Short Story: Eyes

I wanted to post it on 15th October, World White Cane Day as my dedication to all those who are equipped with better insight than most of us able-sighted folks.
I hope after reading this, you can forgive the three day delay.
A special thanks to dear friend, Gayatri who helped my blocked head with her beautiful situation ideas.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“…and after the marriage was over, they moved into their new apartment…”

She smiled as she read it. So many kids did not understand the difference between a wedding and a marriage. They used the terms interchangeably often leading to hilarious results. She made a mental note to speak to Shubhra the next day after class about the use of either “marriage ceremony” or “wedding” in the context. The story had promise. But Shubhra must learn to pay attention to minor details. She moved on to the next answer sheet. This was the last one.

There was a big pile of transcribed sheets on the table at which she sat. “Julie has been working really hard lately. There has been too much material. I must ask Amar to give her a raise.” She told herself as she started going through the last story.

Julie was a high school student who came in three afternoons a week with BrailleWriter, a type-writer like device used to convert text into Braille. She charged 2000 Rs a month for 3 hours of transcription a week. Sometimes, she also read out the newspaper to him while Mr. Seth messed around with a piece of play-dough that their next door neighbour’s seven year old son often stopped by with. Mrs. Seth loved to prepare tea for them while the newspaper was being read. She was such a delightful girl to have around in the house.

She heard the dining room clock strike four.

“Ah! Tea time! It is time to bring the fanatics back to real world.” She smiled, putting down the test paper sheets on the table, as she lovingly thought of Mr. Seth going gaga over a new masterpiece in the studio.

She walked towards the kitchen, on the way ironing the wrinkles on the dining table cloth with her deft fingers. She turned on the stove and set the water to boil in a kettle. She threw a spoonful of tea leaves in the water as it started to boil. As the aroma of green tea leaves wafted through the room, it was time to ring the bell attached to the basement.

Mrs. Urmila Seth, fondly known as Urmi Madam amongst students and other members of the staff, was an English teacher in a highly respectable boarding school situated on the beautiful and picturesque foothills of the Nilgiri mountain range. She was around forty five years of age with an ample volume of hair greying at the temples and worn backwards in a loose, somewhat untidy bun. Her eyes were a mystical green.

She had a fair complexion and a skin so translucently lovely despite her age, that it put all the pimpled teenagers at school to shame. Being a little over weight with a height of a little over five feet; which did little to add even the slightest illusion of a slender body shape, she usually dressed in a blacks and browns. Her usual attire to school consisted of a long black pure wool pullover with big pockets over a salwar-kameez in earthy tones and soft black pumps. A big brown pure leather purse, large and sturdy enough to accommodate a china dinner set for four, completed her ensemble. She walked in an upright gait, despite her height and was very punctual with her classes and appointments. This often made her quite impatient with any tardiness exhibited by others.

Mr. Amarnath Seth was a thick set, happy-go-lucky fifty year old, with a small pot belly and a salt-and-pepper mop of curly hair, that was usually smeared with dry white plaster. The white of the plaster added to the salt volume and made him a close resemblance to Santa Claus. He was a city renowned sculptor and spent most of his days and nights working from his little workshop in the basement of their house. He had a gift for carving out the most vivid and beautiful forms out of dead white clay. He was jovial, a lover of food and a man of immense patience. But like many men of his age, he had his set of quirks.

Anyone interested in buying his work had to go through a certain ritual. He believed that the buyer’s vision came in the way of making a true estimate of the value of his work. Since every creation of his was made with his bare hands, a true appreciation of the piece could only be done by feeling each piece, each line, each subtle detail, without letting “seeing” interfere with it. He lost many prospective buyers because not everyone interested in his work was comfortable about being sent over to his studio with a blindfold around their eyes and an escort who took them from one spot to another.

Mrs. Seth often teased him about how he gave the impression of one having resentment for his able-sighted fellow beings. To which he would say, “Urmi, you know that is not true. I just want them to know the piece the way I do, before they buy it. If they cannot get to the soul of it, it isn’t meant to be theirs. I only save them the hassle and the money.”

Mr. and Mrs. Seth resided at a cosy little cottage set amidst ranges of lush green tea plantations, around two kilometres from the school campus. Like so many of us, they had every reason to brood over the unfairness of life and spend hours blaming God for what was missing from theirs. But they had chosen to focus on what they had. Every morning, the cool mountain breeze that played on the window drapes of their bedroom brought a renewed sense of vigour in their lives.

Mrs. Seth was in love with English literature and always tried to transport her students to the world of Keats and Wordsworth, Shakespeare and Dickens. Her passion was shared by only a few select students in her class, who were mesmerized by her story-telling. They genuinely admired her and through her, the works of the great poets and novelists. They relished every word she said, bathing in every brush stroke she drew on the canvases of their minds, painting a world so different yet so similar to theirs. However, a majority of the students in her class just wanted to get passing marks. Not one to get easily perturbed, she did not let that affect the bird-like chirpiness with which she addressed her class every morning.
Mr. Seth’s occupation was like meditation to him. He poured all his frustrations and worries “into another head” as he had once said while making an old woman’s wrinkled face. This was one of his favourite jokes. He was passionate about his work. He vanished into his haven every morning after Mrs. Seth left for school and spent hours working on a new master piece every day.

*

It had been some time since the little wooden bird had gone back into her clock house having cuckooed four times. Mrs. Seth set out the tea on a tray. On her way back from school this afternoon, she had stopped at the bakers and bought Mr. Seth’s favourite coconut filled sweet buns. This was sure to put him in a good mood. Good food had that effect on him. She planned on preparing biryani for dinner. Malti, their cook and house-keeper, who worked from seven until twelve every morning had cut the vegetables and soaked the rice before leaving for the day. While Malti prepared a light breakfast and lunch on most weekdays, Mrs. Seth liked to prepare dinner herself. She loved experimenting with the spices to create aromas that dragged her husband out of his den.

It was raining outside. She loved to sit by the window when it rained. She loved the smell of the wet earth outside and the pitter-patter of raindrops falling on the roof. The slight chill in the air, as she reached out for her shawl, reminded her about the tea.

“Amar, the tea is getting cold. And so are the buns.” She called out a little louder than usual to drown the rain’s spatter.

“I’m on my way, sweetheart. On the fourteenth step...”

She smiled. He wouldn’t take long. There were exactly twenty steps from the basement to the dining room. She peeped outside the window to feel the fresh air on her face. The rain always brought to her mind a poem by Sarah Teasdale.

“There will come soft rain and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum-trees in tremulous white;”

She tried to recollect the remaining lines.

“Hello, Nutty Professor!”
Mr. Seth was right behind her.

“You call me nutty and you are the one who bangs his head into the cow-bell every single day.”

There was a Swiss cow-bell, a parting gift from an old student of hers, hanging at the centre of the ceiling, at the top of the stairs.

“Gosh, you heard that? And I thought I was the one with a stronger auditory faculty. Why don’t you just remove the silly bell from there?” he grumbled.

“Well, every time you bump into it, I get to tease you. I love the sound. It means you are coming to me.” She smiled and gave him a hug.

“I was just thinking we must give Julie a raise. She has been doing a lot of work lately.” She said handing him the cup of tea as they seated themselves on the dining table chairs.

“Ah! That dear little kid! Yes, I’ve been thinking of the same myself. It makes sense to do it. In fact I was planning on asking her to transcribe a few Panchatantra stories in Braille. I remember hearing those stories as a school kid. What fun they were! It is not like the US where the county library keeps Braille versions of all the good books. And if they aren’t available in the library, they are procured and delivered at your door step. The world out here is just structured for the sighted.”

He sighed and then continued.
“I mean, look at this for example. Couldn’t even the top-notch restaurants think of a non-visual way to mark restroom doors for Men and Women? The world seems to be replacing pictures with words everywhere.”

“Well, a wise man, or was it a woman, once said that a picture is worth a thousand words.” she teased.

“Whoever that was, the person definitely wasn’t blind. But I am sure you’d agree that the pleasure of building a scenario, a setup in your mind, piece by piece, is matchless as compared to just being given everything at the same time, as in a picture. You would miss the little details where most of the beauty lies. Don’t you think my dear?” he asked.

“You always give the false impression of someone who has a feeling of vengeance for all those who can see. Talking of details, what are you working on at the moment?” she asked, carefully trying to change the topic.

“You must come and check it out dear… I am trying to make a basket of fruits… non-intellectual and painfully domestic as it may sound, it is not easy. There are so many lines and knots...“.

“Sure. Right after I finish another cup of this lovely tea. By the way, now I know where the fruit basket from the dining table has vanished”, she said, her smile once again ringing in her voice like the sweet sound of a distant church bell.
Mr. Amarnath Seth shifted his attention to the next dearest object of his affection – the coconut filled sweet bun.

*

It had been raining all night. The ten AM sun, still trapped in a bunch of clouds, felt warm and mellow on the skin. It was Saturday – a day when Mr. Seth took elaborate pains to get dressed for a special mid-morning music class at the local clubhouse. The music class was usually followed by a long chat over a leisurely buffet lunch with his friends.

Mrs. Seth was right outside their cottage, haggling with the subzi-wallah (vegetable vendor) over the price of tomatoes.

“They are not even half as good as last time. There is no way I am going to pay twelve rupees for these.”

She lifted a fleshy one and sniffed it.

“Ugh! These are from storage. Forget it. I don’t want tomatoes. I’ll take only the potatoes and turnips. Don’t forget to add a few green chillies.” She said with a note of authority, handing him the agreed upon price of potatoes and turnips.

While the vegetables made their way into her jute bag, Mrs. Seth waved in the direction of a rickshaw-full of children who took turns blowing the rickshaw’s horn while the rickshaw waited for the boy next door. The little kids had a two hour play-school every Saturday – a blessing for mums struggling with the demands of an elaborate weekend brunch.

“So, here you are! I’ve been looking for you all over the place. I’d better be going. Are you sure you do not want to come with me to the clubhouse today?” Mr. Seth was at the doorstep. He adjusted his beret over his head with his left hand while extracting his cane from the holder at the entrance.

