Walked Away with My Soul: Love. Separation. Endurance

By Fredy Ilaviya

Married at a tender age of 21, Maya spends 13 fruitless years with Aadhiren who continues to abuse her physically, sexually and financially.
Then one day she comes in contact with Aman - an honest and upright man from her city. Tired of his sullen married life, Aman befriends her. Sparks fly off and they enter in a relationship of platonic love till Mayas husband finds this out.
He beats, abuses and maligns her socially. After three months, Maya leaves everything and comes to Aman.
Will Aman accept her now? Will they stay together? Or will their love be subdued by Amans ego?


WALKED AWAY WITH MY SOUL is a gripping tale set in a small town of India. Heartbreaking, though motivating, this book takes you through some of the finest and worst moments from the limited days spent by Aman and Maya.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing India
• Release date: Jan 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781482868067

Fredy Ilaviya

Fredy is an upcoming author from Mumbai, India. His debut novel, Walked Away with My Soul, is one of those novels which you must read before you die. Having a penchant for writing, Fredy is inclined towards writing mesmerizing fiction with something for everyone to learn. He is an active member on social platforms like Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. Fredy is a strong supporter of suffering women and plans to liberate them from their sufferings through his writings.

Book preview

© 2016 by Fredy Ilaviya.

ISBN:     Softcover            978-1-4828-6807-4

               eBook                   978-1-4828-6806-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Print information available on the last page.

Partridge India

000 800 10062 62

[e-mail]

www.partridgepublishing.com/india

Contents

Acknowledgements

Foreword by the author

Prologue

Disclaimers

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Glossary

About the Author

This book is dedicated to the relationship of platonic love, though fictitious, between Aman and Maya.

Acknowledgements

Arzan Amaria. Assisted me during my research before the writing process. He also undertook extensive online promotion of this book and continues to do it even today.

Lokesh Chaudhary. First person to read the raw copy of this book and give his valuable feedback which enabled me to refine the language of this book further.

Janet D’Souza. Motivated me throughout this project.

Pankaj Duttgupta. Assisted me to enhance the vocabulary of this book.

Hufriz Dutiya. Continually asked me, ‘How many chapters have you finished writing?’

Nitigna Bhavsar. Familiarized me with the nuances of Gujarati culture portrayed in this novel.

Deepak Chaturvedi. Had a conviction in me that I can ‘write’.

Siddharth Pardhe (author of his autobiography ‘Colony’). Convinced me to ‘write with a purpose’.

Manoj, Zara, Abhimanyu and their team of experts and artists from IMX Studios. Designed a world-class video teaser for worldwide promotion of this book online.

Racel Cruz and Jake Rivers, my Senior Publishing Consultants from Partridge Publishing House, Bloomington. Helped me with all the procedures before publishing this novel.

Kathy Lorenzo, my Publishing Services Associate from Partridge Publishing House, Bloomington. Assisted me in each and every step during and after the publication of this novel and gave it an international reach.

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Above everyone else…….. you, who chose to read this book and enrich your life.

Foreword by the author

They say, every fiction is a story and every story is a fiction.

In a developing country like India where corruption, population and pollution have taken their permanent place, there is hardly any time for anybody to think about one of the most neglected topics of the women of our country – their fear. This story deals with the nuances of relationship of platonic love between two people who are unfortunately married to different people. While most of you would look at this relationship as a cheesy extramarital affair, it is one of those few relationships which can make a person sacrifice his life for a glimpse of it.

India houses a large number of suffering housewives and this book is no testimony to it. Crimes like rape, molestation, dowry deaths and acid attacks adorn the newspapers almost every day. A deep introspection to all these women-oriented crimes zeroes in to only the fear factor in women. If the entire womenfolk stands against the atrocities laid down on them, more than half the offenses can be stopped even before they take place. It is only a matter of gathering some courage to oppose the misconducts of the male chauvinists of the society. Rest will follow in its own stride, I’m sure.

I do not admonish in any way that women ought to be violent or abusive at all times. Self-control and diffidence are their real possessions. But shunning them at the cost of useless fear won’t do any good to them. This work of mine is a sincere attempt and a result of months of hard work and research to abolish the ever-existing fear from the minds of women.

