Book Excerpt: 'Letters from an Indian Summer' by Siddharth Dasgupta

Genevieve Casta was roughly the same age as Arjun, a fact that had cemented their relationship as instant soulmates. For both men and women, while savouring the conquest of a younger lover or craving the affections of an older one can be an attractive proposition, it is for the most part, and on most occasions, a fractured one. But love that evolves between two people of the same age can be a richly symbiotic, endlessly fulfilling journey, for not only have you been through much of the same trials and tribulations that life has had to throw at you at almost the same time, but more importantly, you’re open and eager to experience many of the things life has in store for you—people, places, art, culture, books, films, photographs, words—together.

Genevieve and Arjun’s lives, though separated by three thousand miles at birth, had traversed a remarkably similar course. She too, had left home at an early age and had found all her passions for this world satiated within the arms of travel—the joy of waking up anonymous in far-flung cities, the thrill of pushing herself to take a chance without the safety net of everything she held dear, all the new people, the lives, the journeys, everything. And like him, she had nurtured her unbridled hunger for her art. A gifted pianist since childhood, she’d been torn between her attachment to music and a flair she’d picked up slightly later in life—painting. She’d chosen the latter, finding herself hopelessly addicted to the worlds that emerged from her imagination. And travel was the invisible glue binding everything together, helping fuel her passion and enabling her to take her craft to another level.

 But where Arjun and Genevieve converged most profoundly was in their utter disregard for everyday mores and societal expectations. Relationships and love, though experienced deeply and with full sincerity, were never clung on to, attuned as each was to a karmic philosophy of impermanence and detachment. It was the same for their travels as well. They could be completely taken over by a certain city in a certain part of the world, but after a three-month dalliance with nomadic permanence, they wouldn’t think twice about packing up and leaving. It was like they knew, always, that a particular love, a certain city, a specific moment in time was never theirs to own. It was just something the universe had granted them to live, breathe, and love . . . before simply letting go. 

It was this, this approach to life which had ensured that when they drifted away, there was only sadness with a persistent ache in their hearts, and no forced melodrama, no guilt, and certainly no hatred. And it was this same approach to life, this same karmic belief, which ensured that now, two years hence, after that first moment of understandable trepidation and numbness, they warmly eased into each other, slipping into the old, familiar shadows that exist between two people who have known each other intimately. 

Just two long lost lovers sharing cups of coffee in an accidental Indian city.

Excerpted with permission from Fingerprint! Publishing. 

Book: Letters from an Indian Summer
Author: Siddharth Dasgupta
Price: Rs250
Pages: 317