《The Moonflower》


 The Letter

    Aai,


    Do you remember my friend Apeksha from 5th grade? I ran into her while I was getting coffee in the morning yesterday. She talked to me for the first time today after years. I remember running into her a few times now, but either she had never noticed me there or just she didn''t have anything she wanted to ask me considering that it has been so long since we last saw each other. This time though I may have without realizing it looked at her for too long. She must have felt my gaze on her, her head turned in a swift motion towards me. That''s why she came up to me.


    Everything about her has changed even the way she walks, her hips swaying from left to right while her heels clicked on the wooden floor. I couldn''t help but observe everything about her, all the little details and visualize the girl I knew 10 years ago. When she was talking to me it felt like I was talking to a different person. This girl I was talking to could she be a dead ringer for Apeksha? Because I am certain it was. She wasn''t rude to me or anything, that is not how she has changed but the way she talked and giggled was just weird. She started the conversation with hi''s and how are doing and how''s life going, then moved on to asking about Dad and my university. I gave her vague answers. Most of the answers were ''it''s good'', that must have annoyed her a lot. She was wanting to ask a particular question, she kept fiddling with the strap of her Chanel bag, glanced way too many times at the floor and the door of the coffee shop and eventually the curiosity spilled out of her heart. She asked me "How is aunty doing?"


    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    The only thing I could do was nod and give a faint smile. I don''t like to lie. There was silence and an unspoken understanding when she looked at me, she crawled into this tiny space in my memory where I keep you locked away, she opened this tiny little box and looked at all the memories I have of you and understood that I don''t care what you are doing and I don''t know what you are doing and I don''t want to know what you are doing. I got myself out of that awkward conversation immediately, "I have to go, Apeksha. It was nice running into you." She waved at me and I waved back and almost ran out of the shop.


    Sympathy. We as humans are very complicated creatures. We embody so many complex emotions. Feeling pity or sympathy towards someone is something I cannot comprehend. What good does it do to feel sorry for someone? We love to see people inferior to us in any aspect, may it be the silliest thing. So what does it make sympathy, if not a feeling of superiority for someone''s misfortune, even if the other person doesn''t necessarily think so. He might be the happiest he has ever been, but the moment you tell him ''oh i am so sorry'' he goes into a spiral of thoughts of what he has lost or doesn''t have.


    From the time I woke up to the time I went to bed, I had this void in me which longed for you. But since a few years it isn''t here anymore, I never think about you anymore. I am writing this letter to you because I don''t want to forget you. I don''t want to forgive you. I am writing this letter hoping it would help me feel like something is missing from my life. I want to remember this feeling forever.


    The daughter you forgot,


    Chaitra

 The Second Hand Book Shop

    I was 11 years old when my mother, one day left me and dad and never looked back. My parents loved each other, they had their fair share of fights but never abusive ones, if anyone would ask me, I would say I had a happy childhood. My Dad cherished his wife deeply, despite occasional petty disagreements.


    The one thing I remember about their arguments is aai''s primary grievance with Dad, his  perceived lack of assistance and appreciation for her homemaking efforts, which often ignited their conflicts. Whenever she complained to him he took it lightly and ignored it.


    But the morning after she left, dad woke up at the time she used to, went to the bathroom, took a bath along with brushing his teeth, woke me up for school then went to kitchen to make me lunch for school, mad his lunch packed both our boxes, help me dress up and dropped me off to school. He did all the chores she used to do for me without missing a single day.


    I was 15 years old when the first news of aai came to us, she had written a letter saying she was getting married. That was the only time they heard from her. She apologized for leaving me behind, and that she would never forgive herself for that.  I especially remember that morning as clear as daylight, his teary eyed face but stoic expressions, how he never let a single tear fall, his swollen eyebags, slumped shoulders and the way he avoided eye contact with me. His normally vibrant gaze, now downcast, mirrored the hollowness I felt inside. We never talked about aai ever again, and I followed suit, never bringing it up.


    I clutched the letter in my pocket, the familiar weight a dull ache against my thigh. I hadn''t planned to write it, the words spilling out in a torrent of grief and longing buried for years.


