The midnight visitor (flash fiction)

I tossed around in my bed, sweating profusely despite it being winter! I was only 6, and looking for my favourite toy. Only, I couldn’t remember what it was! I searched every shelf, every cupboard.

I wish I knew what it was that I was looking for. I wish I had someone to tell me. Daddy? Grandma? My friends? I looked around. They stared at me with a blank , almost confused expression. When I could bear it no more, I burst into tears. Or was I crying already? I couldn’t make out.

It was then that a hand touched my hot forehead, smoothening out my non-existent wrinkles ever so gently. I knew who it was. Only, I could not remember what she looked like. I looked all over my room  – a photograph? A souvenir from a holiday maybe?! I just couldn’t remember. I tossed in my bed, kicking away imaginary demons!I

The hand gently caressed my forehead, lovingly touching my cheeks, tapping the tip of my nose. Just like when I was a baby. I smiled, relaxed and in peace.

And a soft, gentle voice said ‘Darling, It’s OK to forget’.  I nodded, and reached out to kiss the hand. It was gone. ‘Yes, Mum’ I whispered, my eyes still closed. A tear rolled down my cheek.

On polling, (not) begging and more

BlogJunta is holding Indian Blogosphere polls, across several categories. What was interesting was that the blogs that have been shortlisted are mostly of good quality. And many of these, I haven’t had the opportunity to read until now. So, I am looking forward to enjoying these blogs going forward.

I’m very grateful to BlogJunta for having shortlisted my blog in the Fiction category. Really grateful. Such recognition is really very encouraging.

What I ‘dare’ to call 😉 my ‘collection’ of short stories can be found at this link. My favourite 55-ers are here.

After experiencing recent blogging contests in Blogosphere, I am rather disillusioned by the way most polls work. Unfortunately, having a large friends-network in Blogosphere often scores over true writing potential.

This time, I’m not campaigning for my own blog. I hope you will vote for the blog that deserves to win.

I hope you will use your wise judgement and NOT vote for someone only because he/she is your friend, or a friend’s friend, someone who is just popular.. or perhaps someone who simply begs well!!

For once, may only the best blogs win.

To vote, kindly head over to the Facebook poll page by clicking this link.

🙂

Last Letter Written (fiction)

It wasn’t until late December that I found the envelope. It was addressed to no one. It bore the seal of ‘Vrindavan Home for the Aged’. That is how I realised it (perhaps) belonged to my father.

Before you stand on high moral ground and fire me for having sent away my old (and ailing!) Dad to the Home, do try to understand, and if possible, even believe that I truly did not want to send him there. At sixty, he was fit as a fiddle. We used to fight over the TV every evening, and would both finally lose to my son, who decided that Ben Ten was the right programme for us. So we, the boys of the house, would sprawl on the sofas and watched the inane aliens fight gory wars.

I digress. Like I said, the envelope, slightly yellowed and crushed, was addressed to no one in particular. It just bore my address. I assume my Dad had written it for me! Which made me curious, as he was not the sort of person who would write letters! If my memory serves me right, he was particularly not fond of reading or writing. So this was special. I didn’t quite want to open it. The last two months had been rather painful. First, the agony of losing him. Second, the fact that I had left him to die alone. I can never get over it. Ever. And third (perhaps, the most important reason) – I was afraid… of what the letter might contain!!

It was my birthday. In no mood to celebrate, I decided I would open the letter after all…

My dearest,

You know how much I hate to write!

Bang on! This was definitely from Dad!! My lips curved into a smile.

I want to let you know something… its been on my mind ever since you left me.

I stiffened. It was not like I left him! It was HE who decided to leave us. Vidya and I pleaded. So did little Prithvi. But he had made up his mind.

Home away from Home

I like this place they call ‘Home’. Its spacious, airy, the nurses take care of me. I have no complaints.

I visited him almost every Saturday. I would take his favourite food. Sometimes, Vidya and Prithvi came along, at other times, they didn’t. Dad would always recognize Prithvi, no matter what! The moment he saw his chubby little grandson, his wizened face would break into a smile. I felt relived that he liked the Home.

But you know… I want to write this before I can forget everything.. before my traitor of memory fails me. Sometimes I cannot even remember your face. At other times, I feel like you are standing right next to me. I know you are there. Its just, I don’t remember who exactly you are ..  or at times, who I myself am!! I have to confess that part is a little scary.

Lost (image courtesy healingwithnutrition dot com)

So that was why he wrote the letter!! When he was first diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, it had come as a brutal shock to all of us.

On most days, he was very normal. The same old Dad who steadily picked his nose as he sat in his oversized armchair, watching children play cricket on the street! On other days, he would turn into a complete stranger. He would just stare at the ceiling. At times, he would simply grab the nearest object and smash it into the wall. He would walk down the street, to buy a packet of chicory, and wouldn’t return home until dark, when one of us would go in search of him, only to find him sitting on a broken bench, looking dazed and confused.

