Our Love Story

By Rohit Sharma

Veronica is done. Done trying to make it as a model. Done with getting sexually harassed by casting directors. And done seeing her mother struggle to provide for her family. Tonight, everything ends. She teeters over the edge of the parapet, imagining how the cold water of the Arabian Sea will take her breath away when she drowns. And then, she is stopped. By a man with an endearing smile and a guitar strapped to his back. Enter Aditya Bakshi. Aditya is the son of a filthy rich business tycoon, who lives each day like it' s his last. He seems to have it all, but behind his happy-go-lucky persona, he is hiding a painful secret. Both feel that they can' t be together. But will that stop them from falling in love? Our Love Story is a sensitive, romantic, and motivating story about selfless love and intricate relationships— an inspiring tale of love and heartbreak, hope and hopelessness, friendship and hatred, smiles and tears. Rohit' s stories are readymade for movies.' Hindustan Times Romantic. Motivating. Inspiring.' The Times of India

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fingerprint Publishing
• Release date: Jan 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9789389931969

Book preview

Prologue

22ND FEBRUARY 2015, 11:00 A.M.,

LONAVALA, MAHARASHTRA, INDIA

Veronica lit a matchstick and brought it close to the wick of a blue candle, which she was holding in her left hand. The bright yellow, lambent flame reflected brilliantly in her almond-shaped black eyes as she carefully placed the candle on the candle-stand, which was kept in front of the lively idol of Lord Jesus. She then lit another matchstick and ignited a small brass lamp, which was filled with clarified butter and was kept in front of a colourful idol of Lord Krishna. Sitting in the prayer room of her modest 2 BHK house in Tungarli, Lonavala, she made a cross sign over herself and then folded her hands together, closed her eyes, and prayed to the Almighty.

After offering her morning prayers, she strolled back to her bedroom. Her shoulder-cut washed hair was safely tied in a pink towel, and she was wearing an orange, full-sleeve sweatshirt, teamed with a floral-printed, white palazzo. From the lone window of her room, she glanced outside and found everything submerged in dense fog. The innocuous sun was hidden somewhere in the grey sky, and the temperature was hovering around five degrees centigrade. It was a gelid morning, but the weather department had assured a balmy afternoon. Though she never trusted their prediction, she knew it was her special day . . . and she was looking forward to it.

As she sauntered towards her bed, her gaze fell over a small bottle of Thyroxine Sodium .25 mcg tablets, which was kept atop a wooden bedside table. She picked up the bottle, opened it, took out two tablets, and went to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water. Her weight had abnormally proliferated from fifty-seven kilos to eighty-one kilos over the last one year. She had finally met a doctor last week, who had advised her to have a blood test. When the report came, the doctor informed her that she was suffering from Hypothyroidism, and her thyroid stimulating hormone level was 16.7, which was threateningly beyond the safe limit.

It was her thirty-fifth birthday, but she easily looked someone who was in her late forties. Hair with streaks of early whites, dark circles of hollowness around her otherwise beautiful eyes, premature wrinkles and chubbiness veiling her attractive cheekbones, unkempt nails with patches of maroon nail paint, extra flab around her abdomen, thighs, arms and cheeks, completely in contrast to how she used to look eleven years ago . . . She was aging gracelessly, much before time.

After taking her medicine, she returned to her bedroom and sat down at the edge of her bed, on which a pink, leaf-printed bedsheet was neatly spread. Her eyes once again travelled to the bedside table. A mid-sized album was kept beside the bottle of her medicine. Her lips curved into a sweet smile. She had seen that album umpteen times, and every time a heavy downpour of chaste emotions had drenched her completely. She wore her rimless oval spectacles, picked up the album, and tenderly ran her hand over the cover which had an image of two lilies and a small caption—My Bundle of Happiness.

She rested her back against the backrest, stretched her legs out in front, crossing them at her ankles, and lost herself in the most treasured moments of her life. Every photograph, like a time machine, took her back in her past. Every picture vividly brought back innumerable memories. Beautiful. Painful. Poignant. Priceless.

Albums preserve memories. They take us back to our past, back to those unforgettable memories which we want to live forever. And Veronica was breathing those memories all over again.

