A CHRISTMAS STORY (PART 2)

Armed with a flashlight, some chips if he gets hungry, a mug of hot chocolate to keep him warm, and a pair of binoculars, Alfy waited. He sat guard near the window and stared into the night. It was too dark to really keep an eye out, and the flashlight was barely any help, but he did his best. If nothing, he was sure he would spot Rudolph, the reindeer with his bright red nose.

‘If there ever was a Rudolph!’ he fumed.

As he looked out the window on this silent night, he couldn’t help but marvel at his little town. For a moment, he forgot all his skepticism and smiled at the beauty of this season. Each house was grandly lit up for Christmas. Mr. Jonathan, his neighbour, had the best house in the entire block. His house gleamed red green and golden. A snowman was built right outside his house. The Christmas tree had musical lights on, so the entire street echoed of Christmas carols and the snowman seemed to say ‘Oh come all ye faithful’. Tiffany had helped old Mr. Jonathan set up his house for Christmas. He didn’t have any children so he was happy to have the company of a child who was just as excited as him for the celebration. And it was safe to say that they had done a splendid job! Everything about that sight emanated love and happiness.

Lost in the beauty of his town, Alfy was almost considering abandoning his mission when he heard a sudden sound that pierced through the silence. He quickly grabbed his binoculars and looked out into the sky, but he saw nothing there. Nothing suspicious.
*Creak* 
There! That sound again!

It sounded strangely familiar. That’s when it struck him, it was coming from inside the house! He got up, rushed to the door and opened it just a tad. He made sure he was quiet enough and no one heard him. The lights were all off and it was really dark, but he’d recognise his mother from even a mile away.  *Creak* went the floorboard again as she tiptoed down the stairway. She switched on the lights and walked towards the Christmas tree. Her hair was unkempt and eyes puffy, like she had just woken up from a deep slumber. She replaced a Christmas tree ornament that had fallen down on the floor and tilted her head to check if she had set it right again.
‘At this hour of the night, woman!’, Alfy rolled his eyes.

Then he noticed something he hadn’t before. His mom seemed to be hiding something under her robe. His suspicion proved right when she retrieved a gift-wrapped box from inside the robe, it had a green bow on it. She then walked towards the couch and bent down and produced another gift-wrapped box from under there. This one had a red bow on it. She placed both these boxes under the Christmas tree and rearranged them multiple times to make sure it looked its most picturesque version. She then went to the dinner table, ate half a cookie, munched some carrots and gulped down the glass of milk. She sat down, leaned back and closed her eyes. Alfy could see she wasn’t sleeping. She was resting, just for a little while.
She got up after a few minutes, yawned and looked around to ensure she hadn’t left any evidence. She then tiredly carried herself back up the stairs, and Alfy closed his bedroom door, lest mom spot him.

He retreated to his bed, got into his blanket and simply stared at the ceiling. Mom had once told him that girls can do everything boys can. He had sniggered and never really believed her. Until now, that is. Girls could even be Santas, he realised. Or was it just mothers?

So what if Santa wasn’t the big-bellied, white-haired man he had imagined him to be? He was still real. In fact, the Santa he had was even better than the one he had read about in books, and heard about in stories. For his Santa fulfilled wishes all through the year, and didn’t wait for that one time of the year. His Santa didn’t stay away at North Pole, she was in the room next to him, and always there for him when he needed her after a bad day. He never had to write a letter, because this Santa always knew what he wanted before he knew it himself.

He switched off the flashlight that was still glowing by the window, and shut the drapes. He had something very important to do tomorrow morning, something that should have been done sooner. With that thought in mind, he finally did fall asleep.

Tiffany was the first to wake up the next morning, and she made sure she woke everyone up with her joyful squeals. She then ran downstairs towards the tree while Alfy ran to the next room. He wrapped his mother in a tight hug. She was taken aback and pressed her cheek against his, just like she used to when he was a little boy.

“Thank you, mom”, Alfy smiled.
He gave her a quick peck and ran downstairs to the tree.

Did he tell his mother he had seen her the previous night? No, he didn’t.
Did he know he was getting a hoverboard for Christmas? No he didn’t.
Did he still believe in Santa? Yes, he did.

A Christmas Story (Part 1)

The fireplace glowed golden with the embers, candles lit the hallway at every step. A Christmas tree was decked up with tinsel, snowballs, and an angel right at the top. The crib was beautifully laid to depict the nativity scene, baby Jesus rested in his manger with a placid smile on his face. A star hung outside the window, the star of wonder, star of night. Cookies and milk were kept for Santa on the dinner table, and of course carrots for his reindeers. Everything was perfect, right out of the books. Everything, and everyone, except Alfred.

Alfy had a shadow of doubt lurking behind his eyes. Like the look grandma has on her face when she suspects grandpa has had a little too much cholesterol for the day. Like the look mom has on her face when she knows he has had cookies before dinner. He wondered how Santa climbs down the chimney if the fire is kept going all night; how the reindeers never make a single sound when they tiptoe in their frontyard with all the gifts, not a single scurry or sneeze in all these years.

Alfy had his nose up in the air, as if trying to sniff out what smelled so fishy. Tiffany, on the other hand, was all smiles. She checked if her stocking was hanging right (for the millionth time) and went to the couch with a toothy grin on her face, which was a recurring theme around Christmas season.

Alfy and Tiffany were only three years apart, and acted like they couldn’t care less for each other. However, when push came to shove, they doted on each other, and that was no secret. Tiffany had long black curls that dangled in front of her eyes, just like her mother. Alfy was a spitting image of his father. The same deep brown eyes, and ability to misplace everything he touched. They were just searching for the TV remote when mom called.

“Honey, dinner’s ready!”
“But mom, I’m not hungry.”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have had those cookies then.”
“Tattletale!” Alfy glared at Tiffany.

Every night the Joseph family had dinner together. Sometimes they argued whether or not it was absolutely necessary to eat all the green peas, and sometimes they secretly wished they could move over to the couch and watch TV instead. Nevertheless, they always had dinner together, no matter what.
‘Amen’, they chorused after they had said their grace dutifully.

Tiffany nibbled on several things and never finished any of the items on her dinner plate. Alfy had that look growing children have on their faces like it’s so inconvenient that they are being forced to nourish themselves with food. After multiple redundant instructions, they managed to finish most of their dinner and rushed back to watch TV. Tiffany wasn’t keen on staying up late tonight though. Because the sooner she went to sleep, sooner would Santa arrive with her gifts.
At nine PM, the lights were switched off and they were both sent to bed. Tiffany kissed her parents good night and pranced to her room. This girl was the happiest around Christmas.

Alfy let out a big yawn and promptly announced that he was suddenly very tired and would probably immediately fall asleep. He carried himself to his room and shut the door. Little did they know, sleep was the last thing on his mind tonight!
Alfred Joseph was determined to find out the truth about Santa this Christmas.

Who was this big-bellied man? How did he travel all the way from North Pole? How could his reindeers fly?
He sat with his flashlight near the window, and waited. He waited for Santa Claus to come to town.