“Oh, is it ten already? It feels like an eight AM sun. You smell nice, dear. Is that the new aftershave?”

Without really expecting an answer to any of her previous questions, she added, “And yes, I think I’ll just stay at home and rest today. My legs are aching and I am not in a mood to walk. By the way, just watch your step. Since it rained all of last night, the road is somewhat slippery. Come, let me give you a hand.” She extended her hand which soon met with the warmth of Mr. Seth’s fingers. As he stepped down the small flight of three stairs that connected their patio with the road below, his hand still in his wife’s, he heard her chirpy voice once again.
“Bye dear. Have a good time.” He smiled and said bye.

Mrs. Seth was looking forward to a few hours of solitude to catch up on her knitting. She handed over the vegetables to Malti and gave her a few instructions. Tuning into a channel on the radio that played old Hindi film songs, she picked up her knitting needles and settled cross-legged into her favourite chair by the window.

On his way to the clubhouse Mr. Seth spotted an old friend of his, someone he had played golf with for four years until arthritis in the knees got the better of him. He was thankful to the optician who had sent the new pair of glasses a day before. With the previous pair he would not have recognized the retired army man at that distance.

Mrs. Urmila Seth sat by the window with an unopened envelope addressed to Mrs. Urmila Seth in her hands. It smelled of ink from a printer cartridge. It had come in the mail a few minutes back.
“This would have to wait until Amar is back. I hope it’s nothing urgent.”
She sighed and placed it on the side table next to the chair.

Mrs. Urmila Seth’s white cane stood alone in the umbrella holder at the doorstep waiting for her companion of many years - the mahogany walking stick that belonged to Amarnath Seth. It was not very often that the white cane was left in that holder all by herself.

Short Story: The Spell

“Viren, not another party… please.” she implored knowing only too well that it was going to be in vain. It had become a ritual and her first reaction to any invitation came out almost spontaneously.

“The CM is invited to this one and Mehra has reminded me about it three times since morning. He categorically mentioned that Bhabhiji should come, preferably dressed up in a muted color saree. It would do a world of good for the first impression the CM has of me. I mean, of us.” he corrected himself instantly.

Her silence spoke on her behalf.

“C’mon… we will be back in an hour, I promise. You can be assured I won’t take more than two drinks with CM Sahib around.” Viren put his arms around his wife and hugged her tight. Another set of words died an untimely death in her throat. After all these years, she knew he hugged her whenever he wanted to abort a conversation. And she usually complied.

A gentle scent of his cologne lingered in the air after Viren walked out of the room in his usual fast stride - a scent she had lived with for the last seven years and yet it had always felt foreign.

She had known Viren since their college days. He had always been ambitious and an idealist. Coming from similar middle-class households, in those days all they had were dreams. They would sit on the beach for hours and talk about them. He loved the fact that unlike other girls in college who were hardcore feminists and fiercely career-oriented, Neeti did not feel ashamed about wanting to be a stay-at-home wife and mother. He loved the confidence in those hazel eyes and the pride with which she carried herself amongst girls who had written her off from the “in” crowd for her choice of career – a career they likened to the role of a doormat. She loved him for his love for nature and wild-life and the passion with which he spoke of reversing the environmental damages caused by technology. And it was during one of those long conversations in which Viren poured himself out before her, that she realized she had fallen hopelessly in love with him and his dreams of changing the world.

Today many of those dreams had materialized. Viren had risen fast, turning almost everything he touched, to gold. Now he wanted to venture into politics and contest an election from their constituency. He was getting more and more restless as he inched closer to his dream of spearheading the environment ministry. And Mehra Ji, a shrewd and intelligent man of forty was his backbone, the man who had made Viren’s dream, his own mission.

She ran her fingers through the sarees in her closet, trying to mentally match each one with the light grey suit Viren had selected for himself. As usual, she wanted the best match. Her fingers came to a stop and rested lovingly on a pale blue faux silk saree. It was old and slightly worn out at the borders. She held it closer to her nose. It seemed to still carry within itself, some traces of their yesteryears – particularly one hot September afternoon almost a decade back. She could smell, in the folds of the saree, remnants of havan-samagri mixed with the scent of marigold and sandalwood agarbattis. She remembered the sticky feel of this proud new saree on her sweaty waist. That was the day she had unveiled the foundation stone for their twenty-worker watch manufacturing unit – a firm Viren had worked day in and day out to setup. How proud he had been! And that was the day he had hugged her; perhaps the last of those genuine, heartfelt hugs brimming with emotion and the sweet smell of his sweat.

Now the cologne had replaced the sweat.

“Neeti, see you outside in ten. Daisy, ask the driver to get the Merc out.”

Viren’s voice brought her back to reality. She rejected the pale blue saree for it was faux silk and clearly not appropriate for the setting. She pulled out a blue Satya Paul in chiffon with subtle hints of silver and rushed to the bathroom.

*

The air was thick with smoke and distant echoes of loud music playing on the dance floor. She ran the stirrer in her glass of orange juice for the eleventh time. She had clear instructions to stay away from her usual glass of whiskey because of the presence of the Chief Minister and the press. On the table to her right was a wannabe socialite seeking feedback about a certain posh pet-grooming store from a self-appointed Page-3 personality. Seated on the table to her left were a handful of heavy mascara and hot pink lipsticks having a sexy pout contest under the guise of discussing their favorite charity.

She was not much of a drinker, except a few occasional drinks at home; but she liked to create the impression of an alcoholic. It kept the butterflies away. With experience she had learnt to carry a glass of neat whiskey in her hands from the beginning to the end of the evening. Being seen like this for hours at a stretch was enough to get the mouths talking. And she firmly believed that if you gave them enough fodder to talk about you, they wouldn’t talk to you. It also gave her something to smile about on days when she would walk out of a party having discreetly left her unused glass of whiskey on one of the side-tables.

However, being the solitary reaper at such events often came with the risk of running into a handsome, young, aspiring model. One who would be only too happy to gaze dreamily in her eyes and tell her how no one really understood her and how he could read the loneliness and void in her beautiful brown eyes.

Having attended more than a thousand parties by now, she knew there were at least half a dozen such specimens in every gathering of hundred. He would be around late-twenties or early thirties; chivalrous and good looking in a boyish sort of way and an extremely good listener; the latter usually making up for any lack of the former traits. He would be on the lookout for a rich, bored house-wife who was waiting to hear how lonely her life was without a true love that could heal her spiritually and emotionally. He usually never offered himself physically until he had made a thorough check on his target’s purse and credit history.

She knew how to handle that type. Sometimes in her gloomiest moments, she even played along for a while amusing herself with the meaningless banter and frivolous male attention.
Her eyes fixed their gaze for the umpteenth time on the sleek diamond studded watch on her wrist. It had been three hours since she had been introduced to CM Sahib and Viren had vanished with the other men. She loosened and then tightened the grip of her fingers around her cell-phone. Calling up Viren was pointless. It sometimes made him uncontrollably angry and abusive - something she couldn’t risk today since he was in VIP surroundings.

She stared at the huge ornate clock on the wall as the minute and second hands became one with each other, their perpetual love-making reaching a pre-destined climax. At that stroke of midnight she thought of Cinderella, the princess whose magic wore off as she rushed back to her simple life, away from her prince, leaving behind a glass slipper on the steps of a palace. They were indeed fairy tales –tales of love and togetherness; tales of happily-ever-after marriages… tales that never came true in real life.

Perhaps that is why the central characters in most of the stories she wrote anonymously, under the pen name of her parents, were animals; who she believed were higher in EQ despite having brain volumes lower than 1400 cc – one of the characteristics that distinguish humans from the other members of fauna. The MD of the publishing firm had often expressed a desire to meet her in person. Perhaps he wanted to come face to face with Sulakshna Arvind who had, by God’s grace, grown to become an immensely illustrious contributor to childhood and teenage fiction. She had read one of his interviews in the papers where he had credited Sulakshna Arvind for helping him revive his failing business. She had worn a mysterious smile all of that day. Even Viren had noticed it, but hadn’t bothered to probe any further. He no longer had the time.

It had been a challenge to weave real stories around animals that would strike a chord with the extremely difficult to please reader-base – the early teenagers. But through her writing, she had managed to relate with their pains and heartbreaks, their raging hormones and turbulent tempers and subtly pass on little life lessons under the guise of animal stories. Connecting with children in this way also helped heal, to some extent, her own wound of unfructified motherhood - a wound she had carried the burden of for many years.

Today she felt a little like Cinderella, and a lot unlike her. Like her, today she was where she had never imagined she could be when she was seven years old. Unlike her, she was waiting for a magic wand that could break the spell.

She wondered if her life was indefinitely stained with magic.

*

Viren was too drunk to realize that the Mercedes had come to an abrupt halt at a gas station on the highway. It was 1:45 in the morning. Apparently for reasons of safety, but in reality because she no longer felt comfortable in adornments of any kind, Neeti took off her chandelier diamond earrings and placed them in her purse. These days even putting on makeup felt like telling a lie.
Hoping to catch a whiff of the petrol fumes, she pulled down the car window and peeped outside.

It had always been a pleasant olfactory experience that connected her to her childhood. Her father worked as a car-mechanic and a handyman at a gas-station when she was around six years of age. Every night when he returned from work, with his clothes smeared with grease and dirt and reeking of petrol, he would hug her and tell her about his day, despite her mother’s many protests. Working at a gas-station, on one of the most frequented highways, her father dealt with people from all walks of life. His everyday stories carried within them a wealth of knowledge – a wealth she had applied throughout her life. Perhaps that is why, she was usually able to understand why people did the things they did.

Mother however, always grumbled about the grease stains on her dress. It took her a while to understand that mothers in general, are more intelligent than they appear. They know that in order for their children to be able to think big and see beyond stained clothes and dust-mites, they themselves have to limit their thought process to the seemingly trivial and petty domestic tasks. Being successful in life becomes easier if there is someone to take care of one's daily nutrition and basic housekeeping needs. But even today, she thought, in most households this someone is ironically considered the least cerebral of all.

