MOSS AND MEMORIAL

These few things I take with me
A covering of moss,
The colour of lime,
And three forget me nots.

They felled trees the other day
To make the space seem wider,
And now the robins fly low,
Braver, braver.

The scent of nettles, sharp,
softened only by dandelions;
We let the grass grow wild
Beneath the bark and birch
and last remaining horse-chestnut.

A man lived here,
Forty years, a life -
No wife, no child, no pet;
Just a library of books
And every letter kept.

Dearest Uncle, your niece here,
I blew a dandelion free -
Nothing to wish for;
You were loved
And you loved, fully.

© Shaista Tayabali, 2012
for Uncle Motu
and the dverse poets

IT ARRIVED!!

A package arrived today with the hottest sunshine of the year... from Eire...

The brightest day of the year completely obscured the inscription I was trying to show off!!

MARIAN KEYES MARIAN KEYES MARIAN KEYES!!!!
So there I was, on twitter, recommending 'The Princess Bride' to Marian Keyes, best-selling Irish author of fabulous books, when she replies saying she's never seen it. I offered to send it of course, but privacy and all that... anyway, there was a silence for a while. A couple of weeks later, Marian Keyes goes on a hunt for me - me!! - to find the Lupusgirl who recommended the lovely film. And then I was found. And Marian asked how I was, and I said I was off into hospital and she said, "Can I do anything? Anything at all? Signed copy of a book?" And I says, "Oooh yes, please!" Shameless, I know. But this may NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN!!!!

Isn't she lovely?? She manages to sprinkle gold dust over our lives from a house in Dublin. She loves chocolate and cake and high heels. She understands suffering. She values kindness above everything. Only the kindest of people could send a signed copy of a book just to wish me well. And not just any book - but, on her authority, her own personal favourite.... D'you remember when I wrote about not writing to Eva Ibbotson? I feel as though Marian has given me a chance to say thank you to a beloved author in the here and now, so I'll never be haunted by ingratitude again!
So just to be clear...

MARIAN, I LOVE YOU!!!!!

THANKYOUUUU!!!!!

June the first, a bright summer's evening, a Monday. I've been flying over the streets and houses of Dublin and now, finally, I'm here. I enter through the roof. Via a skylight I slide into a living room and right away I know it's a woman who lives here... 

(from 'The Brightest Star in the Sky')

HOME AGAIN, TO THE SUN!

Yesterday I scoffed chocolate cake and watched the sun play in the fields beyond the hospital grounds. I nosily asked questions of a young woman just starting out on the same treatment... her heart was beating at 120, her bp was dropping, hot flushing - I couldn't help myself - I marched over, trailing my infusion, and said, "Don't let them increase the rate!" "But I feel so guilty," said she, "it'll take ages at a slow rate!" "Hmmf," said I. "So what? I am always the last in here, because I insist they go slow." I looked beadily at her husband. "Does she need to rush back?" "No, no, no!" he cried, hastily, warned by the martial gleam in my eyes. "She can take as long as she likes!" "So," says I. "All settled then." When the nurse bustled over to change the rate again ("Shall we increase to 400?"), my new friend said, "I'd like you to leave the rate at 300, please."
I gave her a thumbs up and shimmied back to my chair. Who knew I could be so bossy??

Home again, mes amies, to the bright, hot, divinity of a summer's day. The morning after my first infusion is always perfect. I dragged my yoga mat out into the garden and did a single Surya Namaskar - any more and I might have found myself back on the wards, but a single salutation to the sun was my gratitude.

Later on today, when my lymph nodes gnarl and gnaw, when the fevers start and my heart kicks up an unruly beat, I shall remember the deliciousness of a single moment. I don't mind the pattern of sun and shade. I hold them both in the palm of my hand.

Father, who is baking his tootsies in the sun, has just bellowed for a coke float (vanilla ice-cream scoops in a glass of coke - it's an Indian thing)...

Ah... we sure know how to live it up, here in the Shires...

p.s. have just received comments on the coke float not being an Indian thing - a universal thing, in fact. I stand, happily, corrected. 

