same time," he said and drove off without waiting for a response.

Chapter 12

It had worried Shaira when Mark didn’t turn up at college the next day. And Cynthia’s expression, when she opened the door to her that evening, made her even more anxious.

"What happened?" she asked Cynthia nervously. "Where’s Mark?"
She looked over Cynthia’s shoulder and saw Mark’s room door shut, which was unusual. "What has happened?" she asked again, trying to understand the expression in Cynthia’s eyes.
"Go in," Cynthia pointed towards his room, "talk to him."

Shaira walked in slowly, unsure of what to expect. Mark’s room was in darkness. She walked in, with Cynthia close on her heels.
"Mark?" Shaira called out to him softly. In the darkness she couldn’t place him. She switched the tubelight on. In the flood of light Shaira saw a scene that upset her immensely. Mark was a picture of misery, huddled in a corner of the room, leaning against the cupboard. His head was buried in his hands and he slouched like a lifeless form.
"Hey," she rushed to him, "what’s wrong?" Mark didn’t reply or even look up at her.
Shaira looked back at Cynthia, who was still standing at the door, questioningly—hoping someone will provide an explanation. Cynthia stared at her only son helplessly. The silence was maddening for Shaira. She knew this had to do with Daisy but the possibilities were killing her. She took his hands off his face and sat near him. "What’s wrong Mark," she asked again.
Mark stared at her, his face flushed and his eyes swollen, and then suddenly hugged her tight and wept like a child. Cynthia ran to him and stroked his back soothingly.
"She has AIDS!" he cried out, still hugging Shaira. "She’s dying Shaira."

Shaira looked at Cynthia disbelievingly, her eyes wide open. Cynthia nodded. Shaira felt numb, or at least she felt a pain so sharp that she couldn’t feel anything else. Mark… her Mark… why did this happen to him? AIDS? She couldn’t believe this was actually happening. She had never seen him so much in love with anyone, nor had she ever seen him cry like this. She hugged him tight and helplessly heard him cry, without any unnecessary words.

"Shaira, would you like some tea?" Cynthia asked absentmindedly after a little while, being the mother that she was.
"Yes please," she replied, she needed a strong cup.
"Mark?" Cynthia asked.
"No."
"Yes, he will," Shaira said for him. "Have some tea Mark, you’ll feel better."
When Mark didn’t reply, Cynthia went out to get their tea. She was glad Shaira was here and she was vaguely happy that finally Mark was having something to eat.
"She told you?" Shaira asked as his Cynthia went out.
"Yes," Mark said, collecting himself, "last night."
"Last night? But you were with me…"
"After I met you. She came over."
"Are you sure she was telling the truth?" Shaira didn’t want to ask this—but it was so unbelievable.
Mark gave her Daisy’s blood report that he still had.
"Shit," she mumbled, after she read it at least 12 times, "this is so unreal. Now what?"
"What now what," Mark shrugged, "I love her Shaira. This doesn’t change anything. I’m not going to let go."
Shaira wanted to say many things to Mark; she wanted him to see that this could only hurt him; that he should try to forget it and move on, but her heart didn’t allow it. "Don’t," she said found herself saying instead.
"Tea is ready," Cynthia shouted from the hall, before Mark could say anything.
"Come, get up," Shaira said, pulling Mark by the arm.
"So, when are you inviting Daisy for dinner?" Cynthia asked, as they came out of his room, trying to appear casual.
"I’ll ask her today," he said pensively. "The first time… I found a girl I wanted to live with forever. And forever turned out to be so short."
As they sat at the dining table having tea, Cynthia and Shaira kept silent—letting him speak his heart out.
"I feel so helpless," he went on, "I want to help her. I want to make her live. I want to save her mom. What do I do? Please mom, Shaira, help me."
Cynthia came around to him and gave him a hug. "Sweetheart, make her live forever," she said. "Forever is what you make of it. Be with her, smile with her, keep her alive while you can—only you can do that."
"I will mom," he said, encouraged, "I’ll never let go."
He walked inside his room, leaving Cynthia unsure of whether she gave her son the right advice. Mark took out the suede jacket he once put on Daisy… he could still smell her. "I’ll love you forever," he said determinedly, "whatever it takes."

