(Photo of a baby girl at her ‘mundan’ ceremony). This was a prompt on a lovely Facebook group that I am fortunate to be a part of. This is what I came up with (an attempt at Haiku).
‘Snip..snip.. Curly locks fall gently to the ground.
Baby girl, you have no choice!
The first of many sacrifices.’
This happened a couple of months ago, and I only remembered to write about it now (thanks to my friends on an online community).
Remember the innovative ‘Blogsplash’ conducted by Fiona Robyn (author of ‘The Most Beautiful Thing’)? My contribution to the Blogsplash was a little story about a touching incident that took place on my last trip to India. I’m very glad to say that of all the entries, mine was chosen as the top entry!
I’m very happy about this, particularly because it was the gesture of one humble man that has moved people (across the globe) to tears. Please do read it. Here: https://writerzblock.wordpress.com/2012/04/23/a-bagful-of-peanuts/
God bless such simplicity and humility. Need I say more!!
Once again, thank you Fiona for conducting the event, and many thanks to the One and Only: Shail for inviting me to it. It was a learning experience.
(Comments disabled. Thank you all so much for your warmest wishes :-))
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.
🙂
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.
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.
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.
—————
To read my other pieces of fiction, please click here. Thank you!
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.
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.
‘Chasing Rainbows’
Fiction on the topic ‘When an NRI Returns… Observations and Experiences’
====
‘You must be out of your mind!’ Neetu bangs the bowl so hard the shiny black table, that it cracks. The bowl, ofcourse, not the table!
From where I can see, they are having one of their routine weekend arguments. Come Friday night, and these two start off their incessant bickering.
‘Ravi! Did you meddle with my iPhone again? Something’s not quite right!’
‘Not pizza again, Neetu! Let’s have some ‘proper’ Indian food. Why don’t we just hire a cook?’
‘Ravi, your dirty clothes are supposed to go inside the laundry bag, not outside!’
My ears ache. I am often tempted to use those white sponges – er, what Neetu calls ‘ear-plugs’ – you know, the thing she always steals from hotels!
Some weekends however, are different. The house is filled with silence. Eerie silence. Those are the days when these two go absolutely mad, and cannot stand the sight (or sound) of each other! Comparatively pleasant, I have to confess.
Three months. Exactly three months since my children returned ‘home’. When Ravi left Chennai nine years ago, to work in London, he said he would return in just two years. Two rolled into three, four, five, and slowly nine. Finally, it was my illness that called him back. I know Neetu did not want to come back. After all, she is an educated modern girl. What is that thing she says all the time? ‘Spaaace’. Yes. She screams ‘I neeeeeed my space, Ravi!’.
Really, what is this space??! We have a beautiful 1500 sqft apartment! On the main road. In the heart of the city. That too, just next to the bus terminus! If I was young again, I would just get into my favourite Bus 12B and travel all the way to Marina beach and spend the day there, for just Rs.5!! Did you know, they have introduced Air-conditioned buses too now. That ticket costs Rs.10, and personally, I do not mind paying that much. But you know, my milkmaid – Bala, she says it is exorbitant. Poor woman. Carrys her aluminium tin full of milk packets in the bus and even on her head.
Anyway, Neetu is always asking for ‘space’. I think she has forgotten, that her apartment in London was only 700 sqft. I went there once, you see, when Ravi’s Appa was alive. Nice city, actually. Though, I do not understand why those people always say ‘How lovely to meet you!’ What is so lovely about meeting a stranger?! But they are polite, those English people. We can actually learn some manners from them. Here, even walking has become a nightmare. Never know who will bump into you, or land his motorbike right on your feet, and not even bother to say ‘Saari’.
But nothing like ‘Home’. London was very peaceful. But it was dead. Perhaps any city would be ‘dead’ for an old woman like me. But here in Chennai, I am alive. Every moment. I wish Neetu would also realise this.
‘Crash! Bang!’ – more plastic cups flying across the dining table now. Ouch! This must be a really big fight. Talking to you, I seem to have missed what this was all about! Let me listen carefully.
