It was 2am and he logged out of his computer after having paid his
wife's telephone rental. Missing her, he dialed her number and intently
listened to her pre-recorded voice which directed him to leave a message
after the beep. He smiled, voiced a faint goodnight and hung up. It’s
been four years, but not one day has passed when he hadn't wished her
goodnight. Four years since her death…
Friday, March 11, 2016
The hungry kite-runner
And she looked at the rain water in front of her shack. Had it rained for an hour more, the water would have flooded right in. Her 6 year old son lay behind her on what was their bed, mumbling something. In his hand was a magazine cutout of some sports car. He was hungry but he’s learnt now how to gulp down hunger with water.
She shifted her gaze to the old and rusting white Amulspray tins where she keeps her wheat flour and lentils; they were empty.
Sitting in her haunches she resumed staring at the world outside her plastic shack when suddenly she caught sight of a kite, broken loose and now drifting with the wind. She immediately called out to her son, who made a startling dash after the kite and was out of sight in seconds.
She resumed in her position, wishing that her son was able to get hold of the kite. She wished that her son got busy playing with the kite all day and forgot his hunger. Like yesterday, when he got busy catching tadpoles in half cut coconut shells, thinking he was catching baby-fishes. She wished he didn’t return before late evening when her husband arrives. She wished her husband came home sober. She wished her husband didn’t waste all his daily earnings on alcohol and bought some food instead. She wished she could work. She looked at her legs. She wished she could walk.
She shifted her gaze to the old and rusting white Amulspray tins where she keeps her wheat flour and lentils; they were empty.
Sitting in her haunches she resumed staring at the world outside her plastic shack when suddenly she caught sight of a kite, broken loose and now drifting with the wind. She immediately called out to her son, who made a startling dash after the kite and was out of sight in seconds.
She resumed in her position, wishing that her son was able to get hold of the kite. She wished that her son got busy playing with the kite all day and forgot his hunger. Like yesterday, when he got busy catching tadpoles in half cut coconut shells, thinking he was catching baby-fishes. She wished he didn’t return before late evening when her husband arrives. She wished her husband came home sober. She wished her husband didn’t waste all his daily earnings on alcohol and bought some food instead. She wished she could work. She looked at her legs. She wished she could walk.
My, this useless heart
My world is a broken bone that didn’t set right, it is a million pieces of crystal clumsily glued together.
I am nothing more than the consequence of upheaval.
I am without a door, a window. Maybe it’s snowing outside, raining maybe.
Maybe it’s freezing, hailing, a tempest slipping into a tornado. Maybe the ground is quaking, sliding apart to make room for my mistakes.
I am a hundred degrees below zero in my veins.
I am the withered leaf that never fell, never met its fate; yet is dead.
I am the inevitability of the perverse manipulations of the earth.
I am claustrophobia in my throat. My body a frail definition of structure, a habitat of the stigmata of the wars I lost.
I am a severed mind I can’t talk to.
And yet this heart of mine is a hopeless part of me clinging on to hope, defying everything I stand for, battling to kindle the fire I doused long ago… My, this useless heart!!!
I am nothing more than the consequence of upheaval.
I am without a door, a window. Maybe it’s snowing outside, raining maybe.
Maybe it’s freezing, hailing, a tempest slipping into a tornado. Maybe the ground is quaking, sliding apart to make room for my mistakes.
I am a hundred degrees below zero in my veins.
I am the withered leaf that never fell, never met its fate; yet is dead.
I am the inevitability of the perverse manipulations of the earth.
I am claustrophobia in my throat. My body a frail definition of structure, a habitat of the stigmata of the wars I lost.
I am a severed mind I can’t talk to.
And yet this heart of mine is a hopeless part of me clinging on to hope, defying everything I stand for, battling to kindle the fire I doused long ago… My, this useless heart!!!
The Air-hostess
And while the girls her age tittle-tattled about the men she must have slept with, the younger ones from the neighborhood just forgot to breathe as she walked past them. For these little girls she was the quintessence of grace and beauty. And for the mothers; they were plain happy that their daughters, unlike her, were learning things at the kitchen and will someday be married off to good suitors. I was one of these little ones and never failed to notice the change in her perfume whenever she strolled past. She was never in a hurry. The girls talked about her block heels, her neatly wrapped sari and her mascara. But for me her smell was all that mattered.