Ramesh, their driver was talking to a bearded guy in dirty blue overalls, enquiring about the quality of petrol. He had been very apologetic to her about not having anticipated this out-of-fuel situation. This was the first slip in his four year long service. Looking at his eyes, she could tell how dear this job was for him. Thankfully Viren was fast asleep and Ramesh was spared the reprimand.

She decided to step out and take a walk, hoping to get tired enough to catch some sleep by the time they reached home. In the high-rise penthouse they had lived in before they moved to their villa, there had at least been a ceiling fan to give her company through the night - something she could talk to while the soporific worked. Now they had a false ceiling with discreet air conditioning and mood lighting... and false slumber underneath.

Her eyes travelled from the Pepsi hoardings to a dhaba right across the highway. Strange, she thought that it was still buzzing with activity at such an unearthly hour. A tourist bus for Jaipur had come to a stop and an assortment of men and women and sleepy children were assembling around cheap plastic tables. Platefuls of sliced onions and green-chillies were being placed on the tables while orders for black dal and butter paneer were being taken down. How she would have loved to knock her heels off and sit cross legged in one of those rickety chairs, digging her fingers into a pile of rajma-chaawal!

And then it suddenly struck her. She checked the time on her watch. It was 2 AM. She turned back towards the car. A gentle humming of Viren’s snores filled the air around the car. Ramesh was busy talking to the bearded man, all the while keeping a good eye on the car – an attribute of a good driver. All she needed was a shawl to cover her designer blouse and ten minutes of anonymity. She took off her bangles and placed them in her purse. She clutched her money pouch from the purse and after making sure that she had a few denominations lower than 500 rupee notes, she walked towards the dhaba looking forward to a simple but divinely satisfying meal.

*

“Among the many casualties in the sudden fire that took place at a gas station on NH-8 early this morning was prominent business tycoon Virendra Singh of the Singh Group of Industries. It is apparent from the charred remains of the white Mercedes that the explosion was so severe that bodies of Mr. Singh and his wife Mrs. Neeti Singh cannot possibly be in a recognizable condition. As you can see on the left panel of your television screen, full efforts are on at the place of accident to identify the victims from the remains of the bodies. Apparently there were around eight to ten people at the gas station early this morning when suddenly a fire erupted in the back office. Before the fire could be controlled, it spread to the fuel filling stations where there were two cars parked, one of them being Mr. Singh’s Mercedes…
…The question remains, who will be the heir to the enormous fortune of Singh Group of Industries as both Mr. and Mrs. Singh had no siblings and no children of their own. Speculations are on that all the big names in retail are eyeing for…
…This is Minal Ruparel reporting live from the spot with cameraman Joseph…”

It was 5 AM by the clock on the wall to his right. Mr. Trilok Mehra switched off the LCD television set in the living room of his mansion. His phone was ringing incessantly.

"Damn! I need to rework my strategy now..." he threw the remote at the TV set in agitation.

"This just had to happen when I had everything planned out just right for me... it seemed too good to be true... the man had been so trusting... damn.. if only I could get my hands on the will..."

*

She was standing at the entrance of the dhaba when she heard the explosion. She turned around and gave out a loud scream. An enormous orange flame had swallowed the entire gas station. She was shaking with shock, giving out loud shrieks every second, until she felt a hand on her shoulder and that is when she collapsed.

When she opened her eyes, she saw two men, staring at her intently. They looked like they worked at the dhaba.

“Madam Ji has woken up. She looks better now. Here drink this Madam Ji…” the younger of the two slipped a glass of water into her shivering hand.

“It was a big explosion… perhaps a fire broke. Thank God Ji, rab da shukar hai, it didn’t spread outside the gas station otherwise we all would have been tandoori chicken by now.” said the other, senior looking guy. He seemed more interested in the cameraman and reporter walking down towards the dhaba from across the street and ran his oily fingers through his hair. In a couple of minutes he was going to be on television.

The gas station or whatever little was left of it was swarming with media, police, fire men and their crew.

“I think you got a shock Madam Ji. Your bus left in a hurry. All passengers were getting restless because of this fire. But you can take the next bus to Jaipur in an hour. Here, you dropped your purse when you fell. Please check the amount. And come inside in the deluxe eating room and sit on the sofa ji please.” The younger and clearly kinder fellow helped her go inside and seat herself on the sofa while he went to fetch a cup of kadak chai for her.

She sat there, on the red and green upholstered sofa that showed way too many signs of wear and tear; going through the events of a few hours back, over and over in her mind. Viren’s face, as she last saw him, sleeping like a baby in the car, swam before her eyes. She loved him. In spite of his indifference and preoccupation with his ambition, she always knew he needed her. And that to her was enough to feel loved. With every ounce of her patience and more, she had been waiting for him to come back to her. They had been together all these years, through thick and thin. They were meant to be together.

Now it was all over. He would never come back to her. The reason why she lived the life she hated, the reason why she never got tired of matching her clothes with his, the reason why she wore silence as a sacred garment about the house and drowned her emotions into fiction was that one day, when the summit was reached, he would find himself very lonely; he would find himself all alone with no one of his own out there at the top. That is when, his eyes that looked through her today as if she didn’t exist, would search for her.

A few hours back she had seen that reason go up in flames. She sat there for almost an hour, lost in her thoughts. Her face bore the usual lifeless expression – a mask beneath which it was difficult to tell what was going on, had it not been for the continuously flowing tears. The tea in front of her went cold.

A bus destined for Jaipur had just parked itself near the dhaba. She wiped her tears and checked her money-pouch. There was enough to last a few days after which Sulakshna Arvind would be able to take care of herself.

The magic had finally worn off and the spell broken.

Short Story: Happiness

She cleaned toilets for a living. During all of her childhood, she had never gone any further from the dilapidated gate of the solitary school in the district they lived in where she dropped her younger brother every morning before heading to the fields. Now at the age of thirty four, she had limited choices for a career.

Every morning as she boarded the 6:15 AM bus on the route and settled on the second window seat right behind the conductor, she thanked God for the job because it helped her place enough food before her family and get past another day’s worth of living. Sitting right behind the conductor helped her in many ways. She would chat a little with him and indulge in some juicy gossip about the other frequenters on the bus which she unabashedly admitted, was one of the greatest pleasures in her life. An occasional light hearted flirting between her and the bus conductor added some zing to their otherwise drab existences.

Occasionally, on a chilly winter morning, she would let him have a bite from her piping hot lunch box. The fact that he would conveniently wipe the lunch box clean by the time she reached her destination did not bother her as much because he often remembered to forget giving her a ticket for many days at a stretch. Going without lunch two days a week helped her save more than half her fare. She was quite happy with the bargain. And not surprisingly, in times like these, her job provided her with more job security than the people who frequented her workplace possessed.

Her workplace was the exact opposite of the sorry picture that might have been painted in the first few words. An air conditioned room, about three times the size of her one bedroom house, with plush interiors, stylish lighting, a vanity area with the tallest mirrors she had ever seen in her life and an attractive and comfortable looking black leather settee and a massive sparkling granite counter constituted her workplace. Well-polished faucets that looked like they had barely been unboxed from their Made-In-Italy packaging peeped eagerly into huge crystal wash basins. Every two feet, well manicured potted plants adorned the counter top and the soap dispensers on the mirrored wall carried in their wombs, the promise of many clean, aromatic hand washes.

She had been struck in awe on her first day at work and had described, in excruciating detail, the wonders of the automatic hand dryer and deodorizer to her bus mates. She also made sure all the women on the bus had sniffed the soap that she had applied a little of on her hands before leaving. They found it hard to believe that a free supply of sanitary napkins was available to whosoever needed them and yet hardly two or three were used up in a week.

She worked as a janitor in an MNC office building and besides a meager salary of two thousand rupees a month which she had conveniently extrapolated to a wicked three before her audience; she earned the envy of most women on the bus who worked as household help, and unlike her, were made to clean toilets without rubber gloves on.

Today was another one of her lunch-less days. She sat in one corner of the room in her uniform, a brown sari and green overcoat with an embroidered logo of the housekeeping company that she was employed with, having double checked all the items on her checklist – counter dry, soap dispensers ready, toilets flushed and reeking of phenyl, toilet-paper rolls replenished, floor mopped - and patiently waited for the supervisor visit. After the supervisor had finished her round, she planned to sneak into the pantry area and smuggle a few sachets of sugar that usually gave her the energy to survive until dinner.

Hearing some laughter on the other side of the door, she unplugged her finger from her nose and wiped it on her overcoat. She knew their uniform was designed to convert them into inconspicuous creatures that melted into the room’s upholstery. Despite all those efforts, they were eye-sores for those few who managed to take notice; though they often admired the texture of the wall tiles or the flower arrangement in the vanity.

Once in a while, a rare woman or two who frequented the ladies room would throw an awkward, clenched smile at her when they accidently bumped into her at the door. And then their fingers would inadvertently cover their noses conveying to their bodies that they had been too close to something unpleasant. Most others would look past her as if she didn’t exist. And for some strange reason, she found them most amusing; women who treated her no better than the toilet bowl they never looked back to check if the contents of had been cleared.

She didn’t believe in missing out on any opportunity of sweet revenge. As soon as a woman would turn on the faucet to wash her hands, she would start flushing the seven toilet-bowls one after another, every three seconds. Since the water to the washbasins and the toilet commodes was supplied through a single connection, the flow of water through the faucet would stop every now and then, making it highly annoying for anyone trying to wash their hands. She relished every moment of that little misery she inflicted on her victim.

The door opened and two women, immersed in a conversation about what sounded like a cosmetics brand, entered the toilets. One was a rather tall, very thin woman, short hair, about twenty five years, wearing a sleeveless pink top and a pair of disgustingly low waist jeans that gave her the appearance of a matchstick. The other, a short and stout one, about the same age, with magnificently thick black hair falling at her shoulders in beautiful curls, wore a loose pumpkin yellow top over a denim skirt. She checked herself out a couple of times in the mirror trying to suck her tummy in while the tall one rested her foot on the counter top to tie her shoe laces. Under any other circumstances, watching the shoe prints on the well polished counter top would have irritated her. But watching Pumpkin from the corner of her eye, try in vain to find that one angle that camouflaged her love handles amused her to no end.

