Taste of (Pondi)Cherry

seed #359

1.  Hello, I just died

Hi there, my name is Murmel Gomez. I am a nineteen-year-old girl, and a few minutes back, I permanently lost the ability to grow any older. Those who got the drift, good for them, those who didn’t, just hang on.

I will explain it.

I can’t grow any older because my lover killed me, hammered my skull with- I don’t know what. The blow came straight from hell, and it was dark. I am not really complaining. It feels great to have been released from the mundane perils of life, and my expenses will be finally reduced. I have been trying that ever since I came to Kolkata from my hometown in Shillong to study law. No smaller talks to endure, no more college assignments, no more flatulence. It all feels great, other than the fact that at this moment, my head or at least its memory is awfully sore.

Much more than losing my goddamn life in such an unintimated manner, what disturbs me is that I was reading Crying on Your Shoulders, enjoying the rain as it fell on the windowpane, oh yes, with a steaming cup of coffee. Everything was perfect for reading. It is a book written by Sam Sharma, my favorite romance writer, and I was three pages short of the climax. Can you believe that? Just three pages short. Sam Sharma is my favorite author. I have never met him in my life. I

always wanted to ask him questions. I wanted to write a book about him. Anyway, now that I am dead, I decided to narrate this story. It’s about Sam. For starters, this isn’t a story at all. This is like being a voyeur, following him through his life for the next few days. The privilege of being dead, you see nothing as cool as being dead. I am your miss know it all ghost narrator, and I know how this story ends. It however, begins from this very room where my corpse lies all bloody, battered like a mashed clay pot as people inspect it pretty keenly. I must say I never got so much attention when alive.

Tring…Tring…

Can you hear that? It’s the blood spatter analyst’s phone ringing. He

didn’t pick up. He is certain from the blood pattern formed on the wall in front of my study table that the blow had been a soft one, yet accurately measured by a person not more than 5.4 inches tall and less than 65 kg of weight. The person was highly aware of the impact; it was a neat blow that did the work: cookie cut, crisp work of art by someone quite crafty in blistering skulls.

He is quite right. But, I think my lover was too romantic to be a psychopathic skull breaker, though I don’t have much in my hands to refute the premise.

Tring…Tring…

There, his phone rings again; I hope he picks it up this time. “Hello…” There he did.

“Hello…Sorry, Sam…A sudden crime scene happened… oh, that is awesome, man… I am sorry… Sure… Have a nice trip, will catch up after you return.”

Okay. That was Sam Sharma on the phone; he’s a friend to the blood spatter analyst. And, you heard it right- Sam is going on a trip to write his next book. Isn’t that great?

Now that I am dead, I don’t really give much of a fuck to time, or its passage. In spite of that, to tell a good story time has to be taken into account. Well, in that case, let me start from the start.

2.  White rabbit in the pink sky Two days earlier

Sam Sharma, one of the greatest rom-com writers to have put pen to paper, is sleeping one of those whiskey charged frothy sleeps which only drunks, serial killers and insomniacs would be aware of. In case you are none, just know that this sleep is the lull created when a dark blotchy inner cyclone recedes only to the backlash with centupled force. That’s the sleep I am talking about.

The absolutely crazy drone of the city outside has entered Sam’s room, stinking of whiskey and clover scented tobacco, only as a faint harmless hum. This humble 1500 square feet apartment room located near Southern Avenue in Kolkata is perhaps the only property he currently owns. For a writer who had topped New York Times best selling charts that’s quite impoverished. In the forty-two years of his existence, he had failed to understand much about humans and their demands, which included himself. It has been a month since his fourth wife left him with the same accusation as his former three wives and fifty-three of his girlfriends; which, in short, meant that he had been a disloyal prick who had no clue what he wanted out of his life, through which he would wade through, high on psychotropic drugs, alcohol, and food. To inform you about one of those hazards, his last divorce had depleted him of cash and also his creativity and he hit the bottle hard.

It is a sappy afternoon with paper balls scattered all over the room. Yet another series of failed attempts to write a book that may fetch him some money. He was certain that his fourth wife, Andrea, was going to do what all his previous three wives had done- file a divorce with charges that were true and inescapable. This would finally amount to crazy alimony and litigating charges. In Sam’s entire life, the only human being he has caused continuous joy was his lawyer. For a man who had flooded a sizable population of human beings with mushy hormonal secretions with his writing, his outlook towards the notion of romance was very clear- he was a writer of fiction and what could be more fictional than romance or at least the very idea around it?

