Pic credit - Anu Jacobs. Chinese characters downloaded from Google (keeping my fingers crossed that they mean Yuan -fen)

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"Sometimes, even the greatest love has to end, so that your destiny can begin."

~ from Quotediary.me ~

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Yuksom / Labing, Sikkim, three years ago

It was a very quiet June morning and as the tourist season was almost over, the young man had the entire trail to himself. He was dressed in the traditional garb, the fo-kho, which was a full sleeved dress tied at the waist with a sash. A full sleeved shirt, leather boots and a cap completed the attire though he wrapped a light woollen scarf around his neck to ward off the monsoon chill, which also served to mask some of his features. He walked at a brisk pace, with only pale swirling mists for company, glad to be alone with his thoughts.

Solitude was a rarity for him and he treasured the couple of hours he could get before the duties of his world summoned him. He gaily whistled his way, slowing his pace as he neared the babbling stream and pulled short when he caught sight of her, sitting on a low boulder, gazing at the skies.

He was surprised to see another soul for he had been convinced that he was the only one idiotic enough to walk in the misty morning. He stopped whistling and wondered what he should do next when she twirled around, appearing to be as startled as he was.

Unsure of what to do, he gave a small smile and was relieved to see her give a hesitant smile in return. He slowly walked towards her and when she made no movement, sat down at a little distance away from her. She was also dressed in the typical dress of the local tribes, though instead of the traditional fur cap, she had wrapped a heavy silk scarf that entirely covered her head. He really could not see much of her face on account of the scarf except for her eyes, large, brownish amber and so full of wonder that he could not stop wanting to see more of them. But then he immediately realised how futile that wish was, she could never be more than a mere glimpse, a wistful reminder of what life could be if he was not who he was. He was a mere visitor and would be gone in a matter of hours; there was no point in trying to be friends with any of the local people.

So while she gazed intently at the gradually brightening skies, he looked around him, at the verdant grassy knolls with splashes of colour of the small Himalayan plants, pale buttercups, Himalayan yellow poppies, the white and yellow avens and the tiny blue forgetme-nots. And despite the rhododendron flowering season being almost over, one could still see a few of the late blooming pink scaly rhododendrons, one of which was growing near the boulder he was sitting. He absently reached over and picked a few blossoms, unsure of what to make out of his unexpected company and wondering if she had even registered his presence.

She had.

And found it equally hard to ignore the stranger who had seated himself beside her. She had heard the whistling first and surprised to hear it, had spun around to see one of the most handsome men she had ever set her eyes on. She saw that he seemed as surprised to see her as she had been and had stopped, unsure of himself. She returned his smile with a shy one and slowly turned back to watch the sunrise and almost blushed when she realised that he had seated himself close by, on another small boulder. But rather than be awed by the sunrise he seemed to be admiring the grassland around them. She stole a glance, even in that pale morning light and despite the scarf that hid half his features, she could make out that he was a very good looking person. When he glanced at her, she saw that he had lovely brown eyes, the colour of warm honey and molten amber, eyes that she could never forget. She could not see much of his face but his eyes captivated her and in the ruddy gold of the morning sun, they glowed.

She glanced away and when she heard a tiny rustle, she looked towards him to see him holding out a bunch of pink rhododendrons. She flushed again, surprising herself, for she had never thought she was capable of blushing. With a smile, she reached out to take that bouquet, wondering what was about him that made her heart race.

Even as that thought rose, she swiftly turned away; what her heart seemed to want was impossible, it did not matter who he was, she could never be a part of his world and her universe was far away. She got up quickly and was taken back when she realised that he had also risen and was reaching out to her. She felt his fingers at the end of her scarf and in that moment of sheer panic, she held on to the edges of the scarf, clasping them hard, unwilling to let the scarf slide off her head.

He did not want her to leave, they had been together for less than five minutes yet he felt a pull on his heartstrings that no other girl had been able to do so. But then, he knew how foolish and impossible that wish was, his heart was not his to give and even as he reached out to stop her, he immediately pulled his hand back, the brief hesitancy entangling his fingers in the tassels of her scarf.

She froze, 'he did not want her to stay, did he?' 

It was not fair, it would only give him a false hope that something was possible between them, which could never be. She was from a very different world and her life was not hers to live as she wished. She stayed still, not turning around even when she felt his fingers grasp the tassels of her scarf; she simply clutched the ends of the scarf tightly to prevent it from slipping from her head. In that few seconds of entanglement, time stood still along with them, neither willing to let go but knowing they could not stay.