ON A PIECE OF GLASS IN OXFORD

Some months ago I wrote to a poet called Dorothy McCarthy - I had read one of her poems online and loved it. I wrote to tell her so... she, in turn, read mine and recommended me to a glassworks artist, who was looking for poetry to weave into her glass. A few weeks ago, Flora de Ospina exhibited these works in Oxford, and sold a piece with my words crafted in.

Imagine, somewhere in Oxford, my words on a stranger's wall..

Dorothy belongs to a poetry group in Oxford and asked me to come join them today in a poetry reading on the works of German artist Daniel Eltinger - but that was not possible - hospital early tomorrow morning for my first infusion of Rituximab.

Poetry on leaves, poetry in glass, whatever next? :)

THE RETREAT

At the foot of the birch,

rain gathers the breeze

and birds arrive to speak -

falling silent only when

the church bell

sounds her turn.

Summer seduced us yesterday,

but this morning

when we woke -

the blackbird sighed

and sang of rain

in mourning, lilting tones.

Close I get, and closer yet,

to the blackbird's orange beak;

He holds his ground,

the counsel stays -

I, flightless, retreat.

© Shaista Tayabali, 2012
for dverse poets

images from dakini's bliss   

and dave stewart album

On A Rainy Day in Shelford, I...

... took photographs like a tourist... of the Church and graveyard..

...of wisteria and honeysuckle clad thatched cottages..

...and then, in celebration of the Queen's Jubilee, I saw this..

Quite alarming... this isn't My Telephone Box, by the way... this belongs to the village before mine...

...but very imaginative, don't you think?? Note the little interview tacked on at the bottom...

...but then, and this is what I really wanted to share.... someone has chirpily celebrated the birthday of our (my) telephone box... I meant to get a photo as soon as I saw it but then, one thing and another... so the balloons look a little like Eeyore's balloons after Pooh and Piglet had at them... still... Happy Birthday to  imagination and unexpected gifts everywhere!

CHASING THE SUN - Second Installment

For all your lovely comments on my screenplay - thank you! And since you asked for more, here it is :) The next ten minutes hot off the press. Well... alright, the only next ten minutes that exist.. I haven't actually written any more than this!

INT. BEDROOM, HUGH’S COTTAGE - NIGHT.

World maps on wall, children’s movie posters, packed bookshelves. Hugh, on unmade bed, looks like he is working but close-up reveals him rifling through digital photographs of Olivia - with Hugh on graduation day, with James at the beach, with girlfriends in Venice, with Hugh at parties, dressed formally - a handsome couple. In contrast now, Hugh unshaven, dark hair askew, books, papers, strewn untidily across bed. Suddenly alerted to a sound, listens for it again. Thrusting laptop away, walks quickly out of room, down the stairs, fills glass of water at kitchen sink and rushes back up, into James’ bedroom.

JUMP CUT TO:

Fire. Riot being ‘controlled’ by British forces. Chaos. Screams. We see the rioters closely now. Young students, bearing Indian flags, hastily crafted signs - some protesting for peace rather than partition, some promising equal violence in return. 1947 made visible via newspaper cuttings pasted onto signs. Focus on a beautiful 1940’s version of Lara. Clear blue-grey eyes swimming with tears. She has been shot. She is disbelieving at first, and then, heartbroken. Looks up into the eyes of a British officer, the 1940’s version of Hugh, watching her, helpless. As she closes her eyes, he reaches out for her, shakes her shoulders.

BACK TO:

Hugh shaking James awake. Switches on bedside lamp to reveal James, struggling out of duvet, slightly sweaty; he reaches out automatically for the glass of water, gulps it down.

HUGH

Was it the accident again?

James shakes his head violently. 

HUGH (CONT’D)

Do you want to talk about it?

JAMES

It was scary. There was a lady. Someone I... She got shot. There was blood and everything. 

HUGH

Did she look like...?

Nudges the edge of a photograph on the bedside table. Beautiful Olivia, her arms around a younger James. James doesn’t look, merely shakes his head again. Camera pans around James’ room. A strong interest in India goes some way towards explaining nightmare: map of India on wall, small Persian carpet, cricket gear, posters of Tendulkar and Khan. A tidy room for a little boy. Perhaps unnaturally so.

JAMES

Dad? You know Emma?

HUGH

                              Yes, I know Emma. She’s 12 and knows everything. Just like your Aunty Bess was at her age. Why? What’s she said now?