Pumpkin took out a large hair brush from her bag and started untangling a few curls while Matchstick applied another coat of cheery pink lipstick on her thin lips. Within a few minutes they were done with their grooming and out through the door.

Grudgingly, the solitary inhabitant of that room got up from her usual corner to take out the mop she planned to wipe the foot prints clean with. She pulled a tissue from the tissue box to wipe the water droplets inside the crystal bowls. As her fingers moved around on the inner glass of the washing bowls collecting droplets of water into the tissue, something hard clinked against the glass. She picked it up.

What looked like a big drop of water at some distance was actually an ear stud, a piece of perfectly cut diamond encased in an outer shell of silver like metal. Each face of the diamond lit up brilliantly under the many spot lights fixed inside the false ceiling. It was the brightest, most perfect gem she had seen all her life and the first one she had ever held in her fingers. Her fingers trembled at the thought of where this gem might have landed had she turned on the faucet and allowed the water to wash it off into its intestines. She stood there a while staring in amazement at the little piece of jewel, with a million thoughts racing through her mind.

Suddenly she heard footsteps outside the door. Not having decided on what she wanted to do with that little temptation sitting in her palm, she quickly slipped the tissue with the ear stud into her coat pocket and walked back to her usual place.

“Do you remember wearing it when you were in front of the mirror?” Matchstick and Pumpkin stormed into the toilets.

“I don’t know. I was right here, combing my hair. I couldn’t have been able to tell. I am not wearing my contacts today.” Pumpkin was pointing to the spot where she stood a few minutes back. She was close to tears as she said it.

“Think hard. It might have fallen off anywhere then; at the bus stop, in the bus, in the elevator or even in the cafeteria.” Matchstick bent down and looked under the counter top while Pumpkin was frantically scanning the washing bowls with squinting eyes.

“It doesn’t look like it is here”, declared Matchstick, having checked out the entire floor on her knees. It was a brave act considering how far below her belly button was the top button of her jeans.

“It is real solitaire. I remember my mother-in-law telling the whole world that the pair cost her one and a half lakh rupees. Even if she was exaggerating, each must be around at least a fifty-sixty thousand“, said Pumpkin in a voice muffled with tears. “She will kill me if she knows…” she added in the same breath.

“Are you kidding me? And you wear it casually to work every day?” exclaimed Matchstick who herself was wearing a pair of silver studs bought at a local market for three hundred rupees. In a flash, any traces of envy turned into a pleasurable serves-you-right kind of feeling in Matchstick’s eyes. Ah! The minds of women…

“Let’s go down and check the cafeteria. And we should also inform Security. Show them the other earring and let them take a picture of it. They’ll find it if it fell somewhere inside the building. These guys are usually good with lost-and-found”, said Matchstick pulling out a tissue paper and handing it over to Pumpkin who was now crying inconsolably.

Together the women walked out the door.

“Sixty Thousand Rupees!” she managed to finally breathe out. Having held her breath for so long, she let out the words with an exclamation.

“Ha… Finders are keepers… aren’t they?” she thought. A faint devilish flicker of light came up in eyes bedazzled with the shine of the gem stone.

“Keep it. It belongs to you now.”

“Return it. It isn’t yours.”

“What good would it do staying put on a dumb little earlobe? It can change my life.”

“No. This isn’t right.”

“There are a lot of things that are not right. The world is living comfortably with them. Why does Padma have to work as a maid all her life? Is that right? I can send her to college with the money”, Padma was her sixteen year old daughter who had just finished high school. She had been studying on a scholarship so far but now college admission demanded money.

“The money is stolen.”

“It isn’t stolen. What if it had really gone down that drain? It would have been lost forever. No good it would have brought to the world. Now it can give a deserving person a chance to build a better life. Wouldn’t that be a life of more meaning and purpose for a futile little adornment?” Her grip on the tissue tightened and the little angel on her right shoulder faded away for lack of a counter argument.

Suddenly, overjoyed at having easily won the hardest battle mankind has ever had to face, little ideas in her head started to march around like a battalion of ants. How would she take this diamond out of the facility? Who would she sell it to? That perhaps, was easy. There was this chap the bus conductor had once told her about, a friend of his who was a regular contributor to the chor-bazaar. She could strike a deal. But she would settle for nothing less than fifty thousand rupees. That was all she needed. They could keep whatever was the rest. This warm feeling of generosity helped put at ease, that faint, stubborn little voice inside her head.

How would she explain the money to her family? Her husband, would he believe where the money was from? Maybe not! But did she care? Again, maybe not! Padma would believe. And that was all that mattered.

Now how would she take it out of the facility? Hiding it in her clothes was not going to work. She remembered the woman with the tight bun and a khaki sari, who frisked her from head to toe every morning and evening at the service staff entry-exit gates. She had often wondered what she felt like, running her hands all over a hundred female bodies, every single day of her life.

Once in a while she thought her fingers had lingered on a little longer on hers but maybe that was just her imagination. And then maybe not; maybe she also, after a tough day’s work lay down next to a man who came home every night, having poured himself into another woman and with little to offer her. She smiled; a dry cold smile that was so characteristic of her. The gem stone in her palm smiled back innocently at her.

No, she would have to think of another way. She could hide it between her toes in her slippers and walk out the gate. Anyone who noticed might mistake it for a toe ring. But a toe ring on one foot? Surely, that would arouse interest.

Strangely, all this while she had felt like an inanimate piece of the building’s décor and had hated it. Today she felt like she was under the spotlight and how she hated that! Her heart was beating wildly in her chest. In that quiet stillness of the room where the gurgling of water in the pipes around her was the predominant sound that surrounded her all day; she could hear her heartbeat loud and clear.

Where would this little piece of diamond go unnoticed? Of course, the ears! Why didn’t she think of that? Her fingers rested on the tiny silver rings in her ears. She could take these off and wear the earring in one of the ears. Yes, in the left ear, as Tight-bun usually stood on her right on the way out. And she could cover her right ear with her hair. But wouldn’t this brilliant piece of ornament look completely out of place on her earlobe?

All she needed to do was make it look worn-out and old and maybe dirty enough to match with the rest of her appearance. And she also needed to find a place to hide her earrings.

She held the diamond near her left earlobe and adjusted the hair on the right so that they fell on her face. She found herself looking at the image of a magnificent, beautiful woman in the mirror. That’s what jewels do to any woman – transform her.
And then she saw it; the potted plant. She would rub a little of that soft wet earth on the diamond. That would do the trick. And she could stuff her silver earrings in the same potted plant, come back the next day and wear them back on her way out. It was a breeze, this entire exercise; and on the other side of the gate waited a new life for her daughter.

Just then, when she was basking in the new found happiness and the warm glow of the stone in her palm, that old feeling came back again. Just when everything was sorted out, just when there was hope, and her heart beat had normalized, that nagging feeling was back. Though it seemed right, it didn’t feel right. Once again she outfought it.

But before she could pinch a little of the pot’s mud, the toilet door opened. She grabbed the floor mop and rushed towards her usual spot near the door, the tissue with the stone clenched in her left hand. She nearly bumped into Pumpkin this time.

Pumpkin was inside the room, the other earring in her hand and for the first time, making eye contact with her.

“Have you seen the other one like this?” she said, her eyes conveying a lot more than the words did.

Then, in a moment, just as fast that rush of excitement had travelled through her heart to her mind, it all came crashing down. She really only wanted to be spoken to once, by the people she served all day; to be treated like another human being. It was a lonely life, of cleaning up after people who banged the door on her face on their way out. Finally she had been noticed. She was no longer a piece of furniture. With that little gesture Pumpkin had filled up the biggest cavity in her heart.

That stubborn uncomfortable feeling in her heart dissolved as she extended her hand and opened the tissue before Pumpkin to reveal the other half of the twins.

“Oh my God!” Pumpkin shrieked with joy. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” Her tears were genuine.

Taking the other half of her earrings from the palm stretched out before her, she placed them back into her purse. Her hand lingered for a moment over a hundred rupee note before she pulled out a fifty rupee note and offered it to the woman who stood before her.

“No Madam. Thank you.” She said as she turned her back and started mopping the floor – a busy and happy person, humming to herself – one without a care in the world.

Short Story: The Gift

“Umm... Ravi, can you pick the milk packets today?” she grumbled at the sound of the doorbell. It didn’t feel like it was 6:30 AM, the usual milkman time.
“Let them wait, Priya.” Ravi sank his head deeper inside the blanket. In less than a minute his snoring filled the air. It was difficult for the first two years of their marriage but now his snoring worked like a lullaby for her.
She found herself slipping back into slumber. Her right hand inadvertently reached her belly caressing an imaginary womb underneath and a smile came and rested on her lips. But not for long as worrying about the milk interfered so much with her day dreaming that she had to give in.
“That cat...” she got up and walked towards the main door tying her hair back into a bun. A stray cat in the apartment block had become a menace to the housing society. The milkman now rang the doorbells as he placed the daily quota of milk packets at the residents’ doors so that the milk would get picked before tomcat had a chance to bathe it’s whiskers in it.

She was gone only a minute.

“Ravi...Ravi...come fast...”

He woke with a start as if from a bad dream. He picked the gown lying by the bedside and rushed out towards the door where she stood shivering; looking down at what seemed like a bundle of old clothes lying at their doorstep.
In a cheap plastic basket, wrapped tightly from head to toe in what seemed like the pallu end of an old cotton saree, was a sleeping baby. Soft black curls rested on a broad forehead that must have been a pale wheatish had the chill in the air not painted it blue. The little brown flowers on the saree’s red background slowly moved up and down with the baby’s gentle breathing. It was the only visible mark of life.

Ravi looked around the door hoping to spot the person who left the child at his doorstep. He yelled “Koi hai vahaan? Yek kiska bachcha hai?” (Is someone out there? Whose child is this?) There was no response.

“Priya, I’ll be back”, he hurried out wrapping the gown tightly around his waist.

She stood there on two cold feet, her gaze fixed at the little bundle, not knowing what to do. Should she continue to stand at the door and wait for Ravi to get back? Could she bring the baby in and shut the door? Her toes curled as a burst of cold air bit into her legs.

