At life's disposal

“Stop playing that song.” Geetali fumed and turned around to see the six faces staring quizzically at her. She had just started doing her Thermodynamics assignment, but they could never leave her alone! “You are so weird. This is the latest dance track.” Geetali had known them since the beginning of college; they also stayed in the girl’s hostel, like she did.
“We are going for a movie, you want to come?” “No, I have to finish some work.” “You are so boring Geetali, you never make it to any of our lunches or the movies. Have some fun, college is the only time you can!” And she gave a high five to the others. The lecture hall roared with their laughter and it withered her ears.

She picked up the pile of books and adjusted them in her bag. “There goes the book worm.” Geetali was pretty to look at, big brown eyes and sharp features. A pair of black square rimmed spectacles resting on her perfect long nose, shoulder length hair which she always tied up in a ponytail. But one look at her and the emptiness was apparent. Not just the bare ears or the absence of any piece of jewellery, but the sad face and the missing zeal for life.

She had not been like that in the first year of college. She had been the stereotypical spoilt brat. When her trunks were brought into the hostel, everyone had come out to stare! The enormous pink trunks had carried her clothes, accessories and shoes. She had made friends instantly. They frequently borrowed her handbags or shoes and gave her all the admiration and attention in turn. She thought she had found true friends at last!

But then things changed course, and she stopped taking them out for big lunches, throwing them parties or lending her clothes. The hostel mess food, which she had sweared never to touch, was her staple diet now. Gone were the high heels and in their place came the chappals. Gone were the fancy clothes and out came the ordinary ones. People were quizzical, aghast but not at all invasive. They asked her questions, but she withdrew. She stopped speaking to anyone. Studies became her focus and one could always find her either in lecture halls or the library, her nose buried in the books.

It was only at night, when she ate her food, locked the door and switched off the lights at 9, did people hear a sobbing sound. Was it real or imaginary, nobody knew. One day, Meeta had knocked at her door several times. But after ten minutes of rejection, she had given up. Nobody had ever tried again.

It came as no surprise when she topped the result list and was nominated for the President’s gold medal. But she didn’t respond to the endless congratulatory messages. People had cut her out too, now she was on her own! But the fact that she had barely passed in the first year, and she was the topper now was a cause of concern to some. She had stopped sharing any emotion and was careful enough not to allow it to creep into her face in any form.

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It was the second time in the day she heard that song. But she could not run away from it or ask them to stop playing it. Holding back her tears, she looked at the men that surrounded her – middle aged, balding men, with pot bellies and drool which was starkly visible; even in the darkness of the place with disco lights beaming at her. She adjusted the piece of jewellery on her forehead which sparkled in the light. Drops of sweat broke on her face where soft skin had been smeared with heavy makeup.  She had always imagined a grand wedding with couture wear, in the presence of hundreds. But she never knew that reality would make her dress up as a bride every night, in the presence of a drooling audience, whose eyes were bloodshot and full of lust! Who were her father’s age but did not shower blessings or  even a pinch of sympathy. Who were ready with bundles of money to shower on her skirt as she danced to the same song…..

She was tired today, but she knew she had to do it each night, at least for the two years to come. She had tried to offer tuitions to juniors, but she had never had time during the day, and the pay was too less to cover the costs of her studies. Her parents had always wanted her to be an engineer, even when they had boarded the cursed flight. They said they had only found the burnt bodies, she couldn’t even see them for the one last time. She had not understood why they had taken away their house, and sealed it with a red tape. The assembly of people had bid large amounts to buy the house. She had turned away before she could see someone else walking on the floors of her childhood memories.

A fat man tugged at her skirt. She looked at his two missing front teeth. She snatched away her skirt and started following the beats. There were others like her on the stage, but she had never spoken to them. The fat man climbed the stage and held her waist. She tried to push him away, but he gripped her closer. Her screams were lost in the loudness, and it was ages before the security guards came and took him away. She looked at her arm in horror. He had scratched her skin so hard that it looked like an animal attack! She rushed to the green room and locked it.