The time was now 11:15 a.m.

Forgetting everything that was planned for the day, she was immersed in the magical aura of her past. But, suddenly, two teenaged sisters from her neighbourhood excitedly stormed into her room and broke her reverie.

Happy birthday, Aunt VJ! the sisters cheerfully wished her.

Veronica looked at Akanksha, the elder, taller, and leaner of the two girls, and then at her younger sister, Anwesha. A smile brightened the wrinkles around her eyes and lips. She kept the album aside, while the two sisters hurried towards her and they all lovingly embraced each other.

Thank you so much for the wishes. Veronica affectionately kissed their foreheads. She then carefully looked at both of them, who were dressed in an identical pink chiffon gown, with a satin sash around its waist. Their presence had filled the room with a floral fragrance of their perfumes.

Wow! she exclaimed with childlike enthusiasm. You both look stunning!

Thanks, Aunt VJ. Anwesha was bustling with excitement. But why aren’t you ready? We’re getting late already. She sounded surprised.

It’s almost 11:30, added Akanksha, glancing at her stone-studded wristwatch.

Veronica’s lips once again curved into a smile. She had known them for the last ten years, from the day she had shifted to Lonavala. Akanksha was five years old at that time, while Anwesha was just three. They had lost their parents in a tragic car accident while returning from Pune, six days after Anwesha was born. And since then they have been living with their maternal grandparents. Veronica, who did not have her own baby, showered motherly love onto the two sisters, who reciprocated with equal love and care. As the days slowly transformed into years, their mother-daughter bonding only grew stronger and healthier.

Some relations God decides for us, while some we choose for ourselves. And, sometimes, the relations we choose for ourselves prove far more loving, happier, and stronger than our blood relations. The pious bond between Veronica and the two girls did not warrant any name. But it had all the love and purity of this world. Veronica loved them like her own daughters, and the girls respected and loved her like their own mother.

Oh! Now I know why you aren’t still ready! Anwesha winked, picking up the album. She had a cute smile on her round, chubby face.

Akanksha’s smile widened too.

This album is my bundle of happiness, just like you two. Veronica once again fondly hugged Akanksha and Anwesha.

We’re so happy for you, Aunt VJ, expressed Akanksha, smiling and wrapping her slender arm around her. We know you since our childhood. We’ve seen your struggle, your patience and perseverance, and your belief in God. Today is an important day for you, and for all of us who love you.

Tears welled up Veronica’s eyes, but she did not let them break free. Over the years, she had made herself stronger to keep her vulnerable tears away from her brave eyes.

So, today, we will help you to get ready, chirped Akanksha.

Yes, Aunt VJ, Anwesha, too, chirped excitedly.

Veronica smiled again, wiped her eyes, and once again kissed their foreheads.

And, Aunt VJ, Akanksha added, while opening the wooden closet to take out Veronica’s dress, today you have to tell us your love story.

You’ve narrated so many stories to us since our childhood, Anwesha coaxed, making an adorable face. Today we want to listen to your story.

But we’re getting late—

No excuse, Aunt VJ, Akanksha sweetly cut off Veronica’s reply in between.

Please, please, please, Aunt VJ! Anwesha beseeched, feigning a sad look, while clutching Veronica’s left forearm. You can’t say no to us today. We want to listen to your love story.

Okay. Veronica blushed.

Yay! Both Akanksha and Anwesha deliriously raised their arms up in the air.

But it’s not ‘My Love Story.’

Then? Akanksha and Anwesha looked at each other, nonplussed.

Veronica smiled, and added, It’s ‘Our Love Story.’

1

An Unusual Meeting

ELEVEN YEARS AGO, 11:50 P.M.,

27TH APRIL 2004, MUMBAI

Aditya Bakshi switched off the air conditioner of his white Honda Accord sedan and rolled down the glass window, as he drove on the brightly lit, golden arc of Mumbai—the Marine Drive. Midnight was approaching, settling everything into tranquillity. The salty whiff of the magnanimous Arabian Sea filled his nostrils and the invigorating breeze bathed his visage as he crossed the Wankhede Cricket Stadium and continued towards the iconic symbol of Mumbai—The Gateway of India. He was returning from Juhu after having a late night dinner at Dharmesh Johari’s swanky bungalow. Dharmesh was his mother’s elder brother, and he fondly called him DJ Uncle. Though he was feeling groggy, he did not want to go home. Like every year, he wanted to welcome the most special, yet haunting, day of his life in solitude.

