With love, ~Part-1

14th February

“…My soul hangs from a nail. It smirks at its own non existence. Sense of being is worn to shreds… so depleted and raked of all purposes in life. Death is a horrifying stranger. She who comes in without a knock on the door. She who feigns benignity in her eyes, whispers in the ear some sweet words about eternity and robs us of our happiness. A cheat, who transforms life into a non living truth and fills one with only angst and fury towards everything that defines it.
Why should there be life if it were so obvious to die? Why should there be laughter if the only things it can lead to is pain and sorrow? Why should there be love if the only emotion that is accepted here, due to fear, pride, fanaticism or helplessness, is hatred?....”

A drop of tear tickled her nose. She wiped it with the back of her hand. Her heart still ached. Her head was still full of nagging memories that sprang up menacingly like cockroaches from under dusty old carton boxes. She sagged back into her chair and felt the wooden cupboard on her side. His shirts were still stacked neatly inside it. His towel still hung by a hook on the bathroom door. Some parts of the house still held the smell of his cologne. And in some corner of the house was hidden a faint hope, that knew it would never be able to face light of reality.

She quietly switched off her laptop and looked up at her undone bed. In other times, she would lie there, cuddled in his arms, hoping that moment to last forever. She pinched herself. No, this was not a nightmare.

It had been about two weeks since the mishap. And even now, she couldn’t sleep without pills that made her forget her own existence for a mere couple of hours. Even in an iota of consciousness, she couldn’t let her eyes close without the pictures of that gruesome day shaking her soul like an electric current.

In the deepest pit of her sleep, she would dream of a road filled with blood… small paper boats in yellow, green and blue being sucked into the hungry red liquid, capsizing helplessly. Suddenly a truck having lost its control would roll backwards dangerously from where the road inclined… and there would be a deafening sound with splinters of glass flying everywhere. The air fills up with a pregnant silence. There would then be a horrible sight of a man with a cracked spine on the driver’s seat and an excruciating sound of a woman weeping, in the background. The last word he spoke would resound… Anahita… Then she would hear a loud scream and find herself up in her bed with sweat all over her face and inside her palms.

He died that day.

And she died everyday.

Suddenly, the door bell rang and shook her out of her trance. It rang in a familiar rhythm - two rings with a knock that followed. She stopped breathing for a couple of seconds. It cant be. It was just as if…. No, she was certainly dreaming. But then she heard it again.

She sprang up from her chair, ran to the door and flung it open. There stood a bouquet of red tulips on her doorstep. There was no one else there. She jogged towards the lift, and saw a delivery man start his bike downstairs. She shouted with all the strength to ask him to stop, but in vain. The man didn’t seem to have heard. He drove outside the gate and vanished.

Her breath was heavy and fast. She quickly walked back towards her apartment in anticipation. The bouquet….

The line that divides...

SCREEEEEECH!!!!!!

Mani is jolted from her sleep as a bus on the nearby road screeches to halt loudly. All of a sudden, the air fills with shrill sounds of a few vehicles honking and their drivers cursing and hollering on top of their voices.

She hears his mother yell at her. Taking a deep breath she opens her tired eyes. The early morning sky is beautifully blue with a bit of white clouds here and there. From the corner of her eyes she can see brilliant red and yellow streams of light pouring from between a huge pink fluffy cloud. It resembles a candy she saw a man selling on the streets yesterday. She smiles vaguely.

She sits up rubbing her eyes and stretches her hands only to stop midway due to a stinging pain on her right wrist. From where she sits, she looks around and spots her father, Shanmugham, rummaging a cloth bag for something. Paints may be. Her mother, Ambujam, is feeding her younger brothers at a distance. She has tied her hair tightly with a ribbon. They are getting ready for the day, she thinks. And now it is her turn to do the same.

