My first short story

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My little Sara

I met my little Sara first time at a party or I may say a get together. She sat at the Piano table (not playing the piano) but clutching a wooden violin. Attired in a velvety shade fitted outfit that ended just short of her knees, her lip color matched her dress.

She was in midst of a small conversation with the host when I first saw her. A red wine glass rested on top of the piano. The rim of the glass was impressed with the velvet stain of her lips.

She always smiled, never laughed. Never ever the boisterous sort of laughter we tend to break into spontaneously on a surprise comical situation. That was not the only unique thing about her. For the next two months of knowing this enigmatic near humanoid woman, a strange chain of events came to pass. Those two summer months that my memory fails to erase.

I was pursuing my Master’s Course in Journalism. I was all of 23. Constructing efforts (most of which showed) I tried my best to fit into my proposed role. Not missing a single opportunity to portray the stereotypical journalist, I wore khaki kurtas, faded jeans, had active participation in any gathering of socially relevant or political affairs and so on and so forth. I had resorted to public transport commute although my loving papa had gifted me a car on my last birthday. I was one of the most popular boys in class. I should admit this popularity had made a wee bit entry into my naïve ego. So when I first saw my Little Sara, I haughtily assumed she would gush on me like my juvenile female classmates.

She finished her conversation and the wine thereafter. At the behest of our host she played a melancholy melody on her dated looking violin. Her eyes were half shut, with her tune mesmerizing her more than any of the distracted audience.

It was getting late. I had to get back home. But….I could not leave without being introduced to her.

Then it all stared- The Episode.

Today as I write, I am 45 years of age, a proud dad of lovely twin daughters. I have a gorgeous doting wife and now am the editor of a leading business magazine. My perfect now should have long back erased that Episode of the past, years ago. Yet it remains firmly lodged in the center of my brain where the two hemispheres meet. Unmoved.

I walk upto her. I greet her. I tell her about myself, how well she played.  Her lips move to form a smile. But her jet black huge eyes stare back at me, like that of a mannequin- expressionless.

She tells me she is Sara. Nothing more. No full name. An ambiguous name. I could not even guess her ethnicity. Her language tone and accent revealed nothing. She seemed guarded. She had met our host in an Art exhibition last week. It was kind of him to invite her.

It was beginning to drizzle outside. I had to leave. I mustered the inner courage to ask for her phone number. Again she smiled ‘Her’ smile.

“Siddarth I’m very old for you”, is all she said. A different look crossed her perfect face. I threw back the old age cliché – age does not matter- blah blah blah

Sara finally revealed her whereabouts. And yes her phone number. She stayed alone in a rented bungalow in the most posh area of the city.

Well…thanking my luck I bid good bye for the night.

To re assure that last evening did happen, I dialed her number the next morning. It was a Sunday and I was home. It went unanswered. I tried again and after an hour again. No reply yet. I was maniacally restless and tried again- what a relief she answered. Within 5 minutes of talking, she invited me over, I almost ran down.

I don’t know why, but her face looked ashen when she answered the door. She wore a casual white round neck T shirt and fitted blue jeans. For a perfect beauty like her, the house was severely unkempt.

“I’m an artist, I sing, play string instruments, paint and sometimes write too”, Sara revealed.

“I’m a budding writer too” I added, she did not take much interest.

“I don’t have a family” she ruefully retorted when asked about it. I did not probe further. Maybe a painful past. I could not guess her age either, she appeared ageless.

She offered me stale biscuits and sweet tea. I ate out of courtesy. She did not touch them. She played me another melancholy tune on her violin.

Her loose long straight hair touched her buttocks. She stared idly out of the open window. A cool breeze had begun. A few silken strands of her hair blew across her face. At that place and time she resembled a mythical creature. Maybe a fallen Valkyrie. A faint mixed fragrance of Jasmine and Roses filled the room. Was it the wind or her perfume? It was not the wind, it was a fragrance that emanates from a living soul.

I was young and stupid. I assumed all of her peculiarity to be a part of her exotic attractiveness.

I left the house not as excited and happy as I should have been. Maybe the gloominess of her abode had penetrated my being. I drove back absent mindedly and fell asleep skipping dinner. Her stale biscuits was giving me slight nausea.

I could not concentrate the next day in College. Fortunately it was the end of the semester marking the commencement of Summer vacation. Examination time was over.

Thinking constantly of where would she be right now, painting or performing or attending a social event? Finally in the lunch break I made my way to the phone booth and dialed the number I knew by rote. As expected it went unanswered. The phone in fact belonged to her landlord and was given to her as a part of the lease package.

No longer able to stop myself around 4 pm I found myself making way to her area once again. She was in deep sleep when I reached. She had not heard the phone ring (or maybe chosen to ignore it).

I refused her stale biscuits today. She began to play. Her violin sounded different. The music was affecting my nerves. Softly, in the manner gradual sips of wine would, or maybe a small joint of hash.

After some 15 minutes of incessant playing, I saw Sara differently. Was it imagination, vision of hallucination I do not know.

Sara had left her long hair loose as usual. She sat on the edge of a huge rock on a sea shore, playing her tripping melody. The string instrument she held was ancient. Created using primitive intelligence. Her mannequin eyes looked familiar. I have seen them before. Maybe as a sea farer eons ago.