His first three books were international bestsellers. He made a shitload of cash and acquired global stardom till he lost all that with his fourth book and staggered down a whirlpool of excessive drinking, gambling, and a little bit of sex. The best thing that had happened out of this lifestyle was that he never got a venereal disease, at least not yet. Three years, struggling with debts, drinking problems, and an aching writer’s block, Sam Sharma has understood only one thing- that he was quite okay with not having to write, losing money, losing wives, growing older into a bigger train wreck with every passing day, contemplating suicide smashed on cocktails. He thought he was pretty awesome with this silk- like texture of chaos dancing madly within his head. He was more comfortable with things being sucked into a dark vortex of nothingness than everything being alright. After countless nights of brooding introspection about himself, he had arrived at the knowledge that his basic problem lay with things being alright.

Being alright bothered Sam; it sure as hell did more than anything else. He had to fuck things up and then try to fix it. Same with his writing. He veered off his genre which got him high budget film deals, disapproving with his agents and publishers, he wrote a love story about two blind people stuck in an elevator on a stormy night, who just kept talking in metaphors about life being dark and stagnant.

Heavy philosophical shit.

Guess what! That wrecked the sales. The day he got to know that the launch of his fourth book had dipped to unimaginable levels, and the readers have decried it as outright unrealistic and trash, he had breathed a heavy sigh of relief and caught a fine night’s sleep after ages. The comfort of finally failing, of being rejected and unhappy, drove Sam on a party spree in his Barcelona cottage, where he was putting up at that point in time. He would trip on stereophonic wafts of Carnatic classical music in a loop from the morning, slurping Gazpacho and drinking Vermouth with a pleasurable intention of killing himself.

Death had always bothered Sam, not in the way it bothers most people. He had come to know about death at the age of four from his grandfather, who had tried to trick him by saying that everyone becomes a star in the end. Something within him felt cheated, and he began hating his grandfather from that moment. By the time he was sixteen, he would find death almost everywhere, in a stale apple, in a finished meal, in a toothache, in withered leaves. Everywhere he set his eyes upon; there was either death or its profound possibility. He would have achieved death quite easily if not for the drift caused by his temporal fame and fortune. But, now it was easy, or so he thought. Then something within him challenged him to write another story of love. He relocated to Kolkata to write, but it seemed that his cerebral constipation was there to stay. It seemed like a paralysis that had found a comfortable home in him.

His wife stormed out of his life, and he felt a strong drive to write that night, but all he did was have weird visions of a white rabbit flying in a pink sky. He kept seeing that like a madman. Days pass like lost dogs in this Southern Avenue apartment, where right now, a powdery slant of light cuts through the blinds. Nausea rifles from within and jolts Sam out of his sleep into vile chaos of cough. A streak of fear runs circuitously up, and down his body, something evil stabs his temples to unbearable pain. He charged a pint of Vodka and felt a slight relief. He took a shower, made himself a breakfast of ripe papaya, and played a Bismillah Khan album on his computer. He sat at his writing-table, a pencil in hand, and prayed for something to flow- thoughts, words, plots, anything would do.

This would usually be his most productive writing ritual. Two hours later, he realized that there was not much hope left. He slowly walked up to the cupboard, took out his gun, and stood in front of the mirror. It was a great moment. All his favorite people have been here; Hemingway, Hunter. S. Thompson, David Foster Wallace. Maybe he had been a good writer all through his life, writing useless romance novels, but, at least in death, he would give a fan boy tribute. He closed his eyes, feeling extremely drunk and sick to do it, but he placed his finger on the trigger.

2.  What do they read these days?

“People don’t read that kind of fairytale rom-com anymore. Reading patterns have drastically changed.”

His publisher was a smart young lady dressed in a white pantsuit.

Sam noticed her hair had a faint yellow streak; something within him cringed at that moment. Sitting across a teak table in a perfumed boardroom with the AC on spine-tingling chill, there were beads of sweat forming on his forehead. His mind went back to last night; he had almost pulled the trigger when his phone rang; it was his publisher. He took a sip of coffee and composed himself.

“What do they read these days?” he asked.

“They read real love stories. Love stories they can relate to like it’s their own. The advent of social media has changed the paradigm of romance.”