    Standing on the pathway alongside the busiest road in Mumbai, lost in thought, I had almost missed the bookstore. Tucked amongst the bustling shops, it appeared like a mirage ¨C a turquoise haven amidst the concrete jungle, on top of the shop in big bold letters painted in white were the letters ''Kitaby- Your Second Hand Book Shop'' (Books).


    I must have passed this road probably a hundred times and I had never noticed this bookshop before. How is it possible to miss such an eye-catching structure? I ran across the street looking out for the traffic of cars and bikes. The afternoon sun made it impossible to have a clear view of the  inside of the shop. I pressed my face against the glass blocking away the sunlight to get a better view. There was no one in the bookshop, not even at the counter. Surely the shop must be closed. I peeked at the door looking for a board that would say ''Closed'' but the door had no sign at all.


    Hesitating, I pushed the door open and walked inside. The shop was fairly small on the inside and definitely old judging but the smell of old wood. There was dust settled on the books and spiderwebs on the corners of walls and shelves. It had three shelves full of books parallel to each other right as you entered through the door. On either side of the first and last shelf there were two doors. One of those doors led to the restroom, the other however was entirely painted in red color and it had a golden handle. The door was closed with no sign that would indicate what could be on the opposite side of it. I made my way towards the counter on the left side of the  main door and pressed on the bell kept on the table vigorously.


    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    A middle aged man with thin body structure and lumpy posture stepped out from behind the red door, "Welcome to Kitaby, Who do we have here today?  Please feel free to explore." he said, surprised by the sudden hoarse voice, I searched for the source.


    He wore a winter jacket on top of a white t-shirt and black pants. "That''s a winter jacket, aren''t you feeling hot, uncle?" I stared at his thick black coat, it was of the sort which one wears while it snows.


    And although it has been a little chilly for the past few days and people have started wearing their winter clothes, a winter jacket was probably taking it too far. "It gets a lot cold this time of the year from where I come" he said while he took off his jacket and placed it on a hook behind him turned towards me and smiled "It''s become a habit." How can wearing a cold jacket in a humid climate be just the effect of a habit? Weird. "Where do you come from?" I asked him out of curiosity


    "Where do you come from my dear? It''s been a while since I saw someone push that door open. And What''s your name?" He counter questioned me. "My name is Chaitra. I was just going to meet someone, when I saw your shop. How long has this shop been here? I have never seen it before. It looks pretty rustic and ol- vintage to me" I said, swallowing the lump in my throat.


    I was a wanderer. Whenever I have a day off from college I walk around the city with a small notebook and a camera, looking at the old shops and people from different walks of life, running towards something or running away from something. One of my favorite destinations was a coffee shop or a book shop, particularly indie book shops. They had an essence of old India,  the one before technology, the one where libraries and small bookshops were the lifeline for readers like me, the one where I used to visit as a small girl with aai.


    "It''s so weird, no-one seems to find this shop. One day it just suddenly appears, they say," the old man said with a puzzled look "like magic" he whispered the last three words leaning over the counter.


    "My great grandfather set this place up in the 1800''s. It was pretty popular back in my father''s time. Nowadays people dont like to buy second hand books, so not a lot of people come here. I am so elated to have someone here." he continued with a sweet smile on his wrinkled face "do you wish to look around?" he looked at me with hope, and I can''t say no to him, he looks like a sweet man. "Um, yes thank you." I said and made her way to the shelves.


    Starting at the first shelf, my eyes glided through the books with speed. When you visit a bookshop almost everyday you get this super power of recognizing books by their spines, but the kind of titles I could read were quite peculiar, some I have never heard of before.  The Language of Lost Things: Understanding Messages from Forgotten Objects , The Dream Weavers Handbook: Crafting and Interpreting Dreams. What kind of books are these? Maybe the next shelf has some normal books.