Finally it was he who suggested being moved to the Home. We wanted him around. He, however, was adamant. He left a day after Prithvi’s fifth birthday. We had a great party. He joined in the fun. I almost called the Home to cancel the move. But the next morning, he woke very early, bathed, and packed a little holdall with a couple of shirts and bare necessities. He did not give us any opportunity to try and persuade him against going. Before he left that morning, he blessed us with wishes for a ‘long and happy married life’, and said, very simply, and as a matter-of-fact, ‘Tell Prithvi I love him the most!’

When Prithvi returned from school that afternoon, he searched for Dad in every room of the house! And when he didn’t find him there, he cried himself to sleep.

There’s one little person I always seem to remember. A lovely cherubic little boy. Let me try to recall.. Preetham.. or was it Prithvi? Yes, I think it is Prithvi. My darling little angel. He visits me often. I can’t often remember his name, but I know that he is part of my soul.

I fought hard to blink back the tears. Dad wouldn’t be kind to anybody who cried at the drop of a hat!!

So, my dearest, I had better finish this letter quickly, as I might just not remember about it in some time.

Very often, nurses wipe tears rolling off my cheeks. Sometimes, they say ‘tut..tut..’ and walk away, cursing (in a rather filmy style!) my ‘supposedly wicked’ son who they think has left me here.

Little do they know, that these, in fact, are tears of joy.

Joy at a life well lived. This is the happiness of a husband, who found a good and loving wife. The pride of a father, who raised a strong and caring son. And also, the yearning of a grandfather. Whose only (albeit greedy) wish was that he had a few more years to spend with his grandson, frolicking in the park, or sneaking away from the watchful and loving eyes of his Mummy, to lick an ice-cream cone. But then, I’m just being ungrateful.

I could have lived with our children. But you know, much as I hate to boast, I think our son adores me! So does Prithvi. I want them to remember me as their Hero. Not as a senile patient who couldn’t recognize them! No. That wouldn’t work for me.

So, this is my big secret. I want you to know, my dearest, that every time I remember us, and cry, it is only to say that I have lived a very happy life.

I think I will see you soon.

Dad’s last letter. It had not been written for me. Or for Prithvi. But for Mum. I was stunned, at how Dad never let us see how much he missed her. I hoped they were together again.

To me, the letter had a cathartic effect. I don’t know if I can ever stop feeling guilty, but this day, I felt a little better. He knew what he was doing. And he did it not just for me, but also for himself.

I guess he was right afterall. When I think of Dad, I only recall a tall, strong man, who would throw Prithvi up into mid-air and catch him as he fell squealing with delight. I remember him as a level-headed counsellor, who simply declared that every workplace had its share of politics, and it was upto me to handle it or steer clear! Vidya remembers him as a loving father, who would make her a cup of ‘straang filter kaapi’ when she returned home from work every evening.

And Prithvi.. well, he does not remember much of him. When we happen to mention Dad, he perks up, curious to know more about his childhood friend. We cite him examples of how Dad used to pretend to be his Horse and ‘giddy up’ as Prithvi ordered him to! Prithvi chuckles shyly when we mention such incidents.

Often, he walks into Dad’s old room (that has now been converted into a Study) as if looking for something.

Sometimes, I follow him, and find him gazing at a picture of Dad’s. At other times, I find him dozing in the big arm-chair.

Well, whatever it is he is doing (or not doing!), I get the feeling this room is his favourite haunt. He seems happy here.

As for the letter, I placed it back in its envelope, labelled it as ‘First Letter Written’ and tucked it far, far away inside my wardrobe. I could perhaps give it to Prithvi when he is grown up enough to be deceived by ‘Success’ manifesting itself in the form of money or fame?! Will it make any sense to him, I wonder…

Or perhaps, I will simply start writing a letter of my own…. hoping that I too, can be a Hero to my son, as Dad is to me.

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To read my other pieces of fiction, please click here. Thank you!

The lookalike (55-er)

This 55 word fiction was written for N-Zine.

‘Mother’. ‘Hatred’. Two words that evoked similar emotions.

She hated looking like Mummy. She hated being told that!

At sixteen, ‘I wish I wasn’t YOUR daughter!’, she screamed.

‘You aren’t’, Mummy replied quietly.

Daddy showed her the adoption papers. ‘We hoped YOU wouldn’t feel out of place’

She stared at her albino Mummy and cried.

The reticent (flash fiction)

Reticent. That is what best describes me. Probably. My mum would have found the right word. Had she been around. Infact, had she not left, I would probably not be – reticent.