The next morning when she woke up, her arm ached excessively. She wiped some iodine on it and covered it with bandage. She carried her bag with her left arm now. She wore a full sleeves top to cover up the wound, but the pain was bitter. Late in the afternoon, she took another pain killer tablet. She had no money to go the doctor. She had been saving up all her income for her fee and hostel charges. She had minimized all other expenses, she always walked to travel, always ate what they served at the mess. She had given away her belongings to a store which sold women’s shoes and clothes on the Internet, for a decent amount. She had no family now, and her only goal was to become an engineer, like her parents always wanted!

Her head burned with fever. She dosed in the last lecture, trying hard to keep her eyes open.  At night, as she climbed over the wall and paid money to the hostel watchman, she felt dizzy. As she dressed up for the dance, she could barely find strength to stand up. She took an energy drink and went on to face the lights and the ghastly men.

A minute passed before she fell. All felt numb and she felt nothing. When she woke up, she was in an autorickshaw with her fellow dancer. She had been asked her to drop Geetali home. The rickshaw stopped at her hostel gate and she climbed out. “Thank you so much, I will manage.” “Take care..bye.” The security guard rushed to her side. “I will never let you go out now. I will lose my job. I don’t need the money.” She could not answer him. He helped her to the stairs and left her there.
Meeta saw her, struggling to climb up. She ran down and took her by the arm. Geetali gave out a cry and tears poured from her eyes. “What happened to you? What’s wrong with the arm?” “Please don’t tell anyone. They will not let me stay here.” Meeta quietly took Geetali to her room and helped her lie on the bed. She uncovered the shawl to see the bright and sparkling attire. But to Geetali’s surprise, she said nothing. She helped her change and bandaged her arm. She bought her some food from the mess and gave her medicine. She sat by her side the whole night, checking her temperature at small intervals.

When Geetali woke up in the morning, she saw Meeta asleep by her side. She didn’t understand why she was helping her. Was she not like the others who had been by her side when she had money! Meeta awoke and said “Don’t you worry, we will go to the doctor today.” “No Meeta, I will be fine.” “Geetali, look at yourself. I won’t hear a no.” The sobs could not be held in any longer, “but I have no money.” “Don’t worry, I am here for you.” “But why are you helping me? I mean nothing to you.” “You remember the time when I asked you for money? And you said take it from my purse. My mother was unwell and it really helped a lot. I will never forget that.” And the hug Meeta gave her brushed away her emptiness and gave way to a long lasting bond.

The wait....

The sun was about to set. The traffic had increased. The honking reverberated in her head.  The auto rickshaw in which she sat jerked into a pit. “Please be careful.” She shouted to the driver. “Sorry madam, the roads are really bad after the rains.” Her heart was beating fast. Her greatest fear had come alive, what if he never showed up….

She touched the vermilion on her forehead and a grain of rice fell on her lap. She picked it up and held it in her palm. How affectionately her mother had smeared it on her forehead after the puja. Her parents had known it was a special day, but they could have never imagined the turmoil in her heart.

A gust of wind blew her hair and her clothes fluttered. Dark clouds gathered over the sunset beams and prevailed even after the onset of complete darkness. Was it her mind playing games or was the universe trying to give her a sign? Whatever it was, she could not interpret it. She had made her decision; in fact, they both had...

Big drops of water came down and dripped on her shoulder. She zipped open her bag to look for an umbrella. She remembered having put it just under the crushed pile of clothes. Her finger touched a solid edge and she turned it to see. The photo frame stared right at her, as if they could still see her and know what she was doing. Her parents were perfect; the ideal ‘made for each other’ couple.

The green umbrella had always been special. From the day she had pointed it out to her mother in the big store, she had never understood how she had saved up enough to get for her birthday. She had always frowned at the black ones that hung in their closet. She took out the umbrella from her bag and held it in her hands. The auto rickshaw jerked and stopped at the Central railway station. She paid the driver, opened the umbrella, held her bag in one hand and climbed out. The rain poured heavily, almost growling and fighting with her, as if accusing her of the crime she was about to commit.

She was almost drenched when she reached platform 10. She stood under the big clock, as they had discussed. It struck seven. She wanted to sit down, but the bench was a few paces away. She did not want to risk the chance of missing him. She held her duppata and used it to wipe her wet face as the corners of her clothes dripped with water. She bit her nails as she looked around anxiously at the unknown faces.  She tried calling his cellphone, but it was switched off. She still kept trying. The clock struck eight.