JAMES

                            She said... she said Mummy had... She said that Mummy was having an affair before she died. With the Hungarian.

HUGH

                             Christ! What does she know about the Hungarian? I mean... I mean, no! I mean, look, James...

JAMES

 I remember him. He was in the car with her when she... when they...

HUGH

(desperately)

You know book 4? 

James looks confused.

HUGH (CONT’D)

(slowly)

I was thinking about a trip... for research. I was thinking of going... to India.

(at James’ expression)

Just thinking about it.

JAMES

Dad. Please. I have to come with you. I have to!

HUGH

What about these nightmares?

JAMES

Maybe they’ll get better? Please? You always go without me.

HUGH

(taken aback at accusation, but rallies)

                            Look, we need to really think about this. Sort stuff out. Visas. Immunisations. Let’s talk about it with Granny Grampa this weekend, alright? 

JAMES

Dad, seriously, please? For my birthday?

HUGH

The clincher! Come on, try and get some sleep again. 

JAMES

Can I read a bit first? 

Hugh stretches out and reaches for a book lying on the floor, part of a neatly stacked pile. An Adrian Mole story. James, safe and yawning now, snuggles back with book. Close on Hugh’s face, creased with concern.

CUT TO:

EXT. GROUNDS OF LARGE MANOR HOUSE, GLOUCESTER - DAY.

On a bench, Hugh and niece EMMA (12) are cheering on a cricket match between James, his cousins RICHARD (7) and THOMAS (5) and grandfather PETER (63). Hugh and Emma are mid-conversation.

HUGH

He’s nine years old!

EMMA

Nearly ten.

HUGH

                                          He’s too young to understand! You’re too young! How do you know anyway?

EMMA

I hear things.

Hugh gives his niece a look, rises from bench, shaking head in disbelief, and starts walking towards house, Emma in tow.

EMMA (CONT’D)

                                The point is, Uncle Hugh, that you need to move on. Find your destiny.

HUGH

Where do you get this stuff?

EMMA

Oprah. Duh.

HUGH

                                        The point is, we were doing fine until you decided to educate your nine year old cousin.

EMMA

               Nearly ten. And the point is he’s still having nightmares...

Her voice fades away as they enter the house, and head for the kitchen.

INT. KITCHEN, LARGE MANOR HOUSE - DAY.

Inside, Indian theme continues, with various objet d’arts, antique miniature paintings of British horsemen, forts, temples. Connection to Raj via ancestors firmly established. Hugh’s mother VERA (61), sister Bess, and brother-in-law TONY (37) are in the kitchen. Vera is making tea for everyone. Hugh moodily watches his son play through the kitchen window.

VERA

                      All I’m saying darling, is that it isn’t the end of the world, him knowing. Children are resilient. Look at the two of you, and you too, Tony darling - you all turned out just fine.

HUGH

                     Yes, because you weren’t busy having affairs through our childhood! 

BESS

(sotto voce)

And you’re still alive.

VERA

                                       I heard that - terribly insensitive of you, to both Hugh and your dear old Mum - and in the presence of your child! 

(to Emma)

Darling, could you run upstairs and find my glasses?

EMMA

(severely)

You’re trying to get rid of me.

VERA

Only for a little while, I promise.

Emma reluctantly obeys, dragging feet. 

VERA (CONT’D)

                                       Anyway, how do you know I wasn’t playing around? In fact, I’ve been meaning to tell you..

HUGH

Not funny, Mother.

VERA

                             Oh don’t be so po faced, my love - affairs happen all the time! Tell him, Tony. Enlighten my poor deluded boy as to the ways of the world.

BESS

Yes. Do tell us, Tony.

TONY

Cheers, Mother. In Law. 

(turning to Bess)

I know nothing! Nothing! 

(to Hugh)

I’ll tell you everything you need to know, later.

BESS

Rat.

(pinching the first cup of tea)

                                 But speaking of les affaires de la famille, wasn’t there one in ours? On Dad’s side? I   remember Granny mentioning it once... you remember her way... Je sais des choses... Je connaître les secrets du passé...

She waves her hands about, like a gypsy fortune teller. Emma, who has rushed back, breathless, hands Vera her glasses. She is in time to hear this latest enthralling snippet; it is clear from where her source of information derives.

