Can Love Happen Twice? Read online

  Considering the current situation, Shambhavi knew she didn’t have much choice. Amardeep went live again. And that was a relief to the listeners who, by now, had assumed that long break in the broadcast to be a technical glitch.

  Amardeep resumed his part of the speech. He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. ‘Certainly …’ he said and stopped for a while.

  This single word was sufficient to alleviate the listeners’ anxiety and hook them back to the show.

  He continued: ‘Certainly life hasn’t been good to him, else the guy who taught many of us what love is wouldn’t have lost his battle of life because of his loss in love.’

  ‘You mean he could not bear the loss of his girlfriend?’ Shambhavi asked that question live on radio. Everyone—both inside the radio station and outside—listened with bated breath.

  ‘Yes,’ came Amardeep’s reply.

  ‘But we thought that after penning down his tribute to his girlfriend, Ravin was successfully able to bring himself back to life.’

  ‘Yes, he was,’ Happy repeated.

  ‘Then? What happened then?’ Shambhavi demanded in an interrogative tone, as though she hoped that whatever she had heard a few minutes back wasn’t true.

  ‘He failed to do so when something similar happened for the second time.’

  There was a momentary silence. Clearing her throat, Shambhavi asked, ‘Second time?’

  Amardeep didn’t look at her but kept his eyes glued to the microphone. He inhaled and exhaled deeply before he slowly spoke again.

  ‘Yes … the second time. Not many people know this. Years after Khushi was gone, love knocked at Ravin’s door … for the second time,’ revealed Amardeep.

  Hearing this, Shambhavi smartly anounced the next songs to be played on the show and proceeded with the same. She utilized this time in understanding what was on Amardeep’s mind. The four of them had a round of quick talks to answer Shambhavi’s queries.

  Learning what was on their agenda Shambhavi underwent a state of metamorphosis. All of a sudden she discovered a great show ahead and scribbled some ideas on to a piece of paper in front of the others. She shared how she wanted to choreograph the remaining part of the show and extracted a promise from everyone that there would be no more surprises for her. Having prepared herself, the next time they went on air, she said:

  ‘Ravin … To me this is the name of a brave man. A man who fell in love with the utmost commitment to his beloved. A man who, with his pious tribute to his dead girlfriend, brought her back in this world. A man who had been brave enough to yet again allow love to make its way into his life. Though the truth of the moment is brutal, there is an untouched subject which, on this V-Day’s night, we want to touch base with. Apart from Ravin’s friends here on the show, no one knew that Ravin was writing his second book. A story about himself which he has unfortunately not been able to complete. And I am glad to state that our guests here on this show have got that incomplete book of Ravin’s with them. Yes! For the very first time, we are going to hold a reading of Ravin’s most awaited second novel—Can Love Happen Twice? Perhaps something like this is happening for the first time in the history of radio! So all you listeners, stay tuned to listen to this first-ever live reading of an unpublished book when we return. Till then here goes the next song for you.’

  The next song occupied listeners for a couple of minutes, which made the listeners more anxious.

  Outside the audio room, staff members of the radio station could be seen pressed against the glass window of the wooden door, making frantic gestures that seemed to ask: ‘What the hell is going on?’ Shambhavi simply smiled back and made some crazy gestures with her hands, assuring the staff members that she would handle the situation. But the crowd still remained, giving back counter-gestures.

  It was a chaotic situation for the listeners of radio as well. Many of them were emotional, many had no clue of what was happening. But, overall, everyone wanted to know exactly what had happened to Ravin after Khushi and, more importantly, what series of events made him land up in a rehabilitation centre.

  A lot of action followed in the next few minutes. Everything that ran in the radio station ran fast. Time was limited and a lot was needed to be done. The focus had now shifted from Ravin’s first book to his second. Shambhavi picked her extension phone only to give brisk commands like: ‘Come in ASAP!’

  Interrupting the mutual discussion between Happy, Manpreet and Amardeep, she buzzed the bell. ‘Guys! Where is the book?’

  Happy picked up his bag which he had placed on the floor beside his chair and answered, ‘Here.’

