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.

Chapter 14

"Mom!" Mark shouted. "Let’s go man, we’re getting late." He knocked on the bathroom door again: "Mom!!!"
"I’m coming," she said from inside, "Chill, we’re not going to catch a train. It’s just a dinner!"
"Just hurry up."
"Wait," she said loudly.
"What are you taking so long for anyway?" he said irritated. Mark was getting restless; they were going to the Carver’s for dinner and he didn’t want to be late the first time.
"What will you take to shut up Mark?" Cynthia said, finally walked out of the bathroom. She wasn’t dressed extraordinarily, but she still looked extraordinary in her tight blue denims, and a v-neck black sweater. "I thought you were going to wear your black suit," she said, looking at him disapprovingly.
"No ya, I don’t feel like wearing a suit," Mark said, looking at his black trousers and sweater under which he wore a maroon shirt, "I don’t want it to get too formal."
"Please go slow," Cynthia said as they walked out in the chilly October night. Mark drove through the narrow deserted roads of Kasauli, slow enough for them to hear each other talk through clattering teeth as the cold wind cut through their faces.
"How is Daisy doing by the way?" she asked.
"She’s fine right now," he said loudly, not wanting to turn around, "I’m just scared about the time when she won’t be."
"Don’t be scared Mark. There is a god after all, and He is watching over both of you. Everything will be fine."
"Mom she is dying of AIDS."
"No!" she replied strongly. "She is living with it."
"Anyway mom," he said, not getting any strength from what Cynthia was trying to get through to him, "I don’t think I want to talk about it, really."
She gently patted Mark on his shoulder and kissed him on the head. "You are the greatest man I have ever known Mark," she said, "I am proud I gave birth to you. Whatever happens, just remember that."
"If I didn’t know that mom, I wouldn’t be half the man I am," he turned and smiled at her as they reached their destination.

The guard at the entrance to the Air Force Base signalled them to stop. "Bungalow 18. Carver," Mark told him.
"Straight down the road on the right," the guard directed, as he handed a register for him to fill.
"I know. Thank you," Mark said. Before this he had never had to complete such formalities as he had always come with Daisy and the guard recognized her. He was a little miffed that the guard didn’t recognize him.

Denise, Daisy’s little sister packed a punch. She opened the door with her hands on her waist, her big black eyes staring at Mark and Cynthia, and asked in a mock stern tone: "Yes? What do you want?"
Mark went down on his knees to come face to face with her. "We want you," he said and picked her up, "should we take you away? You want to be kidnapped?" Mark tickled her.
"Mom! Mom!" she called out, laughing, "Markie is trying to kidnap me!"
"Shut up Denise!" he laughed. "Before I…" he tickled her some more and sent her in a tizzy.
"No Markie" she giggled deliriously, "no tickling! It’s cheating!"
Mark and Cynthia walked in with Denise still on his shoulder, fidgeting and squirming to get out of his grip, but happy with the attention nevertheless. Mark put her down as Dianne and Cedric came out of the kitchen and gave them a warm hug.
"We’ve heard a lot about you," Dianne said giving Cynthia a peck on the cheek.
"So have I," she said, shaking Cedric by the hand. "Mark’s world, it seems, begins and ends at Bungalow 18!"
"Oh he’s a lovely boy," Dianne smiled.
"Where’s Daisy?" Mark asked.
"She’s upstairs in her room."
"I’ll bring the brat down," Mark said and ran up to Daisy’s room. Denise followed him.
"What’s your drink Mark?" Cedric shouted after him.
"Rum and Coke, uncle," he replied, "thanks!"

Mark was surprised to find Daisy in a sentimental mood, as she sat on her bed in a pool of photographs.
"What are you doing?" Mark asked.
"Just going through some old snaps."
"It seems, for a change, the past is making you cry."
"Naa," she said, wiping a lone tear that threatened to fall from her eyes, "it just feels nice to relive the days gone by."
"Anyway, forget he past for now and let’s go down," Mark said, and he held Daisy’s hand as they went downstairs.

"Hi sweetheart!" Cynthia said excitedly, as she kissed her on the forehead and gave her a warm hug. "How are you doing?"
"I’m fine auntie. How are you?"
"Stop calling me auntie," Cynthia whispered. "You make me feel too old."
"Oops, sorry Cynthia."
"Sounds better," she said nodding her head, "much better."

After a couple of round of drinks, Mark and Daisy walked out into the front garden to be on their own. Denise followed them of course.
"So, how is everything?" Cynthia asked Dianne and Cedric softly after they had gone.
"It’s amazing how Daisy is taking it," Cedric replied, "she’s being very strong about it. In fact she’s the one who’s keeping us strong."
Dianne could never control herself when they talked about Daisy’s illness. She wiped off a tear off bravely and focussed on Mark instead: "Why don’t you try and talk Mark out of it, Cynthia? He’s only inflicting pain on himself," she said sniffling.
"What do I tell him Dianne? To desert Daisy when she needs him most? He loves her."
Dianne shook her head sadly and closed her eyes. Cedric put a comforting arm around her. "Everyday we pray for a miracle. If only…" she started weeping, realizing the futility of her own words.
"Dianne," Cedric said warmly, "have faith in Jesus."

Cynthia couldn’t even imagine what they must be going through. Even though she tried to, it was impossible for her to feel what they did: helplessly watching your child die. Just the thought of Mark being sad killer her, she couldn’t even watch him cry—and here were Dianne and Cedric… she shuddered at the thought of being in their place.

Outside in the garden, the children were unawares of the painful discussion that their parents were carrying on.
"Denise why do you keep following us!" Daisy asked.
"Who’s following you?" she snapped. "I am with Markie," she said, clutching his hand tightly.
"Well, Markie doesn’t want you here."
"Let Markie say that to me," Denise said, looking accusingly at him.
"Mark tell her ya," Daisy said irritated with her younger sister.
"Of course not. I want Denise to be here," Mark said, smiling at Denise.
"See? Loser! Double loser!" Denise teased Daisy.
They were sitting on the cold and wet grass, with a blanket wrapped around Daisy. "I feel like smoking," Daisy muttered under her breath. But Denise still heard.
"What?!" her eyes sparkled with the information, "Dad! Dad! Daisy says she wants to…"
Mark covered her mouth just in time. "Denise," he said in hushed tones, "shut up!"
"Mom, will you please call Denise inside?" Daisy screamed. "She’s really troubling us!"
"Denise," Dianne said in a commanding voice that meant business, "come in baby. Leave them alone for a while."
Denise got up and looked at her sister agitatedly. "Fine," she said, "I’ll go into your room and sit on your bed!"
"Whatever, just go," Daisy said.

As soon as she went inside, Mark took out a strange packet of cigarettes. Daisy had never seen them before—brown cigarettes in a green pack.
"What the hell is that?!" she said.
"Cigarettes," he said casually, "herbal cigarettes."
"Herbal?"
"Yes. They’re not harmful at all. Smoke as much as you want."
Daisy held the packet in her hand and glanced at it. "Nirdosh," she read out and laughed. "You got a light?"
"Yeah," Mark said, handing a lighter out to her.
"Thank you Mr. Roger," she said and kissed him on his cheek. She lit the cigarette, happy to have finally got hold of one.
"Yuck!" she said, a second later, "tastes awful! But still, nothing like watching smoke coming out of your mouth." Daisy blew smoke rings in the air.
"Well, if it’s just about that then you don’t need cigarettes for it," Mark said and showed what he meant by blowing out vapour from his mouth. It was a cold night.
"Yeah okay Mark," she sighed, "you win. But these are not harmful, right? So shut up and tell me how much do you get them for?"
"12 bucks."
"That’s it?"
"Yeah."
"Awesome."
"And you know the best part? You smoke 12 of these and you’ll never feel like smoking another cigarette in your entire life."
Daisy, her mouth wide open in shock, turned disbelievingly at Mark. "What?!" is all she managed to say.
"Yeah, isn’t it cool?"
"No, you loser! Who wants to not feel like smoking ever again?!"
"Huh? You’re just mad," he said, a bit peeved at her reply.
"Hey man, listen. Life’s too short to keep giving up on things you like. But anyway, if you want me to smoke 12 of these, I’ll smoke all 12 tonight."

Mark looked at Daisy. She was looking far away into the dark valley smoking the ‘healthy’ cigarette. Suddenly he got up, snatched it away from her lips, picked up the Nirdosh packet and threw it down the cliff on the other side of the road.
"Okay…" Daisy asked, obviously surprised, "now why would you do that?"
"What’s your favourite brand?"
"Classic Mild," she replied indifferently. "Anyway, lets go inside. I’m beginning to feel really cold."
Daisy got up. Mark didn’t. He was staring at her.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing," he replied. He wanted to tell her that he loved her. He knew that she knew, but he wanted to tell her again and again. But then, he knew Daisy would change the topic yet again. He said it anyway, but not in words—with his eyes, his breath, his skin, with his very existence.
"Then get up," she said hearing what he had not said out loud, "I’m cold."

After dinner, Daisy walked Mark and Cynthia outside. "Same time, same place," Mark said, as Cynthia adjusted herself on the bike.
"When will you stop saying that?" Daisy smiled.
"When you start replying."

Chapter 15

Mark reached the stone a little earlier that day. He had got a sudden impulse to do what he came to do. He knew the moment it came to him that he should have done it earlier. The stone—the stone had played a very important part in their togetherness and what he was going to do now was fitting to the extreme. He picked up one of the many stones with a sharp edge and started etching into the stone. It took him quite a while and effort but the end result was satisfying in a deep, intense way for him.

Mark loves Daisy, forever.

In clear and dark letters, it stared back at him. These inanimate letters when together took on a life of their own, talked in a language that only he could understand. And Daisy would, he hoped. There, etched on the stone, he made the truth unalterable. No one could erase it now. They could, of course, pick up and throw the stone or shatter it into pieces, but the words would still exist, even if separated.

Mark was happy, as he saw Daisy walking down the road. Casually, he sat on top of the etching so that Daisy wouldn’t be able to notice it. He wanted to enjoy this.

"Hey, that’s my side of the stone!" she said coming up to him.
"Yes, I know," he said, "but I want to see how the sunset looks from your side." He spoke as if it was a point of faultless logic.
"Well," she said a little sarcastically, "I haven’t really thought about it you know? But I guess I can give it a shot!"
As she sat on the right side of the stone Mark took out a packet of Classic Mild and handed it to her.
"Here," he said, "smoke away."
Daisy smiled faintly. "Thanks Mark," she said, sliding the packet inside her denim pocket.
"You’re welcome. Why aren’t you smoking?"
"I don’t have a light."
"I do," he said, taking his lighter out.
"Not right now Mark," she said, a little gloomily, "don’t feel like it."
"What’s wrong?" he asked, noticing her tone.
"I didn’t think you’d be handing me cigarettes. I thought you’d slap me if you saw me with one."
"Daisy," he said, trying to make her see his point, "I can either make you happy, or myself. I choose your happiness over mine…"
"Mark, do you want me to smoke this?" she asked, tapping the box in her pocket.
"Yes," he replied.
"Okay then I would like to do what you want me to. But would you do the same for me?"
"Yes, of course."
She took out the packet and offered him one.
"What?" he asked.
"I’ve never seen you smoke. I’ve only fantasized about it. I want to see how you look when you smoke."
"Well," Mark said, a little confused and a bit upset, "if it’s such a great fantasy for you then I will."
Daisy stared at him while he lit the cigarette and took a long drag, blowing the smoke out exaggeratedly.
"So, have you come?" he joked.
"I’m almost there, I’m almost there," she replied smiling. "Come on. Go on."
"Christ! This girl is mad," he muttered and took another puff. "Wanna share it?" he asked.
"Sure. But this is our last cigarette. No more smoking for either of us after this. So enjoy this one," she said seriously. "And no talking in between."
"Yes ma’am. As you say."
"I said no talking," she said clenching her teeth.
"That applies to you as well doesn’t it?"
"Hushhhh!!!"
They smoked in silence for some time. "Ok time out," Mark said, when the filter started burning. "Now do you want to chomp off the butt too?"
"Shut up Mark. One drag left. Want it?"
"No."
Daisy threw the cigarette. "So, what do we do with the packet?" she asked.
"I don’t know. You’re the one who makes the rules. I have an easy way though."
"What?" she asked.
"How about throwing it?" he said sardonically.
"But you bought it for me," she said, taking on a cute half sad face.
"Okay if it means so much to you, then just frame it and hang it up on your wall," Mark continued to mock.
"Okay, will do that."
"Oh shut up," he said suddenly and snatched the packet from her and threw it down the mountain.
"Mark!!!" she screamed angrily. "How dare you do that?!"
"Hey, chill," Mark said, a little taken aback at her serious tone. "It’s just a packet of cigarettes which we didn’t want to smoke."
"You will never understand Mark!" she snapped. "Never." Daisy got up from the stone and started walking down the cliff. It wasn’t too steep but she took small cautious steps.
"Daisy, come back up," Mark tried to stop her but she didn’t listen. "Oh damn, wait. I’m coming," he shook his head in disgust.
Mark slowly led her down to where the packet lay. She picked it up and kept it back in her pocket.
"Why the…" he asked, at a loss for words.
"I don’t know," she replied looking at him earnestly.

Mark kissed her on the lips. Even though they had kissed several times, Daisy was always pleasurably stunned. Her eyes remained closed, her lips still quivering, even after his lips parted from hers.
"Mark, it’s been long since you took me in your arms," she said to his surprise, once she could speak again.
He smiled and picked her up in one swift motion. The walk up wasn’t too much. Just before reaching the stone, Mark put her down.
And Daisy felt weak in the knees. She was staring at the etched words, overwhelmed. Mark shut his eyes tight, waiting eagerly for a reaction. As usual it was an unexpected one. "That’s my side of the stone," she said, "and from now on if you want to see the sunset from my side, you’ll have to sit on my lap."

