Bella

“I’m done,” said Bella.

“Done with what?” I said without much interest, taking a swig of the Old Monk. Gobi Manchurian was never my favourite but today I was stuffing myself with it, muttering this was some of the best I had ever tasted in my life, and hey, this was not even a Chinese place. Chinese places are not authentic Chinese places, as I was wont to observe every single time, but at least they claimed to be. This was supposed to be South Indian.

“Writing,” she said.

I looked up. “Done with writing?” Not sure I heard it right. “But why?” I lost all interest in the best Manchurians I had ever tasted in my life. 

“I don’t want to do it anymore.”

I had no words. She had just received an award for her latest novel, The Far End of Time. It was off the charts nationally and internationally. Readers were hungry for her next. Those who discovered her now went back to read her earlier works—she had published eleven books in total. The Far End of Time was raising her older ones from obscurity. 

“But… why?” She was my soul mate. How could she do this to me?

“Do you know what happens when Olympians attain their goals? When they win the coveted gold medal in their field, perhaps twice or thrice; a feat for which they have trained for ten, fifteen, twenty years? Their life was defined by that medal and now it is theirs. What next? You would think they can enjoy life and not worry about a thing. Travel, spend money, relax. But it is not possible for a human being to do that—we can never be at peace for more than a few months. Then our mind boils over, questions our existence and its purpose, stews in the successes of our past, mopes over how meaningless life has become, and goes insane trying to find out what to do next. As long as we have the next thing to work towards—be it a happy goal or a taxing one—we are alive. I have achieved my Olympic medal, the one I have been aiming at for years. Now I am free to find something new.”

I felt as though I was punched in my gut. My existence had become tangled with her dreams. Hanging about her, cheering for her, witnessing her ups and downs, and celebrating her gave my life meaning. Someone once asked me if my happiness for her was real. Wasn’t I faking it? How can one be so happy for someone else, all the time, for years?

I had no idea. I just knew that without her, I would be in a free fall and crash into a million pieces. Without me, she would roll over and keep going.

“But you haven’t achieved everything! There are national and international awards waiting for you, best-seller lists you need to be on. There are so many stories left in you.” She shook her head as I desperately tried again: “Your readers! What about them? They love you.”

“Yeah, I mean I might write again. I’m not announcing my retirement. I am just telling you. I am walking away. Slowing down. Making space for other things.” She said this without resentment and I knew she meant it. Sometimes we make life-altering decisions that seem so timely and accurate that we don’t feel the weight of those choices; we accept them unconditionally, peacefully, even with relief. 

She always wrote about actions and consequences. About one thing leading to another. People influencing each other and pushing them forward or back. We don’t create situations, she said. We only react to them. Our reactions form situations for other people to react to. Even a decision or a thought that seems to occur out of the blue is triggered by someone else’s words or actions. We’re in a constant state of world-wide ping-pong, she once wrote.

We complain about complications until we have none left. Then we attain the height of dreadful boredom or terrifying loneliness. We feel we have been forgotten by most of the world. When no one throws their reactions our way. Except nature, perhaps, with a disease or a tornado.

Her stories portrayed connections: if we look from a distance, we would see that we are all connected. Our actions affect people we don’t even know, our lives are changed by random decisions made by strangers on the other side of the planet. She was convinced that if we could only see it, we wouldn’t be so unkind to each other, or greedy or selfish. That’s what education does, she claimed, it shows people the bigger picture and the connections. With awareness comes compassion; at least to some. 

 She used to write for our college magazine. In the final year, she was the editor.  

Everyone loved her writing, but you know how it is when you are teenagers: either you praise someone to the moon, or you ignore them. I saw both: friends who flattered her, as well as others who behaved as though her writing were invisible. I nudged one of them once. “I know you like it. Why don’t you tell her?” He just smiled. 

I thought we were here to celebrate: but she had chosen this shady, insignificant South Indian Manchurian place to make her announcement.

An impulsive decision, spur of the moment, just a reaction, will regret later, calm down and let’s think again—I rolled these words around in my mind. I had the good sense to not utter them; they would defeat my case even before I started.

It was obvious, her decision was final. But how could she look so calm and uninterested while making a statement of such import?