Places I'd never been.

There was an omnipresent chill all around. I shoved my hands inside my pockets, looked down, and kept walking. Tucked my hair behind my ears as the wind kept brushing it. I went to the playground first. I sat on the swings and stared into space. No laughs, no giggles, just pure acknowledgement of this place and my presence there. I stood up, kicked some sand, and got walking again. A dog howled in the distance. Television sounds drifted through the streets.

The cafe was open. Not crowded, yet had a steady flow of customers. I took my usual place- the booth beside the window. Chicken salad. The waitress came back with my order. I noticed they had changed the plates. There used to be sunflowers on the China, now there were lillies. Well...
I paid for my food and got a coffee to-go.

Next was church. I went to the bench on the fourth row and kneeled. I had nothing to pray for, so I just be. No matter what I've said, this place did offer peace. The burning candles under the crucifix made the metal shine. I made the sign of the cross and got up. My footsteps echoed across the hall as I closed the door with a thud.
The streets were getting calmer now. I pulled up my hoodie. Also, colder. There was one last place I needed to go before heading back home. The bus stop.

He had always insisted on taking the bus. It had something to do with the government using our taxes for public transport/climate change. I'm not sure which one it was, or maybe both? I never really paid much attention. He would go on with his banter, and I would grumble about why we can't take the car like normal people do. I wish I had listened more. Bus 321 arrived. The door opened. Closed. I stood up, walked, kept walking, and didn't look back.
I rustled the keys out of my pocket and opened the door. The warmth of the house embraced me like it knew I needed a hug. Somehow, this house felt more acceptable now.
It had been exactly a month since Pa died.

A month of denial where I shut myself inside the house, refusing to accept his absence. Not today, though. Today I had been to all those places where we used to go together. Kathy had offered to come with me, she had told me I didn't need to do this alone. But I did. I needed to accept that I was alone. And that it is okay to be alone. Sure it felt a little cold, and a little hollow. But the streets had not changed, the places were still the same. Only my world had changed. And I needed to learn how to live in it.

When Pa taught me how to ride a bicycle, he had let go without telling me, and it was only when I turned to look back that I realised I was doing it all by myself. This was something like that (Well played, Pa).
Today I had looked back on all those things that had memories attached to them, and though I hadn't really aced it, I now had hope that I could possibly do it this time too. All by myself. Sure I would fall a couple times, but I would get back up. And then I'd treat myself to an ice-cream, bruised knees et al. Because diabetes doesn't hurt as much as a bruised knee! Did I just make a dad joke? Well, it's like he never left!
Goodbye, Pa. Until next time.

The lone man at Taj.

It was my first time there. I had always wanted to witness the Taj Mahal and its glory, but I had never found the opportunity. One night out with friends, and an impulsive decision later, we were there. When I first saw the Taj, it wasn’t what I had imagined it to be, it was so much more than that. Magnificent seemed to be a very small word for it. The sky enveloped its minarets and became a mighty white veil. It was like the rivulets in a pond, you couldn’t fathom where one began and the other ended. The Yamuna flowed gracefully behind it, and mirrored its tranquillity. The green garden complimented the white structure and made an ‘almost-tricolour’. The entire place radiated peace and beauty. People from all over the world had come to experience this monument, and in front of the mighty structure, the multitude looked like little lego-people from a distance.      

There are some auxiliary buildings around the Taj Mahal. They act as a museum, and an office. Back in the day, some of the buildings acted as a place for the workers to stay. Largely ignored, they remained vacant, away from the public eye. These buildings were beautiful by themselves, but the Taj overpowered them for obvious reasons. However, there was one man who apparently didn’t think so. Dressed in a white kaftan, black-rimmed glasses, and a beard that reached his chest, he was perched on the front steps of this building. He had his palms open on his lap, and he rested his head on one of the pillars. There was something about him that itched my curiosity. Often when you read a good book, you are tempted to read the last line of the chapter to know how it ends. You know you shouldn’t, but your eyes keep moving nonchalantly towards that last line, until you finally give in. That’s the thing about curiosity. You can’t ebb it, you can’t nip it in the bud. It has to be quenched. It is the only way. And so, to quench this bout of curiosity, I abandoned my group of friends and went in pursuit of this man and his story.

He seemed a tad surprised when I walked towards the building and sat on one of the front steps. He sat up straight, adjusted his glasses, and turned the open palms into fists. I was aware that I had disrupted his privacy, and slightly regretted my decision. Perhaps, he could see that, so to break the tension,

“Your first time here?” he asked.

“Yes” I smiled.

“How did you like the Taj?”

“It is beautiful!”

He beamed so proudly, that for a moment I was sure he was a descendant of Shah Jahan himself!

Then there was absolute silence until I finally blurted, “Can I ask you something?”

He was surprised by the abruptness of it all, and faintly nodded.

“How come you are sitting here when the Taj is right there in front of you? Why aren’t you there with all the other people? What is so special about this odd building?”

He laughed an old-man laugh, the one that comes deep from the chest, and is the ‘ha-ha’ version of Santa’s ‘ho-ho’

“Those are three questions, you asked for one!” he teased playfully. “Where are you from, child?”

“Mumbai.”

“And yet, you are sitting here on the steps of an old building even though you had come all the way to visit the Taj Mahal. People are whimsical, aren’t they?”

He was right, I hadn’t quite thought of it that way.

“I work as a gardener here”, he continued, “As did my father, before me. In fact, my ancestors were all employed here as well. They had seen Taj before it became the Taj Mahal! It is our own little family legacy, so to say.”

I was amazed at his rich family history, and was glad I was having this conversation. Fortunately, he wasn’t done.

“You see how beautiful the Taj looks from here? Away from the clicking of cameras, and jabbering of tourists? It is an old habit. I come here every evening at the time of namaz and gaze at the Taj.”

 “I get it”, I intervened, “Some things become so routine that you don’t find the need to marvel at it.”

“No, no! You misunderstood me”, he spoke defensively. “You see the moon every night, but you never tire of it. You have eaten food cooked by your mother’s hands a million times, but at the end of a long day, you still pine for it. Your mornings don’t seem right until the prayer song your grandmother sings fills each nook and cranny of the house. On cold winter nights, you warm your hands by the fire and listen to the same song you had been listening to since you were a child. There are some things that gradually shed their novelty, and turn into something better, something that gives you comfort. And in his most vulnerable state, all a man needs is some comfort. This is that place for me. I find my peace here, I find my namaz here. ”

I sat there in silence and waited for his words to settle. I had come here to read a story, but the story had laid out so much more with it. I had read the last line, felt the curiosity vanish and something else take its place. Peace.

I looked at the oblivious crowd of people drowning in their wonder, and decided to go be a part of it. I hadn’t revelled enough, I had to see it up close and take it all in. So that next time when I visit, I can sit here and ponder like this wise man does. I took his leave and walked back to my friends. Halfway through, I realised I hadn’t even asked him his name, so I turned to look at him. He had his palms open towards the sky, and eyes shut behind the black-rimmed glasses.