He shook his head and gently tugged his fingers free and one of the tassels came loose. Free at last, the girl fled, unsure of what she would do if she stayed further, that makeshift bouquet clutched in her hands, carrying the image of his deep brown eyes with her. He continued to stare into the distance, long after she had disappeared, fingering that silk tassel and her wide astonished eyes imprinted on his heart.

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Kolkata, Present day

Sanskaar Ram Prasad Maheshwari stared at the bejewelled turban pin that he was convinced could double up as a murder weapon, especially given the way his mother kept waving it around agitatedly as she gave a final set of orders, yet again. He sighed as he took in the apparent chaos that seemed to reign around; his mother was determined that her son's wedding would be the talk of the decade, if not of the century. After all it was not every day that the heir to the Maheshwari Empire would get married.

His parents had very magnanimously declared that they would welcome any girl he married as long as it was a girl of their choice and he married before his thirtieth birthday. It had taken him more than two years to finally agree that the girl selected by his parents was a remarkable person and though he had not yet fallen in love with her, he liked her a lot. But then he had never expected to be married for love either, he had always known that he would be married to the person his family selected and was aware the girl selected would be more for the business connections she could bring rather than any personal compatibility that they could have. The married couple were expected to make the marriage work as surely as ensuring that the business alliance was profitable.

But he hoped to be as lucky as his brother was; Laksh had immediately fallen in love with his fiancée, Ragini Agarwal, daughter of another prominent business family and who were eagerly waiting for him to get married so that they could soon follow suit. Both the alliances had been determined to ensure that that Maheshwari Industries, which ruled the construction industry, could transform itself to a gigantic conglomerate with diversified interests.

He recalled when he had seen his fiancée for the first time; she was not at all what he expected; though he had actually not formed any firm expectations. She was soft spoken and carried herself with a gentle grace; a graceful woman with a petite frame and a clear head on her shoulders. She was smart, educated, free thinking and yet had submitted to her family's wishes when it came to the choice of the groom.

After a few meetings, as the initial diffidence gave way to a familiar comfort, Sanskaar had attempted to learn more about the woman he would have to marry. He appreciated the balanced amalgam of her traditional views and liberal thinking and admired the passion she had for her work. As time progressed, he realised that she was a wonderful person to be married to; if only...

He sat quietly at the wedding mandap, gazing at the havan fire which would bind him to her forever. Yet he was disturbed, he had promised himself that he would always love and be faithful to the woman he married, she deserved nothing less, but his heart seemed adamant. He shut his eyes, even as his hand closed over a frayed, faded silk tassel and his mind travelled down those misty paths which led to that now familiar pair of wide astonished doe shaped eyes.

Sanskaar had gone to Yuksom three years ago with Laksh and a few of their friends, for they had planned a trek along the Yuksom-Dzongri- Goecha La Pass. Belonging to the one of the most influential and successful business family had its advantages for they could secure the permissions very easily but Nature did not seem to be so benevolent. They had reached Yuksom to be met by monsoon rains and were advised against the trek as stretches of the trail would get extremely slippery and muddy. Landslides and lose rocks blocking the approach roads were also quite a common feature during the monsoons.

Laksh and the rest of his friends had taken the opportunity to simply relax though Sanskaar got tired of being cooped in the guesthouse. On the last day, he had convinced the guesthouse keeper to lend him a set of the traditional attire and decided to walk along the scenic trail leading to Labing, a village about three kilometres away and which promised to be a very quiet solitary journey. It had been a peaceful walk, until he had encountered a local girl and had been captivated by her eyes and who till date, refused to be forgotten.

He snapped to the present, wondering how he could keep thinking about that girl when he would soon be wed to another. And as he kept staring at the crackling flames, he had his moment of epiphany, he could never be true to his wife if he continued remembering that unknown girl. 'No,' he thought, 'she has no place in my life and cannot have a place in my heart, that belongs to my wife alone, however long it takes me, my wife will be the only one I will love.' 

He firmed his resolve and surreptitiously, when he was sure that no one was watching him, he gently slipped that faded silk tassel into the havan fire, watching the dancing flames devour the frayed threads. And just as suddenly, as though flames had eased an ache, he sat up straighter; it was with a clear conscience and a lighter heart that he awaited the entry of his bride.