Chapter 13

"Hey, get up," he ordered Daisy, as soon as he reached their meeting spot next day.
"Why?" Daisy was surprised at his purposeful tone.
"Don’t ask questions," he said hurriedly, "get up and sit on the bike."
"Where are we going?" Daisy said, following him.
"You have a problem understanding English? No questions, I said."
"Sorry sir," she said light-heartedly, "take me to the moon."
"You know the way?"
"Well I’ve been there just once and I was pretty sloshed then, so no I don’t really remember the directions. But I’m sure we can get a map?"
"Let’s just call Neil and ask."
"Oh yeah, good idea—you have his number?" she continued, and they laughed at their mad conversation. "Okay, jokes apart," she finally said, "where are we going?"
"Hush. Just hold on tight," Mark said, as he accelerated and did a wheelie. Daisy screamed, but not out of fear, she was thrilled to pieces.
They drove beyond the Air Force Base and stopped just before a huge mountain. They had come to Monkey Point.
"We’re here, almost. Come," he said, getting off the bike.
"Here? This is where you wanted to take me?"
"Nope," he said, pointing to the tip of the mountain, "we’re going up there."
Daisy looked up to see a million stairs leading up to somewhere—she guessed the top but she couldn’t even see the end from where she stood. "Are you crazy?" she said shocked at his plans, "I’m not climbing up all those stairs!"
"No?"
"No way in hell," she said firmly.
"Okay then," Mark took her by the hand and led her to the beginning of the stairs at the foot of the mountain. "Are you sure you’re not climbing up?"
"Positive."
"Well, I am."
"Great. Tell me how it was."
"Nope. You’ll tell me how it was. I ain’t going up without you, so…" Mark lifted her up.
"Mark, have you lost it?" she said protesting. "You’ll die if you carry me up all the way!"
"We’ll never know until we try," he said casually and started climbing the rocky stairs.
"Why are we going up anyway?"
"I want to show you heaven. And to see it for myself."
"You’ve never been up there before?"
"I have, but never with you."
"So they were right when they said heaven is a place on earth eh?"
"Spot on," he said, huffing a bit, as they continued to climb.
"What is up there? I mean, what are these stairs for?"
"A temple. This is where Hanuman took a break when he was carrying that mountain of sanjivani booti or something."
"Oh yeah, the other day my dad was saying something about it," she said. "Do you believe it?"
"I have no reason not to," Mark said, breathing heavily. They were almost there and he was obviously tired.
"Hello, He-Man. Want to put me down?"
"No way, I’m okay."
"I was hoping you’d say that," she laughed. "Hey, you know what?"
"What?"
"You’ve got a nice butt."
"Excuse me!" Mark half laughed, half panted, "do you mind?!"
"Not at all," she smiled wickedly, pointedly staring at his rear.
"Shut up," he said, as he helped her feet on the ground. Daisy looked around to see where she was. They had reached heaven.

Heaven was a helipad. From here they could see a stunning panoramic view of Kasauli up to the plains of Chandigarh in the distance. They were standing almost higher than the mountains and the valley seemed deeper and greener. The musical notes of the cool breeze overlapped with the occasional tolling of the temple bell like the waves of two oceans… or two hearts.

Daisy walked up to the centre of the helipad and spreading her arms wide did a dancing turn on her ankles. She closed her eyes, threw her head back and took a long satisfying breath. "It smells beautiful," she said turning towards Mark. He was in a world of his own, peacefully observing Daisy, and her happiness.
"Thank you," she said softly.
"Thank you," he said walking towards her.