After reading this book, even if one lady disengages herself from her fear and liberates from her sufferings, I’ll consider writing this book my personal success.

Welcome to Walked Away With My Soul, a fictional love story inspired by true incidents.

Prologue

Love is the most wonderful feeling we ever experience in life. It is an unmatched assortment of emotions ranging from care, affection, anger, jealousy, fear and torment to name a few. It’s simply amazing to know how human heart can process all these emotions simultaneously when one is in love. Or let me correct myself, when one is in ‘true’ love.

This story deals with Aman and Maya, two married people with hopeless married lives who come in contact with each other through a social networking site. And as destiny would have it, sparks fly off, cementing their bond and deepening their relation with time… to the extent of giving up their shattered households to build a new nest of their own.

This book takes you through a lot of incidents that take place once their love is ‘established’, atleast in their own purview. But this being the east and society at large, it’s not going to be easy for them to realise their dreams that they saw together.

Though most people view their platonic love as a stupid influence engine, Aman and Maya rise to newer heights with every passing incident they go through, good or bad. While Maya is a timid and fearful lady who always keeps her dreams and happiness at bay in the fear of her cruel and jobless husband, Aman is a valiant and bold man who always preaches and practices the mantra – marry your love; don’t love your marriage if it isn’t worth it.

Will Aman and Maya unite in the end? Will their struggle to lead a happier life fructify? Will they outshine all the social oppositions and march on to set an example for others?

Disclaimers

All characters, places, incidents portrayed and the names used in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to the names, characters, places, dates or events is purely coincidental and unintentional. This book is not intended to harm, hurt or cause disrepute to any individual, group of individuals or community.

There are references to certain temples, places, a university, an old age home, an NGO and a police station in this novel. It may be noted that they are included after much deliberation to aid storytelling and sustain the originality of the backdrop of this book.

A reference is made in context to legal polygamy practiced in the Islam community. With due respect to the community, its followers and the marriage practice thereof, it has been included in this book solely for the purpose of storytelling.

At some instances there is mention of black magic, witchcraft and wizardry. While it may be noted that it had to be included in the book as per the demand of the script, no personal opinion is laid down by either the author or the publisher. Also, we fully respect the practice of wearing taavij by certain people of diverse communities as their belief.

1.

‘OK ma’am, all your paper formalities are done with. I’ll dispatch all the documents to our head office tomorrow for their final scrutiny,’ I said to Mrs. Daruwala. I was at her bungalow.

‘I guess I should leave now; need to meet another client in Mumbai tomorrow morning’, I continued as I checked my watch. It showed 4:50 PM. Mrs. Daruwala was the widow of one of the stake owners of my company. She stayed in Valsad, a town in southern Gujarat and lived all alone in her ancestral six thousand square feet bungalow off the sea coast at Tithal after her husband’s demise. I was summoned by my Mumbai office to complete some paperwork of her husband’s pending funds in my company.

‘But it’s raining very heavily Fredy. How will you reach Mumbai? All the trains will be late by atleast three to four hours, mind you. Some may be even cancelled. Look outside, it’s pouring cats and dogs!’ Mrs. Daruwala said.

I had already taken a sabbatical to go for an outing with my family some days back. I had to move off to Mumbai as my entire holiday quota for the running quarter was exhausted. It was raining very heavily since morning. But I decided to go as I had lined up my client meeting at nine in the morning the next day.

‘I’ll have to move under any circumstances ma’am. I have to reach Mumbai. Need to catch any train which goes to Mumbai. I’ll be fine,’ I said.

‘OK dear. Go safely,’ Mrs. Daruwala reluctantly agreed. ‘God bless you. And listen, if you aren’t able to make it, come straight here. I’ll arrange the guest room for you for tonight,’ a modest Mrs. Daruwala said.

‘Thanks ever so much ma’am,’ I said as I picked up my bag and umbrella. Bidding farewell to her, I proceeded for the railway station.