In a vague way, it was most gratifying reaction he could have hoped to get. He sat on her side of the stone but not on her lap, in front of her. She had her legs around his, her hands wrapped around his shoulders. He was watching the sun go down from where Daisy saw it everyday. She was watching the same sight with her head stretched as far as possible to the right—from where Mark saw it everyday. No sight could have been better, for either of them.

Chapter 16

It had never happened before—snowfall in November. Snow had never before found home in this small town till the end of January. The towering pine trees were suddenly dressed in frilly, fluffy white clothes… ready for some unknown grand celebration. The spectacle was unreal and took the unprepared people of Kasauli completely by surprise. The temperature quickly dropped 12 degrees below normal. All over the town one could see Municipal workers packed in clothes from head to toe, looking much like inuits, shovelling snow off the roads. All schools and colleges were declared closed. It was like Christmas had come early. Students from schools in nearby towns came back home. Snowballs flew everywhere. The sounds of children giggling and screaming, and the chattering of people’s teeth as they came out for a brave walk down the Mall, filled the air.

Mark and Shaira were sitting in the front yard of The Retreat watching the flakes wavering in the air, slowly finding their way down to ground. Occasionally one would land on Shaira’s outstretched palm, thrilling her to bits. Immediately she would put her hand on Mark’s neck, leaving him stunned for a second or two. He wanted to hit out at her but it was too cold to move.
"How old are you man?" he muttered instead. "Grow up!" "Look who’s talking!"
"Shaira, please, just shut up." Mark said, trying to appear bored of her antics.
The phone started ringing inside. "Please see who it is?" Mark said, not wanting to move from his chair.
"You go pick it up ya. I’m comfortable too," she said dragging the quilt they had a bit more towards her.
"Please ya Shaira. Just pick it up," he nudged her gently.
Shaira made a face and got up and went inside.
"Cynthia is Mark there," Daisy said, sobbing, when Shaira answered.
"This is not Cynthia, who is that?"
"I’m Daisy, is Mark there?"
"Hi, Daisy, Shaira here. What’s wrong?" she asked, concerned.
"Please just give the phone to Mark, Shaira."
"Okay, hold on."
"Mark, it’s Daisy," she came out and told him, "she’s crying."
"What? Why?!" he immediately got up from his chair.
"I don’t know."
Shaira followed Mark inside and stood listening; eager to know what was going on.
"Mark they’re taking me back to Delhi," Daisy said from the other line. "I don’t want to go. Please tell them. I don’t want to go. I want to stay here," she wept inconsolably.
"Who’s taking you back?" Mark asked, not knowing whether to cry or be angry at the world.
"My parents. They’re scared I might not be okay in this cold weather. Please do something Mark. Please. I don’t want to leave."
"Daisy, stop crying please," he said, almost breaking down himself, "no one will take you anywhere. I’m coming there in five minutes. Please don’t cry."

Without exchanging a word, Shaira and Mark took off for Daisy’s place. Cedric and Dianne were in the hall, as they arrived. That there had been a heated argument moments ago was clear in their tense faces.
"Sit down Mark," Cedric said, "you will have to convince her to leave for Delhi."
"Why uncle? Why?" Mark asked earnestly. "I’ll take care of her here. I won’t let her go out of the house. If she does, I’ll make sure she’s appropriately covered. She won’t catch anything, I promise," he almost begged.
"Mark, listen to me well," Cedric said in an distressed but firm tone, "you don’t understand. Even if she catches a cold, she might never recover. And there is no way in hell I’m taking that chance. Please Mark… please don’t make it difficult."
Mark deliberated on this disturbing reality for some time. He knew Cedric was right. This was the moment he dreaded, but he knew it would come someday.
"Uncle, I know she’ll have to go someday," he said finally. "But just give me a few days. Don’t take her forcibly. I will convince her. I swear. I know she won’t be happy if she goes right now. Just a few days uncle, please," Mark beseeched, desperate for something to click.
Cedric looked at Diane helplessly who nodded. "Fine!" he sighed. "Go ahead and do what you kids feel like. But I can assure you, she’s going to Delhi, and she’s going very soon. It’ll be good for both of you to accept that as quickly as you can." He got up and walked away in a huff.
"Auntie, can I go up," Mark asked as soon as Cedric left.
"Yes," she said softly. "Will you both have a cup of tea or something?"
"No thanks," Shaira replied for him.
They went up to find Daisy lying on her stomach, her face dug into the pillow. Mark sat beside her and brushed his hands through her hair lovingly.
"No one’s going to take you away," he said happily. "No one. And no matter where you go, you will always see me beside you."
"Mark, I don’t want to die there," she looked up at him. She was still crying. "I want to die here," she sobbed.
"You will not die!" he screamed. "Get that clear Daisy. You are not going to die."
She hugged him tight. Shaira looked on miserably, unable to come up with anything worthwhile to say.
"Mark, please don’t ever let go," Daisy said, still holding on to Mark. "I’m very scared."
"I won’t Daisy. Look at me. Look at my face," he made her look him in the eye. "Does it seem like I’ll let go?"
"No," she said, wiping her tears.
"Then don’t ever say that again," Mark helped her get up. "And now, stop crying."
"Were you a model?" Shaira asked, changing the topic, much to Mark’s delight. She was looking at the million photographs of Daisy all over her walls.
"Just for kicks," Daisy smiled at her, "nothing serious." "You are extremely photogenic," Shaira remarked.
"Well, yes," she said laughing, "no denying that. I look a lot better in photographs than in real life!"
"I disagree," Mark protested. "You are very beautiful. Even when you cry."
Shaira stared at both of them with a lot of conflicting emotions. She was amazed at the love, envious of the pureness, and scared about their tomorrow, which she knew Mark was constantly trying not to think of.
‘Please God, let them be,’ she thought, mentally pleading to the only one who could help now. ‘Just let them be.’

Chapter 17

It took some doing but Mark borrowed Sujoy’s Opel Astra for a few days. Both Shaira and he had to do a lot of convincing, but Sujoy eventually gave in to the desperation in Mark’s eyes and his obvious love for Daisy, and her comfort. Mark didn’t want Daisy to walk to the stone in the cold. He knew, as stubborn as Daisy was, she wouldn’t agree to change the meeting point even for a single day. After all, it was an unspoken rule that they met there every day and he knew she would never break that rule. Mark’s bike would freeze her, so the Astra was their only choice. He picked her up everyday and drove down to the stone to watch the sunset, if only in principle, because the sun was usually covered in thick fog.

"The sun is setting only we can’t see it," Daisy said, "close your eyes, Mark. Feel it."
Holding each other’s hands, they sat on the stone with their eyes closed, feeling the sunset… picturing their favourite ball of fire go down once more. They knew the sight well enough, having seen it for so many months every day. They just needed to think back to previous day, or the day before, when the fog wasn’t this cruel.
"Are you cold?" Mark asked, as he noticed Daisy pursing her lips.
"Not really," she said, clearly shivering.
"Let’s go to Alasia," Mark said, helping her get up.
"Mark, I feel like having a drink today," she said, on their way. Mark did not have the courage to say no to her, he did not want to refuse to let her do things that she wanted to in the little time that she had to do them in.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
"Yes. Just one."

They walked to the bar in Alasia, which was totally empty except for Malhotra, who sat in a corner nursing his drink.
"How are you Daisy?" he asked sympathetically, as he saw them walking in. "It’s good to see you."
"Good to see you too Mr. Malhotra. We just wanted to have a drink. It’s very cold outside," she said.
"Of course!" he said genially. "It’s your own place. Drink as much as you like."
"Just one will do Mr. Malhotra," she said, still shivering.
They sat near the fireplace and Daisy ordered a large rum with lukewarm water for both of them.
"I’d almost forgotten what alcohol tasted like," she said, taking her first sip. "Feels good!"
About an hour and two drinks later Mark touched upon a topic that was on his mind for some time now.
"Daisy?" he said nervously.
"Yes?"
"I want to say something."
"What?" she asked, almost terrified about what she will hear. She didn’t like the weightiness of Mark’s tone.
"You might get very angry," he hesitated.
"Say it Mark," she said edgily.
"I just want you to know that I mean it from the bottom of my heart, and I’ll be indebted to you forever, if…"
"Mark, say it. You’re scaring me now."
"I want to make love to you."

For the first time ever since Mark and Daisy met, silence was not comfortable. He knew Daisy would be shocked but she looked absolutely astounded and even angry.
"Have you completely lost it!" she shouted. "Are you crazy?"
"Daisy, do you love me?" he asked.
"No I don’t," she spat the words out. "You get that straight. I do not love you okay?" she said. "Mad bloody man!"
"I want to feel what you feel."
"That’s the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard in my life," she said looking away in apparent disgust. "And if you ever repeat it again, Mark, ever… that will be the last time I will speak to you. You won’t know if I am dead or alive."
"You’re lying that you don’t love me!" he finally said, and started crying. "I see it in your eyes everyday."
"I don’t love you, Mark. I don’t love you."
"That’s a lie! I know you’re lying! You know it too."
"Mark, listen to me," Daisy said sincerely, "if you think I do not feel the urge to feel you inside me, you’re blind. But think, Mark, think. Think about what you’re saying. I will never, not ever, let it happen. You are the sweetest person I have ever known, and you are the only reason I don’t fear what’s coming. I know I’ll live, because you’ll live. Promise me, Mark, you will never even think of such a thing again. Promise me."
He nodded his head sadly. "I promise," he said slowly.
"Then come here and give me a big hug."
Mark moved closer, buried his head in her chest and started crying uncontrollably.
"I’m sorry baby," she held him and cried too, "I’m so sorry. But I promise, if I ever come back, I’ll seek you out, and I’ll breathe for you. I swear I won’t leave you then."
"I’ll wait Daisy," he sobbed, holding her tight. "I’ll wait for us to come back together again. I know we will. Nothing in this world would be able to separate us. I won’t let it happen again."
"I won’t let it either," she said in a whisper, consoling him… and herself.

Chapter 18

"How long will you be gone?"
"I don’t know mom," Mark said, breathing heavily. He was standing on a chair, taking out the dusty orange backpack from the top-most shelf of his cupboard.
"Wait, I’ll get you a cloth," Cynthia said as Mark took the bag out and a cloud of dust descended on them.
She went to the kitchen and returned with a dusting cloth that looked like it would transfer more dust than clean anything. It was freshly washed actually, but years of cleaning had left the poor cloth a bit scarred.
"Your final exams are near," Cynthia said as Mark sat down, meticulously wiping his old bag.
"The exams will come back next year," he said and then stopped cleaning and looked at her, "Daisy won’t."
"So you’ll skip the year?"
"I don’t know mom, I don’t know right now. But I am not returning till Daisy’s there."
Cynthia knew it was pointless to try and convince Mark that his being there won’t save Daisy. Though she, like everyone else, was praying everyday for a miracle to happen, she knew she was hoping for the impossible. Daisy was going to die, and some part of Cynthia, though she didn’t like to admit it ever to herself, wished her son would move on and be happy again. She knew Mark loved Daisy unconditionally but then so did she love her son.