  ‘All right. Who is going to read it?’ Shambhavi raced with her next question.

  ‘Hmm … Anyone among us,’ Manpreet answered.

  ‘Be specific. Who is going to start it?’

  ‘I will,’ asserted Happy.

  Shambhavi’s eyes were on her piece of paper. Her right hand was furiously jotting down the next course of action. Her left hand was busy gesticulating to the others or, at times, pushing the strands of her hair behind her ear.

  ‘How many pages are there? I am sure you don’t plan to read the entire book. How long will it take?’

  Hearing no response for a while, she lifted her gaze from the paper to the three friends. As her eyes followed them, she gave a knowing smile and spoke.

  ‘All right, I know what that silence means. You can start reading it. I will ask the programme scheduler to extend this show beyond the allocated time. We will have to take a few approvals, though. But won’t the publishers of Ravin’s book mind narrating the whole story prior to getting it published?’

  This question brought forth a smile on the three other faces.

  ‘Publishers won’t publish an incomplete book. When Ravin gets better and is in the pink of health again, he will complete it and get it published. Moreover, Ravin hasn’t signed any contract for this book yet. So, you see, we have all the liberty,’ Manpreet replied.

  ‘But for how long can it go on?’

  ‘Hmmm … Say about two hours if you do not play the music and advertisements in the middle. We may even skip a few pages which we know are yet to be edited.’

  ‘I can’t do away with ads for sure, but yes, I can reduce the number of songs to a great extent,’ stated Shambhavi.

  Meanwhile, Shantanu came in rushing with a pen and a diary. He knew that his madam was going to give him a dictation. Before the poor chap could say even a ‘Yes, ma’am’, Shambhavi scolded Shantanu like an angry lioness pouncing on a helpless lamb: ‘ASAP doesn’t mean that you appear after five minutes!’

  All Shantanu could utter was ‘Madam …’ after which his voice froze somewhere in his Adam’s apple and failed to come out. Only his lips moved and puffs of air mixed with strands of saliva leaked out.

  Happy wondered what made Shantanu not quit this radio channel.

  ‘Anyway, three things!’ Shambhavi dictated. ‘First, call the boss and explain to him that we are stretching this show for an unknown duration.’

  Shantanu again wanted to say something but, not surprisingly, was cut off before he could speak.

  ‘Just listen! Explain to him that it is very important for our channel. Feed him the fact that Superhits 93.5 RED FM is hosting a book reading of an unpublished book and the fact that no other radio channel has ever done this. Second, check with Siddharth in the broadcast room. Ask him to get in touch with our station in other metros and broadcast this book reading there as well. He has done the vice versa for us before, and this time we need other regions to broadcast our programme. If he asks for the boss’s approval, ask him to SMS me. Third, no one should leave the office before the show finishes: neither the technician, the broadcasting team, the scriptwriter, the creative department nor the ads department. I may need anyone anytime.’

  Shambhavi truly was the station’s star RJ, which probably gave her a lot of importance at Superhits 93.5 RED FM.

  In that dimly lit radio room Happy move
d to the other side of the table. Shambhavi passed the microphone to Happy and switched on the overhead focus light which fell straight on the table. The radio room turned brighter. Under the beautifully falling beam of light Happy placed the diary on the table and opened it. This very act of opening that diary appeared both heavenly—as though the diary was a holy text—and emotionally charged as well. Everyone just kept looking at the diary for it was Ravin’s diary, their beloved friend’s diary which contained his handwritten thoughts, and which now compensated for Ravin’s absence.

  The next time when they went on air Shambhavi updated all the listeners that the show that night would continue for an indefinite time and that it was going to be the very first time in their history that a show would run for an unspecified duration.

  In the world outside the radio station, Ravin’s fans were very much willing to listen to Ravin’s story irrespective of how long the broadcast would last.

  Happy started reading Ravin’s second book—Can Love Happen Twice?

  Five

  A year and a half had passed since the tragic incident had taken place. Unable to cope with the misery, I was looking for a big change. Fortunately, an on-site opportunity for a project in Belgium gave a ray of hope to that much-needed change. I availed that opportunity.