Picasso's 'Mother and Child' (Image courtesy: Google images)

She was wonderful – my mother. I don’t remember her being pretty. Nor attractive. But when she came to collect me from school, my friends would spot her bulky frame, run towards her to greet her. They would tell her about what they did in the classroom that day. She would be all smiles. Crows-feet around her eyes. Yes, that’s what I remember most about her. When she smiled, her eyes would sparkle. And crows-feet would form around the corners. She would laugh heartily at what Gabbi or Maya said. Or at Ben screaming like a Dinosaur! If Sophia hung onto the fence, crying for her Mommy, my mum would promptly tell her ‘Don’t worry darling, I saw your Mommy on the way, she is going to be here very soon!’

And all the time, I would watch – hiding behind a play tent –her eyes would be looking for me. Searching… searching…And when they found me – they would light up, like she had witnessed fireworks in the sky!!

Anyway. The days we spent at the hospital. She would lie limp on the bed. I would chatter. Incessantly. She would smile. Mostly! Sometimes, she would simply ask me to ‘shush‘. I couldn’t. Well, that’s me. Excited, animated, energetic. I think – well, I know – that that spirit is what she loved most about me.

That last day, I went to wake her up. And when she did, I ..I .. cannot explain. Pale, ashen face. Hollow eyes. Dry, cracked lips. Almost, an ugly ghost in the place of my beautiful mother.

I shrank. ‘Go Away!!’ I screamed. I ran out of that room, screaming ‘Just go away!!’. That was the last I saw of her. They didn’t allow me at her funeral. They thought I was too young.

How do I remember – you might ask. You see, some things – events, faces – just get etched – deep, deep down – somewhere.. somewhere beyond even Memory! Just like a photograph. Flash, click. The moment captured – for eternity.

Sometimes, I wake up, looking for her. Wake up right in the middle of a dream – Of me waiting behind my school fence. Hiding behind a play-tent. My eyes, searching. Searching…

Sometimes, I pretend to go back to sleep and continue the dream – and try to imagine that I’ve found her.

Her face is beautiful again. I cannot bring myself to see her ‘other’ face. Even in a pretend dream – it is too difficult.

I simply stand and stare. She waits, with a smile that lights up her face.

And I? I have so much – just so much – to say to her. I have to tell her that Maya hurted my feelings. That Ben invited me to his birthday party. That.. that..I’m so clever that I know all about the continents.

But not a word comes up to my lips. My dry, cracked lips. And suddenly, my mind goes blank. There is only one thing that I want to say. Only one.

But my throat hurts so bad, that I’m unable to bring myself to say it … ‘Mummy, I’m sorry I got afraid’.

You see, I am reticent. I really am. Because none of it matters any more.

Princess of the Dark

This post has been published by me as a team member of Tiger Trails Team for the SUPER 5 round of Bloggers Premier League (BPL) – The first ever unique, elite team blogging event in the history of blogging world. To catch the BPL action and also be part of future editions and other contests, visit and register at Cafe GingerChai

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The secret diary of a little girl who sometimes believed she could be a Princess too..

01-Jun-10

I watched through the corner of my eye, as the ‘Princess’ distributed her birthday invites in the class. I had heard how the last year’s party was themed on ‘Treasure Island’. I wondered what it would be this year. Hmmm.. And yes, all the girls received their invites and were giggling excitedly all day long. Only three boys were invited, and even they were whispering about the party during classes. Phsaw! As if a birthday party was such a big event after all. It is silly!

02-Jun-10

Math class. I muddled with my numbers as usual. I honestly do not understand why we need to learn Trigonometry?! I mean, does anybody even use it? What a waste of time. Everybody laughed when I couldn’t answer the question. But then! Who cares? This isn’t what I want to pursue in Life! I want to be a dancer. A ‘famous’ one. Mummy says I will be ‘popular with clients’.

I think what she means is ‘Famous with a lot of fans’. She isn’t very educated, you see. She has not studied much, so she says she cannot even find a regular day-job like the Mummies of my classmates. So she works from home.

03-Jun-10

Gosh! Anu has been struck with chicken pox. The entire class is afraid now. Mummy says I had not been vaccinated against it when I was a baby. I asked her ‘Why?’. ‘None of your business!’ she retorted sharply.

The girls in my class say they have had the vaccination, but it could still strike them. And then, their face would be covered with dark spots and it would look awful at Rhea’s birthday party. Personally, I couldn’t have asked for more 😉 They deserve this, all of them. And guess what? The theme is ‘Disney Princesses’. Isn’t that silly? I think they are way too old to be ‘Princesses’. Nevertheless, I guess it is quite interesting.

04-Jun-10

It is official. Five girls are down with the pox now. Today is Friday, and the hot topic was ‘will the birthday party be called off?’ Not that it matters much to me, but I wouldn’t be too sad if it is 😉 After all, I wasn’t invited.

