If only...

The envelope stared me in the face, brown and curled at its scalloped edges. I stared disbelievingly at the faded address scrawled across the surface in smeared blue ink. I recognised the handwriting. The hastily scribbled letters that were unmistakably hers.

It couldn't be...

I took a deep breath as I ripped open the weather-beaten envelope, not sure what to expect. A few photographs slipped out from within the folded sheets. I couldn’t bring myself to look at it…not yet. I picked the letter instead and unfolded the sheets.

Tuesday, 5th Jan, 2003, it read. Two months before she died. I felt an overpowering feeling of guilt take over as I braced myself for what lay ahead. Swallowing hard, I began reading her five-page letter.

The memories rushed back, bringing with it the heart-wrenching pain of losing someone you love. Her letters were always long, filled with details, complete with illustrations and doodles. Underlined sentences and different-coloured ink that reflected her mood.

There was no escaping the pain.

She spoke about her dreams, her plans to take a break from studies and go abroad for work. She wanted to travel, "experience what the world had to offer her".

She was only 22...

She asked me about my plans and chided me for not keeping in touch.

Girl, you should start connecting with the world again, she said.
Would you have called me if I had not written to you? she asked.
Why don’t you keep in touch?
Right now, I just want to talk someone, she had scribbled.

She sounded disturbed, like she was looking for some direction and had turned to me for help.

Could I have helped her out?

A horrible sense of guilt gripped me as I read on, unable to hold back the tears.

Have you changed? she asked.
I don’t know why, but I feel you’ve gone far away, she said. Her letters were shaky.

Had she been crying?

I couldn't go on. I picked up the photographs, its yellowing edges reminding me of how long we had been friends. Seven, long years….She had sent pictures of us in boarding school, sneaking in noodles for our midnight feasts, posing in our favourite David Duchovny T-shirts…memories that had been captured forever.

I was pulled back into an ocean of memories - knocked down, kept underwater - until I felt as though I could barely breathe; and then picked up again by a random wave and thrown back onto the shore, even more sad and lonely than I was before.

Give me a second chance, let me make it up to you…

She had called me just before that fateful day…

Do you have a minute? she whispered, her voice nervous and shaky.

I was busy, I said and promised to call her back….I never did find the time.

She died four days later.

If only I had called her back…

A tryst with God

Divine Intervention. That's what I needed.

Having reached a stage when I knew I needed nothing short of a miracle, I decided to visit the famous Jagannath temple at Puri.

Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't pray. It's just that I don't belong to the school of thought that believes faith is directly proportional to the number of visits you make to the temple.

Thus, I set off to meet the Almighty. On reaching the intimidating structure, I prepare to meet the all-equalising force that controls the universe, only to be confronted by big, bold

letters engraved at the entrance: `Only Hindus Allowed'.

OK, so I had fulfilled the first criterion.

I decide to start with the smaller temples. That's when I meet them.

Dressed in orange robes, with vermillion on their foreheads, the priests ask me if I need to be shown around (Read: paid to be given a guided tour).

Polite refusals don't go down very well. A firm `no' elicits nothing but further persistence.

At Temple 1: ``No, thank you, I don't need a tour,'' I say politely.

``Nahin chaiyen baba.''

``Bola, na nahin chahiyen.''

``Please leave me alone.'' (By this time, I've reached Temple 15 withTemple 2 to 14 passing me in a blur).

When I finally reach the main temple, albeit a bit breathless from running for my life, the only feeling is one of relief.

Inside, I realise that there are various vantage points from which one can offer prayers. I am among the privileged ones to be just two inches away from the idol (being bestowed with this honour after parting with a generous tip to the priest).

By some inane sense of logic that completely escapes me, I realise that the nearer you are to the idol, the better your chance at having your prayers answered.

Finally at the entrance of the room that houses Lord Jagannath, I heave a sigh of relief. Made it. Having slayed my share of priests and pesky beggars, it's now only the Lord and me.

``Ouch!' Hey Mister, watch where you're going," I yelp at a stranger who stamps my toes.

But before he knows the damage he has caused, I'm swept into the dark, imposing room by a tide of devotees.

Hordes of strangers. Thousands of them. Pushing, heaving, all eager to reach out to the idol, for that one touch. The room is a mass of confusion, a fusion of noises, prayers, beseeching, religious advice.I began to wonder if I'd reach the Lord before I died of asphyxiation or was killed in a stampede.

But I didn't have to think too hard.Before I knew it, I was swept in the direction of what I fervently hoped was Lord Jagannath.

Two minutes and three crushed toes later, I find myself in front of Him.

``Dear God,'' I begin.

``Hurry up, will you?'' cuts in a rude voice.

``Move over'' says another, as he usurps my moment of glory with the Lord.

``But...but...'' I sputter, realising that I had not even reached para two of my 15-page soliloquy.

Knowing I cannot not let this opportunity pass, I do away with my reverence and try regaining my vanquished position only to be tossed aside by other covetous suitors.

Defeated by the adversaries of silent rumination with the Lord, I return home, miserable.

Sitting on my bed that night, I realise this was as close as I was ever going to get to the Lord.

Knowing this was as good a time as any, I begin...

``Dear God...''