To my dismay, six auto rickshaw drivers refused to drop me to the station due to heavy rain. Somehow, protecting myself and my bag from the over-slanting downpour with my medium-sized umbrella, I managed to walk a little ahead. Finally I got an auto for the station. Taking full advantage of the heavy rain and my desperation to catch a train, the auto driver settled in for eighty rupees, which was almost two and a half times the actual fare. Maneuvering his three-wheeled baby carefully, he managed to drop me at Valsad railway station with relative ease.

*     *     *

Valsad railway station is a typical Indian railway station. Extra-long queues at the ticket windows, leaky roofs and platforms swarming with people, half of them either sitting or lying on the floor make it look like a typical railway station of any developing nation. I alighted from my auto and made quick steps towards the ticket queue. Amidst all the crowd and push of the people, I could manage a ticket after standing for almost forty five minutes in the queue!

I checked my watch – it showed 5:50 PM. The indicator displayed the details of train number 59010, Bharuch – Virar Shuttle which was scheduled for departure at 6:05 PM from platform no - 1. Luckily the train was there on the platform, but it was overcrowded. People inside were struggling for every square inch of space. Moreover, it being a daily shuttle that would halt at all stations, there were mostly labourers, vegetable vendors and vernacular school and college students in it. Hence I decided to skip it. I went to the enquiry window to find out about further trains going to Mumbai. He held out a sheet to me which showed the timings of all the trains going towards Mumbai in the evening and onwards. It read like this:

Train no: 59010 Bharuch – Virar Shuttle. Departs at 06:05 PM

Train no: 19452 Gandhidham – Bandra Terminus weekly (Thu). Departs at 07:29 PM

Train no: 59048 Surat – Virar passenger (Unreserved). Departs at 07:58 PM

Train no: 16209 Ajmer – Mysore (Fri & Sun). Departs at 08:23 PM

Train no: 16507 Bengaluru (Bhagat Ki Kothi; Thu & Sat). Departs at 08:23 PM

Train no: 16531 Ajmer – Bengaluru (Garib Nawaz Express; Mon). Departs at 08:23 PM

Train no: 16533 Kothi – Bengaluru City Express (Wed). Departs at 08:23 PM

Train no: 11087 Veraval – Pune (Ahimsa Express; Sat). Departs at 09:21 PM

Train no: 11089 Jodhpur – Pune (Bhagat Ki Kothi; Tue). Departs at 09:21 PM

Train no: 11091 Bhuj – Pune (Ahimsa Express; Wed). Departs at 09:21 PM

Train no: 11095 Ahmedabad – Pune (Ahimsa Express; Thu). Departs at 09:21 PM

Train no: 59442 Ahmedabad – Mumbai Central Passenger. Departs at 11:20 PM

Train no: 19020 Dehradun – Bandra Terminus. Departs at 11:53 PM

As it was a Thursday, I had just around five to six options, Gandhidham – Bandra Terminus Express being the next train for me. The giant, round platform clock ticked 6:00 PM indicating that the train was one and a half hours away. I decided to wait in the waiting room located next to the station master’s office on platform no - 1. I entered it only to discover that it already contained twelve people. There were only ten chairs surrounding an oblong wooden table of the pre-independence era. I spotted two extra people seated on their luggage. How typical!

VIP suitcases are multifunctional, I must say.

I entered the room and stood in one corner. Some of the people were half asleep; some were playing games on their smartphones while the others were simply staring at me as if I were a Hollywood celebrity. The rain was going from bad to worse – tracks were beginning to disappear, trains were running behind time and it was getting unusually darker before time. After standing there for almost thirty minutes, there was an announcement that all the trains going towards Mumbai were delayed indefinitely. A whirl of disappointment swayed by everybody’s faces. Some disgruntled passengers who had been sitting in the waiting room for over two hours got up to talk to the station master. Within no time, almost all the passengers going towards Ahmedabad and Mumbai decided to go back home. For no reason I thought I should wait back. Maybe I can get any train by midnight for Mumbai, I thought.

It started raining heavier; I could see this from the background of platform no - 3 which is the eastern side of Valsad. Trees swayed from side to side as the wind got nastier. I also heard people talking about auto drivers refusing to ply any distances, long or short and shopkeepers downing their shutters before time. By around 6:45 PM, more than nine-tenths of the passengers had left the station! My waiting room had only me, an old couple and a man, in his mid-30s waiting.