So I let him be. Perhaps, another time.

Note- You see that little white speck at the bottom? That's him. I clicked this picture when I visited the Taj Mahal, and I knew I had to write about him . The picture demanded a story (Fictional).

Vodka and Lemons.

I sat on one of those long-legged stools you usually see in every club, red shiny and pretentious. I hated them for two reasons; it was difficult for short people to climb on it, and once you were seated you could do nothing to shift the chair because your legs couldn’t reach the floor. So you either asked someone to do it for you, or awkwardly shifted your butt hoping that it would shift the stool too, but alas, Physics always failed you.

The club was like any other club. Loud, crowded and dimly-lit. The television kept switching between a football and cricket match. The traffic was a drag outside, but the music drowned all the honking from the streets.  Tipsy people were drinking away mid-week blues in their respective booths.
‘So baby pull me closer in the backseat of your rover’ the speakers boomed and everyone lost their shit and  started singing along.
It was clearly a tone-deaf bunch of people. It was endearing though, they didn’t seem to mind that they were all off-beat, they were just living in the moment.

I was alone tonight. Dressed up in my little black dress, I had even watched Youtube tutorials and put on some make up. It was quite futile, in retrospect. Nobody seemed to notice.  It wasn’t that I didn’t have friends, or I was heartbroken or my boss was giving me a tough time. It was a voluntary decision to come out alone. Even though I never admitted it, it was subconsciously because of a Bollywood movie I had recently watched. The movie showed the protagonist get out of her safe bubble and go on her own honeymoon alone, after her fiancé broke off the marriage. She went to a foreign land all alone, devastated, yet came out of it having found herself along the journey. She met a bunch of strangers who became her friends, and helped her broaden her view of the world and her own life. So I waited for something like that to happen to me too. I waited in anticipation of a leggy lass who would instantly become my girlfriend, and would save me from myself, or a trio of guys who would become my best buddies and take me for rock concerts. I sat with my cocktail and waited for someone to come along and whisk me away from my monotonous life. But nobody came.

While I was waiting, my daydreaming eyes found the ceiling lights. They were really tiny and dim, and nobody really noticed them. But they made the place look so pretty.
“Yesss, shiny”, I said aloud.
“Sorry ma’am?” the bartender intervened.
“Screwdriver. I need another Screwdriver.” I quickly tried to cover up.

Whilst sipping on my cocktail, I watched a group of friends who were dancing the night away like nobody is watching. Nobody was, except me. I wish I had the confidence to pull off those flawed dance moves with such tenacity.
I watched the middle aged couple enjoying their drink in a corner of the bar. They had probably taken a night off from taking care of their children for going on a date. There was zest and longing in their tired eyes. You could see that time had changed a lot, but the butterflies were still there.
I saw a gang of giggling girls who were too young to be drinking at the club. Nevertheless, too excited to be doing so. They had their phones ready to capture every moment and record it for future giggles. The novelty etched on their faces reminded me of my teenage years.

With the fourth cocktail down, I started getting impatient. Here I was, hoping to meet a fascinating stranger, when no one had even bothered to make eye contact with me. However, there was one guy who had observed me more than I had observed anyone else here. He didn’t suggest a refill even though his job demanded it. He just casually struck up a conversation.
“Where are you from?”
“Just around the block.”
“Are you waiting for someone?”
“Yup” (It wasn’t entirely a lie.)
“The stars outside look better than these lights, you know.”
I looked at him quizzically, suspiciously, then warily.
“I look pathetic, don’t I? Sitting alone, staring at the shiny ceiling lights?”
“No you don’t. You look much better than the people here holding pretence.”
I nodded in faint approval. He then left to tend to another customer, or maybe to give some more life advice.

I didn’t think anyone was pretending here. They were all here just to have a good time. Like I was running away from myself hoping that someone would take me under their wings and teach me to fly, they were running too. They were running away from reality, just for a little while. Because they deserved it, they deserved to run away from their jobs, or homes, or whatever it was that was bothering them, and be happy, even if it was momentary.
Because life wasn’t all peaches, sometimes it was lemons. And sometimes you need Vodka to go with those lemons.

I stepped down from the stool and almost tumbled. It had to happen, but this time I could blame the alcohol.
The bartender was right about one thing though. It was indeed much prettier outside, and the stars beat those domestic lights, hands-down.

In that moment, I felt like I belong there. In the big world outside, underneath the stars, alone. I wasn’t waiting anymore for someone to come save me like in that movie. I was merely happy that I belonged somewhere.

Sure I was stuck, but I wasn’t lost yet. I belonged.

Just another day.

I saw the local train coming, and ran for it. I tried to make my way amid the crowd without pushing or nudging anyone (and failed), and almost reached the ladies compartment, but the train took off before that. My mother always told me never to get into a running train, and that is one command I diligently followed. I looked around to find a place to sit while I waited for the next train. I wasn't in a rush anyway, I was trying to not miss the previous one merely out of habit. Because when you see a local train coming, you run for it. It was an inevitable challenge you gave yourself as a Mumbaikar.

As I waited for the lifeline to return, my eyes fell on a father-daughter duo sitting on the platform floor. They both wore ragged clothes, and from the looks of it, the father seemed to be a manual labourer. His little girl was no more than four years old. She had in her hand a vada pav wrapped inside a newspaper. She removed the newspaper, threw it on the tracks and started eating her snack. The bread looked stale, and there were flies sitting on it every time she paused to take a sip of water out of the overused, plastic coke bottle that her father held.

I instantly felt a nagging guilt about my privileges, and decided to do more than just watch her. I went to the nearby railway kiosk and bought a pack of bourbon biscuits. I walked up to the man, gave him the biscuits and told him to feed them to his daughter.
He looked at me indifferently,  took the packet of biscuits and gave it to his daughter.
"Thane k liye train kaha se milegi? (Where will I find a train to Thane?)" he asked.
I was mildly puzzled. That was not what I was expecting him to say.
I showed him the correct platform and went back to my seat to wait for the train to come. Something seemed off. I hadn't expected gratitude, or a 'Thank you' from him, but I had also not expected indifference. (It's weird how we want to be immediately rewarded and exalted for an act of goodness.)

I watched from a distance to make sure nothing was fishy. Fortunately, it was just me being cynical again, nothing was odd. His daughter gobbled down those biscuits with an urgency, and her button eyes looked less hungry then. That's when a sweet realisation dawned upon me. I understood why the man did not react like I was a god-sent angel, why he merely got his query solved. It was because he was accustomed to random acts of kindness. Perhaps, I wasn't the only one who had fed his daughter something. There were countless other people in this busy city who had stopped and lent them a hand. Kindness had become routine for him. It had become his version of normalcy. It was a wonderful feeling, to know that I lived among so many Samaritans. Initially, I was happy about the little girl's content eyes. But now, I was happier about the fact that there were several other people who were trying to fill happiness in those eyes.

What a beautiful place that crowded, paan-stained railway platform seemed in that moment!

Wipe the slate clean- the final part.