The heavy rain had led to water logging at the tracks. She could no longer see the tracks, but only ankle deep water. The platform was almost full now. Their train was due at eight fifteen. Her trembling hands redialed his number, but it was still switched off. She brushed away her tears. Maybe he was stuck in a traffic jam, maybe water seeped into his phone and it stopped working, maybe there had been an accident. She took out the two tickets she had purchased and looked at them -Karan Nagesh, age 24 and Kiran Prakash, age 23. “The train to Jammu has been delayed and it will now depart at 9:20”, the announcement in all the three languages enforced some calmness in her. She walked upto the bench and sat on it.
Karan had visited her house almost 3 weeks ago.  Smiles and cheers all until his job status was made known. If only, her parents had not considered unemployment as a vice. If only, he had not strongly reacted to their dislike. If only, the pitch of their voices had been low. If only, he had not walked away banging their door. It had been the greatest humiliation her parents had ever faced.

Maybe, she would have forgotten him. Maybe, time would have healed her wounds. But these hopes were crushed when she came back from office to see a houseful of people. A tall and lean guy had been introduced to her as her prospective groom. “This is the best thing for you”, her parents had said. “We have seen your choice, it didn’t work out. Now, you must comply with us.”She had been in too much of a shock to retort. So when Karan had suggested shifting to Uttaranchal, she had agreed. He had promised they would get married there. She had resigned from her job the very next day.

She held the bag close to her body; it had all her savings and Provident Fund money. She fought back her tears. She no longer knew right from wrong. What if he never came tonight? What if he had just done it to take revenge for the insults her parents had flanked at him? She sat there, her clothes dripping and her hands crossed tightly across the bag. The clock struck nine. The train stopped and stood in front of her. Twenty minutes was all she had left. She dialed his cell phone again, still not used to the disappointment!

Could she turn back and go home? It wasn’t an option. Could she board the train alone? But where would she go, what would she do there? The train started moving. She stood up and looked at it. Happy faces flung out waving at their loved ones. She stood up and watched it, move away from the platform. Her heart sank, and tears flooded her eyes.

She did not know how many hours had passed, but her mind had stopped responding. The numbness had taken over her completely. She just sat there and stared at the floor, as the clock struck twelve.

She woke up to the sound of a cleaning lady, asking her to move. She woke up and rubbed her eyes. She looked at her phone, there were 38 missed calls. She looked quickly, all were from her home. He never called. She dialed his number again, it was still switched off!

Her phone started ringing again, it was her mother. She switched it off. What could she possibly do now, where could she go? At the corner of the post, she saw a lady begging for food. Wrapped in her arms was a frail child. She held the child close and wrapped her sari around him. How desperate she looked for food.

She lifted her bag and rushed out of the station. As she rang the doorbell, she was still at a loss of words. Her  mother opened the door,  and she flung into her arms. “I am sorry Ma, I am so sorry.” And her mother took her inside the house and closed the door shut.

   

The stride is mine......

The loud music helped her get away, even in the midst of honking, and in the middle of a traffic jam. She checked her phone for any new messages, there were no one.  She hated crowds, and people in general. If she had her way, she would move out of the city and live in the hills, in the quiet and serene! But the traffic was nowhere ever near serene. She couldn’t even drive at 20 kmph on these busy Delhi roads.

She saw the signal go red and stopped her car. A beggar woman knocked on her window. Her clothes were tattered and a baby clung to her chest. The infant was frail, as was she. Her eyes met the lady’s for a moment, then she suddenly increased the music volume. The car speakers vibrated loudly. She pretended to focus on the car dashboard. When she glanced at the window again, the lady was gone.

She had never joined group dance classes as a child. She had learnt tango and salsa, but only from a private tutor. She wanted home tutoring, but her parents didn’t think too much of it. Sticking to the last bench in every class, she made sure she had a reason ready not to go for school trips, functions, or picnics. She just stood and listened, how congruously people chatted away, all the time! While eating, studying, playing. It was like an addiction. She could bet none of the people around could be quiet for even an hour.