Mummy says I need to learn dancing. I am excited, of course. I really want to learn ballet. But she wants to teach me Salsa, as it is a very ‘in thing’. I wonder why! She said in her days, she used to do some other weird-sounding stuff called ‘mujra’. I don’t think I have a choice, anyway, but yes, I would be very happy to dance 🙂

05-Jun-10

My first dance class lasted about an hour. And boy! My body aches a little. I did not like the way my teacher kept sliding his hands down my back and breathing into my face! He needs a mouthwash! *Giggles* But Mummy says I need to master salsa, as it is very popular. Well then, I will do it!

I’m a big girl now, I turn 12 this month end, you know? The strange thing is, I share my birthday with ‘Princess Rhea’.

My classmates do not know this, but I am going to have a ‘private’ party too!

I cannot invite them, though. Mummy says they won’t come. When I asked ‘Why ever not?’ she laughed and said ‘Because they think I’m ‘dangerous’’. I have never heard anyone say so, in the last four schools that I have been to! Mummy is just beautiful, not ‘dangerous’!

It is a pity though, that she does not allow me to invite my friends home. They do not invite me either. The only people who come to my home are the other pretty Aunties and fat Uncles who smile inanely at me before Mummy shoos me off to my little room in the attic.

 

06-Jun-10

My body aches very slightly, from the dance. But my teacher says I’m a natural!! I don’t like the look of him, though.

Nevertheless, Mummy is so happy she has bought me a new salwar kameez for my birthday next week. It is a peacock blue, with red chiffon dupatta – and it is studded with little diamonds. She says it is befitting of a ‘Princess’ like me. She says I can wear this on Friday night, for the movie.

Didn’t I tell you about the movie thing? Mummy has booked a ‘private box’ for us, to celebrate my birthday! She, me and the new Uncle. Just the three of us. There’s going to be a huge pack of butter popcorn, chocolate cake slices, buttery sweet corn, and Pepsi 🙂

I love Mummy. And do you know a secret? ‘Mummy’ is actually my mum’s sister. I never knew my mum. My real one, I mean. She died when I was really young. But this Mummy looks after me like a Princess 🙂 You know, I go to one of the best schools here. Mummy works so hard for me.

But she says ‘Darling, you are a worth-while investment’. I love it when she calls me ‘Darling’.

I do not like the dark streets where we live. I feel a little scared sometimes. Especially when the men try to grab my hand as I rush past them, on my way to the bus-stop.

Mummy is so beautiful. But most of the men on the street call ‘me’ princess instead. They need to check their spectacles properly!!

I think I am just an ‘Ugly Duckling’ 😦 But then, Mummy says I am becoming very beautiful these days. And that everything is going to change soon 🙂

I am so lucky to have her!

07-Jun-10

Boy oh boy! I hate Mondays!! Math, History, Science… gets me, really! The only subject I like is English. I think I will be a famous writer when I grow up. I might just write about Princesses 🙂

Mummy says if I am a ‘good girl’ on Friday, the new Uncle has promised to buy me a new pink laptop. Woo hoo!

Oh, and there’s some spicy news. Something I have been secretly pleased about all day. ‘Princess’ Rhea’s birthday party may not take place after all!! Nine of the girls are now down with the Pox, and everyone else is worried they will ‘catch it’ too. Well, I, for one, am not affected, as I will have my private party anyway 🙂

08-Jun-10

Guess what? Guess, guess, guess!!!!

I got invited to Princess Rhea’s birthday party!!! ‘Come if you like’, she shrugged as she said it. But she really wants me to come, I know. Even though she ignores me during classes and even in the canteen, she still wants to be my friend 🙂 I am so excited. I need to buy a nice BIG gift for her.

I know, once she gets to know the real me, we will become best friends, after all.

Mummy has so many friends! The women are in awe of her, and the men really admire her. I want to be just like her!

09-Jun-10

Dance practice has started during the week days too! It is tough. And it leaves me no time for my home-work. But it makes Mummy happy. Mummy says, if I am a ‘good girl’ on Friday, she will give me LOTS of money to buy a huge gift for Rhea. Mummy will buy us both a big box of ‘foreign’ cosmetics. The new Uncle is returning from Singapore tomorrow night, and she will ask him to bring it from there.

Gosh! Whoever thought all this would happen!! Usually, nobody talks to me at school. Except Ramu anna, of course. But then, he is the canteen boy, so when I ask him for something that isn’t on the menu, he has to reply 😉

Anyway, now, here I am – a proud ‘invitee’ to the Princess’s party…. excited owner of a bejewelled chiffon dress. And the happy would-be owner of a big foreign cosmetics case 🙂

I feel like a Princess myself 😉

10-Jun-10

School was so much fun today. I was allowed to have lunch at the same table with the Princess and her friends. They didn’t talk much to me, but all the same, they didn’t ignore me either. So that’s a really good sign. They have all bought gifts for Rhea.