"Would you mind helping me and not just stare blankly?" Mark said, busily flinging his clothes in the bag.
Mechanically Cynthia started folding the clothes neatly, still lost in all the question marks that overshadowed their current situation.
"Where will you stay?" she asked.
"I guess I’ll just stay with the tenants for a while, until I find a place near the hospital. Staying at a hotel would be very expensive."
"Yes, but you don’t worry, the tenants won’t interfere with your life at all," she said, taking out a pack of notes from the pocket of her coat.
"Mom, you’ve already given me money," he said warmly. "I don’t need more."
"Just keep it," she pressed it in his hands, "you never know."
"Mom, I really don’t need it. You’ve already given me enough."
"Mark, please don’t argue with me," she said with authority, "just take the money. You have to get your eyes tested as well, don’t forget to get that done. You’ll need money for that too."
Mark gave up and sandwiched the money between his clothes. "I’ll keep calling," he said, ready to leave.
"Yes, you better," she said, sobbing softly. "I love you, Mark."
"I love you too," he hugged her lovingly.
"And remember, our prayers will reach God," she said, as he walked out. Shaira and Sujoy were waiting for him outside The Retreat.
"We’ll drop you till Kalka," Shaira said.
"No thanks ya, just drop me to the bus stand."
"No, I want to drop you till Kalka. Who knows when I’ll see you next."
"I don’t know either," he mumbled. "I’ll be happy seeing her alive, even that means living in the hospital forever… I just want to be with her, talking to her," he rambled on.
"You’d rather see her suffer than be free of pain?" Sujoy asked sternly, looking at Mark in the rear view mirror as they drove past the bus stand.
"Pain will be when she is in a world different than mine," he replied bugged at the direct question.
"For you, or for her?"
"For her."
"And for you?"
Mark didn’t answer. Instead he opened the window and the harsh winter breeze came in, filling the uncomfortable silence in the car.
"Can we please not talk about this?" Shaira said, before anyone could say anything else. They cruised along silently for a while, the mood a bit dark with all the gloom around. "Are you sure you want to miss your exams?" Shaira asked at length.
"I don’t want to. But I will if I have to."
"Just do me one favour, Mark," she said getting emotional, "whenever you come back—after a month, or two, or a year, whenever—just bring my old friend back. Come back smiling."
"That’s a very big thing you are asking me for," he said, "but I’ll definitely do that for you."
But Mark didn’t look Shaira in the eye. Instead he deliberately kept looking outside, focussing on nothing.
"I want the same Mark Roger back," Shaira persisted, turning around and looking at him pointedly, "can you bring him back to me?"
"Can you bring Daisy back to me?" he snapped. Shaira looked away. She didn’t know what to say. Though Shaira understood what Mark was going through, she also wanted to save her friend…
"How do I get you the same Mark Roger back?" he continued, a little more patiently. "The Mark you want is a Mark who didn’t know Daisy existed. And even after Daisy is gone, she’ll exist within me. Yes, I won’t be able to touch her, but I’ll still feel her with every breath I take."
"So you’ll just come back and rot alone!" she said, not being able to control herself anymore. "Good. Brilliant Mark. You’re just brilliant."
"Not alone," Mark said doggedly. "With her."
"Oh shut up Mark!" she shouted.
"Listen you guys," he said irately, "just drop me off here. I’ll go on my own." Kalka was still about 18 kilometres away.
"No Sujoy," Shaira retorted, "you stop the car and you’ve had it from me."
"Sujoy just stop the car!" Mark yelled.
"Why the hell am I being crushed between you guys?" Sujoy said loudly. "Mark, we are dropping you to Kalka. So just cut the crap. Shaira, now not another word from you!"
They both fell silent. There was so much on the minds of both Mark and Shaira that it was impossible to have a normal conversation.
"Hey Mark," she turned once again and said, "I’m sorry."
"It’s okay," he said softly, and held her hand that reached out for him.
"I hope you know, I reacted that way because I care a lot about you."
"I know Shaira," he clutched at her hand and then let it go.
"When did Daisy get admitted?" she asked, realizing she had not even asked the important question because of what she felt about his going away.
"Yesterday."
"It’ll be okay right?"
"What? The chill she’s caught? It may, but it may not."
"Do you believe it will?"
"I love her, whether it does or doesn’t. That’s all I believe in."
The car slowed down as they reached Kalka railway station. Mark got off and slung the backpack on his shoulders.
"Keep in touch," Shaira said and hugged him.
"I will," he said, holding her close.
"I’ll miss you," she said.
"Me too," Mark said, "bye."
And he walked unwaveringly towards the station, towards Delhi. Carrying the fear of the known inside him.

Chapter 19

Greed, anger, envy and ambition were four evils that Mark had never known. He’d met them yes, occasionally when he visited big towns, but he never stopped enough to come to know them. He and the other people of Kasauli, and indeed other small towns like it, were happily strangers to such things.

So, it was never easy for Mark to come to Delhi. It was always a shock to see the big metropolitan city, complete with its dark, dirty, fast life. Where people believed in killing to survive, where they did not think twice about things such as desertion and deception—things that people back home would spend hours wondering about and pondering upon.

As the train slowed down near Subzi Mandi, 15 minutes from New Delhi railway station, he stood on the door hating the sight of the city. It was after 9 in the night. The slums along the railway tracks were in silence, as people slept anywhere they found space, some very near the track, shrinking within themselves in the cold February night. A few, still shivering, tried to catch the half-eaten foodstuff that people threw out of the train. And there was the familiar stench that Mark turned away from. How do these people live here, he wondered once again.

"Hello," a male voice from somewhere behind disturbed his thoughts, "hello? Sir?"
Mark turned around to see a dark fat man with a thick moustache, a common metro face, probably a government clerk. He asked Mark if he had a match with a signal of the hand. He was standing right below the ‘no smoking’ signboard.
"No, sorry," Mark replied in words.
"You from foreign?" he asked, keeping the cigarette back in the box.
Mark shook his head in the negative. He didn’t want to start a conversation with this man.
"No?" the man said anyway, "Where from then?"
"Kasauli."
"Going Delhi?"
They were 10 minutes from the last stop—Delhi. "Yes," Mark said acerbically.
"Going to holiday?"
"Bhaisaab, mujhe Hindi samajh aati hai!" Mark said, losing his cool. He wanted to be left alone just now and even otherwise he couldn’t stand such people.
The man was stunned, not because of the harshness of his words, but because even though Mark had told him he wasn’t a foreigner he hadn’t really believed him. That this guy with near white skin and light brown hair was speaking fluent Hindi was an audio/video mismatch for him. Thankfully, for both of them, the train halted soon and Mark was the first to jump off.

He ignored all the coolies that flocked around him and walked past the maddening rush firmly. The homeless sleeping on newspapers on the platform, the croaking voices of men selling tea, water, combs, pens, cold drinks… all the cacophony was too much for him. He walked out but there was no respite. Everybody thought he was a foreigner, hence an easy prey. "Hello," one guy said, "you want taxi?" "Where to go?" another butted in between. A lot of people wanting to help, guide, advice him almost blocked his way. "Abe Hindustani hoon. Nahin chahiye kuch," he finally said aloud, disgusted.

Mark walked to the auto-rickshaw stand. "Haan bhaisaab," he said to one, "chaloge?"
"Kahan?" he said, plainly shocked at the ‘foreigner’ speaking Hindi so perfectly.
"New Friends Colony."
"Baitho."
"Kitna?"
"150."
Mark casually turned around and started walking towards another rickshaw. "Arrey bhaisaab, ruko," the driver instantly said, "kitna doge?"
"80," Mark said, turning around.
"100."
"80."
"90."
"80."
"Achha chalo yaar," the auto guy said wincingly. "Pata nahin kaise kaise aajate hain," he mumbled, as they took off. Mark smiled. ‘Welcome to Delhi,’ he said to himself.
They manoeuvred past the madly chaotic station entrance only to get stuck in a jam on the Paharganj road nearby. The smell of spicy curries, coming from the small dhabas dotting the entire road, coupling with that of the open toilets on the other side repulsed Mark’s sensibilities. He asked the drive to stop and puked his guts out. Many people passed by without even noticing. It was probably a common sight for them.
"Lagta hai Dilli ki hawa raas nahin aayie," the driver said mockingly once Mark got back in the rickshaw. Mark ignored him.
"New Friends Colony mein kahan jana hai?" he asked.
"C-Block. C-235."
"Rasta pata hai?"
"New Friends Colony se pata hai."
"Haan New Friends Colony to pahucha hi denge," he said in a self-assured tone.
Mark took out a shawl from his bag and wrapped it around. Delhi’s cold air was almost as bad as Kasauli, only polluted.
"Parda neeche kardoon?" the driver asked.
"Nahin theek hai," he replied, as he took a sip from his mineral water bottle.
"Aap kahan se hain?" the driver asked, having struck a rapport
"Kasauli."
"Wahan pe to bahut baraf giri hai is saal."
"Haan." Mark was already missing Kasauli—being with Daisy there. But he knew it was just a matter of a few hours before he’d be with her again. It didn’t matter even if it were in this hell that he would be with her, as long as she was with him even hell felt like heaven.
He remembered Daisy’s words… "Heaven is any place that makes us happy. It could be different for different people." For now Mark’s heaven was New Delhi. Where Daisy was.

Chapter 20

Akhil Kapoor and his wife Shruti were waiting for Mark at the gate of the huge bungalow, obviously relieved at having sighted him finally. It looked like they had been anxious about his arrival. The Kapoors were in their early 30s and were extremely successful business professionals. No wonder they could afford the exorbitant rent – Rs 40,000 per month – that they paid to Cynthia for this house that was located in one of the most posh areas of the city.
"Your mother told us about her," Akhil said at dinner.
Mark was only giving them company. He took a bit of salad and toyed with it while the couple ate a hearty meal of makhni dal and shahi paneer with tandoori roti. It was Tuesday, vegetarian day for most north Indians. The shahi paneer was especially in honour of their guest, for which Shruti had taken time off—following instructions thoroughly from a celebrity chef’s cookbook.

"It must be really hard for you," Shruti said.
"It is," Mark said perfunctorily, "but when I think of how hard it would be for her, it doesn’t seem all that hard for me."
"I hope everything gets fine," she tried to console but only succeeding in making Mark smile feebly.
"I think I’ll go to bed now," Mark said, not wanting pointless conversation, "good night."
"Just one thing Mark," Akhil stopped him, "you don’t need to look for a place. The room upstairs is empty. This is your own house. You can stay for as long as you want."
"Thanks," he said, smiling genuinely, ‘but I’d prefer to stay near the hospital. And I really don’t want to bother…"
"Don’t be foolish," Akhil interrupted. "We also have a spare car, we’ll give you the driver. End of discussion."
"Thanks, but I will manage on my own," Mark insisted. "Really. Though I will stay here if it will make you happy."

Mark walked up to the room, unpacked his bag and started placing his clothes inside the wooden cupboard. He wondered uneasily about how long he would stay here. He hoped it was for long, he’d be happier if it were forever. But one day he would be going back… alone.

He shirked the thought from his head and ran downstairs. "Can I use your phone?" he asked Shruti, who was keeping the leftovers inside the fridge.
"Of course!" she said. "The cordless must be somewhere in the drawing room."
Mark found the phone on a couch and dialled Cedric on his cell phone.
"Hi uncle Cedric," he said, once the familiar voice answered.
"Hi Mark," Cedric said happily. "When did you get here?"
"An hour ago. How is she doing?"
"She’s fine right now. Sleeping."
"I’m sorry uncle Cedric. I know it’s all because of my pig-headedness…"
"Mark, it’s not your fault. It had to happen someday. Don’t blame yourself."
"Uncle, what time can I come?"
"Come tomorrow morning. We’ll make you a family pass so that you won’t have trouble coming in whenever you want."
"Thanks. Which ward is she in?"
"139," he replied. "Thanks for coming Mark. Daisy will be very happy to see you. She doesn’t say it, but she misses you a lot."
"I know uncle," he said earnestly. "I’ll see you tomorrow at 10 sharp."

Mark went back up, a bit cheered with this little connection with Daisy. He got comfortable inside the quilt and took out a writing pad and pen and started writing:

Good Morning Sunshine!
I have so much to write, I don’t know where to begin.
Let me just start by saying—I love you.
My life doesn’t seem the same without you by my side. If I said that without seeing you these past three days have been hell, I’d be lying. They haven’t been hell, for I had you in my mind every single moment that I breathed. But somehow, I still didn’t feel complete. After all, the person who completes me was, physically, a few hundred kilometres away!
I hiccupped a hell of a lot. You were thinking about me all the time, weren’t you? I know you’ll lie and say, ‘no I wasn’t’. But I also know you know I won’t believe that.
I am really excited right now. I’d be seeing you in a few hours from now. And I just can’t wait to have you in front of my eyes reading this letter of mine.
I could say all this instead of writing it, but I felt this desperate urge to talk to you. I see you in this piece of paper I move this pen on. And then, there is a chance that words coming out of my mouth get lost somewhere in the air… but written words will live forever. Just like you and me. I’ll save them—after you.
At times I get very scared, Daisy… when I think of the time when you might not be there. I know I shouldn’t be saying this, and just for this I might not even give this letter to you tomorrow, but I still want to say it… sometimes I feel very scared. How will I live without you? But then I see your face, and the fear vanishes. You are my strength. You have given me all the strength I need to live with you, and even more of it to live without you. You’ll live on, at least till I do. What a vain thing to say! But it’s true. You’ll live within me, my existence will have you weaved in.
I can almost smell you right now. I close my eyes and all I have to do is stretch my hand out to feel you. I do. And I will never let go.
You look into my eyes, and my soul. Because of you I feel warm, secure, and really happy. You are near me, always completing me. No wants, no needs, no fears. You fill me totally and make me rich.
I love you Daisy, like I have never loved anyone before, and I shall love you like I do, forever…

I WILL give this letter to you. In fact, you are reading it right now. And no matter how stupid this sounds… Good Night Crescent!
Me.
And now is when I kiss you…

