Drawing closer
The heart surrenders as love wills.
The first time Dr. Bodeleni met Vani Patil, he was struck by a pair of emerald green eyes. He figured the chemistry, biology, and physics inside him had gone wild and partied all night. Though he still didn’t believe in love at first sight — it didn’t make any scientific sense to him — he believed that spending an hour with anyone could get you there.
In that one hour, there had been hardly any conversation, for Vani couldn’t speak English. A word or two, a lot of hand gestures, a steaming cup of chai made out of creamy buffalo milk, and homemade snacks had got them through. Dr. Bodeleni had never been good at reading people and considered it a waste of time understanding them. So when a pair of conversationally-challenged beings had one, it should have been a disaster. Instead, it had been sweet and enlightening. Also, Vani’s art had been the prime focus.
Dr. Bodeleni had traveled all the way to the small town of Kurduvadi, Maharashtra, to meet this exceptional artist, Vani, who specialized in Madhubani Art. But her art wasn’t limited by any form. Vani’s paintbrush lit a canvas on fire. The otherwise shy woman had no qualms when it came to her art.
Dr. Bodeleni was in the process of creating a software that produced Madhubani patterns straight out of a painter’s mind. He had made arrangements to meet this successful artist at her residence. Since the appointed translator had failed to show up, Dr. Bodeleni was on his own. But in that one hour, Dr. Bodeleni had forgotten his purpose of travel. He had even forgotten the purpose of his life, for crying out loud!
Now fifteen days later, sitting in his hotel room, he was still not sure of it. He was in love. A thirty-five-year-old man who gave lectures in the top universities of the world was unsure of himself. For him, that said a lot about love.
Armed with a pen and a translator app, he had been staring at his notepad since the first light. His confidence had dug a hole in the ground and gone into hibernation. An author of twenty books had no words in him to write a small love note. His EQ had shrunk to the size of a neutron. Love did that. He understood gradually, in his way, that it was a heart’s job. And the heart had its own mind.
He spent the rest of the day writing some, striking rest and writing again.
A day later, Vani received a letter haphazardly pushed inside an envelope and sealed with the strongest glue available. The mad doctor’s name was scribbled at the back in wobbly Marathi. Since he was scheduled for a dinner meeting with her that day, she was clueless. She never understood what he said, anyway. But she loved to look at him and feel the excitement in his ocean blue eyes when he spoke. It got her interested even though the words couldn’t. She had started learning English for an hour or two every day but was too proud to admit it. Or shy. Or both.
She opened the letter and stared at it. It was a jumble of awkward Warli figures scrawled in short sentences, complete with commas and periods. Though she itched to correct the stick figures, the letter melted her heart. As she deciphered it, little by little, she dropped to the ground with a hand to her heart, longing to see her mad doctor.
That day, two exceptionally talented people with nothing in common, understood — love was a language in itself.
Selma for you 😊😊