We had just left the event at the Taj Hotel where she received the award for best fiction from the literary giant, Rima Shah, who praised The Far End of Time so eloquently that there were tears in my eyes. Bella didn’t seem too affected though she was grateful and graceful in her short speech.

Her pen name was a tribute to an old love of hers. Kamal had never called her Isabella. She was always Aisa Bella to him. He killed himself two years after they split up. His death had nothing to do with her; but he remained an ache in her heart. 

She didn’t take her writing seriously in college. Whenever well-wishers told her she should write more or make it her career, she shrugged. “Don’t put pressure on me. I write because I enjoy it. I don’t want it to be defined by deadlines and performance graphs. I don’t want it to become work.” She had no clarity on what she wanted to do instead, and followed the route we all took.

A few years later, she wrote a heartfelt story about friendship, romance and memories, and it was published in a prominent magazine. She was thrilled. She had not expected them to accept it.

She had to gloat; of course she did. If she didn’t speak for herself, who would? So yes, she splashed this everywhere. Shared it via email to friends, and through the new thing called social media everyone was beginning to discover.

A few weeks later, at a get-together of batch mates who lived in the same city, in a place called The Blue Pebbles, her story came up. A friend mentioned how she loved it, how it brought back college days. Most people were either polite or enthusiastic. Some had the kindness to stay silent, though one could but wonder what they said about her behind her back.

Bella was floored by the attention, naturally. Imagine being in your twenties and applauded by friends. She spoke enthusiastically about her plans to write more, query publishers and agents, publish an anthology and so forth. I am sure it all sounded preposterous and pretentious to others.

Suddenly, one particular acquaintance (never make the mistake of calling them ‘friends’), in what I am sure was a misguided attempt at a joke, exclaimed with a giggle: “What do you even write about? You aren’t even oppressed or depressed or anything! What can you write?! Don’t you have anything better to do?”

The air became so still you could slice it with a knife. I sensed Bella’s breath catch in her throat. I could almost see her soul leave her body for an instant. My own soul left my body for an instant.

Faltu giggled again, but we all knew that was what he did when he wanted to underplay his own rudeness. He must have been taken aback by the shocked silence.

Fifteen years down the line, we are wiser in the ways of men. Today such a response wouldn’t startle us. Today we know that people belittle others, judge and make light of other people’s achievements, just for a moment’s selfish joy. But at that age, on the brink of wisdom and maturity, armed with boundless optimism, ‘joy to the world and peace on earth’ ruled our minds. Such meanness was beyond us.

Someone tried to change the subject. Another started to defend her. When she let out her breath, she straightened and said calmly, “Well, my dreams, my aspirations, my hard work, my choices, my life. So, NO. I don’t have anything better to do.”

A small giggle escaped Faltu as the blood drained from his face. But for the life of him he would not apologise, let alone comprehend how insulting his words were.

What she had never confided to anyone—and what I could only surmise—was that the story was written a few weeks after Kamal’s death. She had laid bare her feelings about him, her grief and shock, her shattered heart, and the story had emerged from the pieces. It was the first story published under the name Aisa Bella.

The story was the thread she clung to when life overwhelmed her. She had written it for herself and for no other. It took her a year to even consider sending it for publication. She decided that the story should complete its circle—justify its existence. It meant more than a piece of writing to her.

And when it was published, she was overjoyed. It was as if Kamal had pulled her out of darkness.

She was prepared for bad reviews, although she convinced herself it was not important enough to be noticed or remarked on by critics. 

What she was not prepared for was being humiliated for daring to dream, by her so-called friends. Being laughed at for having an ambition was such a cliché, it did not even belong in this century. Besides, we were too young to think such reactions were possible. Optimism had been at an all-time high. Nothing could dampen it. Until this happened.

I was afraid she would give up. She didn’t; though she was affected. She didn’t talk about her writing for months. She probably didn’t write at all for months. But the period of gloom passed and she surfaced with another story.

But that night, after what I came to secretly call the Evening of the Crossover, as we were leaving after the get-together at The Blue Pebbles, I saw her pick something up and put it in her jeans pocket. It was a blue pebble, the smooth, pretty kind which gave the hotel its name. She began to carry it everywhere. During her most trying days, I would see her take it out and look at it. Every time her writing was appreciated, she looked at it. When she lost her nerve, her hand vanished into her pocket and found it. She never let go of it.