I talk of the time, decades back, when the Indian sky was dominated by Indian Airlines alone. She was a flight attendant and reception to whose being was still prejudiced by society. She was a fatherless child and the only support to her aging mother.
Upon a chance meeting at the local grocery this time when I went home, I spared few moments, potato in hand, staring at her across the vegetables as she wordlessly filled her basket with capsicum. The hanging incandescent light bulbs all conspired to make her look serene. And her downward gaze conspired to hide her grief. She was a Hindu and though I strained my eye, I could not see a vermilion mark on her forehead. She has aged. Elegantly. But she was lifeless. Society took her life, long time back...
I talk of the time, decades back, when the Indian sky was dominated by Indian Airlines alone. She was a flight attendant and reception to whose being was still prejudiced by society. She was a fatherless child and the only support to her aging mother.
Upon a chance meeting at the local grocery this time when I went home, I spared few moments, potato in hand, staring at her across the vegetables as she wordlessly filled her basket with capsicum. The hanging incandescent light bulbs all conspired to make her look serene. And her downward gaze conspired to hide her grief. She was a Hindu and though I strained my eye, I could not see a vermilion mark on her forehead. She has aged. Elegantly. But she was lifeless. Society took her life, long time back...
The Vagabond
Every once in a while a visible shiver ran the entire length of his fragile body. His frayed trousers and threadbare shirt were barely resistance against the cold and foggy Delhi winter morning. Sitting hunched with legs apposed and only his forearms and hands moving, he did portray a wretched form. He took sluggish tiny crumbs of his chole bhature with his greasy right hand while his left hand held on to a green chilly from which he broke a fragment after every morsel to chew on for flavour. His eyes were fixed in a mid-distant gaze looking at nothing; happy about nothing and yet I felt, truly worried about nothing. It was like he had all the time in the world or maybe he wasn’t in a hurry to finish his dear meal. Like I could do it all day, I stood there watching him even after I paid for my take away. A while later, I left. In my hand was my breakfast and possibly the man’s only meal for the day...
The Untold Story
I toss and turn in my bed, but she won’t let me sleep.
It’s long past midnight. A couple of hours later, the pressure cooker whistle will blow in the kitchen of the south Indian family below my floor. That’s my telling symptom for the dawn because birds don’t chirp here in central Delhi.
The day’s wear pulls my eyelids down. My mind pulls down the blinds to keep out rays from the wonderland. But she has a master key to my mind’s mansion. And she won’t let me sleep... She won’t let me sleep until I’m done telling the world her story.
Just like an amateur painter cannot justify the beauty and love of a mother in his portrait, I tell her, I’m not mature enough in my words to tell the world her story with the splendour it deserves. She tells me her tale is all but beautiful. I reply maybe not her life’s chronicle, but the stories that her moist eyes told every time she hoped her life would get better, they are stories mankind should absorb...
I ask for more time. A few years more down the line and then maybe I will mature enough as a writer and a human being, and then maybe I will be the right candidate to narrate her story. She acts like she understands. And she lets me sleep. But I know she’ll come again tomorrow.
Sometimes, I feel Radha is not my brainchild. Like she really did exist somewhere amidst this bedlam. And her story is true. And she wants it be told for a purpose. Justice? I remain ignorant. I am just a storyteller and I will do my job... tomorrow, with all honesty!!!
It’s long past midnight. A couple of hours later, the pressure cooker whistle will blow in the kitchen of the south Indian family below my floor. That’s my telling symptom for the dawn because birds don’t chirp here in central Delhi.
The day’s wear pulls my eyelids down. My mind pulls down the blinds to keep out rays from the wonderland. But she has a master key to my mind’s mansion. And she won’t let me sleep... She won’t let me sleep until I’m done telling the world her story.