“So you mean to say it’s no longer the ‘Sleepless in Seattle’ brand of romance that sells.”

“It may sell, but it has to be repackaged in a more realistic manner. The youth has become more realistic.”

“Okay, just tell me what you want me to write?”

“Give me a real love story that happens to real people.” “I will try.”

“I used to be a big fan of your works. I would love to read the magic you created with Crying on Your Shoulders again and again. But, you see, young readers have gotten over it.”

In that silly little time frame, Sam felt that the publisher lady was a different person, a comely ghost possessing her, but she evaporated in a blink.

“We need the first draft in 15 days. It needs to be at least 70, 000 words. A love story between two urban young adults, placed in a scenic Indian locale. Our readership is aimed at young adults between ages 22-35.” The lady reiterated once again with piercing authority and handed him a cheque of one lakh rupees.

It was getting unbearable like it always does, meetings with publishers. Now out in the open, he was feeling a deep sense of relief. Maybe the money was needed to pay alimonies and buy booze. He got into a UBER. Calcutta was sweltering under the molten heat of May. The traffic snaked torpidly along with the breast of the city. Sam realized that he should be happy, anybody in his position should be. He finally had a writing gig, why should he not be happy? Though, he thought, in order to understand the structure of happiness, one needed to get out of the snug sanctuary of unhappiness, which Sam had always refused to. According to him, there was no better place to stay other than unhappiness. He would rather starve to death than be happy in life. Now was no exception, but he could do with some celebration. Celebrating had always doubled the unhappiness within him. Plus, it would be a good social excuse to drink and maybe catch up with two of his old friends.

Next day

The evening sky looked like an orange slush gone wrong. It was about to rain and rain quite badly. Sam had reached a prominent South Calcutta pub at around 7.00 p.m, had gulped down three drinks by the time Utsav reached half drenched.

“This rain had to necessarily come falling today. How are you, my man?” Utsav hugged Sam and took a seat on the barstool. He ordered one large JnB on the rocks and took a quick swig. He was a journalist with a big newspaper who had known Sam for more than twenty years. He was one of the very few people who had seen him grow into a popular writer from a quite reticent teenager. He had always maintained that both Sam’s superfluous creativity and fetish for destruction were outcomes of innocence. A compound innocence that forebodes by the window looking at the bright blue sky feeling terrible about losing it to time.

“What took you so long?” Sam asked Utsav as the rotating strobe light of the bar fell upon his face.

“Haven’t you heard?” “Heard what?”

“There has been a murder in the city. A girl of 19 has been smashed to death.”

“Really? That is terrible to know, but how does that answer your delay?” “I am a crime journalist, sir. I get delayed when such things take place.” “Does that mean Aarfy is going to be late too?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. You should have seen the body.” “I prefer women who are alive. Let me give Aarfy a call.”

Aarfy D’souza, his other friend who was supposed to join for the evening, was a blood spatter analyst with the Forensic department of Kolkata Police. Sam called him, but the call went unanswered.

“Bugger doesn’t pick up.”

“I told you he must be really worked up. Call him a few minutes later.”

“So what is this treat all about, huh?” Utsav asked as he swigged from his glass.

“Well, my publisher wants the first draft in the next fifteen days.” “What? That’s an incredible man! You got yourself a deal!” “Well, it seems like it, though my publisher has tall demands.” “Sounds interesting. Tell me more?”

“She wants me to write the first draft comprising 70,000 words in 15 days .”

“Ooh…that is tall .”

“It doesn’t end with that. She wants me to write a real love story, not some fake fairy tale mush, where I happen to specialize. I fail to realize why people would like to read a realistic love story, man. What would that even be? A man and woman disliking each other’s guts in less than two months.”

“I think readers nowadays want to read more contextual slice-of-life love stories.”

“Alright, I don’t know what that means for the nth time. Love in itself isn’t real.”

“No, Sam, it is very much real. Your mush brand of love might have had its run, but I am sure a rom-com writer as great as you will be able to adapt to this new thing.”

“Still no clue what you said.”

“Well, I think you need to write something very alive and real.”

“How can I write something very alive and real when I am supposed to write fiction?”

“I will say you should go somewhere and pitch there for fifteen days. Maybe meet a few couples, study them, you know. All that research gig you never ever do.”