There is a slight drizzle, and altogether, it makes a very pretty picture. The setting sun, the pitter-patter of raindrops, the aroma of hot samosas…
‘I hate this place, Ravi. I H-A-T-E Chennai. I am going back to where I belong!’ she cries.
‘What do you mean ‘where I belong’?? You lived all your life here, my dear. Have you forgotten your childhood days in Mandaveli area?’ he yells.
‘I have not forgotten. And that is EXACTLY the reason I cannot stand living here!’ she gets hysterical.
If you ask me, Chennai has changed so much in the last decade. When these children left for London, what we had was a quiet, old-fashioned city. Today, it is a modern metro. Complete with metro, shopping malls and the works! In those days, there were a few excellent schools and colleges for the youngsters. Some new foreign banks had opened. That is where Ravi himself joined. Rukku Mami was so jealous about Ravi’s good fortune. To counter it, she used to brag about her daughter, Paddu, who had joined some ‘software company’. Shameless!
‘What’s your problem, Neetu? We have great jobs. You yourself earn a lakh of rupees a month!!’, Ravi continues to argue with Neetu.
‘You don’t get it, do you, Ravi?’ Neetu is on the verge of throwing a glass vase.
Please, not that vase, child!! I want to scream! I bought it about twenty years ago from Poppat Jamaal – what was then, one of the biggest shops in Chennai. Please choose another vase. Like that cheap imitiation you brought from London. Do you remember, how we laughed, when we turned the vase over and it read ‘Made in China’? Throw that one, please. Of course, she does not heed me. She never does.
‘We are both happy here! We have everything we can dream of!’, Ravi pleads.
Well said, Ravi. You both do have everything. Neetu also is doing well, I suppose. She has made so many new friends in the last two months.
She is very fond of driving, and in London, she never managed to get a license. Can you believe it? She tried four times, each time, she failed. As soon as she came to Chennai, she called ‘Metro Driving School’. They got her a driving license without her even going for the test! Five thousand rupees and two photographs – job done!
‘Ravi, can’t you see how congested this place is? India is just so polluted. Every time I step out, I end up coughing like an old woman!’ Neetu continues to whine.
Now, this is really getting annoying now. What is so dirty about India? Agreed, the roads are very congested. But the government has built so many flyovers. Many roads are one-way, and traffic is quite smooth, if you ask me. Ofcourse, you won’t! It is not fair, I think, that people obey rules and follow one-way signs when they are abroad, and when they are here in India, they crib that it is causing delays!
But look at it this way, our immune system is so much better than those who are living abroad. Our children roam around in the hot sun, but do not fall ill. I remember Neetu used to apply some expensive sun-screen lotion during the few summer months in London. We never do this drama! We are naturally robust.
Talking about being robust – look at our mental strength! Our country has been attacked so many times, in the past, and even now. The Mumbai blasts, terrorist attacks… every day, some part of our country is destroyed, damaged. But we Indians bounce back to Life. That is our biggest strength. I wish this girl could see these finer points of life.
‘We have to start a family, Ravi. Look at the free health system in London. Excellent education too, and all free!’ Neetu is pleading her case very hard today. I do not know how Ravi will reply to this.
You see, in India, education is not ‘equally’ available to everyone. There is a huge difference in government schools, and private funded schools. The former are usually very mediocre. There are some bright students, ofcourse, but they do not always get a fair chance. The poor people cannot afford a decent education for their children.
‘You’re right, Neetu. State schools in London are world-class. And free. But we can afford to give high quality education to our children. And we have the best possible schools here. Look at your own nieces and nephews. They go to the best school in Chennai. Haven’t they turned out brilliantly?’
‘But Ravi, what about our daily commute to work? I spend two hours on the road every day, in the dust and heat, travelling to the outskirts of the city on work. This will take a toll on my health, don’t you think?’ Neetu seems to have softened her tone a little now.
‘Darling, you used to travel an hour a day even in London. Remember those horribly crowded underground trains, in peak-hour. And every other day, there would be a delay because of some signal failure! Atleast, you get to car-pool here. Or travel independently, if you like’ Ravi gently kisses her on the forehead. I have to turn away now. I know where this is leading!!