Chapter 21

"Ward 139?" he asked the guard at the entrance of the hospital, clutching a bunch of white daisies and a neatly wrapped envelope tied with a red ribbon. Something about the hospital air made him nervy.
"Pass?" the guard asked, yawning.
"Pass abhi andar se hum le ayenge," Mark said.
"Nahin, pass dikhao, andar jao. Varna teen se paanch milne ka time hai," the guard said, looking at him for the first time. He was in no mood to do favours today. Mark felt himself begin to panic at the thought of not being able to see Daisy; he watched others enviously as they casually filtered in with a pink pass. All the faces around were grim, and that added to his uneasiness. Damn hospitals, he thought.
"Side pe ho jao bhaiya," the guard said, irritated with Mark for blocking the way.
"Phone kar sakte hain?" Mark asked.
"Bahar phone booth hai."
Mark turned around and had just begun walking when he heard someone shout his name. Cedric was coming hurriedly towards the entrance.
"Hey," Mark said, relieved, "the guard wouldn’t let me in without a pass."
"Don’t worry, I’ve got yours made," Cedric handed the pink pass to Mark, and hugged him warmly. "It’s on the first floor," he explained, as they started walking in, "we’ll take the stairs, the lifts take ages."
"How is she?"
"She’s just gone to another room for her regular check up. She’ll be back any time now."
"But how is she doing uncle?"
"She’s running a little temperature."
They walked slowly through the narrow curving corridor of the hospital’s first floor. Mark hadn’t come along with the Carvers because they had had to rush immediately and there was no space in the car. Three days without Daisy had been difficult for him. But now… now he shall see her soon.
A little ahead, just before the ward, Cedric stopped to introduce Mark to Dr. Shantanu Malhotra, who was trying all he could to keep Daisy in good health. Mark liked him immediately. Dr Malhotra and he were men with the same objective and obsession.
"I have heard a lot about you," Dr. Malhotra said. "All good."
Mark smiled and the doctor informed him that Daisy was on her way. Mark and Cedric walked into the private ward. It was biggish room by hospital standards, air-conditioned and with a TV that was stood high on the wall in one corner just beside the window. At least Daisy was in comfort. Mark walked closer to the plain bed and touched it. He closed his eyes and let Daisy fill his senses. Cedric put his hand on his shoulder comfortingly, and brought the empty vase kept on a glass table beside the bed to his attention. Mark placed the daisies in and put the wrapped letter on Daisy’s pillow.
"Where are Auntie Dianne and Denise?" Mark asked.
"They’ve gone to the mess for a while to bathe and change," he replied as he motioned Mark to join him on the couch that was on the other side of the bed. "So how long do you plan to stay in Delhi?"
Mark looked at him quizzically. "As long as Daisy’s here of course," he answered in a matter-of-fact way as he sat.
"You know Mark… I am really happy I took Daisy to Kasauli," he said softly. "She found you there."
"Thank you Uncle Cedric. Thank you for bringing her—" he couldn’t finish what he was going to say, as at that minute the door opened and Daisy, in a long blue hospital gown, came in.
She had insisted on walking from Dr. Malhotra’s door when she found out that Mark was here. She didn’t want him to see her in the wheel chair. Not having walked in hours, her body felt heavy but she managed to smile now as she looked at Mark.
"Hey Mark," she said cheerfully.
Mark immediately ran to her and held her. "How are you doing?" he asked softly, his voice breaking a bit.
"I’m good, it’s so nice to see you," she said lovingly.
"Same here," he said, with a wide grin, and helped her to the bed.
"You got the flowers?"
"Yes."
"And what’s that?" she said excitedly, as she saw the wrapped gift on her pillow.
"Open it."
She lay down on the bed, and Mark covered her with the blanket. "It’s very light," she said, "what is it?"
Cedric got up from the couch and said, "I’ll go get some coffee for myself. Mark, do you want something from the canteen?" he asked walking out.
"No thanks."
"What is it?" she asked again, as her father left.
"You have a problem opening it?" he asked teasing her.
Daisy carefully opened the ‘gift’, making sure she didn’t tear one bit of the wrapping paper.
"A letter!" she exclaimed. "How sweet!"
She unfolded the letter and read it with a constant smile. "Come here," she said once she finished.
Mark moved closer.
"Come closer," she said. Mark bent his face on hers and she kissed him on his lips, just a gentle peck. "Thank you," she said tenderly.
"Well, I thought I’d get a bigger kiss for this."
"I haven’t brushed yet."
"Is that why you didn’t kiss me?" he said with a mock horror expression.
"Yes of course."
"Then, I don’t care," he said, moving close again. "I have lived through this stinky city one full day. I am sure I can tolerate some bad breath," he joked.
"I do not have bad breath!"
"Oh yes you do."
"I do not."
"Let me kiss and tell," he said, and drew closer. Delicately he brushed her lips with his tongue, feeling every corner. He held her face with his hands; he wanted to make sure she was really near him, that this wasn’t a dream. He ran his hands through her small ears, her forehead, her eyebrows, the silky light hair… and then kissed her full on the mouth. A long, and long overdue, kiss.
She was left breathless as he moved away. "So," she managed to ask in a husky voice, "bad breath?"
"Umm, I wasn’t concentrating. Let me check again," he said grinning.
"Shut up Mark!" she laughed.
"But anyway, it’s never too late to brush," he said, and lifted her up to take her to the attached bathroom. Without putting her down he picked up her toothbrush and did a tricky balancing act to apply paste on it. "Here," he said finally.
"Put me down at least."
"No. You brush."
"Mark, I can’t brush in front of you… and like this!"
"I ain’t putting you down," he said adamantly.
Daisy looked at him unbelievingly and then, realising he will not budge, started brushing. Mark rubbed her neck with his nose gently, kissing her every now and then.
"How do you expect me to brush like this?" she protested, her words all garbled because of the paste in her mouth.
"Hush!" Mark said. He was too busy and happy exploring her neck.
Daisy picked up the glass of water and washed her mouth and Mark carried her back to the bed. "To tell you the truth, she said, as she adjusted herself on the bed, "for the first time I really enjoyed brushing my teeth."
"You want to do it again?" he laughed.
"No thank you! Let it remain a once in a lifetime…" and then she broke off quickly.
"So, what do you do all day long?" Mark asked, getting into bed with her.
"It’s really boring. I watch TV, solve crosswords, think of you and smile."
"No wonder I hiccupped so much," he said, as he flipped channels with the remote control.
"I miss Kasauli," she mumbled. "Did the sun go down after I left?" Daisy asked seriously.
"I didn’t check. I don’t think it did," he looked at her.
"And how’s Shaira?"
"She’s fine."
"And Cynthia?"
"She’s fine Daisy," he said impatiently, "everyone’s fine. You’ve just been gone three days. How much can change in three days?"
"A lot."
"Everyone’s just fine. And they all are waiting for you to get your ass back there on the stone."
"I hope that happens," she said.
"It will," he said, staring at the TV again.
Daisy looked at Mark but he didn’t turn. From the corner of his eyes, he could see her staring.

When Dianne and Denise entered with Cedric, Daisy was fast asleep; her head on Mark’s stomach. Mark signalled them to be quiet, and slowly tried to move from underneath her head. That woke her up. She held him tight and pulled him back and put her head exactly where it was again. Mark smiled helplessly at her parents. He was a little embarrassed, but he wouldn’t dare move even an inch now. Not that he wanted to.
Dianne and Denise walked up to him and greeted him; Denise leaned against his legs. Dianne’s eyes paused at the vase filled with fresh white daisies. She knew it would never be empty again. "Thanks for coming," she whispered.

Chapter 22

The wintery chill of February turned into the blazing humidity of May. Everything changed, including Daisy’s condition (which worsened), except Mark’s daily routine. He woke up every day at 9 am, had fruits for breakfast in the auto-rickshaw on the way to AIIMS, stopped midway to buy a bunch of white daisies and stayed with Daisy all day. She shivered with fever almost everyday, and Mark sat with her patiently till she fell asleep, usually at about 8.30 pm, on his stomach, or his chest, or his shoulder.
"Mark," she mumbled one day, "I am not feeling well. I am not okay." She was trembling. Her breath felt hot on his neck.
"I’ll just get the doctor," he said, putting her head back on the pillow.
"Uncle Cedric," he said with urgency in his voice, as he ran to the doctor’s cabin, "she’s very sick."
Cedric kept the unfinished cup of tea on Dr. Malhotra’s desk and hurried inside the ward. He saw Daisy shivering on her bed. "Please help her uncle," Mark started crying, "I can’t see her like this anymore."
Dr. Malhotra’s shift was over. Cedric ran to search for a doctor and returned with a nurse. She injected Daisy with a sedative.
"She’ll go to sleep now," she said indifferently, as if not understanding their misery.
"Mark you go back home," Cedric said. "Come tomorrow, she’ll only sleep now."
"No, I don’t want to leave her tonight."
"Mark, she will be okay. Go home."
"No uncle. I want to stay with her tonight."
"She is asleep, Mark. Go back home and rest."
"I can’t rest when I know she is suffering," he replied, staring at her.
"Only one person can stay with her at night Mark. Either you go home, or I…"
Even though Mark was dying to be there, he couldn’t be selfish enough to ask Cedric to leave his daughter and go home just so that he could stay with his love. Like a non-living thing he stared at her, wondering if she was still in pain or if sleep delayed the suffering for a few hours. Her face was pale, her lips dry. He could see she was uncomfortable even in her sleep.
"I’ll come tomorrow," Mark said somberly and turned away.
Walking down the stairs, Mark took his black-framed spectacles off and wiped the tears off his eyes. He had managed to go to the eye doctor and it turned out, as Cynthia had suspected all along, he did have weak eyes. The guard at the entrance, the same guy who once stopped Mark from entering, stood up, hid the tobacco he was grinding in his palm and saluted. Mark returned the gesture with a fake smile.
"Kaisi hain memsaab?" he asked, clearly concerned.
Mark only nodded his head as he walked past him.
"Saabji," he called out from behind, "bhagwan mein vishwas rakhiye. Sab theek ho jayega."

Mark called Shaira from his cellphone on the way back to New Friends Colony.
"Hey Mark," she said, excited as ever to hear from him, but soon she realised his voice was said. "Everything okay?" she asked, her tone getting grim.
"She is really suffering," he said, "she is in a lot of pain. There’s nothing I can do to help her."
"You are doing everything you can, Mark."
"But how do I ease her pain?."
"You can’t eliminate her pain. You can only make her focus on yourself and forget it. And you are doing that everyday for months now," she said. "Are you in the hospital?"
"No, I am going back home," he replied.
"Just relax, okay?"
"Hmm," he said, hiding his tears from the rickshaw driver, who constantly looked with straining eyes in the mirror to catch a glimpse of the sobbing man in the dark night.
"Just be strong," Shaira said, "stay with her. What happened today?"
"She has very high fever. She was shivering in pain in front of me."
"Mark, try and relax."
"How’s everything with you?" he said, wiping off the tears.
"I’m okay… missing you a lot."
"I miss you too," he said. "Okay, I’ll hang up now."
"Alright, take care."

He hung up and called Cedric immediately after.
"Is she okay?" he asked.
"Yes. She’s fast asleep. Just relax and get some rest," Cedric whispered.
"Okay. Good night."
"Good night."

Over the last two months Mark had seen Daisy’s condition worsen day after day in that hospital ward. And everyday he hoped she would be better the next day. He had tried every trick to make Him listen to him. He cried, pleaded, prayed, wished… hoping to be heard by The Invisible. And everyday he assumed He heard—and ignored—him.

Mark sat on his bed and took out his maroon diary, in which he wrote every night to Daisy, but never showed what he had written to her. It was his way of communicating with her when she wasn’t near him.
He opened to a fresh page and wrote:
‘29 May, 2004
I love you, with all my heart. You are where my life began, and you are where it will end. There is nothing I see beyond you. I will keep you alive, eternally. I will call out your name everyday. And you will run to me and wrap your arms around me. You will hold me tight.
I love you… forever.’

He threw his head back and fought the tears fighting to burst out. "Please don’t go Daisy," his lips quivered, "please don’t leave me." And he lost the battle.

Chapter 23

Cedric and Dianne were sitting across Dr. Malhotra’s desk. Denise sat on her mother’s lap, silent for a change. There was gloom in the air. Dr. Malhotra had spoken in soft but firm words, "She doesn’t have much time."
Not that they didn’t see it coming. But once the doctor—the sole person they were banking on to make a miracle happen, the only person who had not said a negative word so far—put it in plain words, all their hopes shattered.
Dianne broke down, "Please don’t say that!"
Cedric put his hand on her shoulder as Denise, confused, stared at her mother cry, and stared crying too.
"How long…" Cedric choked on his words.
"Any time," the doctor replied gravely. "She’s sinking."

Chapter 24

Daisy’s eyes were closed. It was an effort for her to keep them open. Her head rested against the pillow, which was leaning on the white metal headrest of the hospital bed. Her face was flushed with all the pain and the suffering.
"Hi my doll," Mark said as cheerfully as he could, as he entered.
She made the effort of opening her eyes for him and smiled.
"How are you doing?" he asked warmly.
"I’m fine. Feeling better," she replied in a heavy voice.

As usual, he replaced the previous day’s daisies with the fresh ones in his hand and sat beside her on the bed. He ran his hand gently across her face and looked unhappily at her weak face. "Do you want some water?"
She shook her head slowly. Mark bent his head closer to her ear and whispered, "I love you." That made her smile again. "I love you," he whispered again, smiling with her.
"Will you promise me something?" she said, closing her eyes.
"What?"
"If you ever fall in love again, you will not try and control it."
"Daisy!" Mark said, scandalised and then irritated. "Please shut up."
"No Mark, Promise me. Please," she said with desperation.
"Okay, okay, I promise," he said, not wanting to make her suffer. "I promise."
"You promise what?"
"That if I ever fall in love… if, I will not try and control it," he repeated. "Now will you just shut up and relax?"
"Hmm…"

Mark went to Dr Malhotra’s cabin where Cedric, Dianne and Denise were sitting on the couch beside his desk. "Is everything okay?" he asked. "She’s talking very… Is everything okay?"
"Everything is fine Mark, relax," Cedric lied.
"Then why is she—?"
"Nothing’s wrong Mark," he interrupted, "she’s been given a heavy dose of sedatives."
Satisfied with these lies, Mark walked back inside but with a sense of uneasiness. "Mark," Daisy was mumbling in pain.
"Yes, I’m right here Daisy, " he rushed to her and held her.
"Why," she tried to swallow, "why are you sounding tense?"
"I am not."
"Baby, I am okay."
"I know doll."
"You know," she said, "I am so happy I found you. You’ve made my life so complete. I have no regrets. Except one – that I couldn’t ever tell you how much I love you, and how totally crazy I am about you."
"I know Daisy. I always knew."
"I know you knew. Love understands love, it needs no words," she cried. "You’ll stick by your promise na?"
"Yes, yes, I will," he tried to push back his tears. "Please stop talking like this. You’re scaring me."
"Okay listen," she said, "wipe my tears off, and yours too."
Mark did as he was told. Daisy put her head on his chest. "This is my world," she mumbled, "Mark, will you do me a favour?"
"Yes."
"Is the flower shop far away?"
"No it’s not. Why?"
"Could you get me another bunch of daisies?"
"Yes I could, but why?"
"These ones don’t smell right. It’s affecting me. But I’m used to your daisies so get me another bunch, fresh and white."
"Okay sure baby," he said softly, "I’ll be right back, okay?" He got up from the bed.
"Wait," she said. "Kiss me before you go."
He smiled, bent his head and kissed her on her lips. "I’ll just be back."