Just like an amateur painter cannot justify the beauty and love of a mother in his portrait, I tell her, I’m not mature enough in my words to tell the world her story with the splendour it deserves. She tells me her tale is all but beautiful. I reply maybe not her life’s chronicle, but the stories that her moist eyes told every time she hoped her life would get better, they are stories mankind should absorb...
I ask for more time. A few years more down the line and then maybe I will mature enough as a writer and a human being, and then maybe I will be the right candidate to narrate her story. She acts like she understands. And she lets me sleep. But I know she’ll come again tomorrow.
Sometimes, I feel Radha is not my brainchild. Like she really did exist somewhere amidst this bedlam. And her story is true. And she wants it be told for a purpose. Justice? I remain ignorant. I am just a storyteller and I will do my job... tomorrow, with all honesty!!!
The Women
The Wife.
It's been a week since she had last shampooed her hair. Her eyebrows need to be threaded and it was more than two years ago that she had last visited the parlor for a bikini-wax. But these are last on her mind as she goes about checking the doors and windows for the night and making sure that all the lights are turned off. Soaking some Rajma for breakfast, she makes a mental note as to what she would prepare her two kids for lunch. She heads for her bedroom and along her way she gives one last look at the kids' bedroom and adjusts the timer on the AC. Her husband is already in the bed watching football on the TV. She stops short in her steps to ask him if they are going for the movie the next day, like they usually do on Saturdays, but decided against it as he was much too engrossed in the game and barely noticed her enter the room. She heads straight to the bathroom instead and looks at herself in the mirror. Two pregnancies had taken their toll on her body. She removes her bun and lets her hair fall loose but thinks she looks disastrous with all that greasy hair. She had been looking forward to this Saturday, like all other Saturdays before this when her husband customarily takes the family out for dinner. And it is on these days that she does essentially take care of how she looks, of what she's become, after 5 years of being a house-wife. She hurriedly pulls a rubber-band on her hair, without caring to brush it, and heads back into the bedroom and gets into the bed, alongside her husband. She gives me one last look, smirks, asks me to sleep early and dozes off. I discern fine crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes as she smiled, her hands have the faint smell of ginger-garlic from the kitchen, her body isn't toned anymore and there are strands of gray in her once beautiful thick black hair. She does not feel beautiful. But she is... She is beautiful, the Friday kind of way...
The Friend.
She's been drinking all night. Actually since the evening. In all probability a routine for the last two days. Break-ups are thorny situations. She gets up and stumbles her way to the fridge to fetch another bottle of wine. She comes back, lights a cigarette, takes a long drag at it and declares that she had his baby aborted, twice and that she feels repulsed having trusted this swine of a man who turned out to be a cheater. She also states that she had rebound sex with a common friend she met at the club the previous night and this had only made her feel worse. She hates what she's becoming. And all she wants right now is to go back home and cut off from the rest of the world. She's in a wreck. She pulls her friend at his collar and asks him what she's done to deserve this. Asking her to calm down he gives her a tight hug and then she breaks down, crying, for the first time. I hold on to her till she falls asleep and then gently lay her down on the couch and cover her with my shawl. Her perfume has been subdued by the stench of alcohol. Her kohl has smudged around her puffy eyes and her hair is messed in knots. The stockings she wore is torn at places, probably when she stumbled. She does not feel beautiful. But she is... She is beautiful, the Saturday kind of way...
The Girl-friend.
It's 10 am and she's just gotten up from bed, an hour after actually waking up from sleep and browsing on her mobile phone until its battery went dry. It is four hours later than she routinely does on weekdays. But today, she's in no hurry. Not in a hurry to even brush her teeth. Tying her hair in a loose pony-tail she heads to the balcony, ritually pushing the windows ajar and tucking the curtains at the sides of the window pane along her way. She lets the sun soak in and warm her body. It is a good feeling even though she can hardly keep her eyes open against the sudden brightness. She gives in and stands there resting her back against the railing with her eyes shut. After a while she turns around to face the sun, slowly running her hand over her chest to let the now-warm bobbled and over-sized sweatshirt pass on the warmth to her bra-less chest. Through the corner of her eye she squints at her nails. The nail-paint is chipping at places and needs a re-application. Meanwhile, she also tests her nails by pressing them against her thumb and concludes that she has very weak nails. She lifts her slightly bent head, tucks the loose hair locks from in front of her face to behind her ears and looks at me. Her hair is luster-less, the skin on her face and her lips are dry, she does not smell of any fragrance and her loose clothes do not flatter her body. She does not feel beautiful. But she is... She is beautiful, the Sunday kind of way...