I have decided to keep mine a secret. I will stun them on the day 🙂 Mummy says she will find out if Uncle can drop me at Rhea’s party on Sunday and even bring me back in his luxury car!

By the way, something interesting happened at school today. There is a new subject called ‘Sex education’. It was so yuck! I can’t believe men and women do ‘that’! The boys were smirking right through the class. Many of the girls covered their mouth and giggled. I copied them. But I thought it was all really gross.

When I told Mummy, she just laughed and said ‘You’re a big girl now. It’s time for you to know, anyway!’

11-Jun-10 – am

EXCITED! Today’s my big day. I’m off to school now, but Mummy says she will send the car to fetch me at noon itself. She has planned to take me to the ‘Spa’ 🙂 I am so lucky, aren’t I? I bet even Princess Rhea doesn’t get pampered so by her handsome Dad! He’s a film star, by the way. Did I mention that before? And he has some really cool friends, and they have really cool cars and all that. They are all supposed to be ‘shooting’ for a film in Singapore this week. It seems he has actually flown back in his private luxury jet last night, just in time for her birthday party! How awesome is that!!

 11-Jun-10 – noon

No time!! Got to rush!! Off to the Spa now. Then I have to deck up in my gorgeous new outfit. And head to the cinema from there. Mummy did not mention which movie it is. I bet it is the new Hritik Roshan one. She knows how much I adore him!! Oooh, I am so excited!! Mummy reminded me twice that I must impress Uncle today! ‘Make him happy, and our life will change forever’! Ofcourse I will. My poor Mummy. She is so stressed with taking care of all of us. I will be ‘a good girl’ tonight. I promise!!

11-Jun-10 – pm

No entry.

12-Jun-10

No entry.

13-Jun-10

‘Happy Birthday to me’. I did not go to Princess Rhea’s birthday party. I feel sore. Every time I try to get out of bed, I feel like throwing up.

 14-Jun-10

No entry.

15-Jun-10

I am still bleeding.

Mummy says there is nothing to worry about. She wants me to get back to school and resume dance practice soon.

But it still hurts all over.. thighs.. lips…everything.

16-Jun-10

I did not go to school today either. I feel so Dirty!

Mummy is furious. She says I must have more respect for ‘our’ profession.

But I haven’t actually chosen my profession yet. Or have I?!!!

P.S: I do not feel like calling her ‘Mummy’ any more. Am I being ungrateful?

17-Jun-10

Mummy dragged me out of my bed today, and said I must ‘look after myself’. She says she cannot feed me for the rest of my Life. She says Uncle is going to visit this Friday too.

She says he is ‘our most desirable client’ and that I should be grateful that he flew back in his private jet to meet me last week.

I hate him. And his friends. And her.

I told her that. She just laughed. ‘Your mother said the same thing! Avoided my high-profile clients. And look where she landed. Contracted the disease and went to her grave. Atleast you have some sense. This is far more than you can ever dream of’.

For the first time in my life, I miss my real Mummy. If she were alive, she would have taken me far away from this hell.

Or….would she?!

Actually, I do not know any more.

18-Jun-10

Friday mid-night again. Did I tell you? ‘Uncle’ does look so much like Princess Rhea’s daddy. He looks old, from up close. He is bad at doing the Salsa. And he’s not so handsome, after all.

But he’s really very heavy. And rough. He hurts me so much. Even when I cry, he does not stop. It is very strange. The more I cry, the louder he seems to laugh.

He says I am delicious. That’s stupid, for a man his age. Only cakes or pastries can be called ‘delicious’. I cannot stop wondering how Princess Rhea’s birthday cake had tasted. Delicious???!!

I hear him promising his friends, that it will be their turn soon. They guffaw aloud. Mummy joins them. I want to die.

I have to go. He is calling for me again. ‘Stop hiding, my Princess of the Dark’.

 

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Do read posts of my fellow TIGERS, aka Team-mates, here:

Neha: http://www.nehasilam.com/2010/06/adult-education-english-lessons.html
Saurabh: http://stuffilearnttoday.blogspot.com/2010/06/12-commandments.html
Debs: http://debosmita.wordpress.com/2010/06/14/graduation-ceremony-fiction-55/
Debs again: http://debosmita.wordpress.com/2010/06/14/destinys-child/
Sudhakar: http://idlivadasambar.wordpress.com/2010/06/14/hey-there-you-idiot/
Arpita: http://soulrenaissance.blogspot.com/2010/06/with-love-to-mankind.html
Kanagu: http://kanaguonline.wordpress.com/2010/06/14/education-equality-and-excellence/

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The final redemption

At 28, he was beyond redemption. Drugs, alchohol, nicotine, women, theft… he had done them all! The de-addiction centres offered no more hope.