A little while later a teenager came and took the old couple back home. Perhaps he was their grandson. As there was only one man present in the waiting room who was in no hurry to go, unlike others, I decided to start a conversation with him to pass my time. I anyways had to catch any train to Mumbai. And as all the trains were announced indefinitely delayed, I had all the time in the world to idle away.

‘Hi! I’m Fredy. Fredy Ilaviya,’ I said to him, extending my hand for a handshake.

‘Aman Makwana’ he said after a firm handshake.

‘Going to Mumbai?’

‘Yes. What about you?’

‘Yup. Mumbai.’

‘I doubt we’ll get any train tonight,’ he said after a ten-second silence.

‘Hmm… looks like. I went through the entire time table of evening trains for Mumbai. Some are once a week, some twice, while the rest run daily. If only I can get an express train and not a shuttle or a passenger…’

‘Bapu ni gaadi,’ Aman said.

‘Huh! What? What’s that...?’ I wondered.

‘In Gujarat, shuttles and passenger trains are often called bapu ni gaadis.’

‘Why so?’ I asked.

‘Because they halt at almost all stations,’ he said and smiled.

‘Oh I see!’

Minutes slipped by, as our conversation went ahead. We discussed quite a few things with each other. Right from the current market scenario to Bollywood to appointment of Shri Narendra Modi as our new prime minister – we discussed quite a few stuff.

Then came the topic of marriage.

I could clearly see Aman’s face fall. His expression suddenly changed from normal to a grievous one. His smile disappeared all of a sudden and, I don’t know why, but he looked straight into my eyes and asked me one simple question, ‘Have you ever been in love?’

‘Yes!’ I said, somewhat surprised. ‘I love my wife a lot.’ I couldn’t come up with a better answer.

I could see his eyes were moist, though not completely. He looked down to avoid eye contact.

‘Hey… what happened man?’ I asked.

He just shook his head, then looked outside the door. Probably he recollected something very pungent from his past life. I couldn’t understand what to say next.

‘What happened?’ I asked him gently.

He smiled, though faintly. Slightly tapping his hand on mine, he asked me, ‘Fredy all the trains are announced to be indefinitely delayed. Almost all the passengers have gone home. But still we are sitting here. Why?’

I found it a little unusual that he tapped my hand. But ignoring that, I bounced his question back to him. ‘Why?’

‘Because we were destined to meet. Do you believe in destiny?’

‘Yes. But only to a certain extent. I believe in karma more’ I said.

‘OK’.

‘I guess you wanted to tell me something. You did not just mention about our destinies for nothing. Am I right?’

He nodded.

‘So tell me. If you would like to share it with me, I am open to listen to it. We have all the time in the world.’

‘How much do you love your wife?’ he asked after a five-second silence.

Now that was an interesting question!

How much do I love my wife, eh? Well, I had an arranged marriage. So just like others, I too slog out the whole day to run my family. Maybe I do not spend quality time with my wife, but that’s how life is. I just have an ordinary marriage life.

‘I love her the way and to the extent I should be loving her’. I answered his question as simplistically as possible.

‘Can you donate your kidneys if she asks you to?’

‘What? What kind of a question is that?’ I said, somewhat irritated more than surprised.

He grinned. But something was going on in his mind; I sensed that. Maybe he wanted to open up before me, but somehow, wasn’t able to.

Curiosity took the better of me. I shook my irritation away and went to sit next to him. There were only two of us in the waiting room. It had a tube light, partially covered with cobwebs, and a ceiling fan rotating slower than a giant wheel. There was practically no one on either of the platforms because of which we could only hear the lashing of heavy rains from outside, swaying of trees in the wind and some occasional murmurs from the neighboring station master’s office.

‘Tell me Aman. It seems you want to vent out something which is disturbing you. Vomit out everything,’ I said as I realised that a strange kind of connection was being formed between him and me.

He gave a sigh and again looked outside the door towards the swaying trees in the dark behind platform no - 3. I understood that he was readying himself to tell me the most secretive thing of his life.