VERA

Oh yes, must have been a very interesting time in old Ashton’s life, pre your grandmother. Adrienne was always dying to talk to me about it. But she was very respectful to your grandfather. Ahh. Those were the days... 

(opening the door and yelling to her husband Peter)

YOUR TEA’S GOING COLD! COME AND GET IT!

PETER

(faint voice from garden)

Am keeping score, my angel, can you bring it out here please?

VERA

NO!

(shutting door)

Now, where was I?

HUGH

Respectful wives.

VERA

                              Ah yes. India. Well I wish I could tell you more, my darling, but Peter never asked his mother what she meant and...

Peter and the boys tumble in, riotous flinging off of pads, gloves and discussion of cricket scores. Peter rescues the last mug of tea.

PETER

Did I hear my name? 

VERA

We were talking about Ashton darling, and his mysterious Indian affair.

JAMES

What affair? In India? 

PETER

Really my love, you can be so terribly indiscreet. 

(whispers to James)

Granny’s losing her marbles.

VERA

I am not! 

(but taking the hint)

Alright my lovely ones, off you go, wash your hands. And feet!

THOM

Our feet aren’t dirty!!

EMMA

(supercilious)

Granny’s joking, Thom.

THOM

But...

Bess gathers the boys together, hustles them out of the room. James gives Hugh a searching look before he leaves. 

VERA

(before Peter can say anything)

            Yes alright, alright. Completely thoughtless of me. Sorry, Hugh.  

HUGH

                         No, it’s pretty fascinating actually. Quite relevant in a way. Am thinking of sending Casper off to India for one of his travels. So, heading out there myself. And maybe taking James with me. What do you think?

Bess comes back in trailed by James.

BESS

Sorry, Hugh. I’ve settled the others in front of Pirates, but this one.. 

She shrugs helplessly.

JAMES

What did Great Grandpa Ashton do?

EMMA

(simultaneously to James)

You’re going to India!

The cousins look at each other excitedly.

HUGH

                                No idea. No one seems to know anything, which is absolutely typical of the Trevelyans.

(pointedly to Emma)

                                 Plenty of gossip, no substance. Right. Now what about that delicious looking spongey cakey thing..

JAMES

Grampa’s got substance - he’ll tell me!

PETER

(visibly moved)

                                  Oh. Dear boy. But I must disappoint. Father loved India, but never spoke to me about a lady friend.

BESS

(sniggering)

‘Lady friend’?

EMMA

                                       Uncle Hugh! This is perfect! You can find the lady friend and your destiny! Two birds, one stone!

TONY

Yes, Hugh. Go find that lady friend. 

HUGH

So, the general consensus, positive?

BESS

Completely mad...

TONY

But brilliant.

VERA

             And it’s your birthday soon - a tenth birthday is no small matter.

JAMES

That’s what I said!

PETER

Wish I could come too.

EMMA

Let’s all go!

Hugh is alarmed at suggestion of whole family traipsing off to India, but smiles at their enthusiasm. He exchanges a look with James. The stirring of adventure lights their eyes, uniting them properly for the first time.

CUT TO:

INT. AIRPLANE - NIGHT.

James in the window seat, fast asleep. Hugh, in seat beside him, watches him sleep. In Hugh’s hands, a thin sheaf of letters, slightly yellowed with age. He opens one and begins to read.

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. CORRIDOR, MANOR HOUSE, GLOUCESTER - NIGHT.

Hugh, standing in doorway of bedroom, watching James sleep. PETER comes down the corridor.

PETER

(whispering)

Is he asleep?

HUGH

Exhausted with all that excitement. What’s up?

PETER

Got something to show you.

Hugh gives James a last look. There is vulnerability, a grief still alive, in Hugh’s eyes. He follows his father down the corridor to a study, densely populated with bookshelves, photographs. A portrait of ASHTON TREVELYAN, familiar figure now, takes up space on one of the walls. Peter unlocks a drawer and removes the yellowed sheaf of letters. 

PETER (CONT’D)

Told a small lie earlier.

He hands the letters to Hugh.

PETER (CONT’D)

                                    Father’s letters - to someone who didn’t want them. He sent the first in 1947, and the last in 1950.  

