When Maples Blush

By G.N. Reddy

Gunard Nagin, the main character in this book, is a complex character, romantic and cerebral. He lives his life in a constant state of war, torn between these polarizing states, until he discovers that this polarization is cultural and phenomenomical. He questions both Kierkegaard's and Nietzsche's ethical and aesthetic ideas. In the realization that both these ideas are bogus, he tries to live a life that he considers valid. In the course of which, he encounters three loves, from diverse backgrounds, which offer him a challenge in more ways than the reader could imagine.

There is Desire, who is demure and sensible. But when a hurtful thing happens to her, she falls back upon her tradition. There is Kaori, a Japanese woman planted in a foreign soil, who is willing to agree with the ideas of Gunard. But she was not willing to go all the way. And finally, there is Gabriella, a modern woman devoid of the Past, groping her way in a world that is stripped culturally bare by her own volition.

Would Gabriella offer the solution Gunard was seeking? Are these three women faithful to the past, present and future states? What does Gunard get from all this? Is aesthetic living a state of immediacy and ethical living a state of permanence? If we strip an event of its pastness, what ethical value would that event have? What does the birth of the girl, Nozomi, contribute to this drama? Is Gunard just a confused person?

For answers, read 'When Maples Blush' from cover to cover. In the process, enjoy the sweet and lyrical qualities of the book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 25, 2000
• ISBN: 9781469111650

G.N. Reddy

G. N. Reddy was born in Madras, India in 1961. Since 1983, he has been living abroad, mostly in the USA and Europe. He is a Scientist by profession, but he strongly believes in the redeeming qualities of both Science and Literature for humanity. His translation of the Sanskrit play, Shakuntala, by Kalidasa, into English language has been made available for free on the Internet. 'When Maples Blush' is his first novel. He is currently working on the second novel, 'What the Mynah Bird Told Me'. He lives in New York City with his wife, Ilonka Guenther.

Book preview

1      

A wristwatch chimed from behind his seat. It brought back the consciousness of time to his tiring ennui. Gunard reflexively looked at his watch. It was midnight. He glanced at the fellow passengers. Most of them were in a state of sleep or stupor.

He moved his body around within the narrow confines of his seat. He longed to be out of it. He looked out from the window; below, the lights of the city of Los Angeles glowed through a translucent mist. The propinquity of the destination offered him a sense of relief from the boredom.

The airplane began to descend. A flight attendant announced the arrival at the Los Angeles airport, as if it were a wake-up call for the passengers. There was a stir among the passenger and then a pandemonium ensued.

The plane landed smoothly; and as it taxied slowly on the wet runaway towards the terminal, the lights from the airport glowed brightly on that dark night.

As he exited the plane into the vestibule connected to the terminal, a whip of moist air blew across his face. It had been raining continuously for two days; though the rain stopped a while ago, the moisture lingered in the air. He walked unhurriedly towards the baggage claim area.

He boarded the plane in the morning. When it made a stop at New York, what should have been a brief stay became an extended one; and when it finally took off to Los Angeles, three solid hours had elapsed. The flight, his longest one, seemed endless. In that boredom of relative confinement, his mind wandered off into labyrinths of nostalgic memories.

He had not traveled much outside his home state. During his summer holidays, he went away to his parents’ vacation home up in the north, in the town of Willow, by the river, in the country. Occasionally his parents came with him for two weeks or so every season. Otherwise, he was absolutely free in the country to do anything he wanted. A neighbor looked after the house. He also kept the premises clean for a nominal wage. This saved Gunard from the chores of outside maintenance.

The liquid tones of the flowing river, the rustle of the leaves of oak trees, and the murmurs of birds of Willow had fascinated him. It was enough for him to spend many summers there. He cherished the open spaces of Willow. The solitude, which the nearby woods offered him, befitted his poetic soul, imparting to him an inner calm and a lugubrious character. Since Willow was just two hours drive by car from his home, his travels in the holidays did not extend very far.

Those summer days forged a destiny for him; there, he discovered the vocation of his life. He read voraciously. Anything he could lay his hands on, which led him eventually towards books of ideas. All these readings fascinated him and he became enamored at the prospect that human existence had such ponderous imponderables. He knew he wanted to be a philosopher.

In the evenings, there was not much to do in Willow. Often, he went to a quaint little tavern in the village, where he made new acquaintances or renewed his friendships of past summers. Occasionally, he played a game or two of pool. The simplicity of the people he met there, which almost bordered on being provincial except for the warmth of heart they displayed, had in some way touched him deeply.