At the same time the little head turned and a set of tiny purple lips quivered. Two little arms released themselves from the wrap and two tiny hands reached for the closed eyes, gently rubbing them, their palms facing outwards. The wrap fell open and a little belly lay there, exposed to the bitter cold. She hesitated. But it was only for a moment.

Before the next splash of cold air could find its way inside the house, she picked the basket and brought it inside, closing the door behind her. She wrapped the little girl back into the only piece of clothing she had on and rushed into her room.
In a rush to do the right thing for the moment, she rummaged through the linen closet and decided on a thick cotton table cloth. She lifted the baby wrapping the folded tablecloth around her stiff body. As she tried to gently place the little bundle back into the basket, something tugged at the neck of her gown.
She waited a while for the tiny fingers to uncurl and let go of her gown but the baby snuggled deeper into her bosom.
All these years she had only dreamt about this moment and imagined the feeling of having a baby cling tightly to her chest. Experiencing it was something she wasn’t prepared for. She could hear her heart beat in her ears. The little baby's soft breath played the sweetest symphony on her shoulders as her sweet smell melted into Priya’s body and became one with her.
Her right hand shivered as it gently caressed the soft black curls on the baby's head. She could not give herself permission to hold her as if she was her own. But it felt like the baby belonged right there, in Priya's arms.
Though the mind kept reminding her that the baby was someone else’s, the heart seemed to have synchronized itself with the little heart beating against her chest. Nestled on her left arm, drinking the warmth of her body and sucking her tiny thumb, she looked beautiful. If there were any angels for real, this is how they would look, Priya told herself.

A short while later the colour returned to the little cheeks. Her tiny wails reminded Priya that she might be hungry.

As the little girl reached out and lapped up the contents every time a teaspoonful of milk came close to her mouth, tears of anger and gratitude outlined Priya's face.
She felt a volcano of anger towards the person who had abandoned this little girl after bringing her to this world. At the same time she felt gratitude towards the person for having chosen her doorstep.
She thought of the unfortunate mother who, if she were alive, would know at this moment how hungry her baby felt. Nature had her own way of taking revenge.

Planting a soft kiss on the baby’s head, she placed her back in the basket that she had cushioned with a big towel. Just then the little girl opened her big brown eyes and smiled at Priya.

Priya knew this was the most important moment of her life. A little drop of tear fell from Priya’s eyes and found itself a new home - on the little baby’s palm.

*

“I looked around everywhere... couldn’t find anyone... I have informed the security guards in case someone comes looking for a baby..."
Ravi was panting as Priya handed him a glass of water.
"Those idiots must have been sleeping when the person entered this colony with the baby.”

“ Whoever it was who left her at our doorstep must have meant us to keep her.”

“It is not so simple, Priya. It is an abandoned child. I don’t know what the law says.”

He placed the glass and picked up the cup of tea she handed him.

“Hey! Did you mean -her-? Hhmm... I was right then.” He looked at the baby who was by now peacefully sleeping. His heart melted at the mere thought that someone could abandon a child like her.

“This whole India shining business is such a farce. Even today this country still wants only sons. Look at her, she looks so beautiful, so perfect...” he smiled. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. This was the most beautiful face he had seen in his life.

“Hey, was she hungry? “, he remembered suddenly.

“Yes, I gave her some milk with a teaspoon. Just look at her eyes when she wakes. The same colour as mine. Really! ” whispered Priya as she gently lifted the baby from the basket and took her to the bedroom.

On her way, she signalled him to stay quiet by placing her finger on her lips.

Sitting at the dining table, Ravi stirred his cup of tea that had already gone cold by then. He was scared for Priya. He couldn't watch her heart break one more time. Three miscarriages in four years. The doctors had suggested them to consider adoption. Only Priya had not been ready to adopt...

Now she looked like she had already adopted this girl in her heart. Was she in for another set back?
What if the child’s parents came by to claim her in a few hours? What if one of the many maids or cooks that worked in the colony would come by to pick up her daughter on the way back from work? What if...

“Why don’t you speak to Ramesh Ji today? He is a lawyer. He will be able to give us the right guidance on how to proceed.” Priya said as she came back into the room and wound her arms around his shoulders.

“Okay. I will speak to him today. Do you think Chhutki needs another layer of blanket? It is kind of cold today.”

“She is fine. Chhutki is fine.” Priya smiled lovingly at him.

*

That fifth of January was the happiest and the most difficult day of Priya’s life. It must have been around 11 AM when the doorbell rang again. Ravi had left for work. He had an important meeting after which he was planning to consult Ramesh Sarabhai, their friend and lawyer.

“Didi, kapde hain istri ko? Kaisi ho didi? Kitne din ke baad mili...” (Are there clothes for ironing? How are you? I am seeing you after many days.)

She heaved a sigh of relief. It was the dhoban who entered the house in her usual quick stride settling herself on the living room floor.
Just then Chhutki started crying in the bed room. It was time for the next change of clothes and the next meal.

“Didi, mehmaan hain ghar mein? Baad mein aaoon?” (Do you have guests? Shall I come later?)

“Haan. Shaam ko.”

Priya was only too happy to shut the door after her. She did not want to see anyone. She felt like a thief who had accidently run into a treasure chest and was trying to hide it from the eyes of the world.
She would jump every time the phone rang. Her heart missed a beat with each door bell she heard.

The daily maid, who was only too delighted to have a day off, was gotten rid of without much pain.

Around noon there was a visitor. The plumber had decided to turn up twelve days late to fix the dripping faucet in the bathroom.
“Madam, agar aaj nahin kiya to agle 10 din tak kaam nahin ho sakega. Mujhe Indore jaana hai.” (If I don’t finish the job today it will have to wait for 10 days. I am going to Indore.)

She sent him away.

Around 3 in the afternoon, the door bell rang again. Her grip around Chhutki grew a wee bit tighter. She was rocking her to sleep in her arms. While Priya’s empty stomach was churning with anxiety, the little girl’s face had a calm, serene smile.

Thankfully it was the courier boy.

As the sun packed it's bags and called it a day, Priya’s insecurity began to fade. The fear, that someone would have a change of mind and come back to claim the baby, had somewhat diminished. Besides, Chhutki had kept her on her toes all day. She had loved every moment of fussing over her, massaging her, bathing her, feeding her, changing her. Not wanting to let their parents know until things had really worked out, she called an old friend, a mother of two, and took instructions over phone.

It must have been around seven in the evening when the dhoban came back. By then Priya was in a relaxed, good humoured mood.

“Mehmaan gaye kya didi?” (Have the guests gone?) she enquired. The house was exceptionally silent.

Chhutki , as if on cue started crying. Priya rocked her in her arms while the dhoban counted the clothes.

“Kab aayi gaanv se?” (When did you return from the village?) Priya asked the dhoban, primarily to keep her from asking anything about the baby.

“Aaj subah hi ko to aayi didi, das baje. Dekho to bas aate se hee kaam pe lag gayi. Yeh aadmi log ke bas ka koi kaam na hai humaare bina.” (I came this morning at 10. Look I’ve been working since then. These men can’t manage anything without us.)

“Iss baar to 6 maheene laga ke aayi gaanv mein. Tu hi kiya kar press, voh tera pati Ghanshaam achche kapde press nahin karta. Ruk, tujhe iss baar Diwali bhi nahin dee. Le rakh le.”
(This time you spent 6 months in the village. You iron clothes much better. That husband of yours, he does not do a good job. Here, take this. I didn’t give you anything for Diwali this year.)
Priya handed her a fiftee rupee note.

“Thank you, didi” she said folding it and tying it at the end of her pallu, blushing like she always did when she spoke in English.

“Subah ko leke aati kapde. Iss baar chakaachak press karoongi.”
(I will bring the clothes tomorrow morning. This time the ironing will be perfect.)

***

“Congratulations new mommy!” Ravi hugged her as he handed her the clearance papers. He sounded like a seven year old.

It had been almost a month since the morning of January 5. The Juvenile Welfare Board had given their clearance and Chhutki was legally ready for adoption. Ravi’s hard work and running around had finally been fruitful. The Child Welfare Committee had paid two surprise visits. They had also advised Priya and Ravi to get a thorough medical check-up of Chhutki done, to rule out the possibility of any congenital defects before they made up their mind.
Their decision to adopt Chhutki was unfaltering but Priya and Ravi got the medical check up done. She was little Miss Neha Mehta already. Legal adoption was just a signature away.

Priya smiled teasing Ravi, “I knew it all the time that everything would work out just fine. You had been unnecessarily worried.”

“Oh is it? I still remember how many times I called you from work that day but you didn’t pick up the phone – the scared little woman that you were.” He laughed.

“Now, if Papa darling doesn’t mind, we have some shopping to do. We are out of diapers again.” she said handing over the car seat to him.

***

“But I don’t want to leave... Ravi, I love it here.” Priya grumbled. Her face had the sullen look of a six year old who was being sent to bed while Tom and Jerry was just starting on Cartoon Network.

“Priya, this is an amazing opportunity for me. You know how much we both love travelling. And imagine, moving to Chicago... it will be so good for my career.”

“I know Ravi. But everyone’s here – my family, your family...”

“Just think about Chhutki. Everyone here in the neighbourhood knows. Sooner or later, maybe accidently, someone might break it to her. Do you want her to come to know of it this way? Look at her, she is only five and a half.”

Priya looked at Chhutki. She was playing with her dolls on the sofa besides her. With two little pigtails on her head and in her favourite pink frock, she looked as adorable as ever. Occasionally she lifted her head to smile at Priya and her broken front tooth peeped out between her lips. She was learning to tie her doll’s hair into a braid. Each time a strand of golden hair slipped through her little fingers, and messed up the braid, she would shake her little head in disapproval and pick it up again and start afresh.
Just watching her little daughter closely was a lesson in patience and perseverance for Priya. After three times of giving up and starting again, she learnt the trick. She wound the strands around her finger and unrolled them as and when needed for the braid. By the time the braid was nearly done, Priya had made up her mind.

“Yes, I think that would be the right thing to do.”

