Life Is What You Make It A Story Of Love, Hope And How Determination Can Overcome Even Destiny by Preeti Shenoy Page A

all this is so sudden for me. I think you're a great guy. I do enjoy your company. But...”
    “Say no more,” he interrupted me. “There are no buts and no ifs in life. Life is what you make it, Ankita. I am willing to wait for you forever. That is how much I care.”
    “Thanks Abhi.”
    “For what?”
    “For understanding. Now end of topic. Do you want to talk about anything else?”
    There was a knock on the door before he could answer. It was a lady who seemed to be the maid holding a tray with two steaming mugs of tea, some fried onion bhajis and ginger biscuits.”
    “Thank you Thresi chechi ,” he said as she kept the tray on the chest of drawers, giggled and left the room. I suddenly realised that she must have giggled because Abhi and I were now sitting on the bed, side by side, our shoulders almost touching each other.
    “She must have thought we were doing something else,” Abhi smiled, the mischief coming back to his voice again.
    “As though we will do anything with the door open.”
    “Let me shut it then,” he teased.
    “Not so soon,” I replied smiling.
    “By the way Abhi, where are your parents? Do they both work?”
    “My mum is no more. That's her picture you see over there,” he said pointing to the lady's photo that I had earlier seen on the chest of drawers. There is so much more I want to tell you,” he said. “No actually I want to show you.”
    “Do say. I am all ears,” I said propping a pillow against the wall and leaning back on his bed. It felt so intimate to be sitting with him, like this, on his bed.
    He turned around so that his back was towards me and lifted up his T-shirt. I was stupefied. It was a profusion of angry welts and bruises, some red and some fading ones, criss-crossing each other all over his back.
    “God, what is it?” I said as he lowered his T-shirt and turned towards me, settling next to me, leaning against the wall. His shoulder was definitely touching mine now but I made no efforts to move away.
    “That is my father.” He said simply. “I hate him. I would kill him if I could.”
    The vehemence and determination in his voice shocked me. His openness in showing it to me also took me by complete surprise. I was feeling a plethora of emotions that I had no name to. I wanted to know more.
    “He uses a belt, the bastard, pardon my language.” He said simply.
    “But why? What have you done to merit this?”
    “It's a long story, but let me try and make it short.”
    “No, tell me the whole thing. I want to know. ”
    “He does not live here. He lives in Pretoria, South Africa. He works for a missionary organisation trying to promote God's cause” he said. The derision and scorn in his voice was obvious. “And what I showed you was his reward this time to me, for my refusal to toe his line. He visits me from time to time. He wants me to join him in his mission. I hate it when he comes here. ”
    “Doesn't your grandpa stop him?”
    “This is my mother's dad. So he has no say in the matter. My father does not even know who his parents are. He was raised by these missionaries. He will lay down his life for them and he just cannot accept the fact that I have a different view point. ”
    “And how did your viewpoint become so different?” I asked a wave of curiosity and affection flooding through me. I wanted to know more. I wanted to know all about this guy who was so madly in love with me.
    “My mum was a Hindu. That is why it means such a lot to him if I join him. It is a kind of redemption for his having married her.”
    I did not know what to say. I felt like hugging him and telling him that it would all work out in the end. But who knew what the future held and the assurance sounded hollow to me.
    I took his hand in mine, the one that had the cut and held it. It seemed the right thing to do at that point of time. He squeezed my hand as if he was getting some strength to go on.
    We sat quietly for a long time hands entwined, shoulder to