After gorging on our customary Sunday breakfast- scrambled eggs and sausages, he went to take a nap, and I decided to do my post-church, Sunday cleaning. There was something mundane but oddly comforting about having the same breakfast every Sunday. Somehow, we never tired of it; instead we had accepted it as a weekly ritual. I opened the drawer of my storage cabinet, and emptied it to arrange everything in an orderly manner. Half of them were items I had resolved I’ll put to good use after watching DIY videos, and the other half had some sentimental value attached to it, so I refused to throw them away. My eyes fell on a white-coloured envelope which had turned off-white over time. The golden letters on the envelope said, ‘Kathelyn Weds Dhruv’. I brushed my finger against the letters as if I was trying to caress the memory of that day.

Ours had been a very quirky wedding. Dhruv and I had insisted on it being a small affair, so only family and close friends were invited. In the wedding reception, I wore my white wedding gown, and he was dressed in a gold and red sherwani. We looked like we belonged to two different weddings, but had decided to marry each other at the last moment. Our entire wedding had been pertaining to catholic customs and rituals, and when he told me he wanted to dress up in a sherwani, I couldn’t say no. After all, it would be wrong to completely rob him of his Punjabi roots. So I had politely complied. It was only later during our first dance that he told me, that he had done it only because he thought it would become a funny wedding-memory. By then I was too happily-married, so I simply laughed it off and continued dancing. We had a picture framed in our bedroom of him wearing my wedding veil, and me wearing his pagdi. He was right, it did become a funny wedding-memory! I heard the door creak behind me which meant he had woken up.

“No sleep?”

“Nah...what you doing?”

“Just wondering how things got so messy.”

“Hey, that’s our wedding card!” he gleamed.

He opened it like a child who is too excited to open his birthday gift. When he read the card, his eyes seemed like they were going on a nostalgic trip. He had a placid smile on his face, which quickly disappeared when he realised he had forgotten to tell me something.

“Hey, we’ll have to cancel the dinner plan tonight. I have got to make a presentation for tomorrow.”

“But they have that live jazz performance tonight! We had planned ages ago, Pork ribs and Jazz, remember?”

“I know, I’m sorry. But this is really important.”

I knew no amount of pleading was going to convince him. Besides, I didn’t even want to plead. So I just left the topic. He didn’t notice the given-up look in my eyes when I left the room.  I thrust the wedding card inside the envelope and shoved it inside the drawer again. I took the house keys and decided to go for a walk. Whenever things got too cloudy, I either went for a walk, or took a shower. It always helped me place things in perspective.

With every step, I analysed my marriage. How it had turned from a fun adventure, to a routine responsibility, how it had withered away like a rose that had not been watered enough. I had promised we would never become like one of those old and boring couples. While I was busy keeping that promise, I had failed to realise that you could be unhappy even if you were not old and boring. We were only in our early-thirties, and we even spent a fair share of weekends doing things we liked doing. Only two weeks ago, we had gone to a concert, and seen our favourite band live. However, the joy of doing those things together had left us. I had always been a person who declared that no matter how hard it is, you should always choose the path that leads you to happiness. And today, I wasn’t sure if happiness was on the same path that he was. My thought process was broken by the shrill ringing of my phone. It was him. I lied that I had gone out to buy milk. I didn’t want to go back home and argue about all of this. I didn’t want to hear his justifications anymore. I had already made my decision.

I bought an unnecessary carton of milk and went back home. He was sitting in the bedroom with the laptop, and did what he did best. He failed to acknowledge that something needed fixing here, and I didn’t want to pinpoint it to him this time. I would talk to him when he was done with the presentation, and I would tell him about my decision. When he walked inside the room, I was habitually changing channels on the TV.

 “I’m sorry, I know you’re pissed. But the deadline is tomorrow” he apologised.

“Why do you always have reasons?”

“It is really not my fault. I declined the promotion yesterday, so I had to apply for another post. And they only gave me a day to work on my presentation. I really have to get this post.” He rambled.

He always rambled when he wanted to make a point.

“Why did you decline the promotion? And why didn’t you discuss it with me?” I asked.

“They wanted me to move to another city, and I knew you can’t leave your job here. So this was the only way for us to stay together. I didn’t want to stay away from you.”

He saw the taken-aback look in my eyes and misinterpreted it.

“I know I should have talked to you about it before making the decision. But I thought you would want the same. I know the promotion means a lot of money, but I wouldn’t be happy staying away from you. So I made my decision without another thought. If you want, I can talk to them tomorrow” he rambled again.

I walked towards him and gave him a bear hug. That almost always shut him up. He put his arms around me in resigned relief, and I was glad to know that all was not lost yet. However, a few moments like these were not enough to make me stray away from my decision. I convinced myself that I wouldn’t change my mind. Happiness still always came first.

I made two cups of tea and told him we needed to talk. I thought a hot beverage would pacify him as I talked to him about it. I told him how we were running away from facing the truth of our relationship, how things were not the same anymore. How each day ended with me wishing for something more, something that we had, but had lost in the past couple years. He understood what I was talking about, he had felt the same. I told him of my decision, and I hoped he would agree with me.

“Dhruv, we have to talk to a marriage counsellor.” I said.

“That is the decision you were talking about?” he asked a little puzzled (and mildly relieved.)

“Yes. We need help. I know we love each other, but somehow that’s not enough. There’s something we are doing wrong, and I’m tired of finding it out for myself. I can’t go on like this; I thought it is just a phase but I was wrong. We need to seek help, I want us to be us again!”

I guess he was not the only one who rambled.

He put his hands on my shoulders in an effort to calm me down.

“Kathy, calm down. I know how you feel, and if you think talking to a marriage counsellor would help us, we will do that. Whatever it takes, okay? We are in this together.”

I smiled. ‘Whatever it takes’.

Sometimes it took more than love. It took the effort to literally walk an extra mile and figure out what we needed, it took the willingness to let go of a promotion you always wanted, it took the sense of acceptance that you need help, and that it is okay to ask for it. Those dregs on the slate weren’t proof of how messy things had become. It just showed how years of togetherness had had its effects, but you chose to stick with each other and fight them. I was trying to wipe the slate clean all this time, when all I had to do was write a new story on it. Things weren’t always perfect, but you could learn to love those imperfections, and even tackle some of them. Like that Sunday breakfast, Dhruv and I may have become monotonous, but I would still always go to him for comfort.

And so we made that appointment to talk to a counsellor. Happiness was still on the same path that he was. We were just having difficulty finding it. However, one thing was certain, we would only find it together. A quick peck on the cheek later, he went to complete his presentation and I put on the gramophone to continue with my cleaning.

  ♫♪ ‘Love is all you need...’ the Beatles .proclaimed ♫♪

NOTE- My cynical mind told me they should break off their marriage, but my rational mind said love conquers all! I guess The Beatles were right all along. I loved writing this story series, I hope you liked reading it too, do let me know if you did! Thank you for sticking by Dhruv and Kathy, and their story :) Until next time! :D

Wipe the slate clean- Part 2.