She dusts her frock and walks towards the corner of the street to attend to her morning routine. As she quickly applies red and yellow paints on her face, she glances at what remains of an orange her mother received as alms last evening. Her stomach rumbles loudly but she turns away from it. Whatever little they get after a days effort is first served to her father and brothers. They are the ones who strike themselves with the hunter and do acrobatics for money. She is only skilled to play the drums and to join her brothers when they climb on each other and make a human tower. Her twin brothers Balu and Ramu are just a year and a half younger than her, but help her father make more money than he could have, alone.

Like every morning, Mani and her family step out with hunters, long wooden rods, a cylindrical drum and a smaller handheld twin faced drum that she gets to play. The smaller drum has a string attached to it that has a pebble tied at its end and she has to twist her wrist so that the pebble strikes either side of the drum. Over the years, she has learnt to match the rhythm of the smaller drum with that of the larger one that her mother plays. As her father and brothers hurl the hunter on their backs and do acrobatics in the streets of Suburban Mumbai, she joins her mother to attract attention by beating their drums loudly and begging for alms.

Like every morning, they pass through a local primary school and stop by the peanut seller, where Shanmugham buys a packet to keep with them through the day. Meanwhile Mani looks around at several kids walking towards the gate on the other side of the road. Some parents tug at their young ones who look displeased and hesitant to go towards it. They are not wearing white shirts and blue pants/ skirts like everyday, Mani notices. What she does not know is that the gate belongs to a school and it is celebrating its founder president’s birthday today. There are a variety of competitions and programs as a part of the same. Students dressed for a fancy dress competition as fairies, rajahs, political leaders, etc. tread towards the gate, some rehearsing their lines which shall soon be recited on the stage.

Amma, why do kids go to this place every morning?

Mmm. They learn their work here.

Like Balu, Ramu and I have learnt these tricks? Do they also learn tricks?

They learn how to deal with their lives, like you learnt from us.

Do they get these nice clothes from there?

No their Appa and Amma get it for them. They have a lot of money. And they also learnt their trade and tricks here.

Mani looks at her mother. She certainly did not go to this place. Otherwise she also would have had lots of money.

Where did you learn t he tricks?

I learnt it from my Appa and Amma.

Does this place teach them better tricks?

Yes.

Then why don’t I go to this place, Amma. That way I can earn a lot of money and buy us all good clothes and food.

No, Mani. They take money to teach tricks. Your Appa doesn’t earn that much. So you’ll have to learn your tricks from us and teach your kids as well when you become a mother.

Mani gapes at her.

“Ambujam!!!” She hears her father calling for her mother, who adjusts the drum hanging on her shoulder and walks towards him.

Mani innocently scratches her hair and stares wide mouthed at a beautiful costume of a girl standing near the shiny black gate to the school across the road. She’s wearing a bright green skirt with golden brocade work and a matching golden top with a patterned stole. The girl looks back at her. Intimidated, Mani glances at her own dress. She too is in her costume for the day. Red ribbons on her hair and a long pale pink dupatta draped on her to make her look like a little lady. Her arms and feet flaunt brown henna patterns of creepers and leaves, though it seems to have faded a bit. She too looks fancy enough. Not bad.

Mani deliberately takes a deep breath that makes her chest swell, and dons a proud smile. Amused, the girl giggles lightly and Mani’s smile fades seeing that. She makes a face and twists her drum violently. Alarmed, the girl quickly trots into the school, turning around just once to make sure she was safe. Mani breaks into peals of laughter and moves towards her family who have proceeded to start the days work.

What is this place called, Amma?

Its called a school.

“Schu??”

“School”

Her father and brothers start hurling their hunters and Ambujam begins playing the drum. Then they slowly walk towards the street with a lot of yellow buildings, where they usually start their day from.

Mani stops midway and looks back at the shiny gates.

School, she repeats and smiles to herself, innocently.

**************************************************************************

"Truth is a bully we all pretend to like."

Gregory David Roberts, 'Shantaram'