Younger son of Vikramjeet Bakshi, a tycoon in telecom industry, Aditya was twenty-five years old. With a bony frame, wheatish complexion, oblong face, unattractive features, and a mediocre height of five-feet-seven-inches, he was certainly not the one who could hold someone’s gaze. But one quality that often separated him from the rest was his genial smile, which seldom left his countenance, no matter how the situation was, no matter what life threw at him.

Aditya lost his mother, Meera Bakshi, moments after he was born. The sudden demise of his beloved wife had devastated Vikramjeet, and the tragic incident sowed a seed of hatred for Aditya in his heart. For him, his elder son Adarsh was his only child, while Aditya always reminded him of Meera’s death. It’s not that he never tried to be a good father to Aditya. He filled Aditya’s room with lavish toys and arranged a full-time nanny for him, put him in the most expensive school and college as he grew up, and provided him all the comforts and the materialistic riches. But the only two things which Vikramjeet could not give to Aditya were his time and his fatherly love. And Aditya yearned for his father’s love and time the most.

He slowed down as he entered the precincts of the Gateway of India, which was shining bright with golden light underneath the stelliferous sky. He lowered the volume of the music player, which was playing the title track of soon-to-be-released Bollywood movie Hum Tum. The time now was 00:00. It was his birthday. But, the irony was, it was his mother’s death anniversary as well.

He pulled into a small parking lot, alighted from his car and grabbed his acoustic guitar from the back seat. A gush of comfortably cold breeze welcomed him, as if excitedly wishing him on his birthday. His head was aching mildly. But he ignored the pain and draped the strap of the guitar across his gaunt torso. A tungsten bracelet on his left wrist shimmered in the dark night as he strolled towards the Gateway of India. There were a few beggars, rickshaw-pullers, and ragpickers sleeping peacefully, draping themselves with nothing else but the canopy of twinkling stars. He stopped for a moment and peered at the sky. When he was a kid, his nanny used to tell him that whenever someone leaves the mortal body and goes to heaven, he or she becomes a star in the sky. His mother, his nanny had said, was the Pole Star. She had also taught him how to locate the Pole Star in the night sky.

I miss you, Mom, he said, his tone heavy, as he kept gazing helplessly at the Pole Star.

He always felt her presence, as if she was watching over him, trying to make sure he was alright. He closed his moist eyes and prayed for the peace of her soul. He had no memories of her, had only seen her in photographs. His uncle, Dharmesh Johari, had told him everything about her . . . how she was, what she liked, how she looked, how much she took care of him when he was in her womb for nine months.

His father, though, never spoke to him about her.

He opened his eyes and once again peered at the Pole Star. It was twinkling brightly. His mother, he felt, was happily blessing him on his birthday. He smiled briefly and continued towards the Gateway of India, ambling beside its parapet, watching the moored boats, ferries, and ships. There was a soothing stillness in the waters of the Arabian Sea. He continued strolling alongside the parapet as he crossed the gargantuan architecture of the Gateway of India. Lost in his reverie, he reached the backside of the triumphal architecture. He wanted to be away from the hubbub of the chaotic world, just with his guitar, his music, and the stories of his mother, which he had heard innumerable times from his DJ Uncle. But, suddenly, his trance was blown into smithereens. His shocked gaze fell on a young woman, whose back was towards him, and who was standing on the parapet, facing the enormous sea.

His feet froze to the ground. Her long, black, slightly curly hair was rippling against the strong breeze from the Arabian Sea. Dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a white, half-sleeve top, she had a slender frame and a tall height. He tried not to make any abrupt move. He carefully tiptoed towards her, making minimal noise. He noticed her clenched wrists, probably a sign of her reluctance to jump, or she may be too afraid to end her life. And then he saw her wiping her eyes and straightening herself, as if she had surmounted her fears. He knew it was the right moment.