Her last hope was this pilgrimage by foot. They had covered most of the journey. This was the final leg. The famous dilapidated temple was just across the railway track.

She crossed the tracks and waited for him. He dragged his feet along, slow enough to show how resentful he was of her attempts at ‘rehabilitation’.
‘Try to walk faster..‘, she coaxed.
‘You’re pathetic!!‘ he spat angrily.

She looked crestfallen.

He plugged in his iPod to drown her unspoken words. He had heard enough. He knew what he wanted. To float away on clouds of Ecstasy. And she, was the biggest obstacle! He hated the sight of her. Sad, angry, begging. In turns. All day long!!! Well, atleast, she didn’t cry bucketloads any longer. That was a relief!

Then, she saw it coming. He didn’t. Eyes half-closed, he was swaying to the music in his ears.

It was nearing. She opened her mouth to speak. But her mouth went dry. She put out a hand, to caution him.

‘Buzz off and leave me alone!!!!’ he murmured.

Alarmed, she looked into his eyes.

Baby eyes that once had opened in wonder. Eyes that had once danced with joy, accompanied by the lilting sound of happy gurgles.

Eyes that had once quite blindly trusted in her.

Eyes that had slowly started questioning her authority.

Eyes that had then turned angry in rebellion.

Too soon, it had become too late! The same eyes had turned vacant, and cold. And when she had tried to reign them in, they had seemed almost murderous.

And then, he finally noticed! His eyes widened in fear. She knew that look. He was almost begging, for her to try to rescue him. One more time.

She needed to think. A millisecond went by. And by then, it was all over!

The grass around the track was splattered in red. A bright shade of red, that she knew was the same as her own.

She clutched at her breast. As if to hold the heart that was slowly and irreversibly crumbling into a zillion pieces.

And in that deafening silence, she let out a loud scream. In relief. Then, she screamed again. And again. In horror. At what had just happened. She pounded the grass with her bare fists. Furious, at the way a beautiful life had been wasted.

Spent, she dragged her tired feet towards the temple. The shrine was closed. She slowly climbed the steps. When she reached the top, she almost staggered backwards in exhaustion. She quickly sat down, and lay her forehead on the cool stone pillars. She imagined the beautiful face of the deity inside the shrine. It shone of kindness. 

‘Thank you!‘ she whispered. And then broke into tears. She banged her forehead on the pillar until it bled. Then, she hugged herself tightly. And tried to remember his face. She saw in it, the beautiful eyes that had hated and distrusted, but still needed her.

‘Amma….’ – she would never hear that word again.

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Folks, this post is dedicated to all those parents who struggle helplessly with children who fall into drugs and other vices.

To parents who deserve better.

To parents who have loved and lost.

Specially, to those parents, who look back longingly, on a Life that could have been spent so differently, and so much better.

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My second love (55-er)

He stormed into my life exactly four years ago, when I was already happily married.

I still love my husband. But then, I just love him more!!

Though.. I know that one day, he will dump me. For someone half my age!!!!

I will have to love her too!

For after all, she will be my daughter-in-law 🙂

The last paragraph

Okay! And here’s the last paragraph (well, not exactly one para…) to the story of The Old Armchair.

I did try my best… to wriggle out of writing the conclusion to the story 😉 but you guys/girls kept close watch 😉 So here it is. As always, please let me know what you think….

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Priya noticed her mobile flashing as she unpacked her suitcase.

‘Gues wat I found 2day? – Lav’
‘Er..wat?’, she sent a text back.
‘Wooden armchair!!! Exact same thing!’
Priya smiled. She instantly knew what Lavina was talking about. ‘Wow! 1 4 me pls?‘ she typed out on the phone.
‘Done!C u soon!’ – pat came the reply.

She smiled again. Eight years had passed since they had graduated. She still remembered the day they left Mrs.Marathe’s apartment. She and Lavina had been in tears. They were both overwhelmed with emotion. It was all too much to handle. Bidding farewell to a wonderfully carefree college-life…to freedom.. and to Mrs.Marathe.

‘God bless you!’ was all she had said. Mrs.Marathe. Along with her blessings, she also gave them a little idol of Lord Ganesha each. ‘You will call when you have time…?’ she asked eagerly, but trailed off without waiting for a reply. She hobbled back slowly, to her favourite arm-chair. It was time for her daily siesta. She didn’t stir as the taxi came to take them to the station. She didn’t open her eyes as the girls touched her frail palms to bid farewell. If she did find it hard to swallow that lump in her throat, she didn’t let them notice it.