I kept looking at him, all ready to listen.

‘Can I arrange for some tea for both of us?’ he asked, a bit hesitatingly.

It was close to 7:30 PM. I, a Mumbaikar, open a can of Kingfishers draught beer around this time! But I realised that I was sitting in Gujarat along with a Gujarati man. Gujaratis love tea. No, they indulge in tea. I only wonder they don’t start bathing with tea – they sip cups and cups of tea throughout the day, sarcasm excused!

‘I’ll bring it, wait a moment,’ I said, getting up to go to the platform eatery (technically termed as Rail Ahar for any railway station in India).

I stepped outside the waiting room. The platform was unusually empty and fully wet. The tracks were completely submerged in the rain waters by now. Somehow balancing myself and managing not to skid, I reached the Rail Ahar stall and brought two full cups of masala chai and a packet of Good Day biscuits. I guess any conversation would go endless with hot tea and biscuits, especially on a rainy day.

‘Thanks Fredy,’ he said with a slight smile. His eyes were slightly moist and red. Maybe he wept while I was away. But I didn’t pay heed to his eyes. All I wanted was to listen to him.

My watch showed 7:45 PM.

‘Love is the most beautiful thing in a person’s life. But the same love has proved to be a more-than-death experience for me. An experience which I shall never forget till I die. Not even after I die. Three of my most memorable days have been passed with a woman. But three of my most painful days have also been passed with the same woman Fredy,’ he said, his voice a bit intrepid now.

‘I am listening Aman,’ I said, looking right inside his eyes.

Dipping a biscuit in his teacup, he started to narrate some of the most memorable and equally painful days of his life amidst an unforgettable love story of his.

That night Aman told me his entire story. Though there are many characters in this story, important and trivial, I have decided to tell this story to you by Aman’s eyes as I rightly feel he is the protagonist here. All the incidents and the connected people, well, let us hear it from Aman.

2.

August 2012 | Valsad, Gujarat

I was a very active member on Facebook. I had scores of friends on my friend list, most of them being my school friends. We had recently shifted to Valsad from Mumbai as my mother was advised to reside in a lesser polluted area by her doctor.

I had a disgruntled married life right from the beginning. There was no traction between me and my wife, even after we were blessed with a child. My and my wife’s attitudes were on the opposite poles of the globe, with her bearing a very different temperament than me. As such, we used to stay together – I, she, our son and my mother. But never did it happen, even once, that a bond of love got established between me and her. Maybe it was a wrong selection by both of us to choose each other as spouse. It was an arranged marriage. I used to travel to Mumbai daily for work, leaving my house at around 6:20 in the morning and returning only by 6:00 in the evening. As it was a new city for me, I had no friends in Valsad. So whatever time I had, I used to either spend it with my son or be on Facebook.

*     *     *

One fine evening I had logged in on Facebook. Suddenly, a woman pinged me. As she could ping me, I realised she must be my Facebook friend. She was none other than Maya. Maya Desai. A woman, who in due course of time, owned me.

Maya: Hi!

Me: Hey!

Maya: So… after so many days you are talking to me, eh?

Me: Huh….! I mean… I don’t even know when we became friends on Facebook.

Maya: Oh! So busy you are……

Me: Na na… nothing like that. I just said it casually. No offence.

Maya: It seems you are put up in Valsad; one of your earlier statuses says that.

Me: Yeah, I am. How about you?

Maya: Yes. Me too, from Valsad.

Me: Lovely!

Maya: OK gotta go now. Dinner time. Good night. Nice talking to you.

That was the first conversation between me and Maya. After that day, we started to chat once every four days, then every two days, then almost every day on Facebook. I don’t know why, but I guess the distance between us kept decreasing with every passing day. We never spoke to each other over the phone as we had not exchanged our mobile numbers till then.

One rainy Sunday afternoon, we were casually chatting on Facebook when I, on a very general note, asked her about her married life. Perhaps my sober language made her tell me the truth.

Me: Maya, tell me about your household. How many kids do you have… where do you work… what does your husband do…?

I think I had asked her too much at one go.

I waited for her response. For around fifteen minutes she did not reply, though I could see she was logged in.