As to his childhood, there was nothing much of importance to say. Perhaps, one could say that he had been through it under the affluent care of his parents. He had been brought up with all the possible and meticulous nourishment. They put him through a good school for what they considered a proper education. He enjoyed the security they provided. He did not question nor rebel against their way of raising him. He realized rather precociously that the ideas of his parents were theirs and not his, and he would grow to shed them off, if not completely at least in part. He did not let them know that he was critical of their ideas. After all, he thought, as long as he lived under their aegis, occasional parental restraints, redolent of love, ignorance and authority were necessary for the benefit of their psychology. These restraints were never detrimental to his growing up, as he never took them seriously. Everyone had their own illusions and notions of Right and Wrong, after all! However, one thing he made clear to them: since he was brought to this world by them, it was their primal duty to take care of him until he was able to support himself. He would not understand anything contrary to this. On occasions, he demanded such attention and made spectacles of himself. His rebellion did not go farther, though.

When he reached twenty years of age and graduated from the University with a degree in Philosophy and Journalism, he secured a job in Journalism in Los Angeles, which he needed to support himself while he pursued his graduate philosophy program at the University of California. Thus a course of life was laid out for him, at least for now, and he set out for Los Angeles.

The warmth and the security of the hearth he was leaving behind. Culture and traditions, which had been his guides until now, brought him to the crossroads of adulthood. He strongly believed that when one reached that fork of the road, one should entertain these cultures, traditions only romantically but not practically. They should cease to exist as realities but survive as memorable dreams of yesterdays. The mind should begin its function with a clean slate, as the teachers of Zen philosophy would say. He stood at that turn of the road, ready to travel the path he had chosen.

Madeleine, with whom he experienced joys of bouncing on stubble of wheat, with whom he had discovered the power of sensuality, with whom he had raced his heart to the point of exhaustion, he let go yesterday. For her, he would soon be a memory of summer love of youth. The memory of him would, perhaps, age in her mind, and dissolve one day. In him it left an impression as firm as a print of a ‘lion on the mountain grass,’ as Yeats put it eloquently.

Fall has come, my love; Reminiscing their summer past, Maples blush in all hues. The leaves flutter like my heart When the soft autumn wind blows.

During the flight, he reminisced his last moments with her. He remembered hugging her, softly caressing her sensuous hair at the back of the head, as she silently dropped tears. He remembered looking at her angelic face and her sorrowful eyes glistening with a blurry film of pain quivering with a message that he carefully ignored to notice. He remembered saying good bye to her and seeing her nymph like body with a voluptuous soul, which was until then a pivotal point of his living, slowly disappear into that gentle wintry night. He knew he would never see her again. A gentle flower danced itself to exhaustion with the winds of Time. A series of images passed quickly through his mind—sweet lyricism of tender age, he reassured himself.

When he got home that night, with the warmth of her embrace still fresh on his mind and his heart laden with a pervasive sadness, he was in no mood to listen to his parents, brothers and sisters. They wanted to talk to him repeatedly of the same things in different tones. There was diffidence, a certain excitement in their behavior. They knew that he would leave them the next day, and he would never be the same person again. They understood the inevitability; a part of their being would be lost forever. That impending laceration of their beings distressed them very much.

In the morning of his departure, they did not have time to talk more. He bid good-bye to them at the house, as his friend offered to drive him to the airport. They did not insist on accompanying him to the airport. They understood his dislike of the public spectacle of long good byes at the airport. A few hours later he was in the plane on his way to Los Angeles.

As he walked towards the baggage claim area, all these memories silently went into their hiding, as if the strangeness of the place demanded all the attention of his mind.

He came to the baggage claim area, and after collecting his baggage, he looked for Walter, who should have been there, given the delay in the arrival of the flight. H e was not there. As this was his first trip to Los Angeles, he requested Walter, whom he met at a party the year before, to receive him at the airport. Walter promised to come to the airport to receive him. Moreover, he volunteered to find him an apartment in Los Angeles. He did not fail to do that. So, he would not have reneged on Gunard unless there was a good reason. Perhaps, because of bad weather or uncertainty in the arrival of the plane, Walter had not come.

He began to feel a little weary and was hopelessly looking out for Walter. He was tired and slightly flustered. He surveyed the place one more time. Almost all the passengers of his flight had left. Only a few could be seen making telephone calls. He did not want to telephone Walter at that hour and decided to manage on his own. He wanted to stay in a nearby hotel until the morning.

It seems all services except those shuttle buses going to the parking lots were canceled for the weekend.

A fellow passenger, who had been watching him for a while, approached him. Perhaps he thought that Gunard was in some predicament.

Is it? A Friend of mine was supposed to pick me up. But he has not shown up. Gunard answered.

Are you new to Los Angeles?

Yes, this is my first trip.

Where do you have to go?

Sherman Oaks. You were saying there might not be any shuttle bus from here.

I would think so. Let me find out, for sure; if it is so, I can take you to Sherman Oaks. I parked my car here in the lot.

It’s very kind of you, replied Gunard.

He walked over to the nearest phone booth and made a call and after a while walked back to Gunard and said:

"Actually, a few shuttle buses are in operation. They might be willing to go to Sherman Oaks. You may have to wait a while, though. Since it is past midnight, I would advise against it. I am driving up