In the class, that icy girl would glance at him nonchalantly once or twice and then with great interest, she would bend over the idol and start carving his feet and a slight smile would remain on the lips of Michelangelo's king. And many nights of May passed like this. Under the shade of the trees of Bolivar, under the open sky and shining stars, those celebrating the season of summer were reminding Rakhshanda of all those old songs whose lines would make his heart sink whenever he heard the whistles. Tara... Lara... Tara Lara Joan Pale... Rose Marie... Good night my love, Marya Elena... The sounds of other companions' songs were coming from the cool dunes of sea sand immersed in moonlight. Rakhshanda, tired of walking on the sand, said, “Brij uncle, can't it be possible that we all can live our lives without making each other sad and always do all the work properly? These idiotic people of the world..." The night was becoming silent. At that time Brij thought that he had heard a very lovely phrase in a movie, probably in “Blood and Sand”, which he remembered till now. Rakhshanda was walking slowly with him and the marks of his footsteps were being made behind him on the sand and the cool blue clouds of the Bahira-e-Arab were moving towards him. “Rakhshanda Rani, the moon is laughing, you also smile…”

 “Oh, Uncle Toby… you are doing so well. I have truly become extremely stupid.”

 

She had heard that her future fiancé, after getting a degree from the Mumbai School of Economics, instead of going back home, stays here only because he has a camp here and he also drinks and enjoys the weather. On moonlit nights, he roams the streets of Versova and Juhu in his red roaring car with his bohemian friends… and Atish girl had shouted, “Oh, what a madman you are. Oh God...”

 

Oh God… what a day those were… what a time that was. Those ages from nineteen-twenty to twenty-four-twenty-five seemed like small things, trivial events, waves of emotions, huge tragedy or comedy or melodrama. Those four friends share each other's thoughts, worries, sorrows, joys and loves. Willing to sell his fountain pen at the end of the month to buy books by Roman Rolland or Shaw. Ready to punch Karl in the nose for MiG's safety and honor. In the evening, after lighting a candle in front of the picture of Our Lady, Mig would prepare tea for them. Many of his other friends would come and they would sit on the divan, on the sofa, on the carpets and talk about many things while inhaling the smoke of Egyptian tobacco. Long arguments and criticisms which she could not understand at all.

 

The life of Oscar Wilde, D.H.Lawrence, the gossip of the League ministers, Red Star and Russia, Bengal, God and religion... and often he would say such things in excitement that she would tremble with fear and Maryam would A'fw would raise her gaze in the direction. Then if something happened against his wishes, he would scold her. If the petrol coupons are exhausted long before the end of the month, or if a photograph cannot be corrected despite repeated re-touching, or all the money for picnics and cinema tickets is exhausted before the flat rent is paid, then All four of them would immediately settle for considering themselves as wrecks of life and would be happy to think that because they are fundraiser, they are caught in this tremendous trouble of life... and Mig would fall in love with their childhood.

 

O Magdalene... O blue birds of the season!

 

Heavy clouds rising from Bahira-e-Arab. They were flying towards the flat at 23 College Road, Matunga, below which a black Buick stopped. And after settling the matter, on reaching the door, someone rang the bell loudly and two magnificent ladies adorned with shining stones came inside and sat on the sofa as if they had every right to do so. Three friends got scared and stood up. And then there was a strange feeling of silence in the room. The clouds were thundering softly outside the windows.

 

“You are a friend of Jamal Anwar Ahmed, right?” the woman, who had high Hollywood-style hair, asked in a deep voice as she wrapped the hem of her saree around her arm. The same drama was about to begin which has been played out thousands of times on such occasions.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Who is that woman with whom he lives here?” asked the second, more mature woman. Woman... She had never seen Mig from any other perspective except a cute, innocent, colorful picture.