The letters are all stamped ‘Return to Sender’. The recipient is D. SHROFF; the address, BOMBAY, INDIA. Hugh unfolds the first and begins to read aloud.

HUGH

                                 'Dearest DD, now that I am about to leave the mountains for the fenlands of the ‘shire, I suppose I shall spend the rest of my life chasing the sun...' Quite the poet, wasn’t he? Who was DD? 

PETER

                                 Well, I’ve always wondered. I thought... since you mentioned going to India... maybe you could trace this D. Shroff?

HUGH

Do you think this was her? The one that got away?

PETER

        Well, it was him that got away. Those were terrible times. Maybe she...

The word ‘died’ weighs heavy in the air. Peter moves toward the door, ready for bed now. 

HUGH

         It’s all a bloody business, isn’t it? I mean, what’s the point of any of it? 

Peter makes no response.

HUGH (CONT’D)

(as though compelled)

                                    Do you think we’ll be alright? James, I mean. Do you think James will be alright?

PETER

                                  I think you’ll both be alright. Nothing like an adventure and a bit of mystery to solve. Good night, Hugh.

HUGH

                              If Olivia hadn’t - died - I wouldn’t have taken her back. Not if she’d begged.

PETER

Well, she’s gone now. Time to take a leap of faith, Hugh.

He speaks gently, and coming back into the room, gives Hugh’s shoulder a light squeeze. He leaves. Hugh turns to the portrait.

HUGH

Well, I wouldn’t. Not if she begged.

The portrait’s piercing eyes give nothing away. They become more brightly lit and against a growing sound-track of Indian music, merge into the bright heat of a merciless Indian sun.

EXT. SAHAR INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, MUMBAI - LATE MORNING.

Morning sun beats down on Hugh and James as they stand, almost shell shocked, outside Sahar International Airport. Feroze, wreathed in smiles, sorts out their luggage. Jostled by fast moving bodies, Hugh thinks he sees a girl, with a pair of blue-grey eyes and a mop of soft curls, amid the chaos. Tries to place her. But there are too many people and he is too tired. Passes hand across eyes.

EXT. MUMBAI HIGHWAY - NOON.

Car travelling full pelt down connecting highway from airport to inner city. Mumbai flashes past. Huge advertisements. Colonies of slum dwellers. Cows meandering. Sudden downpour of seasonal rain. Hugh, in the front seat, looks back at James, who is quite shattered, overwhelmed by everything.

CUT TO:

MONTAGE:
Hugh and James in a holiday sequence of exotic and banal discoveries. Imprint of the Raj obvious in names, architecture, linguistic play on signs and posters. James ecstatically playing cricket with Feroze’s sons; finally - the real thing. Hugh exploring libraries, museums, old British clubs. Discovering the city by himself. Taking notes.

INT/EXT. FEROZE’S FLAT, MUMBAI - NIGHT.

James asleep, sharing a room with Feroze’s sons. Camera tours flat briefly, pausing by Feroze near drinks cabinet, pouring hefty whiskies. Strains of sitar accompany us as we focus on Hugh leaning against balcony railing, looking out at Queen’s Necklace - Mumbai’s skyline lit at night. Lost in perusal of one of his grandfather’s letters, as Feroze approaches.

FEROZE

Well?

HUGH

Pinching myself. 

FEROZE

A toast, then. To inspiration. Of every kind.

HUGH

                                   What’s that supposed to mean? You aren’t going to introduce me to someone, are you? Look where your last introduction got me. Widowed, heartbroken and becoming crustier by the day. Probably the world’s worst father too.

FEROZE

                                 Desist with the violins, Hugh. Not one of my kids looks at me the way James looks at you. The boy hero worships you. Now, let’s have a gander at that address again.

Hugh hands him the letter. 

FEROZE (CONT’D)

                               Churchgate. Close enough. Will take you tomorrow, no problem. Once you’ve sorted out these family affairs, no more procrastination. Then, once the book is on its way, we can get to the real business.

HUGH

Which is...

FEROZE

Finding your destiny, man.

HUGH

If I hear that phrase one more...

FEROZE

                             Drink up, drink up yaar. This is India, baby. If you can’t find your fate here, there’s really no hope. Cheers!