Mornings were the best in our apartment. The sun rays found their way directly to the bookshelf which was right across the window, and illuminated them in golden light. Sure, the result of this was the spine of each book turned a little dull over time, but the words inside stayed the same. After all, everything turned bland in due course, but what was inside was what really mattered. 

I sleep-walked into the kitchen and made myself a hot pot of coffee. I took the first sip and felt each cell of my body slowly waking up. Then my eyes fell on the balcony door which was neither open, nor shut, it just swayed in the middle. I was suddenly reminded of that time in college seven years ago, when he and I were arguing over whether the classroom window remains open or not. I liked everything dark and gloomy. He, on the other hand, argued that a classroom wasn't supposed to be dark and gloomy, which was right, but I just liked being stubborn. We finally decided to leave it half-open. That way we both won. Memories have a way of sneaking up on you and catching you off-guard. Just when things are going downhill, they give you reasons for why you should try to mend them. I smiled at this memory, and decided to buy a bucket of KFC on my way back from work tonight. Food always made us happy. Especially when it was chicken, and deep fried.

Absent-minded, I stepped inside the balcony. Traffic was a drag as seen from the sixth floor. There were several yellow buses lined up, with school children inside them who looked like little lego people. I decided it would be wise to leave a little early today, so I rinsed my cup and started getting ready for work. I rummaged through my wardrobe to find a kurti which was both clean and ironed. A herculean task, clearly. You would think that marriage and adulthood would make you act like a grown up, but it was all a big farce. Your wardrobes remained messy, and you still needed your mom to sort it.

When I reached work, my cluttered cubicle assured me that it was going to be a busy day. Files were piled up on my desk so haphazardly, that picking up even one of them imposed a risk of the entire bunch toppling over. It was like a mockery of jenga, only zero fun, and nobody won. Noon passed to welcome late afternoon- the time period when everyone is sleepy and nobody understands why they have to work. I was hazily typing away on my computer when my mobile notification tone woke me up. It was a text from him.

'Hi! We signed a big business deal today. The entire team is going out for dinner. I'll be late, don't wait up :) '

Well, there goes the KFC bucket down the drain. It was a sad day for both Colonel Sanders and I.

'Congratulations! Ok, have a nice time :)'

*Sent*

After a gruelling day at work, I reached home and put on the gramophone to play some Elvis. 'Are you lonesome tonight?' played, and I was prompt to change the song. I imagined the gods of fate sitting up there and laughing at me. It was almost eleven when the doorbell rang. His ruffled shirt brought back the smell of whichever noisy pub they had been to.

"So, how was dinner?” I quipped.

"It was okay. You ate?"

"Yes. I was about to order another ridiculous item from those tele-ads. Thank god you reached before that!"

He laughed, placed a brown bag on the kitchen platform and went to get changed.

"Hey, I parcelled some dessert back, maybe we can share it", he screamed from the bedroom.

This gesture wasn't made with a romantic intention; it was maybe because he was too full at that moment for dessert. But for some reason, it felt like I was getting him back in flashes. It was like a consolation prize you get after you lose a race, it doesn't mean much, but it's something! And just like that, a mundane day was suddenly sweetened by some lemon cheesecake. Colonel Sanders was still sad, but this missus wasn't!

Wipe the slate clean.

'We all live in a yellow submarine, yellow submarine, yellow submarine', the gramophone blared when I turned the door knob and entered the house.

We both had a knack for collecting vintage items. A pocketwatch, a typewriter, a gramophone, a vintage telephone, you name it. We had it all. Even our furniture had a retro feel to it, as if the varnish radiated a smell from the olden era. I  reached home past dinner-time. The sink had a used plate in it which told me he had already eaten. I entered the bedroom and saw that he was rearranging his vinyl records again. I hugged him from behind and he nuzzled his beard against my cheek, whilst deciding where to keep his 'Eagles' vinyl.

I undressed, took a shower, heated my dinner in the microwave, and sat in front of the TV with my plate. The movie dragged on till midnight. It was about a cop-turned-mass murderer-turned-philanthropist. I switched off the TV without bothering about the suspense, and wondered how Bollywood consistently managed to come up with stuff like this. I checked if the front door was locked, and the gas was turned off, and then retired to bed. He was already asleep. I got inside the blanket and put my arm around him. It felt so mechanical that I withdrew my arm and just moved closer until my nose touched his. He was lightly snoring, and his eyes twitched as if he was having a bad dream. He would be gone before I woke up at the morrow, and I would proceed with my routine uninhibited. We still loved each other, cared for each other, and even made compromises. Then why did it never feel like it was enough?

When you wipe a used slate with a wet cloth, it turns matte black, spick and span. Then when the moisture evaporates and the slate dries up, you see the persistent chalk marks still sticking out like an alligator's nose in a lake, and the matte black turns into a grainy grey. No matter how many times you wipe it, you can never get rid of it. These chalk marks don't hinder with the purpose of the slate, but they do bother you, and you keep wishing they weren't there. Our relationship was like that. We had all the prerequisites to make it work, but that's just what we were doing. We were only making it work. We couldn't get rid of the unwanted dregs that kept surfacing. We both could see it, and on weekends we would go on dates, try to get rid of them, wipe the slate clean, get the spark back. But these dregs would always return, and we just learnt to live with it. Like a stubborn cowlick, it would stand out.

We remained under the pretense that this is what the norm is, that it's okay to feel like this, that it's okay to not be happy about seeing each other at the end of the day, that it's okay to hug but never feel the warmth, that it's okay that our smiles never reach our eyes. We nurtured this denial until our partnership disintegrated into just a marriage. Today, we celebrate birthdays and anniversaries together, we open a bottle of champagne on reaching milestones, and hold hands while crossing a street. But every night before going to sleep, we question whether we do it because we want to? Or is it because we are supposed to?

Hope in the horizon.

Dear Nadia,

                

How are you, my child? Have you grown taller? I hope you have stopped biting your nails. I miss you so much, little one. I am in Turkey now, at a refugee camp, I don’t know how long I will stay here before moving to another camp. I hope you are at a safe place, and you get to eat your favourite food, you were always a picky eater, so that worries me. Do you know? That day when the bomb exploded, I was making you your favourite breakfast- Qarisheh. You were fast asleep in your room, and I was hoping that the smell of Qarisheh would wake you up, and you would come running to the kitchen, your hair in disarray, those loose curls falling on your sleepy eyes. I know I have told you a million times, but you have your mother’s eyes, Nadia. When I look into your eyes, I get reminded of the most beautiful lady whom I was fortunate to call my wife; you were growing up to be just as beautiful as her. When I see you, I see her reflection mirrored on you, and it feels like she is still around. The day she left the world, I promised her I would always protect you, and love you more than I ever loved anyone. I am sorry I couldn’t keep that promise entirely. The Qarisheh was only half done when I heard the loud rumble in the sky. I had heard it enough times before to know that it was a missile pacing through the sky. When you had seen a missile in the night- sky for the first time years ago, your eyes had lit up. You thought they were firecrackers, and I didn’t have the heart to tell you the truth. However, gradually you did come to know what they really were. You called them death-rockets, I winced at the word. You were only a six year old girl, no six year old deserved to get used to ‘death-rockets’ in the sky. That morning when I heard the death-rocket, I started praying under my breath, “Not us, not here.” It was really selfish of me to wish that the bomb explodes on some other family. I was mad at the fact that the war was making me wish for someone else’s death. I cursed myself and made a quick prayer of forgiveness. Those days, all I did was pray. A prayer to keep us safe, a prayer for food on the table, a prayer for our brethren who were dying at the hospitals, a prayer to get the strength to survive this horror, and a prayer that we wake up tomorrow to see another day. I wondered who I was praying to, because looking around it didn’t feel like anyone was listening. The bomb exploded even before I could finish my prayer. This time it was us.