Suddenly a big message flashed on my screen.

Maya: Long ago, there lived four birds. One mummy-bird, one papa-bird and their two baby-birds. They lived very happily and loved each other very much. It was a close-knit family. As time flew by, both the baby-birds grew up cozily with good virtues instilled in them. The elder bird got married. In a due course of time, the younger bird also got married at a tender age of 21. She never knew what kind of a person she got married to, she just held his hand and came from her nest to his. Slowly, the bird realised that all her dreams and aspirations were crushed under her husband’s feet. Her husband treated her like any other furniture; he was extremely short tempered and would often resort to violence. Somehow till today, the younger bird is managing to stay in the nest built by her husband. That is all about me Aman.

I don’t know why but I was expecting a similar kind of reply from Maya. Maybe because a happily married woman won’t chat with another man so often. I could sense that she was also sailing in the same boat as mine – a flustered family life with no love quotient for each other.

After this message of Maya, I began to think more about her. I never thought whether I was right or wrong. I just did it. Heterosexuality, perhaps, was creeping in my being.

*     *     *

A few days later…

I was in my office when amidst my bank paperwork my phone rang. It was a call from an unknown mobile number. I answered it. ‘Hello…?’

‘Hello, is that Aman Sir?’ It was a lady’s voice.

‘Who’s that…?’ I asked. I have a habit of confirming the identity of an unknown caller before confirming myself.

‘Sir it’s me… Dolly,’ she said.

‘Dolly… I don’t know any Dolly! Who are you?’

Whenever any female calls me, I am more than austere.

‘Sir, Dolly… you forgot…? OK leave it. So tell me, are we meeting near the ST depot this evening?’

‘Huh… what…? Are you insane? Do you even know whom you are talking to?’ I sternly said and disconnected the call.

I narrated this incident to Maya during our next Facebook chat session. She didn’t talk about it neither she was surprised to the degree she should have been. This all the more surprised me!

Days went by. We came closer to each other; maybe we were more than friends by now. Whenever we got time, we used to chat on Facebook and share trivial things and incidents. In a way, we were habituated of each other.

Kelve Road… huff… still around two hours to reach Valsad, I said to myself as my train passed through Kelve Road, a small town in Palghar district. I was on my way back to home from office. As I crossed Palghar station, my cellphone rang. It was an unknown number, probably the same number from which Dolly had called up a few days back.

‘Hello,’ I said, a little loudly and angrily.

‘Hello Aman Sir?’ a lady asked.

‘Who’s this?’ I asked, despite knowing that it was the same lady’s voice.

‘Sir I’m Dolly. You remember, we once met in Mumbai?’

Now that was the end of it. Forget about meeting, I didn’t even know any female by the name Dolly. I just couldn’t understand who she was. I kept the conversation going.

‘Oh Mumbai… so we met in Mumbai, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK so in which part of Mumbai did we meet?’ I interrogated less like a civilian and more like a crime branch official now.

‘Mumbai, Aman Sir. We met in Mumbai. Don’t you remember?’

‘Mumbai is a huge city, correct? So if we have met in Mumbai, you should know where in Mumbai we met. Right?’ I said.

She was a bit silent. Perhaps, she did not have any answer to this question of mine.

‘I don’t know where in Mumbai we have met, but we have met. That’s for sure,’ she said.

‘Enough is enough. Look, lady, whoever you are, stop calling me. One complaint and you will land yourself in trouble, do you understand? ’ I said.

Before she could respond to this, the line got disconnected due to poor network. I wondered how I could speak to her even that much, considering that I was travelling in a fast train passing through a rural area which usually has poor or no cellphone network!

The same night I narrated this incident to Maya whilst being on our routine Facebook chat of 8:00 PM. She didn’t participate much in this topic, rather she tried to avoid talking about Dolly. Women indulge in gossiping, hence I expected at least a dozen questions from her about that phone call, but she didn’t ask anything. It baffled me, but I didn’t react.

By the end of the month we were very close to each other. No one knows when, but a soft corner for each other was developed by now. I knew what I was doing. Probably, even she knew. We were married to different people. We were having a kid each. But the degrees to which our individual married