Her Pied Piper like tune had gotten into my head. I had to leave. For the second time in a row she did not ask me stay back or offer dinner. She only looked cross as I left

That night I did not get sound slumber. I saw myself on massive never ending isolated staircases in the dreams of broken sleep. Then I saw her. Not in her present form but I knew it was her.

Blonde straight hair touching her hips. Pinned on both sides in some ancient style. She lived alone in an apartment and spoke with a European accent, the neighbors were mean to her. She was a foreigner here and it was my responsibility as her host to make her comfortable. In this dream I once again I questioned which place did she come from. She replied, “I’m from planet Pluto”

This is where my dream ended and I sat up wide awake. I intuitively knew the reason why my body had absolutely woken up in midst of a dream. My mind wanted me to remember this dream. Each detail. Well with her appearance she ought to be from Planet Venus I tried vainly to humor myself.

I did not stop my stopovers to her home. It was nearly ahead of my control. I was more than regular.

Gradually she revealed that she was an adopted child. Her biological mother had died during childbirth in the hospital , she had no clue about her genetic family.

The family that adopted her ran an Indian restaurant in Madrid. She visited them every now and then. Her childhood was spent in hostels of premium schools and colleges. She had studied Fine Arts and Music. Main source of income was the bank transfers by her affluent family. She had no friends. This house actually belonged to her Aunt, who refused to take rent from her. She lived a day at a time and had no thoughts about her future.

I had never seen Sara eat. Or even drink water. At times she touched the glass to her lips and kept it back as a pretense.

Her music never failed to put me in a trance. I suspected it was intentional from her side.

My dreams became more lucid. She began featuring in most of them.

I once dreamt that she drove a police gypsy. The siren blaring loud. The ear piercing sound stayed with me as I woke up. It still rings in my ears at times.

My health began declining. I was losing interest in my physical appearance. A beard grew. I stopped socializing entirely, even with dear cute girls.

I noticed the changes before others could. The family physician’s vitamins were not helping. The sleeping pills did help for a good sleep at times. He diagnosed stress (?!)

I needed help. No one knew about my relationship with Sara. There was something abnormal. At times I suspected if she was human. Seeking advice of my immature friends and a preaching family seemed futile. My instincts guided me. I needed guidance of a Spiritual Master, who could identify my real problem before prescribing a healing method.

I frantically approached well known ashrams of the city, yoga guides, Meditation teachers. The only counsel I received was to stay away from her (Which appeared impossible at the moment) and some preaching on imprudence of youngsters to mingle with strangers.

I did not stop.

 Finally sitting dejected in a bus one day, I shared my unique problem with a young boy – a co passenger. Just to vent maybe. Unexpectedly he offered to introduce me to his family Guru who resided in Rishikesh. I was not fit to travel. A philanthropic soul he still was insistent to aid and provided me the number of a Spiritual Master and Meditation teacher who was also his father’s friend and stayed in the same city.

I contacted the Guru. He did not preach me. I visited him. He gave the impression of understanding my problem. He questioned me. Had I taken up any spiritual practice in the past?

I recollected now. In a vain attempt to be a cool Hippie, I had procured a book on Mystical Meditation during my last European Holiday with family. I had tried one of the meditations to summon benign spirits and left it half way.

And that was it. I had unknowingly attracted Sara to me. My Guru was mature and subtle. He did not speak in shocking and warning overtones. Just matter of the fact, not exaggerating, yet covering a few facts that he felt was not appropriate for a person as inexperienced as me to become privy to.  Incredible as it sounds my little meditation experience had brought her to me. Maybe it was some past life bonds too.

My dreams were infact warning me.. The Siren of the Police van, revealed the identity of Sara. She was the SIREN and was warning me at the same time with her siren. Yes I looked up the word with multiple meanings in the dictionary

SIREN

noun

1.        A device that makes a loud prolonged signal or warning sound:

Synonyms

alarm, alarm bell, warning bell, danger signal; whistle, horn

2. Greek Mythology: Each of a number of very beautiful women or winged creatures whose singing lured unwary sailors on to rocks.

Synonyms

seductress, temptress, femme fatale

I researched more on Sirens. She indeed was from Planet Pluto. The ancient Sirens lured men with their music into their liar. These men eventually starved to death due to lack of food. The fatal beauties then meandered around the dead singing their enchanting songs

Any Siren who’s music passing sailors ignored eventually gave up their life by jumping into the ocean unable to face her failure.

My Guru send me home saying he would help me break her trance through distance healing. I should now practice self control and not see her again, and eat well that’s all. Within a month he would completely restore me.

Now I will not claim I healed instantly. I did begin avoiding her. It was the courage and strength that I derived from sharing my situation and seeking optimistic aid.

My bad dreams continued for a little more while.

Atlast after maybe 3 months or further I did begin feeling like my old self again.

In the due course of regaining my normal senses, my logical mind began questioning the mythical angle. Maybe Sara indeed was a lonely human. Maybe it was just some form of obsessive infatuation that I had experienced. It was not odd for boys of my age to feel like that. Read the newspapers. You will find the City section full of Crime stories that were triggered by an act of Passion.

All this time I had not contacted her. I had suddenly cut off.

Six months later I visited her old house. A vintage looking lock hung on the bolt.

I did not return there again. I do not know what happened of her. Did she die like myth said? Or did she move to Madrid as logic said? I don’t know

But today as I write I feel that familiar fragrance of Jasmines and Roses surrounding me.