"I’m just getting her another bunch of flowers. I’ll be right back," he told Cedric and Dianne who were still in the doctor’s cabin, and went out. The nearest flower shop was half a kilometre away. Mark carefully picked the whitest daisies and waited impatiently for the florist to bunch them together neatly. He walked back to the hospital. As usual, the guard stood up and saluted him. Cedric, Dianne and Denise weren’t in Dr. Malhotra’s cabin. He was busy writing something.

"Hi doctor," Mark just stopped to say hi before walking in. But something in the way Dr. Malhotra dropped his pen and looked at him made Mark stop in his tracks.
"What?" he asked anxiously, trying his best to keep the fading smile on.
"She’s no more," he heard Dr. Malhotra’s voice, strangely in the distance, as if coming from far, very far, away.

Chapter 25

He is lying on the cold floor of his room, his arms flung wide, making a picture of desolation. He’s been lying motionlessly for about an hour, staring at the darkness with wide open, vacant eyes. Not a sound here; except that of a few drops of rain falling on the tin roof, which too doesn’t last for very long. Silence reigns.
Out in the verandah of The Retreat, things are different. "He hasn’t been the same," Cynthia says, talking to Cedric and Dianne. Her eyes, reflecting the crackling fire that burns warmly near them, implores them to understand her misery. "He’s lost his spark, his lust for life," she goes on, "I thought he’ll get okay as time passes, but it seems like he’s holding on to the pain deliberately, he doesn’t want to let go of it."
Cedric and Dianne remain silent.
"I pray every day that Mark moves on," Cynthia continues, knowing they are listening, hoping they understand. "Every day, I try and talk to him about it. He fakes it and tells me he’s okay, but I know he’s hiding the pain inside and killing himself slowly."
"Give him some more time Cynthia," Cedric says finally, "it’ll be okay. It hasn’t been easy for any of us." Dianne gently holds Cynthia’s hand in consolation.
"Seven months, Cedric! Seven months isn’t enough time?" Cynthia stares at him in amazement. He just shakes his head, looking down at the fire. "He’ll be okay," he tries again. "Just let him be. He’ll get over it on his own."
"I hope so. I really do."
"Anyway," Cedric gets up with a sigh, "we’ll go now. Denise is alone at home."
Dianne hugs her with the same loving sympathy that has given Cynthia strength for so long. "It’s going to be okay," she says comfortingly, once more.
"Thanks," Cynthia manages to smile, "please keep coming."
"We will. Say hi to Mark."
They both drive away in their white Ambassador.

"Mark?" Cynthia calls out to her son as soon as Cedric and Dianne leave.
"Yes mom?" he replies from inside, quickly switching on his room light before she walks in.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing, just reading."
"Can I come inside?"
Mark rushes inside the toilet. "Yeah, come in," he says, splashing water on his face.
"So, what have you been reading?"
"A book."
"Which one?"
"A book mom. What’s wrong with you?" He wipes his face with a towel hanging behind his door.
"I’m just curious. Which one?"
"The Prophet."
"Is it good?"
"You haven’t heard of The Prophet?!"
"Yes, I have heard about it, but haven’t read it."
"It’s brilliant."
"Hmm. Anyway, would you like to come out and sit in the verandah with me?"
"Sure," he says with a smile, taking out his shawl from the cupboard and follows Cynthia into the verandah.
Cynthia pours the leftover tea from the earlier round.
"No sugar for me," he says, just as Cynthia is about to put the usual one spoon.
"Why not?"
"Just working out and stuff these days. I don’t want sugar."
They pick up their cups and rest back on the chair.
"How are studies?" she asks, probing gently. "We don’t even talk properly anymore. I hardly know anything about you, Mark."
"Studies are going well," he says in a monotonous tone.
"What are your plans once you finish?"
"I don’t know. We’ll see."
"But you must have planned something?"
"I’ll probably do an interior designing course once I’m done with this."
"You’re good, Mark. You don’t really need to do a course."
"It’ll only help mom," he says, a bit restless, "but let’s see how things go."
She stares at him and asks again, hesitatingly, "Are you ok, Mark?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean."
"No, I don’t."
She sighs deeply, not wanting to do this to him. "Are you happy?"
"I’m okay," he replies morosely.
"I know it’s not easy for you Mark. But please, get over it. She’s dead. You have to…"
Mark slams his cup on the table and walks off inside.
Cynthia follows him inside purposefully. "Mark!"
"Mom, I really don’t want to have this conversation again."
"No you’re not Mark!" she says loudly. "Look at you. You’re killing yourself. You’ve forgotten how to smile. You aren’t the same. I can’t see you like this. I am your mother for Christ’s sake." She very nearly cries.
Mark steps closer to her. "Mom, look at me," he says, lifting her head and looks straight in her eyes. "I am okay. I just miss her okay?" Speaking of ‘her’ makes Mark cry. "I miss her mom," he says, trying to hide his tears from him mom who is crying herself.
Cynthia hugs him tight. "I know. I know you do. But please Mark, please let go. Please," she weeps openly.
Cynthia’s plea isn’t going to be heard. Her plea hasn’t changed for seven months.

And so hasn’t Mark’s mental makeup. He smiles at people, talks to them, but all he thinks about is Daisy. Living is nothing but a task he must perform. He survives an entire day, powered by the knowledge that at the end of the day he will come back to his Daisy—through his writing. Late in the night, when no one intrudes, he tells her how he feels, how the day went, and how much he loves her and misses her still.
‘23rd December, 2004
They tell me everyday I am not happy, and that they can’t see the condition I am in. How do I explain it to them?
I miss you.
I sometimes wonder if you can see me, if you cry when I cry, if you still smile when I tell you I love you. Do you?
I know you do. I see you in the darkness, hear you in the silence, feel you when I am alone. Then I wonder why I miss you. If you are really with me, why do I miss you Daisy?
Every day, I fake a smile, and tell myself I am okay. For, you are with me all the time. I know you are. But just say it to me once.
The sun has disappeared again. It’s hidden behind thick fog. Hardly ever comes out. But whenever it does, I run to the stone and watch it go down. I imagine you beside me. I close my eyes and hold you tenderly.
But it seems like the sun will be gone for a while now. It’s biting cold here. But you never know. Every day I look forward to seeing it. Tomorrow will be no different.
And look, today is already tomorrow. The clock just struck 12 my doll. HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Your parents had come today. They’ll be coming to you to put flowers on where they say you rest. Mom will come too. But I won’t. You rest nowhere but in my heart.
Goodnight.’

Chapter 26

It’s time to celebrate for most people but sudden dark clouds come floating through the mountains to cast a silent shadow on the hamlet of Kasauli. The sweet smell of wet flora fills up the air, trying hard to fight the gloom of the weather. Outside most shops that line the narrow snaky hill road are cheerfully decorated Christmas trees. It’s almost a competition—whoever has the most attractive tree outside his shop has customers stopping to gaze in admiration and eventually enter the shop, increasing the chances of sale.
The few hotels on the road are dressed in fairy lights, which hang from the roof and flutter happily in the wind. Some buildings look a bit gimmicky with huge cardboard replicas of the Star of Bethlehem crowing them.
It’s early in the morning and the cheap but trendy clothes sellers, wrapped in warm jackets and monkey caps, are busy setting up their stalls down in the mall. They adjust the tarpaulin to keep the impending rainwater away.

It’s a day when Kasauli is jam-packed. The crème of Himachal – from Chail, Solan, Shimla – gather here to while away their time. It’s one of the very few towns in the state that isn’t crowded, yet commercialized enough to spend an entire day, and wanting more. They all celebrate the birth of Christ, who isn’t there physically, but His presence is cherished and felt deeply.

Just like Daisy is for Mark. It is hard for him not to miss her. As the trees and clouds of Kasauli watch him cross under them idly, they don’t expect him to ever actually accept she isn’t there. The only thing, though hard but possible, people, and even the elements, expect of Mark is for him to be able to be happy again.

Mark is decorating the huge Christmas tree in the drawing room. They’ve been using the same tree for the past three years. After Christmas is over, it goes back to where it belongs – in the garden. Mark loves to embellish the tree every year. Though he always welcomes suggestions, which do come from Cynthia, sometimes Shaira, but they’re very rarely taken. The Christmas tree has always been Mark’s baby.
"Mark, let’s go," Cynthia says.
He is almost done. Just one more thing left to put on the tree to complete it. He picks up a photograph from the table beside the tree and places it on its head, where the Star would have gone. It’s a black and white picture of Daisy, a happy young smiling image.
Mark takes a step back to gaze at her and smiles. "Happy birthday," he says softly.
Cynthia is standing behind him near the door. "Let’s go Mark. We’re getting late for the mass."
"Yeah, let’s go."
She smiles at Mark, "It’s looking very pretty."
"Thanks mom."

He speeds down the road in his bike. The ancient church is right down near the bus stand. Baldev Singh is standing outside Hotel Alasia talking to Malhotra. Mark pulls over beside them.
"Hi Mark… Ma’am," they wish together.
"Mr. Singh, how come you’re bearing the chill of Kasauli?" Mark asks.
"Just here for a day. Thought, I’d spend Christmas here," he replies. "And how are you doing?"
"I’m okay."
Malhotra and Baldev Singh look at Mark, sympathy clear in their eyes.
Cynthia taps Mark on his shoulder and whispers, "Let’s go we’re getting late."
"Going to church?" Malhotra asks.
"Yes."
"Hope you both are coming for the party tonight?" Baldev Singh asks.
"I won’t be able to," Cynthia replies, "but Mark will come I’m sure."
"I’ll try," Mark smiles. "Bye." Their eyes follow Mark’s speeding bike till he and Cynthia disappear after a curve just before the church.
The mass lasts for an hour. Mark goes down on his knees, like everyone else in the packed hall. Stay with me Daisy. I live for you, he prays silently. Merry Christmas.

Chapter 27

"Why don’t you go for the party?" Cynthia asks. They’re sitting in the hall beside the Christmas tree, drinking wine and listening to carols.
"I don’t feel like mom," Mark replies.
"It’ll be a good change, Christmas is to celebrate, not to sit around with your mother and sulk."
"Nothing else seems better."
"You’ll never know until you try."
"Mom, please don’t force me. I don’t want to go."
"Alright!" She walks to the table to pour some more wine in her glass.
"Mom?"
"Yes."
"Do you ever miss dad?"
"Never."
"Did you love him?"
Cynthia takes time to answer this question. "Yes," she says softly.
"And now you don’t?"
"I don’t think I give it too much thought. I’ve just accepted that he isn’t around and he’s never going to be either. I’ve moved on."
"Was it easy? To let go I mean?"
"It never is. But one has to," she says. "You can’t hold on to the non-existent. You have to seek your own happiness."
"If he came back to you today…?"
"No Mark. As of today, I hate that man. I have only anger for him," she says. "But then again, the anger, the hate… it’s nothing but a self-inflicted emotion towards him to keep me strong."
"So, you still love him?"
"No, I hate him, from the core of my heart," she says as she wipes off a tear. "Anyway, why are we talking about this? You tell me… what is it that you deeply wish for this Christmas," Cynthia says, desperate to change the topic.
Mark thinks for a while and says, "I wish that there is indeed life after death and that I can see her and be with her once I am dead."
"Mark!!!" Cynthia screams. "Stop talking nonsense."
Mark is taken aback. "What?" he asks, surprised.
"If you ever talk like that again, I will take the living hell out of you," she says, obviously very angry.
"You asked me what I wish for!"
"There is just no point talking to you! You just go on and on about the same thing. She’s dead, Mark. Dead. And now you’re talking about dying so that you can meet her! Do I mean nothing to you? Does no one but you mean anything to you?"
"Mom, I didn’t mean it like that."
"No Mark, how can you be so selfish? You’ll crave to die for someone who’s dead, but you won’t live for people who are alive and love you…" she begins to cry.
"Mom, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry. I really am," Mark says, coming near her and sits around her on the floor. "I’m sorry mom. Please stop crying," he says gently. "Okay, I’ll tell you what I really wish for? I wish you find the most good looking and sexy date, and then, the next week, you find an even better one."
Cynthia laughs lightly, happy that her son still retains his sense of humour. "You really think I can’t stick around with someone long enough na?"
"Of course you can, a week is more than enough."
"Shut up Mark."
"See, you look so good when you’re happy and not crying your guts out," he says sweetly to his mother.
"So do you Mark," Cynthia all but cries again.
Hesitatingly, he replies, "I am happy."
"Really Mark?"
"Mom, please, not again."
"Mark, will you give me something I ask for today—as a Christmas gift?"
"What?" he asks watchfully.
"Go for the party. Will you do that much for me?"
"What, you have a date coming over or what?" he says, with his head tilted to a side.
"No, I don’t," she laughs. "But seriously, I want you to go. Will you?"
"Yes," he says, sighing. "Now stop sobbing and get drunk. By the time I get back, I want to see you totally sloshed!"
"Count on it."

The superficial happiness and laughter vanishes from his face the minute he walks into his room to change. Now he doesn’t take too much time in deciding what to wear. A light blue jeans and a maroon shirt is what comes to hand first. He wears a beige sweater on top and over that his black overcoat.
"I’ll be back soon," he says.
"No. Take your time."
"Bloody hell! This is like being thrown out of your own house to go for a party," he mutters, as he walks out to his bike.