It's been a week since she had last shampooed her hair. Her eyebrows need to be threaded and it was more than two years ago that she had last visited the parlor for a bikini-wax. But these are last on her mind as she goes about checking the doors and windows for the night and making sure that all the lights are turned off. Soaking some Rajma for breakfast, she makes a mental note as to what she would prepare her two kids for lunch. She heads for her bedroom and along her way she gives one last look at the kids' bedroom and adjusts the timer on the AC. Her husband is already in the bed watching football on the TV. She stops short in her steps to ask him if they are going for the movie the next day, like they usually do on Saturdays, but decided against it as he was much too engrossed in the game and barely noticed her enter the room. She heads straight to the bathroom instead and looks at herself in the mirror. Two pregnancies had taken their toll on her body. She removes her bun and lets her hair fall loose but thinks she looks disastrous with all that greasy hair. She had been looking forward to this Saturday, like all other Saturdays before this when her husband customarily takes the family out for dinner. And it is on these days that she does essentially take care of how she looks, of what she's become, after 5 years of being a house-wife. She hurriedly pulls a rubber-band on her hair, without caring to brush it, and heads back into the bedroom and gets into the bed, alongside her husband. She gives me one last look, smirks, asks me to sleep early and dozes off. I discern fine crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes as she smiled, her hands have the faint smell of ginger-garlic from the kitchen, her body isn't toned anymore and there are strands of gray in her once beautiful thick black hair. She does not feel beautiful. But she is... She is beautiful, the Friday kind of way...
The Friend.
She's been drinking all night. Actually since the evening. In all probability a routine for the last two days. Break-ups are thorny situations. She gets up and stumbles her way to the fridge to fetch another bottle of wine. She comes back, lights a cigarette, takes a long drag at it and declares that she had his baby aborted, twice and that she feels repulsed having trusted this swine of a man who turned out to be a cheater. She also states that she had rebound sex with a common friend she met at the club the previous night and this had only made her feel worse. She hates what she's becoming. And all she wants right now is to go back home and cut off from the rest of the world. She's in a wreck. She pulls her friend at his collar and asks him what she's done to deserve this. Asking her to calm down he gives her a tight hug and then she breaks down, crying, for the first time. I hold on to her till she falls asleep and then gently lay her down on the couch and cover her with my shawl. Her perfume has been subdued by the stench of alcohol. Her kohl has smudged around her puffy eyes and her hair is messed in knots. The stockings she wore is torn at places, probably when she stumbled. She does not feel beautiful. But she is... She is beautiful, the Saturday kind of way...
The Girl-friend.
It's 10 am and she's just gotten up from bed, an hour after actually waking up from sleep and browsing on her mobile phone until its battery went dry. It is four hours later than she routinely does on weekdays. But today, she's in no hurry. Not in a hurry to even brush her teeth. Tying her hair in a loose pony-tail she heads to the balcony, ritually pushing the windows ajar and tucking the curtains at the sides of the window pane along her way. She lets the sun soak in and warm her body. It is a good feeling even though she can hardly keep her eyes open against the sudden brightness. She gives in and stands there resting her back against the railing with her eyes shut. After a while she turns around to face the sun, slowly running her hand over her chest to let the now-warm bobbled and over-sized sweatshirt pass on the warmth to her bra-less chest. Through the corner of her eye she squints at her nails. The nail-paint is chipping at places and needs a re-application. Meanwhile, she also tests her nails by pressing them against her thumb and concludes that she has very weak nails. She lifts her slightly bent head, tucks the loose hair locks from in front of her face to behind her ears and looks at me. Her hair is luster-less, the skin on her face and her lips are dry, she does not smell of any fragrance and her loose clothes do not flatter her body. She does not feel beautiful. But she is... She is beautiful, the Sunday kind of way...
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