Once the next story was accepted, she threw herself headlong into writing. If a story was rejected, she would send it to the next magazine. And the next, and so on, until it was published somewhere. It didn’t matter to her if the magazine was prestigious or not; whether print or online; whether they paid her or not.

For years she balanced her job and her writing, sometimes not sleeping or eating properly because she was consumed by an idea. Very often the themes overlapped and she made notes for many stories at the same time. I told her to take it easy, but she didn’t listen, often losing her temper with me. So I changed tactics and supported her, but also ensured she slept and had her food on time.

After a few years, she gave her job up and took up something smaller, more mechanical, where she could stick to business hours, and would be free the rest of her day. Over time she was bored with the work, but it kept her afloat financially, and kept her mind off writing when she wanted to. Her work and passion were entwined, each feeding the other. Writing was a burden; she had to take breaks from it, otherwise it would consume her. The more the job frustrated her, the more she wrote.

As her portfolio grew with novels and stories, her name became better known. She began to be nominated for awards and won some. Her ninth and tenth books were well received but it was The Far End of Time that completely broke all records. She couldn’t believe it, but I could. I was close enough to observe her rise on a daily basis, and far enough to have a view of where the stairs led.

And now this.

I guess I should have seen it coming. I knew everything about her and yet I didn’t. After Rima Shah presented the award, and after Bella thanked everyone, I hung around, talking to several of our friends who were present.

I found Bella listening disinterestedly to a guy going on and on about writing. About a short story he had recently read. About the writing style, the unforgettable characters, the clever plot, the gradual revelation—the overall brilliance of the piece. He recommended the story to her, saying that she should learn some techniques from it. 

“Where can I find the story?” Bella asked.

“Oh, I saved it,” he said, “and read it several times. I have brilliant stories in my mind, and I thought this would inspire me to write them. They will be instant best-sellers!” He began scrolling through his phone.

I made a face to her, to say that it was time to escape, and did she need help? She shook her head lightly.

He found it and showed it to her. “Who is the author?” she asked after a cursory glance.

“It’s a guy called…” He turned the phone back towards him, scrolled up and said, “Aisa… Bella.” I burst into the most uncompassionate, unkind, cruel laughter I was capable of, as the tube light blinked and blinked, and finally came on in the man’s eyes. Bella had not stayed to see his reaction. 

Leaving him rooted to his spot, I followed her. She was soon surrounded by our old college mates. Someone stepped into the circle. It was Faltu. My heart stopped. What the hell was this one doing here? We hadn’t seen or heard from him for years.

With his signature giggle, Faltu said to her, “Congratulations! We are all so proud of you.” I couldn’t believe my ears. “I brought my daughters. The elder wants to be a writer. I thought she should meet you.” 

Bella received the two girls kindly and wished them luck. None of our friends seemed to find anything odd. They were all busy catching up, chatting, smiling, laughing. Had they all forgotten the Evening of the Crossover so soon?

Faltu, his daughters and Bella stood talking for a long time. Faltu was fawning over her, with intermittent giggles. Bella’s eyes met mine for a brief instant. I wished she would dash him to pieces before his children. I wished she would laugh and laugh and laugh, and that he would crumble and diminish before everyone. She did nothing, but I could tell by the extreme stillness of her posture and alert eyes that she was considering all possibilities. A few minutes later, she made her excuses and turned away. Then she stopped, put her hand into her pocket, took something out and spread it on her palm. Faltu looked at the blue pebble and back at her, uncomprehending.

“You should keep this.” She wasn’t smiling.

I saw the bewilderment in his eyes. She waited patiently.

Then a shadow passed his face. It was the recollection of the Evening of the Crossover. He quietly took the pebble. There was no giggle.

He did not raise his eyes as she waved goodbye to his daughters and walked away.

At that moment, surprisingly, despite my intense desire for fireworks and destruction, I found peace. But I did not realise that peace had found her too.

Was this what it was like to have your dream come true? A flicker of elation, followed by emptiness. Find a new dream to cling to, or you are doomed.

I pushed my plate of Gobi Manchurian away. I was lost and adrift. In my heart there was a huge mountain sinking into the chasm. I could not ask her, What would I do now? But that was topmost on my mind. My job was to encourage her, to support her, to be there for her.

So I said, “What would you do next?” 

“Sleep, I guess,” she replied.