She smiled at Ravi. She couldn’t bear the thought of someone telling her daughter she was adopted until Priya herself was ready. She wondered though if she would ever be ready for that as she cleared the tea mugs from the table.

Dinner was a quiet affair as far as she was concerned. Neha was busy teaching Ravi the mudras she had learnt at her bharatnatyam class. He enjoyed immensely as she correctly positioned his fingers with her little hands and scolded him for not focussing enough. He would crack his usual joke about having two left hands. He said men couldn’t curl their fingers beyond a point because they themselves were usually wrapped around women's fingers.

After dinner she spent an eternity staring at the night sky. This was her favourite part of the day. After clearing up dinner and cleaning the kitchen, she would toss a tea-bag in a cupful of sugared water, warm it in the microwave and sit in the balcony and stare at the sky sipping tea. Some days it was clear and she could make out the Orion. Today it was exceptionally murky. She sat there talking to herself long after Ravi and Neha had gone to sleep.

*

“Photty nahin, Forty...for...tee”.

Neha corrected her as the dhoban counted the clothes. This was a ritual, a playtime of sorts for both of them. The dhoban came almost every day – one day to pick the clothes and the next day to deliver the ironed clothes. Neha would sit on the floor besides her and count while the dhoban placed the clothes one piece at a time on a sprawled bed sheet and counted them after her.

“Didi, bitiya ne to humein English ki ginti sikha di. Chalti hoon, didi.”
(Didi, your daughter has taught me the English counting. I’ll get going now.)
She said tying up the bundle with her deft fingers.

Priya was busy on the phone and motioned her to stay for a minute while she talked.

“Haan Maa, do saal ke liye jaana hai... agle maheene... 20 tareeq ke tickets hain. Aap log aa jao usse pehle yahaan. Chhutki ko dekhe hue bhi kitna time ho gaya hai aapko...haan, ghar bhi rent pe dena hoga. Kitne kaam ho jaate hain... Theek hai... kal call karti hoon.” Priya placed the receiver back.
(Yes Maa, we have to go for 2 years... next month... the tickets are booked for the 20th... you must come and stay with us before that. You haven’t seen Chhutki in a long time. Yes, we have to put up the house on rent. There is so much to do... alright, I will call you tomorrow.)

“Didi, door desh jaa rahe ho?”
(Didi, are you going far away?)

“Haan, do saal ke liye jaana hai. Bhaiya ki company transfer ho rahi hai.”
(Yes, we have to go for two years. Bhaiya’s company is getting transferred.)

“Kahaan laut ke aata hai koi itni door jaakar. Aap bhi vaheen ke hoke reh jaaoge.”
(Who comes back after going that far? You will also settle there.)

She said sadly as she lifted the bundle and walked out. Priya stared at the door long after she was gone, lost in a forlorn thought.

***

“Arre didi, aap yahaan? Koi galti hui kya? Koi kapda kho gaya humse?”, she said putting the knife down and wiping her hands with the end of her saree.
(Didi, you are here? Have I made a mistake? Did I misplace some cloth?)

The dhoban was cutting vegetables for dinner when she saw Priya enter her one room house that was meant to be a garage inside the apartment block until the colony decided to rent it out as a servant quarter.

The room smelt of coal and musty clothes tinged with an exquisite aroma of spices that carried with it the promise of an immensely satisfying meal - something that most commonly well equipped kitchens in rich houses are pathetically deprived of.

She quickly cleared some clothes from a rickety plastic chair and wiped it with the end of her saree to make room for Priya. She unrolled a ten rupee note from her pallu and sent her four year old son away to fetch a bottle of cold drink from the nearby general provisions store. The boy was only too pleased to shove his books aside and run for freedom.

“Baitho na, didi”
(Please sit.)
She sat on the floor next to the chair tying her dishevelled hair back into a bun.

“Ek kapda dhoondh rahi hoon, jaanti hoon tumhaare paas hai.”
(I am looking for a cloth that I know is with you.)
Priya sat on the chair and smiled as tears slowly welled up in her eyes.

“Iss saree ka doosra tukda yaheen milega na?”
(“The other end of this saree belongs here. Isn’t it?”)
She said taking out the pallu half of an old looking and worn out red cotton saree from her purse. The tiny brown flowers printed on it looked as alive as they did the day they had wrapped the greatest gift Priya had received in her life.

Her head fell as tears outlined her face. She shivered with intense emotion as she sat there at Priya’s feet. The events of a night many years ago unfolded before her eyes... sneaking out with a two day old clung to her chest when the village was sleeping... catching the midnight train to the city to save her new born from what was destined to be the fate of all girls born in the family... when she had left for the village carrying a 3 month old womb, Ghanshaam had made it clear to her that she needn’t come back if it was a daughter. Sitting in the train that night she had remembered the longing she had seen in Priya’s eyes... and she had made up her mind...

Priya got up from the chair and lifted her from the floor by the arms. Taking her hands into hers, she joined her hands and said the two words she had been waiting to tell her, the woman she had seen every single day since that January morning.

In a voice broken with tears, Priya said “Thank you”.

“Didi...”

Priya placed a finger on her lips.

“Shhh... Apni beti se Bye nahin bologi? Teen ghante mein humaari flight hai.”
(“Will you not say Bye to your daughter? We fly in 3 hours.”)

The two women stood there hugging each other with their eyes. The good earth beneath their feet soaked up their tears as it does for all of them, for she is a mother too just like these two mothers who were bound together in one thread – the thread of gratitude.

I really couldn’t tell who was more grateful of the other.

Short Story: Wildflowers under the willows

The silence in the dimly lit foyer was interrupted by her footsteps as she entered the living room. The clock on the living room wall was about to strike 11 PM. As quietly as she could, she hung her key ring on the key holder behind the entrance door and tiptoed into the living room.

“Welcome home sweetheart. So, was it Chinese or Mughlai tonight? “, he said without turning the wheelchair around to face her.

“Oh. I thought you had fallen asleep”, she said as she turned on the light switch.

“In case you forgot, invalids like me usually prefer to be helped into their beds“.
The wheelchair swirled around to reveal a handsome square face.

She was exhausted after a long day especially when she had spent a major chunk of the evening on the road jostling her way through the city traffic. She wondered if she could put up with another shot of sarcasm.
“You look like you are in a bad mood today... angry with me?” she smiled in a feeble effort to dispel the gloom in the air. “I was just about to leave when they set up a conference call with the clients in Maryland and asked me to join. And then by the time it got over I...”

“Forget it. I don’t want to know... you must be tired. I had dinner. There’s some iced tea in the fridge in case you feel like having one.”

“Did Bimla Tai make koftas in the afternoon today? I asked her to before I left this morning.”

“I’ll keep the television volume down so you can sleep. Just keep the bedroom door closed.” He reached out for the television remote.

“Why are you doing this? Can we sit and talk for a while? I mean, without the television on?” she walked over to the couch adjacent to the wheelchair.
He did not answer.
“I brought some almond and fig ice-cream, your favourite, right? Lets...”

“There is Hitler’s Biography at eleven on the History channel that I do not want to miss. Besides, you seem to have caught a bad cold already. Icecream is a bad idea under the circumstances.”

“What is it with you! This was never your idea of spending time together.” She got up feeling exasperated. She was a little bit of everything – hurt, angry, disappointed, and guilty.

“You don’t want to know my idea of spending time together.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll never understand it.” He turned his wheelchair around and started adjusting some books lying around in a pile on the table on the side.
She stood there a while, waiting for him to turn back and look into her eyes that were brimming with tears. But his hands continued to linger around on the items on the table trying to quench some kind of wanderlust long after the books were standing at the edge of the table in a neat pile.
If there is one thing that I have come to believe about men I have known in my life, it is that they are baffled, dumbfounded little travelers on the vast emotional plane of life – completely ill-equipped with the right travelling kits. I have to admit that there have been aplenty estrogen-laden moments when I have taken the unfair liberty to generalize and declare all men to be completely devoid of sensitivity and emotion. But after the rise and fall of many strong emotions when I have succumbed to my only friend and only enemy whose name is Reality, I have observed that men act the way they do because they are afraid of catching themselves under the grip of any emotion whatsoever. If they cannot become invisible, they start treating others as invisible – thus ironically making fear the most predominant emotion in their lives.
On the other hand, women who take a self-proclaimed and in my opinion somewhat foolish, pride in their capacity to withstand a lot of pain admit that the hardest to bear is the pain of indifference. It can make the strongest of women crumble under its sting. It leaves them angry, exposed and vulnerable to more hurt. I believe the reason for this is that the only armour needed for indifference is indifference itself and I am yet to meet a woman who has been able to equip herself with it.
“Yes. You are right. I won’t understand. I spend the entire day doing things I had never planned in my life. I no longer understand what anyone wants... or for that matter what I want.”
The tender thread of patience that held a rein on her temper had snapped. Her frustrations and the ache in her body flowed out in a rapid stream of angry words.

“I am sorry you have to work so hard and I am sorry you have to look at a husband who is half paralyzed from waist to toe every single day. I wish I could help you by vanishing into thin air but unfortunately I am helplessly incapacitated to do that.”

“You can help me by being a little less rude.”

“Try saying this to someone who has been staring at the freaking door for four hours, waiting to hear it creak open. It’s not every day I look forward to...”

“I told you I was...”

“Can you please not tell me anymore about how indispensible you are at work, especially because I haven’t exactly felt that way in a long time?”

“So this is what it is all about? Let me tell you something here, I didn’t exactly choose to be where I am today. I am doing this because one of us has to... and that one is me at the moment.”

Realizing that she had been too sarcastic, she mellowed down and gently placed her hand on his shoulder.

”C’mon... it’s been more than a year... don’t be so harsh on yourself and on me.”

“Yeah... I’m sorry about ending a perfectly wonderful evening of yours on this note. Hope you have a pleasant sleep. Good night.” The wheelchair moved on leaving a cold, bitter cloud of air around her.

“What is it with you? I’m sorry you had to wait...” she said in a flustered tone.

“I don’t want to talk about anything”

“Why don’t you let all this bitterness out once and for all?”

“There is no bitterness. I’m just fed up. And I said I don’t want to talk.”

“Why? Why don’t you ever want to talk about it?”