EXT. DEVONSHIRE HOUSE, MUMBAI - DAY.

Feroze, nursing hangover, drops Hugh and James outside a beautifully maintained building. Turns car round and peels off in cloud of dust. Leafy residential area. Many-storeyed houses have names like Somerset and Sandringham Villa. An old-worldly feel, in contrast to the usual Mumbai mania. They enter building. An ancient lift-man escorts them inside a rickety lift.

INT. OUTSIDE CLOSED FRONT DOOR, DEVONSHIRE HOUSE - DAY.

Plaque beside front doorbell reads D. SHROFF. James looks nervous, but Hugh, taking a deep breath, rings doorbell. Door is opened by Lara. A moment of stunned surprise. Then

JAMES

Lara!

HUGH

You!

(to James)

What? How do you...?

LARA

But how did you...?

Amid the confusion, an elderly woman appears behind Lara. She is DINA SHROFF (80). She wears a sari, the old fashioned Parsi way, eyes alight with intelligence and humour. Humour that dims on closer sight of Hugh, replaced by fear and the beginnings of tears.

DINA

Ashton?

She reaches out an arm, unsteady on her feet. Hugh rushes forward to catch her.

CHASING THE SUN

I thought I would share the creative river running through me, which at this moment, is in the form of a screenplay... here are the first ten minutes of the film :) 

FADE IN.

Opening credits inked in by pen, against faded sepia postcards of British occupation in India; days of the Raj through a romantic lens. Sepia images turn to colour; cool blue of Himalayas, brick red of Vice Regal Lodge. Card reads: SIMLA 1947. Camera pans into a room in the Lodge. We see a young Englishman, beautifully neat in uniform, sitting at a desk, writing a letter. He looks up and we catch a glimpse of his striking face, dark hair, grim expression. As he begins to write again, we focus on his hand writing the film title. We pull back, and see the hand now belongs to a remarkably similar looking young man, but setting has changed. Card reads: CAMBRIDGE 2012.

INT. WATERSTONES BOOKSHOP, CAMBRIDGE - DAY.

HUGH TREVELYAN (33), tall, handsome, slightly scruffy, signs book with a flourish. Tables are piled high with his latest bestseller about the adventures of young time travelling hero, Casper Smart. TOBY (8), a fan, is recipient of this final signed copy.

TOBY

                                            When will you be writing the next one, Hugh?

HUGH

                                            Give me a chance, Toby! Read this one first.

TOBY

(smug)

                                            Already read it.

Hugh smiles, but appears slightly stressed by idea of next book. His mobile begins to ring; with quick waves all round to staff, grabs jacket, scarf, heads out of bookshop and onto quiet cobbled streets of CAMBRIDGE. Early spring day. Hugh wraps scarf round neck against brisk breeze as he answers.

HUGH (CONT’D)

                                            Hugh here.

MATCH CUT TO:

INT/INT. CAMELBOOKS OFFICE, MUMBAI/LIBRARY - EARLY EVENING/MORNING.

FEROZE CAMA (33), children’s editor at Camelbooks Publishing House, one-time university friend of Hugh’s is puckish, cheery sort. Comfortably ensconced behind desk, his eyes devour the cup of steaming chai being delivered by obsequious minion.

FEROZE

                                            Hugh? Where are you man?

Hugh moves phone slightly away from ear. Feroze, typically Indian, barks conversation as though from very far away.

HUGH

     Rosy? You old goat, it’s been a while. I just finished a book signing. Where are you?

FEROZE

                   Where else? Where the sun always shines and where no-one, I am glad to say, calls me Rosy. In fact, they call me Children’s Editor Sahib of Camelbooks.

HUGH

                    My new Indian editor is you? I don't know whether to congratulate you or cry.

FEROZE

                 Good one. Moving on. So, another book signing. All very well my friend, but have you started book 4 yet?

HUGH

                      Jesus. No! Maybe it’s time Casper got Smart and settled down.

FEROZE

                  Very good! You made another little joke! Now, get serious. There are 196 countries in the world - Casper’s been to 3.

HUGH

Ever heard of writer’s block?

FEROZE

                        Now you’re really joking, aren’t you? Hugh? Hugh!

Hugh is silent. Lost in thought. Two cyclists whiz past, laughing. A young man and woman, college students.