“Hmm. That thought had crossed my mind. My publisher wants a cool and scenic backdrop for this. I think I should have just killed myself the other day.”

“Don’t do anything stupid. Did you hear from Andrea?”

“No, I think I will hear from her lawyer. I know the drill, right?” “Are you sure it’s not you who screws everything up every time?”

“I am sure it is me. But, then, they are the ones who screw me back.” “What a conceited asshole!”

“Pondicherry.” “What Pondicherry?”

“I think I will just go Pondicherry to write this story.”

Sam gulped his drink and ordered a repeat. Gave Aarfy another call, who told him he was at a crime scene, and it wouldn’t be possible for him to come over. Sam and Utsav sized a couple of more drinks discussing the possibilities of exploring a real love story in Pondicherry.

“You never know you may just fall in love yourself and account for it,” said Utsav, getting up from the bar stool, quite tipsy going by his stance.

“Not sure about love, won’t mind having a squeeze there.”

“Always the wrong thought, Sam. Focus on love, real love.” Sam and Utsav cut the evening short and parted.

3.  Taste of (Pondi)Cherry

Three days later

Sam never dreamt of becoming a writer. He wanted to become a

monk. But, maybe he was too young to understand that you can’t become

a monk. When you stop becoming, you are left a monk. Without much doubt, he failed to become a monk. Instead, he became a flimsy husk of consciousness who could just excrete thoughts on paper.

It took him three months to write his first book, Crying on Your Shoulders. Six publishers turned it down, till a nondescript agency in Delhi picked it up and found him an international publishing deal. It was a story about two college students falling in love and falling out of love and falling in love again. It sold more than a million copies worldwide in fifteen days. His reading sessions were packed, he toured like a rock star, stayed in some of the priciest hotels of the world. But every time he would read the story, he would be confirmed about his poor writing.

Romance in itself was a substance, and he knew he was more of a drug peddler than a writer. Maybe all rom-com writers were. He would always avoid giving interviews and going to pricey literary parties. But, he couldn’t entirely avoid the limelight. His book reading sessions were like Broadway musicals. People would be locked in some enchantment till the last line he read. The way he read modulating his baritone through peaks and valleys of the narrative, his long hair shining against the silhouette of the LED screen playing

intense graphics was nothing less than a surreal theatrical. It was in one of these events that a famous Hollywood movie producer approached him. He landed a major film deal. That was the peak of his career, after which things went downhill.

Sam strutted up to the bar and ordered a Jack with three ice cubes. The barman lit his cigarette, swirled up, adding white to the trippy hues of the nightclub. This was ‘Bay of Buddha’, Pondicherry’s most happening nightclub.

People were stoned all around, searching for a fix. Bodies aching to be stormed by other bodies, oblivious in that moment that they were nothing but sum total of their lust. Sam observed as he swigged from his drink. The words from his editor surged up somewhere from his abdomen. “70,000 words in 15 days-A A real story…A real love story.”

What the heck does that mean? He has managed to write only three

lines, and he had no clue how real they would be. Having a writer’s block is like a coke dick, you have it, but you just cannot use it at the right time.

His popularity as a rom-com novelist has deflated, and there were a few questions that had frequented his head regarding it. If humanity is averse to change, how is it that people stop liking somebody they like?

How the fuck does that make any sense? Is there anything that makes any sense other than the fact that nothing really makes any sense. Time, he thought, was not very linear. It went in circles, like this crimson-hued nightclub with a beautiful woman who was all hurtling towards death at an insane speed, unaware of the Earth’s rotation. Sam was finding it

increasingly difficult to figure out the ‘whys’ and ‘hows’ of things. He ordered another drink while thoughts tumbled onto each other.

“Excuse me, are you Sam Sharma?” A young girl in a green jumpsuit stood near him

with a skinny guy. A slow smile unfurled on her lips like the opening of Rajnigandha petals. There was something very pure about that smile, or so it occurred to Sam.

“Well, that would be me?” replied Sam in a tone groggy with alcohol and the dryness of the evening. Her words had disrupted Sam’s train of thoughts. This was the least expected thing to have happened at that

moment. He usually didn’t like being recognized. In fact, nobody did these days, so this was odd. But the girl had a vibe towards her, much like the character he was imagining for his story. More importantly, in that unsettling flick of a moment, Sam felt vicious thoughts in his head becoming more fluid. Maybe these kids could give him a direction to his story.