    I moved to the second shelf and there I can see it. Is it a dream? I haven''t seen this book for 10 years. The Wishing Well and the Moonflower. It was my favorite book growing up, every night before going to bed I demanded it to be read. Aai then used to sit beside me and tell me the story of a curious girl named Maya who befriends a magical moonflower that grants her a story and helps her grandmother regain her health through the power of storytelling. The day aai left, I never read the book again.


    I reached out to pick the book up when the owner of the shop called out


    "Found anything you like dear?"


    "Yes, I did." I said, desperately avoiding his eye contact.


    "This one. The Wishing Well and The Moonflower."


    "Oh! That''s a special one. It''s my personal favorite."


    "Mine too. My mother used to read this to me every night before bed."


    As I opened the book there was a sudden flash beaming through the open glass window, like two giant car headlights glaring through. I squinted my eyes as the lights grew brighter and brighter. I couldn''t keep my eyes open. Who is that? I walked over the door to tell him off. I pushed open the door, stepped out of the shop.

 The Memory

    My bare feet touched something wet and soft, tickling at my feet was an open field with green luscious grass for miles, a gentle breeze carrying the sweet scent of blooming flowers, a symphony of buzzing bees and chirping birds filled the air, lush greenery surrounded me, and right at the center of it was a woman. This scene felt familiar, like I have been here in a dream.


    Is this a dream?  Where am I?  Did the car hit me? Am I dead?


    I walked towards the young woman, I felt a sense of familiarity, like I had seen her somewhere. She was looking at me with a smile that said ''I know you''.


    "Do I know you?" I asked the woman, who was still smiling at me.


    "No, But I know you." she replied


    "What is this place? How did I get her? Is this Heaven? Am I dead or something?"


    "You could call this place heaven, but you aren''t dead. Are you disappointed?" she replied, looking at my partly disappointed partly confused face and started walking away from me, "Come walk with me."


    "I don''t understand. I want to go home" I said, reluctantly following behind her.


    "Do you believe in reincarnation?" she asked me.


    "No," I said firmly.


    "Why?


    "Because, it is said when you are reborn again, you are born around people from your previous life. And I don''t want to be born again, around people from my previous life... I mean this life." I don''t want to be born again around my mom, or my dad.


    She stopped and looked at me with sad moist eyes, "wh-...why do you say that?" A tear slid down her cheek, a stark contrast to the joyous scene around us. My breath hitched. In that moment, the young woman wasn''t just familiar, she was a mirror image of myself, ten years older, with eyes that held the same pain and longing I felt.


    "Because sometimes," she said, her voice thick with emotion, "sometimes the people you miss the most need you to forgive them, even if they never apologize."


    The world swam before my eyes. My mother. This was my mother, not reincarnated, but somehow existing here, in this in-between place. A million questions swirled in my head, but all I could manage was a choked whisper, "Aai?" Aai, here? But how? My anger, buried for so long, flared anew. She reached out, her hand cool and comforting against mine. "I made a mistake, Chaitra. A terrible one. But I never stopped thinking about you, about your father."


    "Then why didn''t you come back? All those years, we could have..." My voice trailed off, choked with the emotions I''d buried for so long. A tear escaped, tracing a glistening path down her cheek. "There are things you don''t understand, my little Chaitra," she said, her voice thick with emotion.


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    "Things you wouldn''t have understood then. But perhaps, now..." She reached out, her hand hovering over mine.


    It was a younger hand than I remembered, smooth and unmarred by age. My own hand trembled as I met hers. It was warm, a familiar warmth that chased away the chill that had settled in my heart.


    "Why are you here? What is this place?" I asked her, "This is your memory, don''t you remember?" She held my hand as if to make me remember, but no memory of this place came to mind, and suddenly as if i was dreaming while awake, a glimpse of memory flashed, The memory was faint, but unmistakable - me as a child, sitting on the lap of the woman holding my hand now, her voice melodic as she read from a book with a worn cover. The woman''s smile widened. "The Wishing Well and the Moonflower," she said, her voice catching with emotion. "Your favorite story."


    The realization hit me like a tidal wave. This wasn''t heaven, or an in-between place. This was a memory, a perfect recreation of a happy moment from my childhood, conjured by the book in the bookstore. A tear slid down my cheek, landing on my hand.