Baldev Singh is the host but no one gets their own booze this time—the venue is the bar of Hotel Alasia. The music is still the same, the jazz band from Delhi. There are about 30-odd people standing around making idle conversation, as the band plays on softly.
Mark walks up to Shaira who is drinking alone beside the piano.
"I thought you weren’t coming," Shaira says, surprised.
"I thought that too."
"So?"
"Mom threw me out."
"I’m glad," she says, smiling. "Want a drink?"
"No thanks, where’s your boyfriend?"
"No boyfriend," Shaira gulps her rum and cola down.
"Why?" he asks, concerned, "what happened?"
"He broke up."
"Why?"
"He says he needs a change. Can’t stick around with me for the rest of his life."
"What the… hey but wait! You guys were perfectly alright till yesterday?"
"He told me only this morning."
"So, how come you didn’t call and tell me then?"
"Mark, if you haven’t realized, we aren’t like we used to be. I don’t call you the minute something changes in my life. You never bother to call anyway. It just seems you don’t care for anyone anymore. You’ve completely cut yourself off from everyone."
"Anyway," Mark pretends not to hear, "I am sure you guys will get back together,"
"How are you so sure Mark?"
Mark looks at her. "Because you both are perfect for each other. And people don’t let the perfect thing go off so easily."
"But people do change. And suddenly you realize the perfect thing is not all that perfect after all."
"We make it perfect. And we destroy it. It’s in our hands," he says. "When he told you he loves you forever, you believed him. But then you also believed him when he said he didn’t love you enough. And you walked away. Why didn’t you just believe he was bullshitting when he said he didn’t? It’s about what you believe more. I think it’s the former that you believe more. And if I can believe that, why can’t you?"
"I believe it too. But I can’t go around begging for him to come back to me, can I?"
"That’s totally up to you. If I love someone enough, I would beg. It won’t hurt my ego. Because in love, there is no ego. If you think by begging you’d get him back, do it. But if you think he’d come back without having to beg for him, better still. The point is you guys should be together. Why should it matter who makes the first move?"
"So you think I should?" she asks, but someone interrupts them before he can answer.
Malhotra taps Mark’s shoulder, "How are you doing my child?" He’s drunk already and is slurs as he speaks. "You know, when I heard about Daisy, I cried like a baby. She was such a sweet girl…"
"It’s alright Mr. Malhotra," Mark pats his arms firmly, in an effort to make him stop.
"Oh! I shouldn’t have brought it up."
"It’s okay."
"Mr. Malhotra, he doesn’t want to talk about it. Please," Shaira interjects.
"I’m sorry," he says and walks away.
"What an asshole," she says, within earshot, "you okay?"
"Yeah," he shrugs. "So, where were we?"
"You’re okay, right?"
"Yes fat ass!"
"You haven’t called me that in a long time," she says, smiling.
"Like you said, we haven’t been the same, right?"
"Mark, do you not believe that?"
"No," he replies without hesitating. "I just enjoy spending time with myself nowadays."
"Anyway, forget it. As long as I don’t hate your guts, I’m okay with whichever way we are."
"Exactly. I’m there whenever you need me."
"That’s what you think Mark. You aren’t even there to know when I need you."
"If you don’t call me and tell me, how will I know?"
"If you project yourself to be someone who comes right out of his skin whenever someone tries to make conversation with him, it’s hard to pile on."
"Screw the someone Shaira. I’m talking about you," he says. "You know me better than anyone. You shouldn’t feel that. It’s sad that you don’t believe I’ll be there when you need me."
"I believe that Mark. But it just feels you are way too occupied with your own thoughts, for me to feel really comfortable, you know, talking to you. Your sadness really depresses me."
Mark laughs out. "I don’t know why people just go on and on about how sad I am. I am not," he exclaims. "It seems you guys are forcing sadness on me."
Shaira sees Sujoy walk in with a couple of his friends. "No one’s forcing sadness on you, Mark," she mutters. Her eyes are glued to the door, where Sujoy stands.
Mark turns around to see what Shaira’s looking at. "Ah, your man is here."
"Should I go up to him and say hi?"
"You should," he replies. "No ego, remember?"
"I will, in a while."
"Ladies and gentleman." It’s Malhotra again, with the mike. "Mark Roger will sing for us now."
Mark refuses straight away. "No, I’m sorry. I can’t sing," he shouts out to the guests. "I am not singing. I’m sorry," he tries to get off but Malhotra doesn’t budge. He pesters him, along with most of the other guests who know Mark, till he takes the mike in his hand.
Mark whispers, "This one’s for you Shaira and Sujoy," he says out loud. He looks up and says to himself, "And for you Daisy."
The music begins. A few old couples start dancing, holding each other, smiling.
Shaira walks up to Sujoy. "I love you," she says.
He smiles. "I love you too." Sujoy holds her hand and takes her to the open space in front of the band for a dance. "I’m really sorry. I was acting really dumb and stupid," he says.
She puts her finger on his lips, "Just hold me Sujoy."
Mark smiles at them, as he sings:
'Really thought that I could live without you
Really thought that I could make it on my own
Sent you away yeah I said I didn't need you
I let you go
Now I'm so lost without you
Now you're not here and now I know
Lonely is the night when I'm not with you…'

Sometimes, all it takes is that effort to say one line. Sometimes, only a look is enough. And sometimes, nothing is.
‘24th December, 2004
Merry Christmas Daisy.’

Chapter 28

It’s yet another year of early snowfall. Not November this time, just at the beginning of the new year. At The Retreat, Mark gets ready for college.
"Have you checked if your college is even open?" Cynthia asks.
"The fall isn’t that heavy, it’ll be open."
"At least call and check."
"I know mom. It’ll be open. I’ll see you in the evening."
Mark rides his bike unusually slow to avoid skidding on the wet road. It’s even narrower now as the shovelled snow pushed on the side takes up quite a bit of it. He stops near the snow-covered stone where Daisy and he used to sit. He brushes the snow aside with bare hands from its left.
‘Mark loves Daisy, forever.’ He bends down and kisses the proof of his love. His eyes are closed when his lips touch the cold stone… How cold Daisy felt that day, he shudders. "I miss you," Mark says softly and closes his eyes again; this time, to hold the tears back.

He gets on the bike again and zooms past the Kasauli check post. Ahead in the distance is a huge puddle of snow in the middle of the road. There are a couple of shops on either side. Mark slows down. Very slowly he takes the bike on the left corner of the road to go around the puddle. He stops to let an oncoming truck pass.

Casually, he turns his head to the left. A girl works away inside what turns out to be a flower shop. She looks so much like Daisy, he thinks. He can only see a portion of her face. Her hair is really short – gelled, and ruffled into spikes. She has a million piercings on her right ear, with many rings dangling from them. She isn’t fair. She isn’t dark. She’s talking to someone inside the shop, but he can’t see the other person. He doesn’t care to. He’s staring at her. She smiles, obviously at the person inside the shop, but his heart skips a beat. That numbs him. What’s happening? he opens his lips but they don’t move. His eyes don’t blink.
Mark gets off his bike, still staring at her. He pushes the stand down. He isn’t doing anything; things are happening on their own. He walks to the glass door of the small shop, his eyes still glued to her. The door seems too far away. Farther than he thought it would be. That’s because the person inside the shop has opened the door and is staring at Mark looking at the girl with his hand in the air trying to reach out to an open door.
The woman walking out gives him a strange smile, which he doesn’t see. He walks in. The bells on the door tinkle.
She looks up and sees him. "Hi," she smiles. "Can I help you?"
He doesn’t move an inch.
"Hello," she stresses. "Can I help you?"
As if he has just woken up from a dream, he panics and jolts back to reality. He is confused. His mind, his legs, his eyes… they aren’t working. "Uh," he looks around, "yes," he says, not very brightly.
"Is there anything you would like?" she asks a little sternly.
"Yes," he stammers.
"Are you alright?" she smiles, almost laughs.
"Yes – I’d like white daisies," Mark manages to say.
"Okay, would you like to pick them?"
"No, that’s okay. You can pick them."
She walks out of the counter and pulls the edges of her short top down to her belt to hide her skin. The top doesn’t stay down; she is trying to stretch it down farther than its size. She walks to the corner of the shop where the white daisies lay in a red bucket.
"How many would you like?"
"Just a regular bouquet," he smiles, a little more comfortable now.
"A hundred rupee one?"
"Yes, sounds good."
She picks them up and turns to come back to the counter. Her pierced belly ring catches Mark’s eye. And she catches his eye staring at it. Again, she pulls her T-shirt down and holds it there, till she gets back behind the counter.
She starts wrapping the flowers up with plastic. "Would you like them delivered somewhere? To someone…"
"No, I’ll take them."
She’s getting a little jittery and uncomfortable. Why is he staring at me like this, she thinks. Is he unbalanced? She looks up at him. He’s still looking at her. She smiles at him, reluctantly. He smiles back.
"You want to put in a note for someone?" she asks.
"Sure," he replies.
She bends down and takes out a small card and a pen.
"No!" he exclaims.
"No what?"
"Just put the card inside the bouquet, I’ll write something in it later."
"Sure," she shrugs.
She hands over the bouquet to him. He pays her. He doesn’t want to leave. He wants to. But he wants to stay on as well. He doesn’t know what he wants to do. He doesn’t even know what he is doing.
"Anything else?" she finally asks.
"No." He smiles at her. She smiles back patiently.
He walks out, and takes a deep breath; it was as if he couldn’t breathe inside.
Her eyes follow him till he vanishes on his bike. Mark dare not look behind. He is scared she might catch him staring again.
What the hell just happened inside, he wonders. Weird. She was gorgeous, he smiles. He pulls over on the side and closes his eyes. I love you Daisy, I love you Daisy. The image of her fills her mind, the image of her when she lay dead on the hospital bed with him beside her. He opens his eyes, puts the bike on first gear and accelerates away.

All through out the day in college, Mark actually makes an effort to keep the flower shop girl out of his mind. But each time he forces her out, she comes right back. On the way back home, he speeds past the flower shop, faster than he rides the rest of the distance. He doesn’t even look towards the shop. At home, he immediately calls Shaira. Something he hasn’t done in months.
"Hey there fat ass," he says.
"Hello Mr. Roger. You have a very long life. I was just thinking of calling you. Guess what?"
"What?"
"You won’t believe it."
"What?"
"I’m going to Australia!!!" she screams out in joy.
"What! When?"
"End of this month."
"You’ve got admission?"
"Yep."
"That’s cool man! Way to go!"
"I know. It’s amazing," she says. "Let’s celebrate."
"No, not today."
"Come on Mark. Get out of your hell."
"I am not in hell," he replies. "Anyway, so when are you going for your visa?"
"Probably next week," she says casually. "Mark, Sujoy and I will be at Alasia in the evening. Come there if you change your mind."
"Okay, I’ll come if I feel like. But don’t expect it."
"Bye Mark," she says, knowing very well it’s pointless to try and convince him.
Mark puts the daisies inside his cupboard in one corner behind the clothes. That night he wrote words very different than usual.
‘January 6, 2005
Did you see that? Un-bloody-believable! For the first time in a little over 7 months, you went out of my mind. I didn’t think about you. I have no idea what happened. I went into a trance. When I looked into that shop, for a second I thought it was you. As pretty as an angel. She doesn’t look like you but. Maybe a little.
I love you Daisy, like always. I only admired her. She’s good looking. That’s it. No harm admiring beauty, right?
I love you. I always did, and I always will. And it will take for the heavens to come crashing down on earth into a million pieces for me not to love you. It’ll never happen. And you already know that. I am only re-assuring. I love you.’

Chapter 29

In the distance, where the peaks are covered with snow, the sky is a deep orange. But above Kasauli, it’s darkening fast. The sight of the sun makes gives relief to the people, though the weather is still chilly. Mark sits cross-legged on the stone, with his head resting on his palms, watching the orange ball, sans the rays, taking its last few breaths of the evening. It seems reluctant to go down today… but some monster there behind the huge mountains is slowly pulling it down, and before it disappears, the sun is trying to steal a last glance at the beautiful world that will soon disappear from its vision.
Mark gets on the bike and heads for the flower shop without stopping to think why. She’s locking the door, and is just about to pull the shutter down.
"Hi," he says.
She turns around, "Oh, it’s you again."
He smiles, "You’re closing?"
"Yes," she says, "but tell me?"
"I thought I’d take some daisies home. I’m getting addicted to the smell," he says. "But, it’s okay. I’ll take them tomorrow."
"No, no, wait." She unlocks the door and walks inside.
Mark gets off the bike and follows her. "You really didn’t have to…"
"Not a problem at all. I never send customers away if I can help it," she smiles, as she carefully picks the daisies one by one. "So, are these for your girlfriend?"
"No no," he says swiftly, "they’re for me. I told you, I like the smell."
"I’m Mark, by the way," he says, as she goes behind the counter.
She looks up at him, "I know."
"You know?" he is genuinely surprised.
"Yes. I saw you sing at the Christmas party the other day."
"You were there?"
"Yes."
"I didn’t even see you," he says, before he could stop himself from sounding rude.
"Yes. You were way too engrossed talking to, who I thought was your girlfriend, till she started dancing with another guy to your song."
"Oh Shaira. I was giving her relationship lessons."
"You’ve done PhD in relationships?"
"Well, just short of it you can say," he laughs. "And what’s your name?"
"Shayala."
He looks at her small pitch black eyes speechlessly for a couple of seconds. "It’s a very pretty name," he says finally.
"Thanks," she says. Shayala bends down to pick one of those small cards, and takes a little longer than normal down there.
"Here," she says, handing the bouquet to him.
He smiles, "Where do you stay?"
"Right across the road. Why?"
"Oh nothing. Just thought if your house was a little further away I could give you a ride. But I guess you can walk it."
"Oh yes, I can. Thanks anyway."
"And what about you?"
"The Retreat. It’s the last house on the road up to Monkey Point."
"Okay," she says, resting on her elbows on the wooden counter.
"Bye," he begins to walk out the door.
"Are you going to pay me for the flowers?"
"Oh yeah, of course. I forgot!" he jerks his head, embarrassed, and takes out the money. "Bye again," he says. Shayala only smiles.