“Yes, I am Sam Sharma, the writer, kind of non-practicing at this

moment. Though, I am trying to get a story placed.” Sam concealed the riot of feelings taking place within him at that moment.

“I am a huge fan, sir. I have read all your books.” Sam felt good and realized that these things still impacted him; he liked compliments and hated criticism. Still no improvement, none at all. Her perfume gave him a hard-on. He hoped to get lucky with her.

“Can I buy you a drink?” He asked, even though that was not what he wanted to say. But the words leaped to the other side of his lips on their own. He was broke. He had no clue how to get on with the story, yet here he was buying drinks for a stranger, planning to get laid. The woman smiled flirtatiously, cocking her head to the right. He had a closer look at her face as it got crisscrossed by the incident of light and shade. She had beautiful, expressive eyes with thick kohl bordering them. Her face was chiseled with high cheekbones. Her curls were dense. Sam ordered a Mojito for the lady.

“So, what brings you here?”

“I am on vacation.”

“With family or friends?”

“I have come alone. I just got over a difficult relationship.” “Okay…but, alone must be boring?”

“Not at all. We can only enjoy alone, I feel. People are inessential.”

She had a husky voice, the kind Sam liked. He had always maintained life was the greatest churner of stories, and they looked very unreal most of the time. Maybe writing a story that was real was to actually write a story that wasn’t real.

“What about you?” the girl asked him.

“I am here on a break, trying to figure out my next story.”

“Oh, that’s great! Would you like to give me a tiny blooper of the plot?”

“Well, no clue. Just it has to be a ‘real love story’ unlike my last works, in 70,000 words to be written in 15 days, to quote my publisher.”

“I see. Where are you putting up?”

“In a hotel near the ashram.”

“I see. I am carrying something with me, would you like to have some?”

Sam breathed in the perfume and felt a major shift within; his nose was in for more action in the next few hours.

4. Bach on the iphone

He snorted a line. The cocaine went crazy in his head. He took a swig from his Jack.

“Isn’t it good? I scored while coming from Delhi” said the girl, her eyes bloodshot. They had three rounds of intense coke charged sex. The blue walls of the hotel room looked like a strange palette from Sam’s childhood sketchbook. They lay beside each other as Bach played on her iPhone.

“I don’t know your name yet.” Sam asked the girl pulling his hair. “Maybe I don’t know it either.” she giggled.

“You kids, these days are so cocky.” Sam pulled her close.

“Thanks, but I consider myself unnamed.” she kissed him and  jutted a careless  toe to his thighs..

“How cool, have you met anyone who doesn’t have a name?” Sam asked as he held her toe and put it in his mouth..

“No, not really, but I would like to. I think an unnamed world got to be a nice world.” The girl named rocking her head in pleasure.

“Haha. That’s a weird thought. Why would you like an unnamed world?” Sam asked as he put her foot down, and a serious expression replaced the frivolity on his face.

“Because I think people forget who they can be when they are given a name. A person with a name is no person at all. Names are the primary culprit when it comes to the identity crisis.” said the girl before diving into another few lines of cocaine.

Sam looked at her, intrigued. “Seriously, you really mean that? I wouldn’t disagree with you, but I am not sure how far I could live in a nameless world.” he said, snorting a line. The cocaine, he realized, was quite the bomb.

“I assume you could.” said the girl kissing him passionately. “Why?” asked Sam.

“With all that you write, you are a man who truly knows love, or has quite a good idea about it. A man who only understands that love disintegrates lovers could have written the last story you wrote.”

she mounted on him. Sam saw her face fading into nothing.

A reverie consumed him. Yes, love is only a pure residue, a leftover bliss after the chaos of identities subsides.

“So, do you like my writing?” Sam wasn’t sure whether he was asking or whether it was a voice in the head.

“Yes, I loved Crying on Your Shoulders and For You Cupcake. But I really loved your last book more than the other two. It was just sublime.” The girl replied, but Sam heard it in his head.

“You think so? They tell my stories aren’t real and people these days, especially the youth, only read real stories.” Sam giggled. He couldn’t remember what his last story was.

“What is real in this ephemeral world? Nothing.” The girl’s voice had taken place in his head because it was doubtful whether she was present there.

“That’s quite philosophical given that you are stoned on cocaine, drunk on whiskey, and fucked a total stranger.”