               

        When I opened my eyes, all I could see was dust and rubble all around me, the ceiling had caved in, so I couldn’t stand up. I tried to crawl through the debris to get to your room, but my leg refused to move. I pushed my leg against what was left of our sofa, the pain was unimaginable, but I had to get to you somehow. I used all my strength to pave a way, but there were too many hurdles. I remember having a silly thought just before I passed out from the pain, I was sad you couldn’t taste the Qarisheh. I woke up again, this time I was on a hospital bed, there was a tube attached to the back of my hand and my leg was in a cast. All around me were men, women and children covered in blood and grime. I searched for you in every bed, I didn’t spot you. A feeling of panic began to bubble up in my stomach, I wrenched away the tube from the back of my hand and tried to get out of the bed. This time my leg didn’t pain so much. A doctor was alarmed to see I was trying to leave and he told me get back to the bed, I pushed him away. I looked for you in every bed, like a mad-man I ran through the building screaming your name. Everywhere I could see wounded people, some too shaken to cry, and some bawling their hearts out. But I was numb to all that, my eyes were only searching for you. I asked everyone I met if they had seen you, they would always point me towards some other little girl that was not you. Then I saw a board which read ‘Paediatrics ward’, there were a lot of children inside cramped in a small room. This time I was sure I would find you, I ran in and inspected all those faces, it was a right pitiful sight, seeing the kids in so much pain, but none of them was you. I asked one of the doctors there if he had seen you, I described the colour of your eyes, your hair, your nose, what colour dress you were wearing, but he answered all my questions in the negative. He put a hand on my shoulder and asked me to check the morgue. I shook that hand away and hurled abuses at him, I told him he was wrong, I told him I was sure my daughter was alive! I was saying it more to myself than to him. Some men intervened and took me away from there, they gave me false assurances and told me to calm down. How could I calm down, Nadia? Now when I think about it, I do realise I shouldn’t have treated the doctor that way, he was saving all the children there, he was doing a noble job. But I only needed to know if my daughter was okay, if I could only see my daughter once...

One of the gentlemen told me that a group of rescuers had brought everyone in, and they would know where you were. I went to each one of them and asked them about you, they said they had brought in everyone they had found, and it seems they had not found you. That is when I took to the streets. My leg wouldn’t allow it, but I stumbled and limped through the dilapidated streets shouting your name as loud as I could “Nadia Nadia Nadia”, I was hoping you would call back to me, but you never did. I reached our end of the street, I almost couldn’t recognise our house because there was nothing left of it. There were two unsupported walls that were still standing, and contained within them were bits and parts of everything that had belonged to us. We never had much, but we had everything we needed, and within a few hours all that we had was brutally snatched away from us. This ruin was all that was left now, and I was searching for my daughter amidst the ruins. I looked for you under boulders and loose bricks, it was like a cruel game of hide and seek. I don’t know how much time had passed, but something inside me was beginning to break. Just then, I spotted a body right across our house. It was camouflaged beneath a pile of rubble, but the tiny feet sticking out told me it belonged to a child. I knew I had found you. Urgently, but carefully, I yanked the body out. I looked at the pale blank face, emotionless blue eyes stared back at me. This was not you, you had grey eyes. This was not you. Thank God this was not you! I hadn’t cried since the explosion, I had searched for you till dusk arrived, but not once had I shed a tear, because I knew I would find you. However, sitting at this desolate street with the body of a young girl who looked so much like you, it completely broke my resolve. I softly brushed my fingers over her face and closed her eyes. I couldn’t bear to look at those eyes. Suddenly, the world seemed to be closing in on me, there was nowhere left to run, breathing became difficult, it felt like someone had punctured my lungs. I was gasping for breath and crying aloud. I kept saying ‘Nadia Nadia Nadia’, like I was chanting a prayer bead. If I said it enough, maybe the universe would bring you to me. A passing ambulance stopped and took me in with the girl. They thought I was her father, and I didn’t bother to correct them. They took her to the morgue and I went with them. The crying had been replaced with a much worse feeling now. I felt like a pot with a gaping hole in it, no matter how much you tried to fill it with water, it would always remain empty. I felt hollow, a kind of emptiness I hadn’t felt even when your mother was taken away from me. Then I searched for you at the last place that was left to search, the morgue. I didn’t find you there either. I didn’t know whether to be relieved about it or not. Without the certainty of seeing my daughter again, I felt like an un-dead corpse. I don’t have a clear memory of what happened next, the doctors took me to the ward again and treated me there. I let them do whatever they wanted this time, but I desperately kept asking for you. Each time I asked, they would say no. Three days later, I was discharged. I was taken to a refugee camp somewhere, life kept drifting from one camp to another for months, I don’t want to bore you with the details. It has been three years now since I started searching for you. But it wasn’t until a year ago that I decided to write you letters. Every camp I go to, I write you a letter, and I give it to the refugee camp head. I tell them, “If you see a girl named Nadia Perez, with unruly curly hair, grey eyes with a tinge of yellow in them, you give this letter to her, and you tell her that her Papa was looking for her.” They always look at me with pity when they accept the letter, but I don’t need pity, I have hope. Your name, Nadia, itself means Hope. I may have lost everything, but I still have hope left that one day you will find one of my letters and you will know your Papa tried all he could to find you. However, I don’t want you to come looking for me. I don’t want you to spend your life doing what I did, it will break you. Searching for someone in every face, in every walk can get emotionally exhausting. Every time I mistake some other girl for you, I die a little inside, I don’t want that to happen to you. So, don’t search for me. I am not writing this letter so you can find me, I’m writing this letter because I want to say goodbye.

       

 Dear Nadia, always remember, bad things may have happened to you, but find the strength and the courage to be a good person. You have seen the world in its most wrecked and cruel state, and that is exactly why you can’t let it remain like this. Go to school, learn everything, I know you are a smart girl, become a doctor or a teacher or a lawyer, or whatever it is that you want to become, but don’t become like these people who have hurt us. Don’t emulate what you have seen. Spread love. Be kind. Give more. Have hope. 