    A lifetime of unspoken words hung heavy in the air. In that shared touch, a flood of memories washed over me ¨C stolen kisses goodnight, the scent of jasmine in her hair, the warmth of her embrace. But also, the constant tension, the simmering resentment, and the emptiness that followed her absence.


    "I don''t know if I can forgive you," I whispered, the words catching in my throat.


    Aai''s smile was a fragile thing, laced with sadness. "I don''t expect you to," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "But I hope, someday, you might understand."


    We stood there in silence, the weight of the past pressing down on us. Behind us, the sun began its descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. It was a beautiful, bittersweet sight, a reflection of the emotions swirling within me.


    As the first stars began to shimmer, Aai turned towards a path that led deeper into the meadow. "There''s not much time," she said, her voice soft. "But I''m so glad I could see you again."


    I wanted to scream, to demand answers, to beg her to stay. But the words wouldn''t come. All I could do was nod, a single tear tracing a path down my cheek.


    Aai offered me a sad smile, then turned and walked away, her form fading with each step. As the last sliver of her figure disappeared, I turned and began the long walk back. The vibrant green field began to fade, replaced by the dusty shelves of the bookstore. I blinked, disoriented. Aai was gone. In her place stood the old bookseller, his kind eyes filled with concern.


    "Are you alright, dear?" he asked, his voice gentle.


    I looked down at my hand, still warm from Aai''s touch. It was empty now, but the ache in my heart felt lighter. A bittersweet ache, tinged with forgiveness and a newfound understanding.


    "Yes," I finally managed, my voice thick with emotion. "Thank you."


    The old bookseller smiled knowingly. "Sometimes," he said, his voice raspy with age, "the greatest stories aren''t found in books, but within ourselves."


    I nodded, clutching the worn copy of "The Wishing Well and the Moonflower" to my chest. It wasn''t just a book anymore; it was a bridge, a connection to a love I almost shut out.Leaving the bookstore, I stepped back out into the bustling streets of Thane. The world seemed different, sharper somehow. The cacophony of traffic no longer grated on my nerves; it was a symphony of life. With a newfound lightness in my step, I walked on, the weight of the past lifted, replaced by the promise of a future filled with love and forgiveness.


    Yet, a flicker of doubt lingered. Aai''s tears, the ache in her voice ¨C they hinted at a deeper story. Perhaps someday, I will be ready to hear it.


    Weeks turned into months, and the memory of the bookstore remained vivid. One evening, I found myself drawn back to the turquoise haven. The old bookseller greeted me with a warm smile.


    "Welcome back, Chaitra," he said, his eyes twinkling. "Found another story that needs a reader?"


    I shook my head. "No, but there''s something I need to ask."


    Hesitantly, I recounted my experience, the tearful reunion, and the unanswered question that gnawed at me. Why did she leave?


    The old bookseller listened patiently, his kind eyes reflecting the setting sun.


    "There are many reasons people make difficult choices, Chaitra," he said gently. "Sometimes, love itself can be a burden, a fear of not being enough."


    His words struck a chord. Perhaps Aai had left because she believed her absence would be better for them, a twisted sense of selflessness born from desperation.


    "Do you think I''ll ever understand?" I whispered, the question lingering in the air.


    The bookseller smiled. "Understanding isn''t always necessary, Chaitra. Sometimes, forgiveness is enough. It allows you to let go of the hurt and embrace the love that remains."


    His words resonated deep within me. Forgiveness isn''t forgetting, but acknowledging the pain and choosing to move forward. Maybe I would never fully understand Aai''s reasons, but I could choose to forgive her, to cherish the memories we had, and build a future filled with love and acceptance.


    Leaving the bookstore that day, I carried a newfound peace within me. The ache in my heart had transformed into a gentle thrum, a reminder of a love that transcended even goodbyes. The story of Aai and me wasn''t over; it was simply entering a new chapter, one written with forgiveness and the unwavering promise of love.