Mark has a constant grin on his face as he speeds his way back home. The daisies are clutched between his left palm and the handle.
"Oooo," Cynthia says as she opens the door. "Someone’s got flowers. Who gave them to you?"
"I did," he says.
"You bought flowers for yourself? How boring!" She walks back into the kitchen.
Mark goes straight into his room and keeps the flowers at the same place. "What’s for dinner mom?"
"Henry’s pizza."
"Mom," he says, "every day?"
"Well, then what? You expect me to cook everyday?"
"Duh."
"You wish."
"You bet I do."
Cynthia takes the pizza to the dining table. "How’s college going?"
"Good," he replies.
"You look happy. What a surprise!"
"What is with everyone? Even Shaira said the same thing. And now you…"
"Well, have you ever tried to think that it might be true?"
"So, I shouldn’t be happy?"
"Of course you should. You look good when you’re happy. And see, you’re blushing too. What’s up boy?" she asks, with a sneaky grin on her face.
"Shut up mom. Who’s blushing?"
"Well, well, who gave you the flowers honey?"
"Oh lord," he gets up from the dining chair, having finished his pizza. "No one gave them to me. I bought them on the way from the flower shop. I happen to like daisies. Do you mind?"
"Not at all," she says.
"Good then." He walks into his room, slams the door shut and switches the lights off. The images in his mind are mixed. So are his feelings. Mostly, it’s Shayala smiling brightly up at him. He forces her out. Brings Daisy back in. But Shayala keeps coming back, and brings with her a smile for his face.

Chapter 30

Denise holds Mark’s hand as they stroll outside the Carvers’ residence.
"How’s school going?" he asks.
"Very bad," she says confidently. Just like any other 12-year-old, school is the last thing she likes to think or talk about. "I don’t like Mrs. Choudhry. I hate her."
"Who’s Mrs. Choudhry?"
"My math teacher. She always throws me out of class."
"Why does she throw you out of class?"
She looks up at him and giggles with a shrug, "Because I never know any of the answers."
"So? She has no business to throw you out of class. Math anyway sucks. The next time she throws you out, let me know. We both will go and throw her down the cliff," Mark says.
"And before that we’ll catch hold of her sari and swing her around," she says very excitedly. "And then we’ll tie her to your bike and make her run behind. And then…"
"Enough, enough."
"Markie, she’s a real devil."
"No, she just wants you to do well. Why don’t you study?"
"I do. But I just don’t understand math. I hate it."
"Well you have to do it. So might as well enjoy it."
Dianne calls out from inside, "Denise, come back inside. You have to study."
Mark picks her up and takes her in.
"Mark stop pampering her," Dianne says when she sees them.
"Markie loves me. He’s not like you," she says, haughtily.
"Of course I do my little angel," Mark smiles at her. "You’re a doll."
"See?" she says, pulling a face at her mother.
"Yes, fine. I see, now go into your room and finish off your homework," Dianne gives a typical mother response.
Denise gives Mark a long kiss on his cheek and walks in sulkily.
"So, how are you doing?" Dianne asks, pouring Mark some tea.
"I’m okay," he replies, not looking her in the eye.
"Are you happy?"
"Yes, I’m alright," he smiles. "How long has uncle gone for?"
"He should be back day after. And don’t change the topic. I really want to talk to you about this. It’s really upsetting to see you so glum all the time. There are certain things, Mark, that aren’t in our control. You have to move on."
"I know."
"Then why do you always stay so glum, so aloof from everyone?"
"I don’t know auntie," he says edgily. "Please can we not talk about this?"
"But Mark…"
"Auntie, please. I am fine. I promise you. Just not this."
Dianne shakes her head. "Fine," she sighs. "We just want you to be happy."
"I know that."
"How’s Cynthia?"
"She’s fine, I’ll push off now."

Mark thinks to himself once more the same things he’s been thinking for so long. No one understands. He is not unhappy. He’s accepted that she’s gone, but he feels her everywhere still. And that’s what people mistake for sadness. He is tired of the same questions; of the sympathy. No one is interested in the truth. They’re only interested in what is true for according to them. They don’t want to hear what Mark wants to say.

When Mark reaches home, he puts cologne on. He doesn’t smell bad, but he just wants to be sure.
"Where are you off to?" Cynthia asks, sniffing the air suggestively.
"Going to the flower shop to pick up daisies."
"What is with you and the flowers?"
"Nothing mom."
"I just don’t understand what you’re up to."
"You don’t have to. You’re just trying to make nothing into something. I just like the flowers. Why is that so tough to understand or believe?"
"Go Mark, just go," she says wincingly.
"Just because you’re in a rotten mood, don’t take it out on me."
"I am not in a rotten mood!" she snaps.
"Yes, you are. I could hear you shout at your dumb date till outside the gate."
"Get lost Mark," she says angrily.
"Count on it." He storms out of the door. But it isn’t the fight with Cynthia he’s bothered about. They keep happening, and are forgotten in minutes. He’s more bothered about if it would seem weird to Shayala that he’s going to her shop day after day. He has almost convinced himself that he loves daisies and wants to buy them every single day. But everyday he drives past the flower guy down in the mall, where he can easily buy the daisies from, to buy from her flower shop.

He walks inside the shop. There’s no sight of Shayala. The bells are still tinkling on the door. And she suddenly appears from behind the wooden shelf on the right corner of the shop. Her hands are muddy. She smiles at him. "Hey, it’s you again."
"Yeah, what do you know!"
"Just give me a sec. I’ll just clean up and come."
She goes through the door behind the shop and returns after washing up. She also has kaajal on now.
"I was just sorting out some plants," she says. "Daisies again?"
"Absolutely," he replies. "You’re really into flowers, aren’t you?"
"Oh totally," she replies, picking the daisies for Mark. "They’re my first love. They’re the prettiest things on earth. Don’t you think so?"
"Maybe," he replies with a shrug.
"You buy them everyday…"
"That’s why I said maybe."
"It must be really hard to convince you. It seems you don’t even believe yourself."
"I guess," he says, looking at her. "Have you been here long?"
"No. I just came before Christmas. I was in Shimla." She walks back with the daisies behind the counter.
"So how come you came here?"
"Shimla got way too crowded and disgustingly commercialized."
"Yeah, totally."
"Hmm. My uncle owned this shop. I just opted to run it for him."
"That’s quite a strange, don’t you think, career option?"
"Naah, I don’t want to be a doctor or an engineer. Nor do I want to earn lots and lots of money. I am very happy as long as I get food to eat. Get my point?"
"Yes," he smiles. "Your life must be perfect."
"Almost," she says. She bends to pick up a card for the bouquet. "What about you?" she asks, while still down on the floor.
"I have been here all my life," he says, trying to see what she’s doing behind the counter for so long.
She stands back up. "What do you do in life?" she asks, passing the bouquet to him.
"I’m doing my post grad in English."
"That’s cool."
"Yeah, anyway." He takes out the money and gives it to her. "I guess I’ll see you…"
"Tomorrow," she laughs.
"Yeah, tomorrow."
He opens the door and turns around to her. "By the way, which day are you shut?"
"It’s open round the week," she says with a smile. "You don’t take a break from what you love."
He stares at her—she does not realize the strength of her own words. "Bye," he says.
"Bye Mark."

Chapter 31

Mark’s list of Things To Look Forward To In The Day is longer by one thing. Apart from writing to Daisy, he does not miss going to the flower shop even a day—Just to buy daisies, as he tells himself again and again. And along with this newfound passion comes, happiness, excitement, and eventually the urge to live—again.

Every day he goes to her shop, and every day he feels as if he is seeing her for the first time. He’s completely bowled over. By the way she looks, the way she talks, the way she thinks, the way she carefully chooses the daisies for him. And everyday he lines up the bouquet as it is in his cupboard, waiting for the new day to begin, so that he can do the same thing all over again. He can’t believe he’s happy again. He sometimes feels guilty and forces the pain back. But it goes away a few seconds later.

Chapter 32

It is Shaira’s farewell at the Alasia bar, and Mark’s putting his leather pants on. It takes quite a bit of effort. He has put on a little weight on the legs, but he manages in due course. He wears a black t-shirt, a black pullover, and a black overcoat.
"You’re looking deadly," Cynthia says, entering his room. Mark is busy checking out how his butt looks.
"Do you think I’ve put on weight?"
"No, you’re looking nice and healthy."
"Stop talking like one of the oldies. Thin is in."
"But you’re not fat. You’re just right."
"Thanks," he says. "But I still think I need to lose some weight. So no more fried stuff for me anymore."
"You should have been a girl," she says.
"Oh I so wish that too."
"Okay, now you’re scaring me. So get out and have fun."
"Why don’t you come too?" he asks sweetly. "You never come for our parties."
"What will I do with you kids?"
"You shouldn’t talk like that. It doesn’t suit you."
She laughs out and gets into his bed.
"Mom, go sleep in your room."
"This is my house and every room is my room."
"Mom, please ya. Just go to your room."
Cynthia gets out of the bed. "Fine, when you go, I’ll come and read all that you write in your diary," she jokes.
"Don’t make me lock my stuff," he says casually.
"Do you really think I am interested in the crap you write?"
"I hope not."
"Well, I am not," she says, walking out of his room in mock arrogance.

The Alasia bar is crowded with guests. Mark didn’t think there’d be so many people. "You called everyone in Himachal or what?" he asks Shaira sarcastically.
"I’m popular, man! Why are you so jealous?"
"You wish!"
Shaira stares at him with a grin on her face. "You’ve changed."
Mark smiles and looks the other way at the crowd buzzing in the bar.
"This is the Mark I knew!" she says, happily. "I’ll miss you man."
"Yeah, it’s unfortunate, but I’ll miss you too."
"Just another day to go, and I’ll be flying to a different country," she says excitedly, as if living it already.
The party enters the wee hours of the morning. The music becomes soft. Mark gets a little under the influence. So are the few other people left in the bar.
"Can I drop you home today?" he asks Shaira.
"What will I tell Sujoy?"
"Tell him that I want to drop you home."
"Mark, he also might want to drop me home."
"Yeah, so he won’t die without you one day."
"It’s my last day."
"It’s my last day with you as well."
"His as well."
"Fine. Your wish," he says, getting miffed.
"Listen, I’ll go with him and then you come over a little later. We’ll sit and chat."
"Okay…" he says, sullenly, "then just give me a call once you reach home."
"Okay," she says and kissed him on the cheek.