  It was the month of January and Brussels, the capital city of Belgium, was witnessing the last few weeks of winter. It was noon, I guess around 12.30 p.m., when I walked to my hotel room in Brussels. It was indeed a delight for me to walk into that beautiful room with lovely interiors, beautifully textured walls and an excellent lighting scheme. Even the air in there was very refreshing. It was warm inside and quite calm as well. I went ahead to explore that room, which was going to be my temporary home for the next few days, in greatest detail. As I walked in, my leather boots made that aristocratic tapping sound on the wooden floor.

  The wall on the other side of the room was hidden behind a giant curtain. There was a long string dangling beside the curtain. On pulling it, the curtain parted. And the next moment took my breath away.

  From behind the glass wall of the room on the eighteenth floor of the hotel Tulip Inn, Brussels looked mesmerizingly beautiful! I could see almost the entire city. My eyes were glued to the panoramic sight of a serene and cold Belgium afternoon. Scores of skyscrapers—which, while standing solidly right in front of me, also seemed to compete with each other to kiss the sky—filled my view from left to right. White smoke from various massive chimney outlets, installed on the terrace of the buildings, was coming out dreamily. Far down, I could see various road networks with the traffic racing on them.

  The glass wall seemed soundproof as I could hear nothing. Yet, I imagined the sound of the fast cars on the road. I imagined the whistle of the wind that was blowing outside at that level. I imagined the voices of the people walking on footpaths. I imagined it all. I stood there for a while in the pin-drop silence of my cosy room imagining all kinds of noises. I was enjoying being there; being there almost in the sky and with the beautiful city stretching out below me.

  In a few moments nature started painting everything white. Tiny flakes of snow whirled right in front of my nose. The sky at that altitude was getting swathed in a sheet of white snow. And I watched that sheet becoming gradually more dense. I could feel the magic of the weather outside. I wanted to capture the moment in pictures, but I couldn’t. Then and there I wanted to write a few lines of what I was experiencing, but I couldn’t leave the focus. I didn’t want to lose a single second of it. Everything out there was turning to white: the buildings, the roads, the air and everything else!

  I stood with my palms stretched against the glass, frozen like a statue, and watched those flakes swirling down, till they lost their individuality and became a part of the homogeneous cluster of white. I don’t remember how long I stood there.

  A telephone ring on my room’s phone broke my reverie. It was Sanchit, a colleague as well as a friend, who was the only Indian whom I knew in Belgium. While he was the development lead for our project, I was the test lead. Sanchit had come on-site a month prior to me and this helped me to easily settle down in Belgium.

  ‘Okay, see you then in half an hour,’ I murmured in a daze.

  Religiously following the Indian tradition of procrastinating, the so-called half an hour was stretched to one and a half hours before Sanchit finally knocked at the door.

  ‘Hey! Hi-i-i-i!’

  We were glad to see each other. We shook hands and gave each other a boyish half-hug though we’d never met this way ever when we were at our office in India.

  Things change when two Indians meet abroad.

  Sanchit was clad in heavy, warm clothes from head to toe.

  ‘Wow!’ he said as he walked towards the glass window and turned back to see the rest of the room, smiling appreciatively.

  ‘How much? Hmm … Eighty euros per night?’ he answered his own question with a witty smile.

  ‘Yup. And not bad when the company is paying,’ I answered, pulling out some Indian snacks that I had got from home. He jumped to grab his share.

  In the evening we walked out of the hotel to Brussels Nord. Sanchit explained to me that ‘Nord’ in French meant North. Brussels Nord was the nearest station from where we were supposed to catch the metro to go to Sanchit’s place. It was very cold outside. The temperature was around –2 degrees Celsius. I could barely take my hands out of my overcoat pockets. On the way, Sanchit stopped at a Pakistani shop from where he bought himself a pack of cigarettes. Meanwhile, I used the shop’s ISD booth to call my parents back home and update them that I had reached safely and was doing well.