‘But the corruption, Ravi? Everywhere we go, we have to bribe something to someone. Otherwise things just do not get done. This country runs on money. Only money’
‘Now, Neetu, don’t be unreasonable. Every country has its faults. I know we have not seen much corruption in London. The machinery moves even without the ‘extra’ oiling. But do you see, how slow things are there? It took us three weeks to get a broadband connection. When Appa fell ill, we had to wait two whole days, to get an appointment with the government doctors. See how accessible things are here in India…’
‘Hmmm’ I hear Neetu’s unspoken words. She cannot refute the points my darling son is making.
‘Remember the day we landed? You and I did not have to do a thing!! Helpers did everything for us. And what did you do? You yelled at poor Lakshmi-amma, for not wiping the mirrors well enough’.
I see Neetu squirming. Now her cheeks are turning red. Oh no, Ravi! You have treaded dangerous territory now! Seems like Ravi has heard my alarm too.
‘Sorry, darling. I did not mean it that way. I was just trying to make you see how convenient it is to live in India. We have so much help. You do not have to lift a finger! In London, we did everything, from cleaning bathrooms, to painting the house. We have people to do every little piece of work here. All you have to do manage them!’
At this moment, the lights go out. Before I assume these children are upto some hanky-panky, I hear a loud knock on the door. ‘Nityasireeee, Current illaya?’ (meaning, no current?) comes the booming voice of our neighbour, Chandra Maami. How much I miss her. We used to leave our front-doors open, and sit in our respective hallways, and chat with each other, during quiet evenings. Her children live in Seattle. Naturally! She educated them so well. IIT, IIM. And what did they do? Flew away to the USA, and settled there. I know exactly how she feels. I used to feel the same way. Until Ravi and Nityashree returned. Such a beautiful name – ‘Nityashree’. She gets angry when anybody refers to her by this name. She said her friends found ‘Neetu’ easier to pronounce. Sigh!
Sometimes, I think the best way of putting some sense into her head, is to show her the restaurant bills they have both run up in the last two months. One would think they returned to India for me. From the way they have been ravaging the Chaat shops and Dosa-outlets, it looks like they have been starving for the last nine years. ‘Mmmm… mmmmm…’ is all I hear when they bring home a take-away. Slurp. Of all the food they have gobbled, I loved the aroma of pav-bhaji most! I know – Ravi knows it is my favourite dish. He is a loving boy, my Ravi.
He remembers Chennai, the way it was. Madras.
The quaint old-fashioned city with its quiet, cultured inhabitants.
The streets where one would find a beautiful old temple, a relatively new Mosque and a historically important Chuch, all within five minutes walk of each other.
The beautiful Marina beach. If one could just ignore the number of slum-dwellers who performed their morning ablutions in front of our eyes! Still, it is a beautiful beach. Countless families who relish their Saturday evenings. Lakhs of ‘lovers’ walking hand-in-hand, dreaming of a future so bright, and in a world miles away from here. Little realising, that this place – right here, and right now – is a heaven on earth itself.
Call me a frog-in-the-well, if you like. I have breathed my entire life in this beautiful city. In this magnificent country, India. By far, I believe this is the most wonderful place ever.
‘This is the most wonderful place, ever, Neetu’ says Ravi, almost echoing my thoughts.
They have lit a candle. In the darkness, all I can see is Neetu’s eyes, glistening with tears. And Ravi caressing her gently.
‘I miss my life in London, Ravi! I miss those beautiful rainbows on a quiet summer evening’ Neetu whispers.
‘Oh, I miss my Tropicana orange and Cider too, Neetu’, Ravi says teasingly. And Neetu bursts out laughing. She actually looks quite pretty when she is happy.
‘I know you miss London. I do, too. But we cannot deny the fact that whatever be the case, we led a monotonous life’, Ravi looks quite serious now.
‘We spent our days shopping, travelling, eating, drinking…’ he continues. ‘Which is not bad at all. That is exactly what everybody wants to do. But you will realise, some day, what I mean when I say Life must be more Fulfilling’.
Neetu starts to get up. Ravi holds her hand and pulls her back.