I am sorry I could not give you a world where you had a happy childhood; you were robbed of everything that you loved, but that does not mean you cannot start over again. Don’t let anything stop you from achieving big things in life. You may still be a child, but you can do great things nevertheless. Stay safe, I promise you will see a peaceful dawn one day. Look towards the horizon, your life is going to be that long and that beautiful. One last thing, please don’t be so stubborn about your hair. Let it grow a little please, you will look even more beautiful. I want you to know that I love you very much, Nadia. Thank you for giving me a purpose to live. I will look for you and write letters to you until the day I die. And I hope we meet again in a world where we don’t go to sleep afraid, where people laugh often, where children play until the sun sets, where love overpowers hatred, where the sky is twinkling with stars, not missiles, where the air is filled with the sounds of birds chirping and not bombs exploding, where you can eat Qarisheh that your Papa cooked for you. Until then, stay true to your name.

Yours always,

Papa.

Image source- The Guardian.

Maid with love.

It was the first day of my new job and as always, I was a little nervous. It was a Friday, so Memsaab was at work, but she had told me her daughter would be home. I said a quick prayer and rang the doorbell, the girl opened the door indifferently, but the minute her eyes fell on me they grew a little wider, her mouth opened a little with a gasp that she nipped in the bud before it was completely let out. Then she quickly recovered and gave me a tight-lipped smile, presuming that I hadn’t noticed her reaction. This was what I was nervous about, and I was glad to see it had gone fairly well. Years had passed, but I never failed to register how people reacted when they saw me, the only thing that had changed was, it affected me less. Now, I understood what they must feel. Anything unusual gets a little extra attention. Sometimes it is the kind of attention I can overlook, but sometimes, it’s the kind of attention that makes me uncomfortable, and those are the bad days. Six years ago, I used to cry over my pillow every night because I could not erase the image of people staring at me and laughing behind my back, and sometimes on my face even. They scrutinised me like I was a circus freak, and there’s only so much an eighteen year old can tolerate. However, times had changed. Today I could try to forget about it with a shrug and a smirk, it took time for me to accept myself, and I was ready to give more time to others so they can accept me too.

             Being a house help was hard, being a house help with PCOS was even harder. They were always a little harsher with me because I was disgusting to their eyes. I had acne all over my face, and where my face ended, I had two chins. The extra weight didn’t really add to the beauty. But mainly, people had difficulty accepting me because of the hair issue; nobody liked women with more hair on the face than the head. Well, ‘Damn you hormones!’ I thought, and got to my work. It was a new job and I didn’t want to make a poor first impression, even if it was a teenager that I had to impress. I was done sweeping all three rooms and was just going to start with the dishes, when the girl who had opened the door earlier entered the kitchen. She gave me a tight-lipped smile again. I gave her a brighter-than-usual smile, it was a new job and you had to do these things to make them like you.

“What’s your name?” she enquired.

‘Ugh! The compensatory polite conversation’ I groaned inwardly.

This is a classic form of human defence. When humans know they have offended someone, they try to make deliberate small-talk with them. This is done not to mend or pacify the offended person, but merely to calm their own pricking conscience. I had been prey to this several times, and could immediately figure when this defence was being used on me.

‘New job!’ I reiterated to myself and politely answered, “I’m Savitri.”

She perched herself on to the kitchen platform.

“Oh wow! I love authentic Indian names.”

Okay! Firstly, I had no idea what she meant by ‘Authentic Indian names’ and secondly, why was she continuing the conversation?

“Thank you”, I replied so faintly that I was sure she didn’t hear me over the clanging of vessels.

“Where do you stay? You see, we just shifted here and I know nothing about this place. I don’t even have any friends who can take me around. I love going out, even if it is for a walk on the street outside. I also love sketching. Do you know any place where I can go just to while away some time? It’s so boring sitting at home during vacations. Daddy says once school starts I’ll make some friends. It’s a new school so I’m a little nervous, but I really hope daddy’s right.”

I was a little dazed, because that’s the maximum any of my employers had ever spoken to me, let alone in one stretch.

“Well, there’s a garden only two blocks away, people usually go there for a walk in the mornings. I have been there only twice, you can try that”, I said a little louder this time.

“Thanks, that helps! I’ll go have a look soon.”

She didn’t speak after that, and I was kind of glad about it. She jumped down from the kitchen platform and headed towards the living room. I was soon done with the dishes and started cleaning up. Just before going home, I took her leave.

 ‘Bye, thank you’, she smiled.

“Mention not”, I said, confused.

I shut the door and hurried down the steps. Too many things had happened, and it took me some time to register everything. Not only did she have a genuine conversation with me without staring at my oddities, but she also thanked me for my work! What was going on? Had the world changed in a day when I wasn’t looking? I almost pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. However, the world had made me a cynic, and I told myself that this was a farce and it would end soon.

            The next day, I left my home and started walking towards Flat number 203 again, but this time I was a little more curious to know how my second day would end. I rang the doorbell, and it was her mother who opened the door. I have to say I was a little disappointed. No matter how much I told myself not to expect anything from the girl, I did look forward to meeting her again. A tight-lipped smile was better than no smile after all. Nevertheless, I got busy with my chores and pretended to not notice the mother nonchalantly checking if I was doing everything right.

“Look at Jenny’s bed! She has left it so messy again!” I heard a man shout from one of the bedrooms.

He came into the living room and it was very clear that he was the girl’s father, she had the same nose and jaw structure as him.

“I had told her a million times to clean it. The girl never listens.” said the mother in a resigned tone.

“Where is she anyway?”

“She has gone to some garden down the street. She told me she will be back before it is dark.”

I will not deny that I was a little too happy to hear that she had been to the garden. I felt a sense of pride, as if the garden belonged to my ancestors and I was the sole proprietor of it now. Maybe it was the fact that I was just her servant, but yet she had taken my opinion seriously and even acted on it. After a while, I got done with my work and took their leave. This time nobody said thank you to me, but it was the second time I was leaving the house happily.

The next day I was back again, and this time Jenny opened the door. I felt a little warm inside when she beamed at me the minute she saw me.  My eyes were immediately drawn to her teeth. She had a pretty face, but her teeth were the most crooked set of teeth I had ever seen, they looked like they were fighting for space inside a jaw that was too small for teeth too large. Aaaaaah, that explains the tight-lipped smile! I immediately looked away, feeling guilty about staring at them.

“Savitri, thank you so much! I had been to the garden yesterday and it was awesome, it was just the kind of place I was looking for. I even sketched something. You wanna see? Wait, I’ll get it.’

Well, she clearly didn’t need an answer. She was back in a jiffy with a book, and a gleam in her eyes. When she had told me she loved sketching, I’d assumed she would be good at it. But here I was, presented with a real sloppy sketch of a fountain, which I’m not entirely sure was a fountain or just a pedestal with a bird sitting on it. I didn’t quite know how to react, then I looked at her face and realised, she did not care whether the sketch looked perfect or not. She enjoyed sketching, and so she did it, without caring about whether it looked acceptable or not. Maybe that is why she could look past my acne, my obesity, my baldness, and accept me as a fellow human. She knew I wasn’t perfect either, but she looked beyond all my imperfections and accepted me for who I was.