Life is such a beautiful gift, he spoke, not everyone gets to live it.

The young woman, who was about to jump into the sea, was startled. But, she did not look back. Her loose hair kept fluttering as he inched closer towards her.

God has given us this life and only he has the right to take it back, he added eloquently. Our aim should be to live it to the fullest, no matter how tough the situation is.

You! Mr. Preacher! she exclaimed in a drunk and exasperated tone, without looking back at him. Whosoever you are, just go! Leave me alone! And let me do what I want to do!

Well, I’m not Mr. Preacher, he calmly replied, taking a step towards her, trying to divert her mind. My name is Aditya. Aditya Bakshi. I had no intention to disrupt your plan. I was just passing by and stopped here to have my personal time. And guess what, you spoiled my plan. You didn’t let me do what I wanted to do.

Huh? The young woman was dumbfounded. Headache was tormenting her, and she was terribly sloshed.

Standing behind her, slightly towards her right, Aditya closely studied her visage. Dusky complexion, eyes smudged with mascara, perfectly shaped straight nose, high cheekbones with spotless skin and an alluring figure, which accentuated her already tall and slender frame . . . He wondered what was so terrible in her life that she was adamant to cut it short.

What’s your name? he asked her.

Why don’t you just leave me alone? she snapped, her legs wobbling. Do you think this is the right time for this damn introduction?

Well, he smiled, without taking his eyes off her, this is also not the right time to end your life. Moreover, if you really want to end it, you can at least tell me your name. It won’t affect your decision.

The young woman was now totally frustrated. She shot back a smouldering glare at Aditya, who had a tiny smile on his lips. He noticed her almond-shaped black eyes, beautiful lips with a peaked cupid’s bow, and a gorgeously sculptured heart-shaped face. The whites of her inebriated eyes had turned red.

You! Mr. Guitarist! she bellowed, noticing a guitar strapped around his back. Leave me alone!

First tell me your name.

What will you gain out of it?

You won’t lose anything by telling it.

You’re a ridiculously stubborn guy!

Well, pardon me, but you are being stubborn too, he sweetly argued, maintaining his smile.

Okay! She momentarily closed her eyes, feeling irritated. My name is Veronica Jacob, she replied, still livid. Now you know my name, so you better leave me alone.

Nice name.

What’s so nice about it?

There is everything nice about whatever God has created.

Are you a preacher or a musician?

Both. He smiled again. And you know what? I can push you, and you will fall into this deathly sea, whose chilled water will instantly choke your breath and the brutal sea mammals will mercilessly tear apart your God-gifted body. Or, I can hold you and pull you down, and stop you from testing your swimming skills. But I won’t do anything. I want you to take this decision . . . whether you want to jump into the sea and end your miseries, or you want to live your life and fight back against all the problems.

Veronica glanced at the sea, which was mirroring the ghoulish black hue of the night sky. She then looked back at the lanky, young, average-looking man, dressed in a pair of blue jeans and yellow polo T-shirt, who was stopping her from doing what she had decided to do. The sole attractive thing about him was the acoustic guitar, which was strapped around his lean torso.

She heaved a disappointed sigh. With drooped shoulders, her body language looked defeated. At twenty-four, she had seen enough of life and thus wanted to cut it short. Originally from Calangute, Goa, she came to Mumbai in 1997 to become a supermodel, and to be the breadwinner for her family, which included her mother and four siblings. Her mother, who was running a small boutique in Calangute, was struggling to earn enough to feed a family of six. Her father had died long ago due to a massive cardiac arrest. Since then, life for her family had been full of struggles, miseries, and endless problems. After completing her schooling, she, being the eldest child, decided to go to Mumbai to earn money. She had hoped that her good looks would help her in getting some modelling contracts. But, even after struggling for seven years in the ‘City of Dreams,’ she had failed to earn a single contract. It brutally shattered her self-belief. Most men she met, who promised her to give some work, wanted lewd favours from her. She had thought that life would not be too difficult in Mumbai. But she had not realised that only a few lucky ones get their dreams fulfilled, and the rest die struggling, without earning any name, fame, or money.