“Talk about, what? Losing one half of my body in a freaking car accident, losing a lucrative job, a promising career? Losing my four year old son and watching my beautiful wife turn into a workaholic machine? Watching everything I loved about my life being torn apart in a matter of minutes... “, emotions that simmered in his heart like white fire, flared up again.

“You lost this, you lost that... it’s always about you, right? I was happy too... with the home loan finally paid off; I was ready to settle into full time motherhood... live the life I always wanted to... finish my paintings... enjoy life with Akash and you... and a baby on her way...“ she gasped for breath and her voice softened as she continued.
“...we decided we’d name her Avani… you were so sure it was a daughter... and I remember you said how they would both form the two ends of the spectrum of our lives... the earth and the sky...” She stared at the ceiling as tears outlined her face.

“Can you please go to bed? I said good night.”

“Sure...”
She was so angry; she shook as she fumbled for words.
“And yes, you should definitely be sorry. It may have been a perfectly wonderful evening that you just ruined. Good night. I have a long day tomorrow.”

She threw her handbag on the sofa and stormed into the bedroom closing the door behind her with a loud bang.

Just then a small brown packet slipped out of the handbag and fell at his feet.

*

She caught sight of it when she lifted her head from the pillow. She had been crying only a few minutes but it seemed like an eternity had passed. She wiped her tears and picked herself up. On her side of the bed lay a pink rose and a packet wrapped in a pale blue gift paper. She untied the pearl white ribbon and tore open the gift wrapper. It was a book titled “Wildflowers under the willows” by Sushant Mehta. On the first page it read, “Dedicated to my beautiful wife”.

*

The remote control lay still and the television never got switched on. The clock on the living room wall broke the dead stillness of the room as it struck half past eleven. The tall frame that sat huddled in a wheelchair looked like it had been frozen in time except for the occasional tear that left a trail on the back of his hand. Clasped in his hands lay a book titled, “Wildflowers under the willows” which he held close to his heart.

A note from the book had fallen on the floor. It read:

“For my dearest husband.
The light in your eyes as you hold the first print of your book in your hands is the greatest gift I could give myself.”

The prints had come out only that afternoon. While he had telephoned the publisher to send him the first print of the book as a surprise for her, it was a two hour drive from her office to the publishers’ and a three hour drive back home.

Just then the bedroom door opened and she rushed out into the living room. She walked up to the wheelchair, sat down on the floor besides it and placed her head in his lap. He gently caressed her hair as he whispered, “Happy anniversary”. She looked up at the face of the man she loved more than anyone else in the world and said in a voice muffled with tears, “Happy anniversary, darling”.
The darkest hour of the night came alive as a stream of moonlight fell through the living room window on two souls who had lost themselves and found each other again.

“I’m starving.”
“So am I. Now that you reminded me, mughlai not such a bad idea...”
“It’s midnight madam. All restaurants are closed. May I have the pleasure of serving Maggi noodles to the young lady?”
“Sounds yum....with nimbupaani on the rocks?”
“It’s a deal.”

The willows had come alive with wildflowers.

Short Story: Gold anklets

Gayatri gingerly opened the old rustic jewellery box and drew out a pair of worn-out, oxidized gold anklets.

"Wow! Daadima... aren't they neat! So intricate, so beautiful... and the colour... (She sighed) ...just the right shade of brown in gold. I can design an entire ethnic wear collection around these."

The twenty-something pair of kohl lined eyes gleamed in awe and wonder.

And the seventy-something pair of eyes glistened with pride as her shivering fingers ran gently over the ornaments. They brought back so many memories... opulence of their haveli, the envious glances of the servants and housekeepers, banarasi silks and brocade blouses... the brutal turn of events... sudden demise of her father-in-law Raichand Saheb, treachery, downfall of the family business, tears, insecurities, humiliation, struggles - poverty they had never before known... days and nights of hard labour... bringing up a family on one square meal a day... perseverance and faith...

"Daadima, can I hold them? Please?" Rhea’s childlike excitement brought Gayatri back to the present.

"Sure, my dear" She smiled affectionately as she placed the ornaments in Rhea's outstretched hands like a mother handing her new born child to someone she trusts. Her granddaughter gasped for breath in much the same manner as if she were holding a new-born in her hands.

"Were they a gift? From Daadaji?" asked Rhea teasingly as she played the trinkets close to her ears.

"Yes." smiled Gayatri, "Diwanji got them made on order without telling anyone in the family when I became pregnant for the first time. He asked me to not take them off until the baby was born."

"Why?"

"He said with these tinkling sounds he would be able to track all the movements of his mischievous butterfly."

"He called you his mischievous butterfly?" asked the amused fashion-designer.

"Well, I was all of seventeen when we got married and hardly twenty when your father came along. We were so young and so naive. I would get so tired of being the bahu of the house... he was the only one of my age in the house. You know, once he got a beating from chachaji because he was caught trading his silver ring for marbles with the neighbourhood boys. He took all that thrashing for me", said Gayatri, blushing in her pale pink cotton saree.

"For you?"

"Amma, my mother-in-law, would have fainted if she knew we played marbles till the wee hours of morning and that I stole un-pickled mangoes from the kitchen while she slept."

"That was cool. You were some couple. I don’t know why, I always thought that in those times, wives were scared of their husbands."

"No dear. We were each other’s best friends. He gave me a lot of affection and I became his sole companion over time. We knew and understood each other very well. It really doesn’t matter in which time and age you live. As long as a man feels respects for a woman, they can have a fulfilling relationship. Your daadaji was a very intelligent and sensitive human being unlike the other men of his kith.”

“Cool. But your mother-in-law must have been very strict.”

“Yes. She was very strict about keeping the pallu in position in front of outsiders.” She said. “But she was also very fond of me. She would keep aside the best set of glass bangles for me before my sisters-in-law had a chance to select from the lot. She would pretend to know nothing about who stole the gooseberries from the neighbouring haveli's courtyard when chachiji came complaining. I often wondered if she forgot that she was not my mother but my mother-in-law", she sighed.

"That’s so sweet! So, you wore these anklets throughout your pregnancy - till Dad was born?"

"My! How proud I was. I would daintily lift my saree a few inches above the ground and coyly stride down the corridors of our haveli from one room to another. Whenever chachiji was around, I made it a point to show them off on some pretext or the other. I loved the colour that came to her cheeks." laughed Gayatri.

"So, you were the spoilt brat of the house. And daadaji?"

"Oh, he was a very good boy. The only thing he ever wanted to do in life was read books. He was very bad at the family business but bauji wouldn't hear of him doing anything else... bauji...", she sighed lovingly, "he had grown so frail with the endless cough that refused to go away... and your daadaji.. he tried very hard to get involved in the family business just so it would please bauji... "

"But there was a time when you had to leave the haveli. Mom told me. What happened that time?"

"We were so happy... and then one day everything changed... that was when your father was about a year old, bauji had stopped going to work and chachaji was practically running the family business.... I remember clearly, as it was about mid-morning... amma was about to finish her puja... I was laying out her breakfast... Balraj was playing in bauji’s lap when bauji suddenly had a bout of severe coughing followed by a heart attack. Chachaji rushed him to the hospital in his motor car but they were too late."

She paused as tears welled up in her deep brown eyes. Rhea gave her a glass of water to calm her nerves.

"We were devastated. Amma also left us within a month. Our tears had barely dried when chachaji declared that we had inherited nothing from the family business except an old trunk full of books. Since diwanji had incurred losses to the family business because of his foolish decisions, and the impractical generosity he showed to the workers, they were no longer in a position to support us."

"Oh... so, what did you do?"

"I was three months into my second pregnancy. Chachiji had seized most of amma’s jewellery and the only ornaments I had with me were the ones I was wearing at that time. It was impossible for us to stay on. We left for the city to look for a job."

“That must have been tough.”

"We came here. Your daadaji got a job as a teacher but his income was barely enough to pay the rent and arrange food for the family. Balraj studied in the same school but we still had to pay a part of his school fee. Times were really hard. All I had as ornaments were two gold bangles, a pair of earings, my mangal sutra and these anklets.
We sold one of the bangles to pay for the hospital expenses of my miscarriage, the initial payment for the rented house and setting up home in a city. I had never even dreamt of running a household without the help of servants. I was so bad at housework, but I tried to learn.
You know, that’s the beautiful thing about time. Give yourself some time and patience and you can do unimaginable things...just as long as you decide not to give up. We didn’t have the option of giving up so it was easier.” She smiled and then added.

“If the mischievous butterfly could learn how to cook, clean, wash, sew, mend and raise a balanced child, anyone could. I grew up several years in a few months.

Your daadaji taught at the school in the mornings, worked part time as a librarian all afternoon, took tuition classes in the evenings and corrected exam papers through the night. His eye sight dwindled but we did not have the means to get medical help. I sold off the other gold bangle to support the rising expenses and bought a second-hand sewing machine so I could start some work myself. But I made many mistakes initially and incurred losses.

And then, one day your father fell down from the school's third floor. I remember his head was bleeding and we had to rush him to the hospital. For the first time in my life, I saw tears in Diwanji’s eyes. That evening, I sold my gold earrings for 400 rupees.

And Diwanji bought a pair of silver earrings for me on the next Diwali.” she smiled.

“By the time Balraj was ten, the only thing left in this trinket box was this pair of anklets. I loved them so much; I would hide this box in the rice bin lest someone should see it. I thought I would never be able to wear them again. Every now and then when no one was watching, I would take them out and admire them.

There were days when there would be no rice in the bin – and this box would stare at my face as an answer to the rice and dal problem for the next few months. But the mere thought of letting them go was painful. They were the last piece of gold in my life. All I wanted to do that time was to somehow keep my gold anklets with me.

You know, women have a relationship with gold that no man can ever understand. Women who talk of gold as an investment, an asset for emergencies have never really been in one.

The fear of losing the only material possession that I held on to so dearly, gave me the strength to fight all odds. I worked day and night, sewing and embroidering other people's silks and brocades. Gradually I got better at my work.

