Chapter 4: Finding one self

                                    

                                          
Present Day. The dusty city of Dhaka was a foodies delight most times of the day. Little road side shops served mouth-watering snacks, pushka, alu tikkie, raj kachori, sweet and sour savouries, made from the unhealthiest ingredients that one could imagine, deep fried potatoes, refined flour, sugar, and salt. The full-frontal cholesterol attacks did not usually deter gourmands from exploring the sweet shops, full of laddoos, barfis, kulfi, jalebis, roshogulla, rasmalai, payesh, gulab jamun, and a 100 other syrupy, sticky and sinful deserts.
Traffic clogged the streets at all times of the day, autorickshaws, spewing thick black fumes, cars, scooters, carts, buffaloes, cows and humans. The air was dirty, but exciting, nonetheless. Smells of sweat emanating from body odour and urine from the cesspit of the worst sewer system in the world, mingled with carbon monoxide, fried food and incense from the temples that surrounded the area.
Arbaaz looking over the edge of the summit that looks out towards the city, he once was so familiar with. He used to live here long ago, almost like his past life, his grim face told the hardship and distain he felt for the city. The summit on the other hand was a wonderful spot; of days he would chat feverishly with Shreya till the sun starts to set. Those beautiful moments of enjoying a plate of street food pushka from a traveling stall and coming to sit at the edge of the summit. It was pure ecstasy as you pop one of those crispy, sour, spicy and savoury concoction into your mouth, as young adults, they would often come up here with friends, but always by the end, end up alone together in each other awaiting arms. Eventually nightfall, had him mechanically take Shreya back to her hostel, before he ran to his home, to get his usual earful by his mother for coming home late.
The smell of sweet honey fragrant scent, that could only be from the Rajanigandha flower (white tuberose flower) wafted in the air, his being knew all to familiarly, Shreya had arrived.
Closing his eye's savouring the smell, and the happiness it brings with it. Finally opening his eye's he turns to face her, automatically a smile was brought to his face, as he looks at her splendour. At 29 now Shreya is a stunning Indian woman, with natural tan skin colour. Beautiful long thick midnight black hair that draped eloquently to one side of her shoulder. The braided hair with the white tuberose flower, together with Her, red bhindi and til extenuates her beautiful exotic face. Eye's olive black, which once held an amber spark and glow in them. At 5ft 4, although petite, her slender bodice makes her appear tall. She wore a traditional blue sari, that comfortably and eloquently falls on her body yet looks seductive.
Arbaaz Saint Claire closes the gap between them, both stands transfixed in each other's presence, feeling like an eternity to them when they last had seen each other.
Shreya, stares incredulously, just so quiet as to listen to his voice again. words just did not want to escape her mouth in fear of endangering the incantation in which Arbaaz through his words had over her. Truly a miasma of fairy dust coating her vision, becoming tunnelled into only viewing, and hearing him.
Arbaaz stunned by her beauty hesitantly asks, Shreya, how are you? Shreya equally infatuated replies, I am fine Arbaaz. Thus, breaking the glacial ice like years lost between them.
Arbaaz smiling and laughing about the days that once upon a time had been magical. The college days at Dhaka university. The often pranks in the classroom, that would even cause a lot of nuisance for the teachers. They were young and witty kids. Some of their party of friends have kept in touch with Arbaaz, shockingly long forgotten to Shreya, Arbaaz enthusiastically re-laid their whereabouts and what they have been up to? No words escaped Shreya's mouth she had stood there listening, watching his every delightful action as he spoke.
Looking a little concerned, Arbaaz asks," Shreya. Are you happy?" Shreya feeling a little guilty, responds, "Arbaaz please. I don't want to talk about it".