She reached home and left her car in the driveway. She looked at Caramel, her Spaniel running in the lawns and tearing all the rose bushes with all his gut. She laughed, “Yes Caramel…come on!” She hated the lawns and the perfect flowers in them. She hated her picture perfect Jorbagh bungalow with her father’s name inscribed in gold. As a child, she had often scribbled on the furniture and made sure they saw it. But they had said nothing. She wished they said something. But the silence had been terrifying. That was the time when she took it as her sole accomplice.

It had happened everyday for the past 22 years. All she heard was a “Hi beta.” No more, no less. When she was five, she had asked her parents for skates, they had got 5 pairs home delivered. When she turned 13, she was given a valuable plastic card which she could use like a magic wand to get anything. When she turned 18, a convertible was waiting for her in the driveway, ready to be driven.

She removed the bandage from her back, it still hurt a little. She had to cover it for a few more hours. At the end, she had decided on a fiery mask design, and it looked great. She had got it done near her shoulder blade, the pain was piercing but fun at the same time. She ran upstairs and closed the door. She kicked her shoes and jumped on her bed. Caramel followed her and climbed on the bed.

It was at that time she saw the green envelope. She tore it open and began to read the most shocking revelation. By the end of it, she was as much in shock as she was in disbelief. The address mentioned had been scribbled off. She looked at the envelope. It still had an imprint of the letter. She took it near the lamp and shaded it with a pencil. She noted the address on a piece of paper.

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It was night when she returned. It was raining heavily. She had bumped into a lamp post and almost gotten herself killed. “Come amma.” She opened the door for the old lady to step out. The lady was plump and short, a round face with a mole on her forehead, and small lines of age now showed on her face. She wore a white saree with kolhapuri chappals. She held her hand and climbed out of the car.

“It is not right. I should have never written to you.” “Come inside, you will get drenched.” Reluctantly the lady held her hand, and followed her into the mansion. “Radha, get fresh towels please.” The housekeeper was surprised, more by her name being called rather than the presence of a stranger.

She guided her to the staircase, leading to her room. Caramel followed quietly, without any barks. When they sat down, she looked at her in disbelief. Amrita had been just like her. The same round face, the same almond eyes, the same flashy smile! “Where were you both? Mom and Dad don’t even let me mention you. I have been trying to trace you all these years.” “After her father passed away, we could no longer live in this neighbourhood. You girls were just five and too young to understand. Your parents refused to help us. Jammu was a difficult place to live in, but it was the only piece of property I had in my name.” Tears streamed from her eyes and stared at the stark shallowness of the room, the house! She knew her father had taken over their property. When she had asked where Amrita was going, they told her they went to another country to settle down. They never answered any of her other questions. They pushed her to Radha, who took her up in open arms and sang long hours of lullabies. But that was years ago.....

“Amrita is really sick. She has leukemia. She wants to see you. Amrita said you were her only ….” And words could not sprout from her grieved heart anymore. “Amma, I am here. We will fight for Amrita. Nothing will happen to her.” And she held her in her arms, consoling her and protecting her, like a tigress ready to protect her cubs from any harm. Amma had loved them both equally; she had called them her two angels. The only form of love she had ever known, the only motherly care, the only voice to tell her right from wrong, had been Amma. She had been devastated when they had left. Running away to their empty house, she used to sit at their porch and cry all day. And no one had come to take her home…

“Hello, is that Dr Bedi?” She held the telephone for twenty minutes, after which she booked three flight tickets to Jammu. “Dr Bedi will be here soon, he is coming with us. Don’t worry Amma, we should not leave her alone for too long.” She packed warm clothes, for Amrita and Amma. She opened the big cupboard where she had saved up gifts for Amrita each year. Whenever she had bought something for herself, there was a counterpart for Amrita. She had always purchased two of everything. She stared at the skates, and the golf clubs and the clothes. She had always kept the cupboard locked, but she knew this was the time to open it!

“Let’s go Amma. Radha, I am going with Amma, take care of Caramel.” “But what do I tell Sir and Madam when they return.” “Don’t worry, they won’t even notice I am gone.” She opened the safe and took out all the money. She packed her plastic cards well. And as they set out in the car, she looked back and a strong feeling to never return took over her. She felt free and alive the first time in ages….