Mark swings as he walks out, crashing into the sofa on his right, then to the pillar on the left, as he walks out of the bar to get to his bike. It’s rare for him to be so drunk.
"Drive slow you drunkard," Shaira shouts out, seeing Mark struggling to find the ignition.
"Shut up fat ass," he retorts.
He is drunk enough to realize he must go slow. The road is very dark, the only source of light being the bike’s headlight, which only makes the centre of the road visible till about 10 metres ahead. But it’s not the handful of potholes, or the breadth of the narrow road, on the left of which is the steep cliff, that he’s bothered about. He can probably ride home with his eyes closed if he has to. But today, he is careful, not bothered. Only cautious.
There are times when the bike stirs a little to the left, sometimes to the right, but he immediately straightens it. Concentrate, concentrate, he tells himself out aloud.
He wants to puke. Not out of compulsion, but out of choice. It’s the only way he’ll feel better. But he will never dirty the town of Kasauli. He finally reaches home and lets out a low sound of relief. He tries to open the house door, but he can't place the key properly. He’s shaking too much; he is also dying to pee. He stops for a second, widens his eyes, and slowly puts the key in and opens the door.
Inside, Mark flings the keys on the sofa. He runs into the toilet, doesn’t even switch the light on. His head is swaying, not just feeling swimmy because of the alcohol, but it’s actually swaying. He switches the bathroom bulb on and walks up to the basin. He bends down, gags, but nothing comes out. But he wants the alcohol out. A couple of fingers down his throat do the job.
Mark comes back to his bed and crashes out. His eyes are weakening; it’s an effort to keep them open. He can hear his own breathing in the silence, and he wonders if he always breathes so heavily.
The telephone rings about 20 minutes later. The phone is outside, in the hall, Cynthia’s room. She picks up the pillow from underneath her head and curves it over her head annoyed at the ring.
Mark manages to walk up to the phone, making sure he doesn’t bang into anything in the dark. The bathroom light, still on, comes to his rescue.
"Hello," he whispers, not wanting to disturb Cynthia.
"Hey drunkard," she jokes, "I was looking for you down the cliff on the way home."
"Should I come now?"
"Are you sure you want to? We can meet tomorrow morning otherwise."
"No, I’ll come right now."
"Okay come. But we’ll sit outside."
"Yeah, not a problem."
He brushes his teeth slightly, before he rushes out to Shaira’s house, just about 100 yards from his by the short cut (a muddy path up the mountain, right above his house).
He trudges up the mountain through the muddy path. His hands holding his knees while he limps up. Shaira sits waiting outside her house on one of the stones bordering the cliff. Mark joins her in time.
"What’s up?" he asks, breathing heavily.
"Nothing man, you tell me. What’s up with you?"
Mark looks at her, smiles, looks at the ground, the smile still on.
"What’s up man?" she asks, her curiosity risen. "Tell me."
He shrugs and says, "I guess I’m just happy that you’re going. Good riddance."
She whacks him on the shoulder, "You wait and watch, you’re going to miss me like crazy, and you’re going to cry every day."
"Cry? For you? You must be crazy!"
They both stay silent for a second. Then they hug. "I’ll really miss you," he says warmly.
"You know, earlier I was so excited about going. I mean, I still am, but now reality is hitting me, that I actually won’t be seeing this place, you, the fun we have here. It sucks," she said, making a sad face.
"You’ll get used to that place as well," he says casually.
"Yeah, I know, but still."
"What time is your flight?"
"Midnight," she replies, "From Delhi, so my parents will drive me down. I will go around 1 in the afternoon tomorrow. Or today."
"Shaira?" he says.
She looks at him. He has a very happy and excited smile on his face, as if impatient to let what he wants to say out of his heart. He thinks of the right words to make it sound perfect, to him as well.
"There is this girl I like," he starts.
Shaira’s freezes, her eyes open so wide that they could pop out any minute. She is happy, confused, relieved, confused, excited, confused… "What!!!" she finally says, "Who?" "You don’t know her. She works in the flower shop just ahead of the Kasauli check-post." He looks at her waiting for a reaction.
"And?"
"And nothing. I think I like her."
"Mark," she says intolerantly. "Come on, tell me the entire thing."
"Well, I saw her once while I was going to college. Her name’s Shayala…"
"Sweet name," she says. "Anyway, go on."
"I bought daisies from her that day. And ever since I go to her shop every day."
"That’s it?"
"Uh… yes."
"Have you told her yet? Are you guys going around or something?"
"No. I haven’t told her."
"Why not?"
"Because," he says quickly, and then stops, "umm… I don’t know. I just haven’t."
"Well then, when do you think you’ll tell her?"
"I don’t know. Daisy…"
"Daisy’s dead Mark," she says instantly but tenderly.
"I know… but…"
"No buts Mark. You tell her. First thing in the morning tomorrow. I’ll come with you if you want."
"No no," he says, jerking his head. "I have to think about this."
"Think about what?"
"If I am sure I like her."
"You obviously are. Stop trying to fool yourself."
Mark takes a long breath and looks the other way.
"Really Mark, Daisy’s gone. And if it is because of this girl that you are happy again, please don’t let it go. Accept what God’s giving you, don’t throw it away, just because you believe you can’t fall in love after Daisy."
"It’s not love Shaira."
"Maybe it’s not right now, but love begins from attraction. Take the damn chance!" she says imploring him to listen. "You’re going to tell her tomorrow morning, okay? What time does her shop open?"
"Not tomorrow morning. I’ll go to her shop at the same time I usually go, in the evening."
"Why can’t you just tell her in the morning?"
"Come on ya Shaira. I want her to expect me—at the same time I always go."
"But you’ll tell her, right?"
"Hmm," he says, nodding undecidedly.
"Please Mark, just tell her."
"Okay fine, I will."
"I’ll call you at about 11 in the night just before my flight and ask!"
"Okay," he smiles at her.
"So, is she good looking?"
"Very."
Shaira smiles, "I promise you, if Daisy’s watching, she’ll be very happy."
"Yeah," he looks up casually at the dark sky. "I hope so."

Chapter 33

Mark doesn’t sleep till he sees daylight piercing through the sides of the curtains in his room, and hears the sound of radio coming from far away in the distance. He has twisted and turned all night in his bed. Thinking about Shayala, about the way he’s going to say it to her. Sometimes he closes his eyes and acts he’s asleep, so that time can pass quicker. It doesn’t.

At 7 in the morning, Mark is fast asleep. He must be dreaming a beautiful dream. There is a very slight smile on his face.

Chapter 34

It has been snowing intermittently all through the day. The Municipal workers have been shovelling off the snow constantly. They hate a day like this. They’re grumpy and irritable. They aren’t used to the hard work anyway.

Quite a few shops remain closed, but not Shayala’s flower shop. After all, the shop is only across the road for her. And even if she gets two customers, she considers it a good day. On a rare occasion she might get ten, but either ways don’t change her mood. She has an enviable job—open the shop and be with the flowers, water them, perhaps read a book. Some soft music plays in her shop all the time. If in a good mood, she even hums along while working on the wet mud in the flowerpots that dot her shop.
There are no customers today till now; but she knows there is going to be at least one. She has nothing to do, having done all the work needed with the flowerpots. She does not feel like reading. She’s tried, even read two-three pages, but ask her what she read, and she won’t know.
Shayala begins picking up white daisies one by one. She picks a lot of them. Enough for three regular bouquets. One for today, another for the next day, and the next day…
She divides them into three almost equal parts. She makes three bouquets and keeps them beside her chair behind the counter.
She checks the time in her wrist watch—4.25 pm, time for Mark to come. He’s always there between 4.30 and 4.45. Never late. Never early.

She doesn’t want him to see her just sitting around doing nothing, so she walks to the flowerpots on the right and chooses to play with the last one in the corner. There’s nothing to do of course. She digs it up again, makes it okay again, and then crumbles it up again until she gets bored of that pot and moves on to another one.
Every time she hears a bike in the distance, she starts pretending as if she’s really focusing on the plant, digging very intensely. She makes sure she doesn’t look up, towards the door. But no bikes stop near her shop.
She becomes a little impatient, even irritated. Where is he? She thinks, bugged at the delay. She looks fleetingly at the door from time to time. Any minute Mark to appear surely, and she doesn’t want him to think she’s waiting for him.
4.48 – no Mark. Shayala is really irritated by now.

The telephone in her shop rings, and she comes back to the counter to answer.
"Hello?"
"Hello," a woman’s voice says.
"Yes?"
"I just got your number from the telephone exchange," she says, sombrely. "Do you deliver flowers?"
"Yes Ma’am we do. Where do they have to be delivered?" she holds the phone between her shoulder and her ear and picks up a pen and paper.
"To my house – The Retreat. It’s the last house…"
"Yes ma’am sure, I know where it is," Shayala says, extra politely. She knows it’s Mark’s house. "What sort of bouquet would you like ma’am?"
"White daisies," she replies softly.
Shayala smiles, "Yes ma’am," she says. "When do you want them?"
"Right now please. As early as possible."
"And do you want to put in a word for someone in it?"
"No."

Shayala’s flower delivery guy is the small boy, 12-years-old, who works in the tea shop right across the road. She pays him Rs 5, sometimes Rs 10, to deliver flowers. She picks up the three bouquets she had made and hurries out of the shop. She’s decided she’ll give all three at the price of one—or maybe even free!
She locks the door of the shop and walks across the road, past the tea shop. The 12-year-old is staring at her.
"Didi, kahin bhejne hain ye phool?" he asks, wanting to make his buck.
"Nahin, ye main khud le jaaongi," she smiles, and walks briskly down the steps that lead to her house.

Her one-bedroom flat is right below the tea shop and the tailor’s shop, her bedroom window opens into the deep valley. Inside, Shayala quickly throws her casual jeans, sweater and t-shirt off and stands in front of the open cupboard, wondering what to wear. She is in her underwear and it’s biting cold; the floor beneath her bare feet is even worse. But that’s not the rush—she has to deliver the flowers as soon as possible!
She picks out a red and white striped woollen skirt. It’s long and covers her legs. It hugs her shapely butt and the sides of her thighs becomingly. Yes, she likes herself in this. A plain white t-shirt that just about manages to cover her flat stomach… and a beige jacket, which reaches down to her thighs, to keep her warm—and she is ready. She takes out her red and white Nike sneakers from the lower shelf, that she always wears with this skirt.
Shayala quickly splashes her face with water, wipes her face off with a towel, puts some perfume on, and walks out with the white daisies, clutching them with both hands.
"Kahan jaana hai Didi?" the tea shop boy asks, as she walks out.
"Monkey Point ki taraf."
"Woh to bahut door hai."
"Haan, main taxi le loongi."
"Aap yahan thairo. Main le aata hoon," he says enthusiastically, and runs up to the taxi stand nearby. In about three minutes he’s back with one.
"Memsaab, pachaas rupay lagenge," the taxi driver says.
"Monkey Point nahin jaana hai. Usse pehle The Retreat hai, ek ghar. Wahan," she tries to bargain.
"Chalo, chaalis de dena," he says, as if granting her a huge wish.
Shayala gets in the back seat of the Maruti Van, not wanting to delay things further. The driver turns the car around with great difficulty on the narrow road.
"Thoda jaldi bhaisaab," she says urgently.
The driver picks up the speed. They cross the Kasauli check post and get on the road up to The Retreat.
There are 10-15 people standing in a group outside the hotel talking. Some are pointing towards a part of the road below while the others have their heads bent down looking at it.
"Bahut baraf giri hai aaj," the driver says.
"Hmm," is the response he gets from Shayala, as she continues staring out at the snow-peaked mountains far ahead beyond the valley. It’s isn’t his birthday today is it, she wonders. Maybe, she shrugs slightly.
The taxi stops outside The Retreat. Shayala sees a couple, the man, dressed in a black suit, and the woman in a white salvar kameez, enter the gate of The Retreat. They are hurrying inside. She looks at them while she takes out money from her jacket’s pocket to pay the driver. "Bhaiya, ruko ge dus minute?" she asks, paying him the money.
"Bilkul rukenge," he replies cheerfully.

Slowly, hesistantly, Shiara walks in, nervous and clueless of what to expect inside. She can hear a number of people down the garden path. She can make out because of the various soft voices talking in low tones. She walks down. There are a few people standing in the verandah, whispering to each other. They too are dressed in black. She doesn’t like the look of things, as people begin to take note of her presence.
Shayala sees Mark’s bike lying on the ground, the handle of which is completely twisted, the seat totally off its usual position.
She pauses at it for a few seconds. Looks at it and then, her pulse racing at maddening speed, turns to enter the house.
"Excuse me," she says softly but firmly, asking a couple to give her way. She walks inside.

Chapter 35

And there he lay, beside the dining table, surrounded by a crowd of people sitting on the floor—too shocked to cry. A white sheet covers him till the neck. Shayala stares at him; the flowers in her hands start to quiver. She drops down on her knees, feeling all the weight taken off her by one rude blow. She stares at him, at his stillness; still holding on to the white daisies in her hands…

Chapter 36

She can hear every little sound of her own cries. Her head hurts. She’s been crying all day. She is sitting on her bed, her face buried in her palms.
"No Mark, " she mumbles in her cry. "Don’t…"
Cynthia gets up and walks into his room and switches the light on. The bed-sheet is crumbled. The pillow still has a dent where he usually put his head… has he has just woken up and, perhaps, gone to the toilet?
She walks to the toilet and opens the door. The tap is dripping, but for once she does not care. She turns around and slams the door shut.
Cynthia walks back to her son’s bed, and sits down. She gently runs her palm on the bed, feeling the cold sheet. Tears run down her cheeks rapidly and endlessly.
Just beside her is his maroon diary, only just visible from underneath the quilt. She drags it out. The pen comfortably rests inside the diary, somewhere in between. She opens that page.

‘January 29, 2005 – 1.30 pm
How do I begin? I don’t know. Where do I begin? I don’t know. But I know I have to start somewhere.
I am going to tell her that I like her, if she would sometime maybe like to go out with me, for dinner, or lunch, or coffee, or a walk maybe.
She might say no. But I am not afraid.
I know I’ll be a little scared when I say it. I might even stammer a little. It may not even come out right. I’ll be scared when she’ll stare at me while I am trying to get those words out, but I am not afraid.
I don’t know if I love her, but I know I would love to love her. After all, the first time I saw her in that flower shop I thought you were back. You are what attracted me to her.
I promise you, I will dream of you every single time I close my eyes to sleep. I’ll even look forward to it. But let me be hers when I am awake. Don’t make me think of you then. Take my sleep. It’s yours forever. I am yours and only yours. Take me wherever you want then. Ask me for anything and I’ll give it to you. I won’t even ask why.
But stay out when I am awake. Please, I cannot do this without you.
This is my last letter to you. But I know you’ll understand. I am going now, to tell her I want to love her, and that I will love her forever…
Bye.’

Cynthia drops her head back on his bed. The maroon diary slips out of her hand and falls on the ground. Her tears slide down the corners of her eyes.
She gets up a while later and walks to his cupboard and opens it. There are bouquets of white daisies everywhere on his shelf. Most of them are wilted; a couple are sulking to death. She tries to pick as many as she can. They’re crumbling as she takes them to the kitchen, and she spots a card in the centre of one. She looks inside the other two. There are cards in them as well, hidden deep inside.

Cynthia puts the bouquets beside the basin and takes out a card. It’s blank. She takes another one: ‘Wanna go out with me sometime?’ Cynthia catches her breath, as she opens another: ‘I find you really cute. Dinner???’
She breaks down completely and runs to his cupboard. She searches the bouquets for the cards in a state of frenzy. ‘Do you never react to proposals?’
And another. ‘Okay. Coffee?’
And another. ‘I really like you Mark.’
Her legs give way and Cynthia falls to ground and howls at the top of her lungs.

The phone rings. Still crying, she manages to get up and walk to the phone.
"Hi Cynthia, it’s Shaira," the voice filters in excitedly. "Give the phone to Mark… fast!!!"

Final Words

"For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth. Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire,
that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast."
- Kahlil Gibran