  I enjoyed observing people and the vicinities we passed by. The station we were in was quite hi-tech with a three-level transport system. On the ground level ran the trains. On the level below ran the metros. And further below ran the trams. Sanchit had a monthly pass to avail the public transport across Belgium and, on his suggestion, I too got one for myself.

  While we were in the train, Sanchit updated me with various facts about Belgium. The country is bilingual. Half of the country including Brussels speaks French and the other half Dutch. Belgium is famous for Belgian chocolates, Belgian beer and Belgian girls. I was yet to check the first two facts. The last one was an omnipresent truth. Belgium has a monarchical system of governance and has legalized gay marriages. The fact that interested me most was that, taking advantage of Belgium’s centralized location—the best among some of the European countries—I could easily visit the nearby countries such as France, Germany, the UK and the Netherlands.

  By late evening we were at Sanchit’s house. I found it to be nice and cosy, although a bit cluttered since Sanchit had washed his clothes and had placed them here and there to dry. It was a costly house, but Sanchit had taken it because his wife was supposed to join him in a week’s time and he had chosen the house as per his wife’s preference. At that time she was back in India.

  I settled into the couch in the living-room area and he switched on the TV. Sanchit brought two cans of beer from the fridge and we relaxed for a while, enjoying the much-touted Belgian beer.

  Soon our conversation moved to the official things: the client, the project, the office location, the good official things and the not-so-good ones.

  We cooked dinner for ourselves after which I caught the late-night metro back to Brussels Nord. I slept in my hotel room. The glass wall on my left still remained bare without the curtain, treating me to a beautiful night-time view of the city whenever my sleep broke.

  Six

  The next morning I was at my client’s office. It was on Zandvoorstraat in Mechelen. Mechelen is another city in Belgium and, unlike Brussels, this part of the country has a Dutch-speaking population. ‘Straat’ in Dutch means ‘street’ in English. And Zandvoorstraat was the street address of my office.

  The initial few hours at my client’s office passed well. Primarily, my task involved greeting everyone: meeting them, introducin
g myself and listening to their share of the introduction. My other important task for the day was to set up my workstation, which I successfully did by noon.

  ‘Let’s go for lunch,’ Sanchit suggested. ‘There is a sandwich shop nearby where most of us go.’

  Unlike India, where a sandwich is more like a snack, in the West it is more of a meal. Having lived in various countries I have adapted to every kind of meal by now.

  Sanchit and I joined Anthony for lunch.

  Anthony Gomes was one of the various clients’ point of contact for us. His job was to deploy the projects we built for him at his client’s location. He was fairly pink in complexion with grey eyes and curly brown hair. It seemed he loved his wife very much. That’s what I had made out from the picture of his wife that he kept on his desk. Our purpose to join Anthony was simple. He had a car and he too used to buy his lunch from the same shop. Though it was a ten-minute walk to that shop, a two-minute ride in Anthony’s brand new Volvo was a far more attractive proposition than a walk. On our way to grab our lunch, I primarily interacted with Anthony.

  To my surprise the eatery was actually a minibus or, to say it better, a van with no seats inside but a massive display box installed to exhibit a variety of sandwiches. Behind that display box was the service area where a fat couple was busy selling sandwiches. The place had a separate entrance and exit. The queue ran from the inside of the van to a good long distance outside, proving that this little diner was doing good business. We joined at the tail of the queue.

  On Sanchit’s suggestion I chose Kip Sate, a chicken sandwich with hot chillies and plenty of salad. Anthony too picked the same. We paid and moved towards the exit. While coming out, I noticed that the queue at the entrance had extended further. We sat back in the car.

  As Anthony reversed his car, my eyes caught someone—someone’s back, to be precise. She was a girl, the last person in the sandwich shop’s entry queue. I was riveted by her—those sleek white Puma shoes under the blue denim which ran up her legs before slipping under a black overcoat; those earphone wires which ran across her untied hair that danced in sync with her shaking head and her tapping left foot. But all these were not the reasons why I noticed her. It was her complexion that caught my attention. From a distance of about twenty feet, and the fact that she had her back towards me, I could only notice a few things about her. From the colour of her hands and hair, and the barest hint of her profile face and neck, my best guess was that she was an Indian.