Really, these children have no shame. Holding hands freely, in front of elders. Er, is this what Neetu means when she says she wants her ‘space’? Anyway, I have to perk up now, if I want to catch any more of their argument. Which I know, Ravi is going to win!
‘We want to start our family, Neetu. How do you want our children to grow up? In play-groups or nurseries with strangers? Or with your own family here – with your parents! Do you want your child to be lonely and bored despite having expensive toys? Or do you want her to simply walk down our apartment complex, and just join a bunch of energetic children playing excitedly?’
Neetu nods slowly.
‘Neetu, you do not have to turn into another Shahrukh Khan from Swades!
You do not need a dramatic tryst with poverty and misery – for you to have a change of heart.
You do not have to stumble upon an orphanage, to realise how much there is to be done here in India.
You just have to open your heart and mind, and realise that there is so much more to share here. With so many more people. You can share your sorrows. Your joys, even. There is just so much to give, and to receive too!’
I feel a lump forming in my throat. This boy is wise beyond his years.
‘We cannot change this country, Ravi. You’re being dramatic!’ Neetu argues.
‘Nityashree!’ (Ravi only uses this name when he is very serious). ‘I am not trying to change this country. All I am saying is, give us a chance, to return home!’
Well said, my boy! I almost whoop in delight!
‘Look around you! Your life is brimming now. With people, activity, laughter, sorrow, noise, light… you and I, are fully alive! Unlike our depressing winters abroad. There is something about the air in our country, that makes me feel alive. I hope you will realise it someday, too’.
I feel a tear roll down one cheek. I feel alive here too, Ravi. I want to walk right up and embrace him.
‘When I came back to Chennai last year…’ Ravi continues. I suspect a tremor in his voice.
‘When I came last summer, Appa was already gone. But Amma – the sight of her shook me. She was alone, naturally. But she was so content. Simple, yet, so peaceful and calm. That is when I realised, that we, despite all our material comforts, were sorely missing something by being away from our homeland’
‘When Amma also died last year, I realised that the most important pieces of my life were gone.
First my father, and then my mother. The only thing I had left now, was my hometown – my country, my home. My roots. I could not reverse Time. But I could gather the remnants of my life…’
Neetu nods slowly. She looks up and stares at me. Rather, at my photograph that hangs on the mango-yellow wall.
Her gaze meets mine. Hers, undecided. Mine, pleading.
‘He is right, child!’ I want to cry, ‘I hope you too, realise that a large chunk of you belongs in your roots. No country, no home is perfect. But if you give it a chance, you could actually stop chasing rainbows, because they are right here – even in a drop of adulterated water, even in a ray of light. Happiness in every breath! Well, almost’, I plead silently.
‘Ok, Ravi’ she finally whispers. ‘Let’s do this!’ she says more affirmatively.
In a rather filmy way, the power suddenly comes back on. In the distance, I 
notice, what most certainly looks like a rainbow! I know that my children will notice it too. Soon!
======
Folks,
Thank you so much, for your kind(est) comments, feedback and support for my earlier piece of Fiction: ‘Princess of the Dark’.
This post was chosen by the BPL Judges as best in that particular category (i.e. Fiction on child of a prostitute).
Thanks to my dear friends and to BPL.
This time however, there is a dark cloud that shadows the ‘thrill’ of winning. It is a shadow formed by sympathy for children who are subjected to horrendous forms of abuse and who LOSE their childhood itself, in the process. And something else that also contributes to the ‘shadow’ is a vague feeling of guilt. I do hope that some day, I will do something for such children.
Until the next post… TTFN (Ta Ta For Now)
-Pal
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….
——————————————
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.
———
Groups of ill-paid chauffeurs gossiped over a smoke. None of them paid attention to the car in the darkest corner. Nobody cared, really. It was just another car. Tinted glasses, fully rolled up.
From the rear seat came muffled sounds. Floundering hands, unsure of their next move. A young couple, in their early twenties. Half-children, half-adult. Clandestine visits to the local video store had resulted in them getting to watch several tapes that read ‘Tom and Jerry’ but which were more than just a cat vs. mouse tale. They had a vague idea of how lips were to be used. Lips that parted feverishly, lips that burned. Lips – old, but still amateur. It was no wonder, considering that ‘boys from good families’ would never dream of even looking at a woman, let alone kiss her!