They held each other for the first time. Neither of them wanted to let go. Even when Daisy finally tried to pull away, Mark didn’t respond so she didn’t persist. They stood there, in each other’s arms for moments which seemed more important than time itself. They felt complete. "Okay!" Mark said letting go, even though it was clear he didn’t want to.
"Are you sure you wanna let go?" she smiled.
"Umm, maybe not. But I’d rather."
"Think again."
"Shut up, I’ve thought about it as much as I can," he said. Come with me," he lead her towards the temple, "they say you get whatever you wish for here. Let’s make a wish."
"Okay," she said, closing her eyes for a flash, "done."
"That was a really small wish," he said, amused.
"No actually it was a really big one."
"So, what did you wish for?"
"Hey, you can’t ask me that!"
"I just did."
"Too bad. I am not telling."
"Why not?"
"Because I really want this one to come true," she said honestly.
They walked towards the other side, the edge of the helipad, which was fenced with iron. They sat here, holding on to the fence, with their legs dangling dangerously down the steep cliff.
"Daisy, would you mind if I talked about, err, your…" he hesitated.
"My illness? Sure," she replied immediately. "Go on. Shoot."
"We don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to."
"That’s ok. I don’t mind. Don’t worry," she said speaking a little faster than usual.
"How did it happen?"
"Hmm… wait," she said and then lifted her t-shirt a little from the back. There was an eagle tattooed on her back. "See that? That’s how. I mean, I guess that’s how. I never had unprotected sex, and I doubt if there could be another reason."
Mark stared at the tattoo wordlessly.
"Can I put my shirt down now?" she asked, snapping him back to life.
"Yes," he smiled gently.
"Thank you," she smiled too, "I was a fool. Very impulsive. Got it done from a roadside guy in Bangkok. And got screwed for life," she added poignantly.
"So how did you get to know of it? I mean, why and when did you get yourself tested?"
"One of my friends got herself tested for HIV every six months. One day, I just accompanied her," she said with an expression that was difficult for Mark to read. She was back in her past somewhere. "Sometimes I wish I hadn’t. It would have been so much easier. Know what I mean?"
"I guess," he said sympathetically. "What was it like, when you got the report."
"How would you feel if I said you were going to die soon, when all you want to do is live?" Daisy looked at him and smiled. "That’s how I felt. As if someone snatched away all my dreams, my aspirations, all my life, and left me only to sit around and wait for death, which, in fact, is just round the corner."
"Shut up. It’s not round the corner!" Mark said, clenching his teeth. "You get that? It’s not round the corner. Do you know how many years many AIDS patients live?"
"I know. But there are some that don’t. All depends on Him," she said, looking upwards. "Anyway, let’s talk about something else."
"No Daisy. Say it," mark said stubbornly, "tell me you’ll live. Tell me it’s not round the corner. Say it."
Daisy looked at him, a bit worried. "I’ll live," she said, smiling with an effort, "it’s not round the corner. Now smile."
"Are you scared?"
"Not at all."
Mark slipped his hand on top of hers haltingly. She held it and looked at him to find him staring at her in a strange manner.
"What?" she asked.
"Can I kiss you?" he asked.
She watched his eyes, the sincerity in them. "I don’t know Mark," she said, looking at his eyes, then his lips, then his eyes again…
He brought his face closer to hers and, ever so softly, asked again: "Can I kiss you?"
"I don’t…" she whispered hesitatingly.
Mark came closer, now just a breath away. "Can I kiss you?" he asked again.
"Yes."

Their lips touched. He kissed her, gently, feeling every inch of her lips with his, taking his time to believe it was happening for real. She surrendered to the movements of his soft lips on hers. It was like all they ever wanted came true in that instant; all they ever lived and waited for. The mountains, the valley, the temple, the wind all watched unabashedly. It was as if the entire universe had conspired only to bring them together.
"Wow," Daisy whimpered, as they separated, "you’re a damn good kisser."
"I am?"
"Can’t you see it all over my face?"
"Yes, I think I can," he said, looking at her eyes. "I love you Daisy."
"So, are we waiting for the sunset here?" Daisy pretended not to have heard that.
"Of course not. Not even heaven beats our stone," he said, "get up, let’s go."
"We’re going to miss it. The sun’s already sinking."
"Wanna bet we’ll catch it?"
"Sure. What’s the bet?"
"If I win, I get to kiss you again. If you win, you get to kiss me."
She laughed out. "Deal."
Mark lifted Daisy up again.
"Hey, I can walk down," she protested.
"Of course you can. But you may not." He ran down the stairs without a break and reached his bike in a minute. "Okay, now hold on tight," he said as he started his bike.
"Why do you always keep saying that?" she joked. "I anyway hold on tight anyway!"
"It’s just a habit."
"Change it then."
"Okay then… hold on tight!" he said, as they zoomed away like maniacs, as if chasing the sun. Mark was, in more ways than one.

They reached their stone just as the last rays of the sun were going down. "So who wins?" he asked, sitting down.
"Does it matter?" She held him by the collar, pulled him close and kissed him warmly. This time Mark surrendered, happily. The sun went down, leaving orange streaks in the darkening sky, a few birds on their way back home, and Mark and Daisy—completing each other.