Matters don't matter

I hated it ever since they scolded me and asked me not to touch it. “It’s your grandfather’s. It’s a collector’s item.” At five years of age, I adored the wooden carving, the black and white keys and the grandeur! It was really old, not sure if it was older than my grandfather - dadaji, but he once told me he had brought it from a British officer in pre independent India.

Dadaji loved me the most, and I was certain of this fact. I was ready to trade anything for a few minutes of being with him. After school, I used to sit in the courtyard bench looking out for him. My grandmother often scolded me to take my afternoon nap, but I was adamant. I made sure I tried my best to run around and ask her to catch me, or chuckle at her when she waited and caught her breath! But she had her winning card – “I will tell your father what a menace you are and how you trouble me.” That one liner made me go to bed, and lie there for a few minutes.

As soon as I could hear her snore, I knew that I was free again.  And one day, it was at that time, when no one was around, I decided to sabotage Dadaji’s prized possession. Did I have another choice? The evenings when he would have played with me, he was at his piano. We always had friends or neighbours around to hear him play it. And how wonderfully he played it!

I climbed downstairs, whisked into the kitchen and ran across the courtyard. Faster and into the forbidden room. They had always said mean things to me like “Finish your homework.” “Don’t make noise.” “Don’t play near it.” “Dadaji is busy.” It was the root of all causes. I could not take it anymore! I uncovered it, and sat on the table by it’s side – just like dadaji. It was grand and huge. The keys shone in stark contrast highlighting the black and savoring the white. It felt real and mesmerizing. I put on dadaji’s old spectacles and winked in the air, just like he did before each performance. I softly placed a finger at the first key.

“What do you think you are doing young lady?” “Dadaji, I was just…ummm…..covering the piano for you.” In a nervous wreck, I adjusted his large old spectacles on my tiny nose. It didn’t sound believable. He flashed a big smile and winked at me. “Want to learn how to play it?” “But I am not allowed to touch it. Dadi says it is precious. Is it dadji?” “Not more precious than you darling. I will give it to you when you grow up. You promise to take good care of it?” And I nodded.

Twenty years passed with a manifold turn of events. I had moved to the city and sunk into the city lifestyle. Preoccupations swirled me into the craziness of mere existence. After Dadaji’s spacious five acre house, I had forayed into a small studio apartment on the fifteenth floor. Late nights and late mornings had permanently moved into my life, erasing all signs of discipline which my grandmother had tried to push into me. Life as you know it, had been blatantly blown out of proportion.
It was a long day after work when I came back to find his letter at my doorstep. I don’t remember exactly what he had written, but I could not read past the first few lines. “The house is being auctioned and I am going to live with your parents now. They said my debts could no longer be withheld. After your grandmother, this house had been my only companion. But it’s too big for me to maintain.” He had written a few lines about his plans at my parent’s house. But very feebly, at the end was written “I could not fulfill all my promises- to you or to my family.” An overall happy letter, but dripping with tearing pain!

He had been a landlord, renting land to farmers. His respect and kindness had been known across villages. Recently, the government had announced land free holdings, and he had to give up all his land. To clear his debts, he had to auction whatever had been left with him. I could sense the feeling of loss in his letter and the emptiness in his life.

The weekend when I visited him, I found him sitting at the porch, waiting for me. “Your grandfather refuses to sleep, he kept waiting for you”, mom said. I smiled at him. Déjà vu it wasn’t, but the feeling wasn’t alien either! I could sense from his eyes the yearning for something… something he had left behind and had no more. “I am sorry about everything, I couldn’t bring you back the piano.” He smiled and looked at the ground. “I cannot play it anymore, my hands shiver a lot. But all I wanted was to give it to you.” And he heaved a big sigh. “I have beautiful memories of it, and of you playing it. What else do I need. And it won’t fit into my apartment either!” A tear left his eye and dripped on the dry grass. It shone in the sun.
“I wanted to meet you. But they say mean things to me like ‘She is busy’ ‘She has work’ ‘She has important things in her life’”. I laughed. “Of course not, nothing is more precious than you Dadaji.” “So you promise to come to see me every weekend?” “I promise. And we will go to the church, and you will play your favourite symphony for me.” His face lit up and he engulfed me with his big warm hug. Losses are traded, and life comes full circle, but till this day, whenever I go home, the porch is never empty…