As the boy finally moved to the driver’s seat, the girl whispered nervously ‘Are you sure?’
‘Don’t worry… they absolutely adore you!’, replied the boy, giving her a final kiss on her full lips. She smiled. They drove over to the old quarter of the city, where his family lived.
‘Our lord has finally arrived!’, a frail-looking woman taunted as he walked through the rusty iron gate, and splashed his face with cold water drawn from the well. He didn’t reply, but gave her a quick hug instead. ‘Hungry, Amma!’ he muttered. The girl joined her palms and bowed her bead, in a gesture of greeting. ‘Welcome home, dear daughter’, the older woman replied.
Dinner today was an extravagant affair. Different varieties of rice, dhal, coconut-garnished vegetables. A feast in honour of the girl who was to be daughter-in-law. Relatives of various shapes, sizes and age had been invited. They introduced themselves. She smiled, trying hard to remember their unfamiliar names. At dinner, he sat beside her, licking his lips as he relished his favourite dishes.
When he had gulped down the last sip of sweetened milk, it left a moustache of white cream. ‘Look at your future husband! Twenty-five years old and still such a child!’, they teased. She blushed. The evening regaled with laughter and fun! By the end of the evening, she actually relaxed a little, and enjoyed the teasing smiles and affectionate innuendoes from the older women of her future husband.
Soon, it was time for him to take her back home. ‘Girls coming from good families’ didn’t venture out this late at night, they emphasised.
They took a detour through an abandoned road. It suited them just fine. An hour later, he took her to her home. As she tossed about in her bed that night, unable to sleep with excitement, she ran her soft fingers over her cracked lips. She blushed, as her body tingled with excitement. She thanked her stars, that her mother, with eyes like a vulture, had not noticed anything unusual about her that evening.
Back in the car, the boy tuned in to his favourite radio station, and set the volume as loud as he could. He was so much in love. He was happy too, that his family had accepted the girl of his choice. Under normal circumstances, a boy of an upper-caste family marrying into a family that was not Brahmin, would have caused an outrage. Luckily for him, his parents accepted the girl without any visible animosity!
By the time he returned home, the lights were all out. Not wanting to wake up the sleeping family, he walked around the dusty path to the back door. He was surprised to notice an open window in one of the bedrooms. Silvery moonbeams cast long shadows, and carried out the soft sound of late-night whispers.
‘These women!’ he thought, and smiled to himself. ‘They seem so excited about my wedding! Chattering away at this late hour!!’ He discreetly edged towards the open window.
‘You are a fool!’, he heard an angry voice.
‘Hush!’ came the reply.
‘A bloody fool. Had I been in your place, I would have never allowed that lower-caste girl into the family!’
‘I am helpless’
‘Disgraceful! He wants to marry into those, whose impure names are never ever uttered by the same lips that chant our sacred texts!’
‘What to do? He just announced unceremoniously that he had DECIDED to marry this girl! We had no choice!’
‘Stupid woman. People of our caste do not allow untouchables into our house even! And here, we have that little vixen taking over our lives!’
He stared in disbelief. The evening had gone off so beautifully. They had all been so excited, and so happy. But behind all that, the unspoken truth was being unravelled.
He peeped into the window, and squinted until his eyes could see the shadows. A woman sat on a coir mat, her head in her palm, as if she had lost everything. In the light from the candle, her eyes seemed swollen, with crying. She covered her mouth with the edge of her crumpled cotton sari, as if she had lost everything, and had nothing left to say!
As he slowly recognized the shadow of his mother, his lips parted in shock. His mouth went dry. He desperately needed to get away. But he couldn’t move a step. He felt numb. A silent tear rolled down his cheek, and disappeared into the dust.
‘How could you…. Amma !!!’ he sighed, and walked back towards his car. After all that he had heard, he could not face his family, not just yet.
As he tiredly walked out into the night, he felt nothing but the relentless throbbing of his swollen lips.
Writer-z-block 