“It is lovely”, I smiled.

       Seasons passed, and my relation with Jenny grew warmer. Every day she would blabber on about things that happened in school and I would silently listen, giving acknowledgements wherever needed.  She needed a listener and I needed someone who would talk to me, and we built our bond on this foundation. One day, I was trying to scrub a particularly stubborn stain on the floor when Jenny asked me, “Savitri, why do you have hair on your face?”

I looked at her poker-faced. Usually, a question like this would offend or hurt me, I was very sensitive about the issue. But the way she asked it, I didn’t feel a thing. She wasn’t trying to make a jest out of me, she merely wanted to know. In fact, she was the only person who had made it sound like a normal thing.

“I have something called Polycystic Ovary Syndrome. It causes several disorders, including excessive facial hair growth, weight gain and acne.”

“Ohh, well it doesn’t matter. I have really crooked teeth, and it is because I sucked my thumb until an embarrassingly-old age. You are so lucky! You can at least blame it on something, it is just a syndrome after all.”

That was the point where I burst out laughing. It had been roughly a year since I started working here, but I had never spoken freely or laughed out loud at anything. No matter how cordial Jenny was, I was just her servant and I knew my place. However, today I forgot all that and clutched my stomach and laughed until tears ran out of my eyes, this conduct even managed to silence Jenny. I couldn’t help it. This kid had told me I was ‘lucky’ that I had PCOS, when everyone else had told me I’m ugly, and nagged me about my weight, my hair, my skin, my existence. Even my own mother had always been very vocal about how she will never find a guy who would want to marry me. And this kid here, out of innocence had told me I was, in fact, lucky. I felt like a huge weight had been lifted off my chest. You know that feeling when a small stone enters your shoe and you can’t walk comfortably, and then the stone finally comes out and you feel a gush of relief? This felt like that. For years, I had been walking with that stone stuck inside my shoe, and today I had finally found sweet release. It didn’t matter anymore that people thought I was abnormal, it was not my fault and I would stop badgering myself about it, because it was just a syndrome after all!

“Bless you, Jenny” I managed to say, a little choked up now.

     She smiled as if she understood what I felt. The society had not managed to taint her mind yet, and I would pray every day that they spare her. She was a pure soul in a contaminated world, and Lord knows we needed more of those! I squeezed her hand and told her, “Your teeth may be crooked, but your smile always reaches your eyes, and that makes it the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.” She blushed furiously at that and turned pink, and I knew it was because nobody had ever complimented her smile before. What she did for me, I did for her, so she could love herself more. 

From that forwards, Jenny gave fewer tight-lipped smiles, and I basked more in self-love. Two misfits had found solace in each other, and acceptance within themselves.

Let there be light.

I have had my heart broken several times, have you?

Oh don’t get me wrong, no guy has left me for another girl, or dumped me as I hopelessly continued to fall in love with him every single day (unrequited, one-sided love, uff!)

But I have had my heart broken, oh yes!

I was in a local train, on my way to meet friends; we were going to celebrate something insignificant which wouldn’t matter in a few months by spending an unnecessary amount of money on food and a movie. I was fidgeting on my seat when I saw a man in his seventies, waddling towards my bogie. He had soiled clothes, wrinkled skin, and bags under his eyes which spoke of his struggle. He was selling ball point pens worth Rupees Ten. You could see that he was a strong, well-built man in his youth, but old age had withered him and there was a resignation in his eyes, which showed his reluctance to carry on. He had given up on life, but life was not ready to give up on him yet. He was supposed to be in a cozy home, where he could put up his feet, lay his head to take short naps on a lazy afternoon, while his grand children played in the veranda and periodically played juvenile pranks on him, which never offended him but only made his eyes crinkle as he playfully scoffed at them. But here he was on a local train, holding a shivering hand full of pens, looking pleadingly at people who averted their eyes when they saw him. I paid him for the pen, and he continued ahead with his burdened shoulders and varicose legs. That was the first time my heart broke.

I was in an auto-rickshaw and we had halted at a traffic signal. I saw a little girl fluttering from vehicle to vehicle with her hand outstretched, a bored expression on her face. It was clear she did not care whether her hands were filled with pennies or not, this was just something she had to do, and so she did it with mechanical obedience. When she reached my vehicle she beamed with excitement, I realised her eyes were on my bag. There was a badge pinned to it which somehow caught her eye, she told me she loved it and continued to tread on. I traced my eyes along her steps and took in what I saw. This was not a six year old girl with pigtails who could giggle with her friends, and play house. This was a girl who walked barefoot on concrete roads every day, with an empty stomach, but yet complimenting strangers on things she knew she could never have. Her brown eyes had seen pain, but they did not reflect pain. They were eager eyes, hungry for life. That was the second time my heart broke.

I was in the hospital OPD and a lady who was in her early thirties came for an examination, she had a cancerous lesion in her mouth, and to confirm, I called the senior doctor to examine it. The doctor told me in words she wouldn’t understand that it looks like it is cancer, but make sure you do tests to confirm it and do not let her know before we have the test results. However, patients are not half as ignorant as we think they are, she knew something was wrong. She kept searching my eyes for clues, and told me she has a kid and there’s nobody else who can take care of him. She told me how she did not even have enough money to pay this visit, and she would never be able to make enough money for an expensive treatment. She kept giving me reasons for why I should tell her she’s perfectly okay, and that she can go home without worrying about a thing. As if I could change her fate, and take back the inevitable. With whatever words I had to offer, I tried to comfort her, but the blank look on her face told me she was not even listening. She was only thinking about her toddler back home, about whether she will be able to make ends meet. But we just sent her away for further examinations, and started tending to another patient. This was a job for us after all, and how she was devastated and grief-stricken was not going to stand in the way of anything. That was the third time my heart broke.

I was home, sprawled on the sofa watching a movie, when my door bell rang. I opened the door to see that my dad had come back from work. I turned my back and went back to watching the movie. I did not notice the droopy eyes, or the tired stride. My father has this habit of going for a walk every evening; it has always been a part of his schedule. When he didn’t leave for his walk at the self-designated time, I asked him why so? He told me he’s too tired today. It was a casual statement, spoken in a matter of fact way, but it made me leave everything and ponder on what he had just said. That is when I noticed the crow’s feet around his eyes, how he sometimes winced when arching his back, how he didn’t lift anything heavy from his left hand because his elbow ached. Life warns and prepares you for a lot of things, but it never prepares you to watch your parents grow old; it only leaves you in denial. That is the fourth time my heart broke.

I know I’m going to get my heart broken aplenty. I even know it will get worse and some incidents I may never even recover from. But what is life really, if you don’t feel deeply? You can cover yourself in armour, you can go hide inside a hole, but these heartbreaks will find you, and they will wreck you, but it will also toughen you up with compassion for others. And if there is compassion, one day there will be peace. If there is peace, there will be more love to nurse these heartbreaks. Rumi said, “The wound is the place where the light enters you”. I hope we have enough light in us to fill these wounds of others.