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Swara Gadodia appeared to be calm and collected, unperturbed by the good-natured ribbing of her friends and cousins, as she sat admiring the intricate henna patterns that adorned her hands. The wedding dress was heavy and the jewellery she wore was stifling but she bore it with an inborn grace as befitted the heiress of the Gadodia Empire. She was blessed in many ways, despite being an only child, she had not been unduly pampered nor was her free spirit subdued by dictates of what society thought.

As the daughter of a man who had made a mark in the textile industry, she had always been fascinated by the history of fabric and the art behind the weaves. She had made a name for herself by designing and modelling her creations, which carried her trademark twist on the traditional patterns.

Her parents had been quite liberal in her upbringing, allowing her to pursue her academic passions and professional interests though they never shirked from letting her learn her duties and limits as well as her roles and responsibilities. The most important duty was marrying the man of her parents' choice and she was prepared for the same. And after she had met him, she had actually found him quite appealing. He was a good looking man, a well-travelled person who held liberal beliefs similar to what her parents did. She enjoyed spending time with him, his thoughtfulness and considerate behaviour endeared him to her.

And when she realised that he admired what she did and encouraged her to continue her professional pursuits even after marriage, she agreed to marry him. He was everything a girl could want, if one did not take into the consideration the fact that she did not love him. She believed in honesty in all her relationships but had lied to him once, when he had enquired if she had ever been to the north eastern states of India. She had simply shaken her head and quickly changed the topic, it had been an uncomfortable moment and she was thankful that he had proceeded as though he had not noticed the momentary discomfort on her face.

She had been to Sikkim, Labing to be more precise, as part of the project of bringing to light the lost traditional dresses of that part of the country. The morning following the day they had landed, she had decided to take some time off and on a whim dressed herself in the traditional Bhutia dress that would later form part of the photo-shoot. She loved that soft silken blouse, the heavy sleeveless brocade mo-kho, the silk sash that accentuated her tiny waist and finally the bright coloured leather boots. She had pondered over whether to wear the fur cap that formed part of the ensemble but finally decided to wear a tasselled silk scarf instead. Wrapped round her head, it hid her long hair and covered her complete hairline, rendering her absolutely unrecognisable. Swara had danced in glee, even if anyone chanced on her, she could pass off as a young Bhutia girl, as long as she did not open her mouth. Both her accent and lack of knowledge of the local language would pin her for the outsider she was.

She had quietly slipped out in the mists and walked to the stream they had noticed during the drive into Labing, hoping to be able to watch the sunrise in peace. And it had been a very tranquil sojourn till he had walked upon her. It was a chance meeting with a tall, brown eyed stranger who had stolen her heart in exchange for a bunch of small pink rhododendrons.

She suddenly reached out for her purse and carefully removed the small silk pouch she always carried with her. The pouch held a few dried flowers, a relic of a memorable meeting, one which would never be known to anyone. Swara had never modelled any of those dresses for the continuing rains had prevented the photo-shoot and she had subsequently discarded all those designs.

She was still holding those dried flowers, fisted in her palm, as her Dadi led her to the mandap. Swara's thoughts swirled around her and she wondered what she was doing. She liked her fiancé and enjoyed his company but then her heart would clamp down when she questioned herself as to why she could not love him. Her heart had only one answer, a faint picture of a tall handsome mountain youth, one who had eyes of the deepest brown she had ever seen, eyes that had lit up when he smiled.

When she neared the mandap, she suddenly realised that it was foolish to cling to that ephemeral dream, not when she was being married and would take her vows before the sacred fire that would bind her to her husband. A few steps away from the mandap, she made up her mind, she crushed those dried flowers and let the dusty remnants fall to the floor. It was with a very firm step that she trod over them and took her place beside her waiting groom, pledging herself completely to him and a sudden calming peace filled her.

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Sanskaar sat before the havan fire, the flames filling him with a lightness and joy and smiled when his bride was seated beside him. When their hands brushed, he grasped her fingers, tightening his hold around her small palm; none could see them hold hands, hidden as they were in the folds of her voluminous ghaghra. In that unspoken gesture he tried to convey what he should have told her much earlier, she would be the only one who would lay claim to his heart and soul.

Swara did not pull her hand away when her groom clasped it and smiled to herself when she realised their fingers were entwined, the heat from his hand now filled her with warmth. She did not care if anyone saw them thus, she simply tightened her hold and made a silent vow to love and cherish him. She would love him wholeheartedly and surrender herself completely; to the man selected by her family, the man chosen by destiny to be her husband, the scion of the Maheshwari Industries, Sanskaar Ram Prasad Maheshwari.

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A/N - notes in next part. The second tale, will be posted by end of day or maximum by tomorrow