Aditya noticed her swollen eyes and dried streaks of tears over her cheeks.

Come down, he said, offering his right hand.

"Why are you behaving like Jack of Titanic?" she questioned loudly.

"Because you are behaving like Rose of Titanic." He smiled again.

Why do you smile so much? Everything is perfect in your life! So, it’s easy for you to stand there and preach.

Life is not easy for anyone. Even the richest and the most powerful people of this world have problems. But running away from life is not a solution.

Then what’s the solution?

I’ll tell you. He maintained his smile. But first hold my hand and step down.

She looked at his outstretched hand but stayed unmoved.

Try till you win, and if you lose, try again, he motivated her. That should be the mantra of life. Whatever you want to achieve, you can achieve it only if you keep on trying.

She stayed silent.

C’mon, Veronica, he said again, give me your hand and step down. Learn to fight your fears.

Without saying anything, she slowly turned around, while he inched closer. Her head was aching, and the strong effect of vodka was numbing her brain. She slowly lifted her right arm and clasped his outstretched hand.

Good, he smiled, firmly holding her soft hand.

She crouched and jumped off the parapet, while he carefully supported her by holding her close. Her legs shivered as her feet touched the ground, but he kept holding her strongly, protecting her from falling down.

Welcome to your new life, he said to her, and smiled again.

Dazed, she looked at him as she tried to hold on to him, but all too soon her eyes rolled over and she lost consciousness.

Veronica! He patted her cheeks as she put all her weight on him, while he struggled to keep her standing.

Wake up, Veronica! God! She is drunk! A pungent stench filled his nostrils as he noticed stains of alcohol on her top. Applying all his strength, he lifted her in his arms.

With his guitar draped around his back and holding Veronica in his arms, he slowly returned to his parked car. He carefully put her down and made her sit, resting her back against the front door. He then swiftly put his guitar inside the boot and opened the backdoor. Veronica, by then, had fallen back to the ground.

Oh God!

He scurried towards her and once again made her sit. Veronica! Open your eyes! He patted her cheeks a little harder, but she did not respond.

He once again lifted her in his arms and carefully laid her on the back seat. He shut the door and then quickly returned to the driver’s seat. He turned on the ignition and the headlights, put the swanky sedan into the first gear, floored the accelerator, raced out of the parking area, and stopped only after reaching outside the nearby five-star hotel—the Taj Mahal Palace.

Please arrange a wheelchair, he said to a bellboy, who was standing outside the main entrance of the luxurious hotel.

The bellboy, who was dressed in a black closed jacket and black trouser, teamed with black leather shoes, quickly responded. In the meanwhile, Aditya gave the keys of his car to a driver for valet parking and rushed to open the back door. Veronica looked totally inebriated. He carefully took her out and, with the bellboy’s help, made her sit on the wheelchair. A few heads turned towards him, but he ignored them and wheeled her into the posh front lobby.

Hello, Mr. Bakshi. A young woman at the front desk, dressed in a golden-yellow sari with blue borders, warmly greeted Aditya, who was well-known because of his prominent father. How may I help you?

Hello, Ms. Sonali, he replied, noticing a name tag pinned to her sari. This is my friend—Veronica, he added, pointing towards the wheelchair.

Sonali, too, looked at Veronica. Oh! What happened to her? Lines of genuine concern creased her forehead.

She is, kind of, unwell, he evasively replied, habitually rolling the middle finger of his right hand over his index finger. Please book a suite for her, he added.

Sure, Mr. Bakshi, she said, smiling.

And . . . if you don’t mind, I need some help from you.

Tell me, Mr. Bakshi.

She vomited on her top, he replied, while pointing towards Veronica. Can you please arrange someone who can change her clothes and get them washed?

Sure, Mr. Bakshi. But is she drunk? Sonali sniffed the strong smell of alcohol, and also noticed Veronica’s smudged top.

Well, a bit. We had a group party and she lost consciousness. She is not from Mumbai, so I brought her here.

Sonali’s thin lips, coated with maroon lipstick, curved into a smile, as if she had caught his lie. We all know you, Mr. Bakshi,