There were times when I got so close to selling them, but there always was something... something that made me put them back in this treasure box and inspire me to work even harder. I remember one morning, in a state of desperation, I was about to leave for the goldsmith’s shop to sell these anklets, when a lady knocked on my door and offered to pay me twice as much as it would normally cost if I could get her wedding lehanga ready in two days. For two days and two nights, I didn't sleep. I made her lehanga with a lot of love, pretending to myself that I was going to wear it.”

“And I almost did”, she added.

“You did?”

“I finished the hemming at four in the morning. No one was about and I was too ecstatic to sleep, so I went over to the kitchen, took out my anklets and wore them in my feet. It was unethical to wear another woman’s wedding ensemble so I held the lehanga on me as if I was wearing it. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I felt amma watching over me and smiling. And in those wee hours of morning, I made a promise to myself that I would never let anyone put a price tag on these anklets. I told myself that they were mine and would stay with me.”

“Wow! And did the woman like the lehanga you made?”

“Oh... I knew from the look in her eyes what it had meant to her when she came to pick it in the afternoon.” She paused with a dreamy look in her eyes.

A few seconds later she continued.
“With the money I earned, we could send your father for science tuition classes. And here is something funny that happened after she left. I went to sleep... it must have been around two in the afternoon and I didn’t wake up until the next morning. Your daadaji still teases me about it. They both tried very hard to wake me but gave up. He made khichdi that night and put Balraj to sleep while I was celebrating – sleeping with my gold anklets on.”

Rhea was close to tears. She hugged her grandmother.

“I particularly remember the day chachiji was going to come to visit us. School was closed, but Diwanji left for the library on the pretext of overtime. She was old and frail and perhaps guilt stricken. I was too proud to admit we were going through bad times. So I made halwa in the morning, cleaned the house and wore my Diwali saree. I also wore these gold anklets just so I could see her squirm with envy."

"Did she?"

"Oh no... when we looked at each other we forgot everything else. Our tears did all the talking. She had brought some of amma’s jewellery with her but could not muster the courage to give me.”

“I just love you daadi!” Rhea almost blurted out as she got up and opened the windows. A beautiful pale shower of sunlight came streaming in the room and fell on Gayatri’s beautifully lined face.

Softly caressing the ornaments in her hands, Gayatri continued.

“Whenever I felt sad and hopeless, I would look at these anklets. They gave me hope and confidence. They were a reminder of how much I could achieve with hard work, a celebration of my courage, a personal reward that I gave myself every time I defeated life.

They gave me a sense of security, a faith that no matter how dark and gloomy life would get, the faint light trapped in this old trinket box would give me the energy to fight back.

Over the years things started to improve. We saw good days and then even better days. But the one thing I always held onto was the lesson these anklets had taught me – to work hard and never give up. I derived all my strength from my weakness for these anklets. "

"Then when things got better, you must have worn them all the time?" Rhea smiled.

"Time and again I wore them - but on special occasions; sometimes when I felt overwhelmed with life’s ups and downs, sometimes when I wanted to celebrate, sometimes when I felt like walking down memory lane and sometimes when I simply wanted to revel in my womanhood.

Through tears and laughter, love and pain, guilt and glory - they have been a constant in my life. Your daadaji bought me many ornaments after that. But I believe that this pair of anklets was all the gold I ever needed in life and so destiny made sure it never parted me.”

Rhea was crying now.

"Can you adjust my pillow for me? I have a stiff back." Gayatri said straightening her back a little.

“Oh Daadi, I must let you sleep now. Mom is going to be mad at me for spoiling your afternoon nap.” She said, wiping her tears.

Rhea fluffed up the pillows and eased her grandmother into bed. She put the anklets back into the box and placed it by her bedside. She stepped back and stood against the wall, watching her lovingly; waiting for her to close her eyes.
A short while later she placed a tiny kiss on her grandmother’s forehead, adjusted the quilt over her shoulders and was about to leave the room, when she heard a faint whisper. "Rhea beta, after I die, I want you to keep these anklets with you." And then Gayatri went to sleep.

*

Rhea dropped her car keys in the basket on the console table, picked up the fabric samples lying on the table and hummed the latest Bollywood song she had heard on the car radio. She leafed through the samples and mentally rejected all of them. Peeping into the kitchen she called out, “Padma bai, ek kadak chai milegi?” (Can I have a cup of strong tea?)

On her way to her bedroom, Rhea stopped to speak to the picture on the living room wall. “Daadi, five years back, on this day, I turned down a job offer at Meera Fashions to chase my dream and opened a small design workshop with five tailors. And today I launched my own label – it's called Gayatri. Happy Birthday, Daadi.” she stood there for a while admiring the picture till the waft of ginger tea pulled her back to reality.

"Phew, what a tiring day it was... ", she sighed. She had not been this happy in a long time. She turned on the answering machine as she slipped out of the heavy jacket she had worn to the ceremony. There were two messages. One was from the dealer of Arundhati Textiles. He wanted to know if she had shortlisted from the fabric samples. The other one was from Mr. Verma.

“Surely, there must be some mistake. Did you check correctly?” a minute later she was speaking into the phone with Mr. Verma – the manager of the asset evaluation firm.

“Oh... no... I mean okay...that’s alright...Mr. Verma. Thanks a lot. I’ll pick the reports tomorrow morning.”
She replaced the receiver and sat down at the edge of her bed in a state of shock and disbelief.

She had sent her jewellery for a test of purity as part of the legal proceedings of the asset management firm. While the rest of her jewellery ranged between 18 to 22 carat gold, the report said that the anklets she had inherited from her grandmother were one hundred percent brass.

She rushed to her closet and took out the rustic old box. Tears welled up in her eyes as she held the anklets in her shivering fingers. They had not been mere ornaments – these anklets had been witness to the possibilities of human will, they were catalysts of lives turning around from dust to gold, they were symbols of hope, love, courage and self confidence. No other gem in the world could ever match their radiance. She held them in her hands in disbelief, as they bathed in her tears. The cup of tea by the bed side went cold.

It seemed like an eternity had passed as the events of a lifetime unfolded before her eyes and woke her from the deep stupor. She held the anklets to her forehead and knew in her heart that what she had was so invaluable, no laboratory test in the world could ever measure. “They are one hundred percent pure gold” she told herself, “I can never let anyone put a price tag on these anklets. They are mine and will stay with me...”

And the same promise that a brave woman had made to herself a few decades back, repeated itself in a new time and setting.

I can't write

It has been such a long time since I sat down to write something. There have been many stories floating in my head, many emotions playing tempestuous notes with the chords of my heart, many incidents waiting to be told but words have evaded me, thoughts have darted through my mind over and over again like a restless child who longs for his mother but wouldn't allow her to hug him.

Everytime I try to get a grip on these feelings and pen them down, they betray me. Words that once were the essence of my existence fail me; my own emotions scoff at my inability to put them down on paper.

Every night when the tired limbs unfold and the mind drowns itself in planning for the next day, the heart begins to ache too. And words that haunted me all day, desperately waiting to be strung together in a story, start their last journey from my eyes to the pillow.

I do not know why it has become so increasingly hard for me to write anything. It is as if my emotions have become so vagabond, so fluid that they no longer remember they have a home to go back to. But my heart that has always longed for an anchor and the mind that has always spun around in infinite circles; they both wait impatiently for the voice that words used to give them. They know that place of peace, that feeling of being home, being friends with myself - that place lies somewhere in the pages of the book that I have dreamt of writing one day.

I know that until I lift the pen and start writing, I will never get there. Yet, commitments keep me from stepping into my inner world, responsibilities clutch my thoughts and chores leave me exhausted. And I lose myself in this crazy business of living.

Ironically, this dreadful thing called life keeps me from living.

Short Story: Eye Opener

This morning when I woke up, everything had changed. When I opened my eyes, I found myself waking up on the same bed that I went to sleep on, except that it was nearly three times it's size. The room looked huge and so did the wall clock in front of me. I had to literally jump off the bed and in the process I ended up twisting my ankle.

The walk to the bathroom felt like morning walk. It took all the energy I had woken up with to twist the enormous knob on the big white bathroom door. Once finally inside the bathroom, I slowly pushed the heavy door shut and hopped on to the big toilet seat with all my might. Luckily there was a plastic stool that I used to reach as far as the tap on the washbasin and washed my hands. The next challenge was to hold the heavy tube of toothpaste steady because it felt like a few kilos. I brushed my teeth somehow and hobbled out of the bathroom - once again struggling with the knob on the door. All this hard work had made me hungry.

I stepped into the giant dining room and saw a bunch of big ripe bananas on the elephantine dining table. There was no way I could reach them no matter how much I stretched on the tips of my toes. I slowly pulled one of the giant chairs closer to the table. The challenge now was to somehow climb up on the chair.

Five minutes later, huffing and panting, I was standing on the chair. It took some of my remaining strength to pull a banana out from the bunch, and in the process I ended up half peeling it. Afraid that I would get a rebuke for being so clumsy, I decided to cover the bunch with a place mat lying on the side. As I pulled the placemat, oblivious of the giant bowl of cereal resting on it, milk spilled all over the table and on my clothes. Luckily for me, it was just about warm and noone was around to notice the mess.

Finally just as I was about to gobble up the banana, it slipped from my hand and fell on the floor. I jumped off the chair, picked it up and climbed back on it. All this took another six minutes.

I was close to tears. It was so exhausting. Every thing around me looked large and intimidating, every place looked farther and higher - beyond easy reach. All the routine tasks that I would normally finish in a few seconds, without even knowing I was doing them, seemed like little challenges in themselves.

Just when I was figuring out a way to open the heavy door of the closet that housed my clothes, I heard a shrill sound.

It was the 6:30 AM alarm. I woke up with a start. The room was normal. So were the bed, the door, the furniture, the painting and the clock. Every thing was as I had seen it last night. I had been dreaming.

"Thank Heavens!", I sighed.

That morning when I walked my five year old daughter to the bus-stop, I made it a point to walk shorter steps, I was more patient when she took an eternity to wear her shoes and I felt proud of the unkempt head of hair she walked out with after she insisted on combing her hair on her own. Afterall, I had seen life through the eyes of a little child a very short while back.

What an eye opening experience last night's shut-eye had been!