“I didn’t fuck, I made love.” She said pecking him on the cheek.

“So is this a love story?” asked Sam with the giddy abdomen of a twenty- year-old.

“I was always in love with you, and I am certain the way you made me feel, that you were too, all this while.” she said looking into Sam’s bloodshot eyes.

“It is just that we met today.” He exclaimed in the daze.

“How is meeting necessary to love?” the girl uttered, and Sam could see his lips move really slow, and though it sounded absurd, it made perfect sense.

Sam could feel that he was high and it wasn’t the narcotics, it was love (after a long while), felt at this moment, the situation bore no trait of reality as he knew it, but it was authentically a boy meets girl love story. It was real. He knew it, but then again, only he knew it. This would be good for a story, but probably no one would believe that this is real. Sam felt calm coursing through the story in his head, anticipating the twist.

Maybe the twist, he thought, should be mundane enough. A real love story is all about predictability and couldn’t be otherwise. This, he would have a story to tell and submit his manuscript in the next 15 days. But in order to create the story, he needed more flesh to it.

“What about your boyfriend?”

“Do we really need to discuss that?” She put her head on his chest, coyly. “Yes, I am curious.”

“My last relationship went off for a toss a few days back. I have had a few boyfriends before that. But, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you that I had always been searching for you, Sam. I could never get to you for you are on no social platforms, and you stopped writing too.”

They kissed like the couples from Sam’s stories do.

“What is your favorite color?” Sam asked the girl. He firmly believed that the preferences of colors explained the character of a person in detail.

“Red,” she said and mounted on Sam, taking control of what Sam thought was his story.

In that moment of passion and frenzy, Sam could feel very little of himself. He was certain this love was pure, in love, lovers disintegrate, and it was happening for the first time. He could feel disintegrating, bit by bit, moment by moment. So he knew this was real and he could write about it. He had found his story; he only awaited the twist.

5.   The unfurling Rajnigandh

Hi there, I am Murmel, how have you liked my narration this far? If you’d ask me, I think this story is quite predictable. Maybe because I know the ending. Before I was killed, I had always dreamt of a life of predictability—no alarms or surprises. Plain predictability, even though I had always complained about boredom more than anything. That is, perhaps, your story too. Human beings dread predictability but can’t take suspense either. Weird creatures we are; imagine a starfish being so confused. I think evolution has been a classic misstep for humanity; we

were better as apes; humanity is a failed experiment. Now that I am dead, I know I was a lab rat all this while. I would always like to exist as a dead person rather than being alive and metaphorically dead. Besides the utter complexity of metaphors, not being alive saves time, money, and effort.

Anyway, I am narrating from Sam’s hotel room. There is fracas here; blood is streaming out on the floor, dripping down the staircase. His head has been smashed. Early in the morning, the hotel boy lost his rockers when he came to serve breakfast. Right now, you can hear many stray voices. But, I want you to hear what the police officer is saying.

“This woman by the name of Rajnigandha Biswas, a law student from NUJS Kolkata, has been reported to have killed a string of people.

Kolkata Police suspects that she was in South India after she broke the skull of her girlfriend in a similar manner. I think we have a serial killer at hand.”

Did you hear that?

I have a strong yet faint feeling that they will track my lover down. What they think to be a grievous crime is, according to me, a token of love.

Releasing the lover of the miseries of identities when that person least expects is a gift, a surprise. Besides, if I knew my lover well enough, she was a person who always preferred the people she loved to be unnamed, she loved nobodies. What is death if not love, a bit imposing and crude, but love nonetheless? But I pity Sam. With such an unpredictable twist around the corner, it’s just sad he could never put it on paper. For a genius writer of fiction always criticized for writing stories far from the harsh realities of life, Sam would have done well with this story. He had already done phenomenally well writing a real romance with the first three lines he penned three days before meeting my ex-girlfriend, whose name, I don’t particularly know, whether he came to know about it.

“Tony was sipping a cocktail in the Bay of Buddha when a girl walked up to him. She had shiny long hair neatly tied in a bun, dressed in a stylish pistachio green jumpsuit. Her smile was refreshing- it was as if her slow smile was the unfurling Rajnigandha.”

I hope to meet Sam in spirit and ask him the ending of Crying on Your Shoulders. I know he dislikes questions, but you see, I am a fan girl till I die, also beyond it.