————–
The girls moved to different metros. A lot happened in those eight years. Priya built a successful career, travelled a lot on work, was engaged to be married. Lavina on the other hand, chose to build a family. She had two beautiful cherubic girls. They reminded her of herself and Priya. And the happy days they had spent in Pune.

Priya and Lavina had both called Mrs.Marathe regularly for the first couple of months after they had left college. They called her every Saturday, as they knew Mrs.Marathe’s sons would call every Sunday.

‘Hello Auntyji! How are you?’
‘How is your health?’
‘Are you eating properly?’

As they became busier with their lives, however, the phone calls gradually became less frequent. In a year’s time, they had almost entirely stopped.

Over the years, they had even forgotten the old telephone number. When Priya finally moved to Bangalore, where Lavina now lived, they met frequently and whenever they reminisced the old times, they couldn’t help thinking of Mrs.Marathe. They would feel a surge of warmth. And of guilt. They never spoke about it aloud. But it was there.

They didn’t try to look up the old address. They didn’t try to contact her again. They didn’t expect to see her again.
——–

A week later, Lavina had delivered a beautiful arm-chair at Priya’s house.

‘Wow, Lav. This is beautiful Nearly the same thing as what Auntyji had!’
‘Yep! Bought a pair, one chair for each of us’, Lavina replied softly, and smiled. Priya smiled back.

As she gazed at the chair, a tear rolled down her cheek. ‘Lav…‘ she whispered, her voice trembling.

Lavina did not reply. She stifled a sob instead.

They stared at the arm-chair that had been placed in the verandah. It was a beautiful mahogany colour. Standing there. Simple. Sturdy. And silent. Silently observing the world whizz by. Just like Mrs.Marathe once had. Probably still did!

‘To Auntyji!’ she said suddenly, and raised an imaginary toast.
‘To Auntyji’ Priya chimed in.

———

The old armchair – fiction

[Warning: Very long post ahead!]

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‘Aunty-ji, Aunty-ji, open the door!’. Loud shrieks woke Mrs Marathe from her daily siesta. She hobbled slowly from the airy balcony, back into the sparsely furnished hall. The clouds were looming into darkness, although it was only 4:00 pm on a hot summer afternoon. By sheer force of habit, Mrs. Marathe peered through the faded looking glass. Satisfied that it was indeed the girls, she unlocked the chains that held the door.

Lavina and Priya barged into the hall, and dashed into their room toward the rear end of the old apartment. Mrs.Marathe followed them but stopped just outside. It was her policy to never enter the rooms of her paying guests, though the children did not mind her gentle presence. ‘Arre, what happened? Sooo arly today? College bund (closed)?’, she enquired.

The girls had pulled several outfits out of the small wooden cupboard and thrown them onto the bed, all quite breathlessly. ‘Sorry Aunty-ji, we forgot to call and tell you earlier’.

‘We are going away!!’ – they yelled in unison. They looked at each other, their cheeks burning pink with excitement.

Mrs.Marathe stood as still as a statue. She looked at the two glowing faces. Of all the paying guests she had had over the last ten years, these were the only girls who had managed to carve themselves, a place in her heart. The others had come from good families too, had had excellent upbringing, but had always treated her as only a landlady, a stranger who hailed from several generations before!

Mrs. Marathe lowered her gaze to the ground, as if to examine the grey-black speckled tiles on the floor, for the first time. At 80, she had finished living almost her entire life. She had married well, had three children, two of which migrated to foreign shores, leaving her behind in their ancestral home. The third had been prompt enough to sell that beautiful house, and send her away to this apartment. ‘This is a residential area, Aai, you can relax here’, he had said. True, this was a beautiful locality in the heart of Pune. Green leafy trees, wide roads, and to complement the stillness, a neighbouring college that buzzed with the lively banter of youth – the sound of distant chattering voices that kept her company through the otherwise quiet day.

Lavina and Priya were students of that same college. Both were in their late teens, came from middle-class backgrounds, and were studious, respectful and very friendly. They had spent many an evening, chatting over a cuppa, in that balcony, Mrs.Marathe sunk in one arm-chair, Lavina perched on the arm-rest, Priya in the other arm-chair.

‘Oh, theek’ Mrs.Marathe whispered slowly, and exited to the balcony. For two reasons. First, it would allow the girls to pack. The second, and real reason being, she did not want her eyes to betray her emotions in front of them. Her eyes had been accustomed to seeing people leave her. Her parents, her husband, children.. infact everyone she had known ever! Except for a handful of friends who, like her, were supposed to enjoy ‘retired life’ in the same neighbourhood. She knew, that at 80, she was supposed to be more ‘in control’ of her emotions than the two teenagers who were at that very moment, excitedly stuffing clothes and shoes into their bags.