FEROZE (CONT’D)

                        Tell me what you need man. I am here for you. Anything. Name it.

HUGH

I need inspiration, my friend.

FEROZE

Inspiration for a time travelling hero... hmm, which country am I in again?

Hugh is walking along backs of Cambridge colleges - contrast with Mumbai outside Feroze’s office very striking.

HUGH

I’ll think about it.

FEROZE

Do more than think! West Road Library. Research. One million resources!

Hugh shakes his head and rings off. A road sign indicates he is in fact very close to West Road Library.

INT. CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY, WEST ROAD - DAY.

Hugh scribbles notes in moleskin journal. Scruffy as ever, but change of clothes indicates this is different day. Around him, heavy volumes of British-Indian history. He is in a quiet reading room, seemingly empty but for himself. His mobile phone begins to ring. Snatches it up, but not before hearing a shocked intake of breath. Looks around for owner of sound as he speaks.

HUGH

What?

MATCH CUT TO:

INT/INT. AN ART STUDIO/LIBRARY - DAY.

BESS

(hurt)

Well. Excuse me for calling to check that my little brother is alright. Excuse me for...

HUGH

(whispering)

Am in the library. Trying to work!

BESS (35), attractive, dark hair pinned haphazardly, carries on pottering around her studio. Her paintings are rather flamboyant, in the style of Georgia O’Keefe.

BESS

Have you given any more thought to what I said?

HUGH

(still looking around, but no longer whispering)

                   I am not in need of therapy, Bess. It’s been almost two years for God’s sake. I am, as my lovely niece would say, ‘over it’.

A distinct ‘hmmf’ heard in the reading room. HUGH whips head round but sees no-one.

BESS

                  But have you started seeing other women? No. Clearly you haven’t forgiven Olivia, and clearly you need help. That’s all I’m saying.

The reading room is a hushed, hallowed altar to books and quite dimly lit. Hugh gets up and starts to prowl around. The desks have private screens to block off prying eyes.

HUGH

                                And all I’m saying is she isn’t here to say she’s sorry for having an affair and then    dying! I  mean, who does that? Who goes and dies in the middle of a steamy affair? It’s so - so - counterproductive!

Peering round a screen, Hugh finds his quarry. She is LARA MISTRY (22), pretty, petite, a student. She is of Indian origin, a Parsi. Blue-grey eyes and soft curls belie the sanctimonious expression on her face. She points to the little sign on her desk: PLEASE SWITCH OFF ALL MOBILE PHONES.
Hugh narrows his eyes, embarrassed and annoyed.

BESS

Hello? Hello Hugh? Are you still there?

HUGH

Yes, still here Bess. But the mobile phone police are out in force. Must go.

Hugh ostentatiously switches off phone. Lara smiles sweetly, mimes a little clap. Hugh returns to own desk, looking harried, mussing his hair in frustration. We notice he still wears his wedding band. Tugs at it, in a natural familiar way, but makes no move to remove it. His mobile comes alive, again. Sounds shockingly loud. He hears Lara’s ‘shhh’ even as he snatches phone up again.

HUGH (CONT’D)

(almost hissing)

Yes-s-s?

MATCH CUT TO:

INT/INT. CAMELBOOKS, MUMBAI/LIBRARY, CAMBRIDGE - MORNING/EVENING

FEROZE

Easy tiger. Where are you?

HUGH

(as though biting the words off)

West Road Library.

FEROZE

I could kiss you! Progress?

HUGH

Not even close, Feroze. I feel stifled.

Lara, making a terrific show, begins to gather together all her books and papers, preparing to hustle out of the reading room.

HUGH (CONT’D)

How can I write about India when conditions here are so... unfavourable.

Lara stops, widens eyes at mention of ‘India’. Hugh smirks. She catches herself, and nose in air, stalks off, determined not to be interested.

HUGH (CONT’D)

Like I said. Unfavourable.

Feroze takes sip of chai. Heavenly. Looks out of office window to chaos of Mumbai. Chasm between modern and ancient evoked by bullock cart slowly trundling down street. Behind it, a Ferrari inches along, driver honking madly. Feroze opens window and is assaulted by sounds of human traffic.

FEROZE

(shouting)

                          You hear that? Just come here! Write here, man! The juices will flow, deadlines will be met - win win!