‘Rent is high.. I can reduce..’. ‘They want telephone? Or come home late!’ She was already thinking, quite involuntarily, of why the girls were leaving, and how she could convince the girls to stay.

Her life was an empty page now. All the work of rearing her children now finished, she had nothing to do, but ‘relax’. How she hated that word! ‘You’ve worked so hard all your life, Aai. Time for you to take rest now’, they would always say to her. That she lived all by herself, with her nearest relatives living four hours away in Mumbai, hardly made a difference to their stance. She had been too hurt to argue with their logic.

She had gracefully surrendered before the war could even begin. Retired to her little shell, and sported a content smile. Always.

Her three sons would faithfully call her every Sunday. The same, standard questions.

‘How are you, Aai?’

‘How is your health?’

‘Are you taking care of yourself?’

‘We will come to visit you soon, Aai’.

They were loving boys. They had always respected her and her late husband. Always ensured she had a steady source of income.

But they hardly came to visit.

In the two years that Lavina and Priya had lived in her apartment, they had never seen her sons. Never heard of her going to meet them in Mumbai or Dubai either, where they now lived.

‘Arre, I am too old to travel’, Mrs.Marathe would always say, when they broached the subject.

‘Too old’, Mrs.Marathe thought to herself, and stifled a laugh. She laid a wrinkled palm on the jaded edges of the arm-chair and thought to herself.. ‘People envy my restful lifestyle. My slow-paced life. My indulgence in books. The rare afternoon tea parties I have with acquaintances from two generations before them! And whenever I want to DO something.. GO out.. play with my grandchildren here, they say ‘Relax, Aai. Don’t stress’. And I continue to plough through this lonely, lonely life.. this .. this curse’.

Suddenly, someone hugged her knees. Mrs.Marathe looked down to find Lavina crying in front of her. ‘Please don’t cry, Aunty-ji, please don’t’, she pleaded. Priya walked behind her arm-chair and gently placed her arms around Mrs.Marathe’s frail shoulders and gave her a peck on her cheek.

Mrs.Marathe smiled, and touched her cheek. How she longed for her own grandchildren to give her a kiss like that! She touched both her cheeks again, this time. They were wet. Tears were streaming down her pointy chin, and had made her green cotton sari damp where they fell! She instantly covered her face with her knotty palms. And let go of all the emotions that had been binding her heart, like a thick rope around a brittle vine. She shuddered for a few seconds.

‘I don’t want to Relax. I want to Live!!’ she cried.

Lavina and Priya held her close. Suddenly, they were the parents, and Mrs.Marathe, the child – desperately seeking solace.

In about fifteen minutes, Mrs.Marathe had calmed down.

Priya rushed to fetch some cold water. ‘Feeling better, Aunty-ji?’ Lavina asked softly.

‘Yes, my dear. I am sorry! For crying like this. You got frightened?’

‘Not at all’, they cooed. Priya gently stroked her silvery hair. Lavina massaged the frail legs.

Mrs.Marathe looked on at them. What relation were they to her? Neither her children nor grandchildren had displayed so much affection towards her until now. She was suddenly exhausted. ‘I want to take rest’, she whispered.

The girls supported her carefully, into her bedroom, fluffed up her pillows, and eased her onto the bed.

‘Aunty-ji, by the way, will you be OK when we go?’

Mrs.Marathe blinked hard. She suddenly realised, this was what caused the outpour after all. The girls going away from her. The tears had however, drained her of both energy and emotion. ‘Yes, don’t worry’, she replied and smiled faintly.

‘Its only for a week! You know, there was this sudden announcement in College, about a fully sponsored training programme, an entire week – in GOAAAAA!!! And guess what? We BOTH got chosen!!’ The girls looked at each other and grinned. Lavina clapped her hands like a child, who had just been given a lollipop! Priya let out a low whistle.

Mrs.Marathe smiled. The enthusiasm was infectious. Suddenly, she realised. ‘Then, you will come back?’ she asked with barely noticable a tremor of excitement.

‘Ofcourse Aunty-ji!’, they chanted happily.

‘This is our home’, Lavina exclaimed. Mrs.Marathe squinted.

‘She means, like our home’, Priya added quickly, not wanting to irk their already distressed landlady.

Mrs.Marathe laughed. She stretched out her hands towards the girls. They held her palms tightly. Almost as if they were afraid to leave her alone.

‘This IS your home, children. For as long as you want’.

The girls enveloped her in a gentle hug, and rushed to get on with the packing.

=============

[Another para left – will be completed tomorrow 🙂 ]

[P.S: Had written this quite some time back, and was too bored to read and edit… so I leave the job to you 🙂 There must be a lot of language/syntax errors, please do help edit this!]