HUGH

You seem to be forgetting a small problem.

FEROZE

(batting away fly, and also problem)

                       If you mean James, bring him along! You’ll stay with us of course. My three can’t wait to meet him. Win win!

A rather stern looking gentleman makes his way towards Hugh, who ducks his head down.

HUGH

Got to go, Feroze. Phone police.

He rings off. The man seats himself. Only another reader. In Mumbai, point made, Feroze swiftly shuts window. Peace reigns in his office again. Relaxes once more with cup of chai.

INT. RECEPTION DESK, LIBRARY - LATER.

LARA

                               Look, could you please check again? I don’t really care about the other volumes. That’s the one I need.

LIBRARY RECEPTIONIST

See that man? I’m afraid he just checked out all three volumes.

LARA

(turning, calling to retreating figure)

Wait!

Hugh turns obediently, but when he sees who the speaker is, points to nearest sign that reads QUIET PLEASE and puts finger to lips.

HUGH

Sh-h-h.

EXT. LIBRARY STEPS - DAY.

Hugh whistles as he makes his way down the stairs, laden with books. His mood much improved. Almost collides into a young man rushing up the stairs. Tall, very precisely dressed, natty in tweeds; fresh faced HARRY VERNON (22), apologises profusely.

HARRY

Sorry, sorry! Tearing hurry! Late! Lara!

This last directed at Lara, who has emerged out of the revolving doors, still looking cross. Harry dashes up the stairs and embraces Lara. Hugh looks on, less amused now, then whistles louder on his way down the steps. Resolutely does not look back at young love behind him.

CUT TO:

MONTAGE:
River running through Grantchester - The Orchard Tea Garden, green deck chairs below early blossoming trees; darker tones of Byron’s Pool, Rupert Brooke statue on front lawn of J. Archer’s house. A peaceful writer’s haven.


INT. KITCHEN, HUGH’S COTTAGE, GRANTCHESTER - EARLY EVENING.

Hugh, frowning, taps away at computer, deleting lines as soon as he writes them. Coffee cups half drunk, slice of toast curling, hard. JAMES TREVELYAN (9) pokes his head round the kitchen door.

JAMES

Dad? D’you want a game? 

No answer. James enters, dragging cricket bat and pads inside, propping them up against the Aga.  

JAMES (CONT’D)

Da-ad? 

HUGH

What?

Tearing away from screen, Hugh’s eyes still glazed with concentration.

JAMES

Never mind. 

He skulks away. We follow his small slumped shoulders outside.

EXT. GRANTCHESTER VILLAGE - EARLY EVENING.

A figure already leaning over bridge when James arrives. We only see her back, and a mop of curly hair. She is crumbling bread into the river. James hooks arms over the parapet mirroring her. She shares the bread with him. They watch the swans for a while. She turns and we see her profile.

LARA

Hello.

JAMES

Hullo. D’you live here?

LARA

Sort of. In town. This is much prettier. I come here for inspiration. You?

JAMES

I live here. S‘kind of boring. Can you play cricket?

LARA

I think so, but I’ve no-one to play with. 

JAMES

Oh. Don’t you have brothers and sisters?

LARA

Nope. And no parents either. Or even a dog!

JAMES

I’m an orphan too. Well, sort of. A half orphan. 

LARA

Sorry to hear that. I was only 3 when mine died. 

JAMES

Then who looks after you?

LARA

                          Well, I’m quite old now, so I suppose, no-one. My grandmother’s still in India. I just study a lot. I’ve been to a lot of schools. I’m really clever now.

This last said a little tragically. A sudden shower of rain. They laugh and start to run towards shelter of bus stop. Lara unlocks her bicycle.

JAMES

Can you come tomorrow?

LARA

Can’t, I’m sorry. I’ve tons of work but it was nice to meet you.

JAMES

How about day after?

LARA

There’s an old Indian saying my grandmother loves. If it’s meant to be, it will be. 

JAMES

My Grampa says that too!

LARA

See? Then it must be true. I’m Lara by the way.

JAMES

James.

They shake hands solemnly. James watches Lara cycle off into the distance, then turns towards home. Both cut slightly lonely figures, in their own way.

image prompt at the mag