Moving out of mundane

Mundane. Something that happens everyday and loses its charm. However, mundane is necessary. It keeps the world going around and sucks the world out of you. So, if an aberration happens you are likely to enjoy it. It has charm. Tempting. It slowly unfolds around you and flirts with you.

It makes you alive once again. You are no longer a furniture or an atrocious manager but you give in to the charm of the temptation. There is risk in it and that's what makes it attractive.

The question is if it is okay to feel alive and move out of mundane? What if threatens to disrupt your regular, ordinary living? What if it consumes you in its fire?What if it makes mundane extraneous? Butterflies in the stomach are fine, but mundane makes the world go round!

करवाचौथ

कल व्रत रख रही मैं
कुछ गिफ्ट तो दिलायो
तुम्हारी लम्बी उम्र के लिए
मैं भूखी रहूँ
तुम भी कुछ फ़र्ज़ तो निभायो
कहो तो जावेरीदास पर मिलूं
पर गर बजट हो कम
तो नल्ली पर ही रुकूं
वैसे वो ठीक तो नहीं
पर क्या करूँ
कुछ उपाय भी तो नहीं
कुछ तो कहो,
राज़ दूर करो,
आखिर दोस्तों को बताना है
जिस सोसाइटी में रहते हैं
इज्जत भी तो बचाना है
पति बेचारा सोचा
सौ तक गिना
फिर नाप तोल कर बोला
इस बार करवा चौथ रहने दो
मैं कौन सा दूर हूँ
अगले साल रख लेना
थोडा हिसाब कर लेने दो
गिफ्ट का जुगाड़ कर लेने दो
तुम चाँद मांगती
लाना आसान था
सोना तो सातवें आसमान
पर कबसे है विराजमान
वैसे भी व्रत का कोई
प्रभाव नहीं होने वाला
महंगाई के अनल में
ऑफिस की राजनीती प्रबल में
शारीर रोज घिसता है
जो बचता है मधुमेह
और असंतुष्ट बॉस के भेंट चढ़ता है
अगले साल व्रत कर लेना
इस साल मिल कर जश्न मानते हैं
तुम मुझे खाना खिलाओ
हम तुम्हे खिलाते हैं

Gujra hua zamaana aata nahin dobara

Gujra hua zamaana aata nahin dobara! Amma, her household help chanted the line once again with the fervor of a devout devotee and shut the door roughly, as Meghana left for work. Akhil, her husband was already seated in the car and had honked twice. One more honk and it risked a rough start of the day. Something, she could easily do away with. Their offices were in close vicinity separated by a distance of three kilometers. But it was 30 kilometres far from their home. Akhil dropped her to work before commencing his day. The days when he would work late, she would take a cab back home.
‘Gently Amma,’ Her tone more as a reprimand. Transfixed Amma looked through her. Her eyes were devoid of emotions. Clearly, the word had not registered with her.‘Amma…you forgot my lunch box. It is still on the kitchen counter,’ Meghana spoke through gritted teeth. If only she could concentrate on work and stop staring at me and chanting her anthem! She bristled. Quietly Amma handed it over to her. Her eyes never leaving hers. Quickly Meghana grabbed it and sprinted. Amma’s eyes were still following her. Recklessly she pulled the door open of Akhil’s Skoda, his prized possession.
Akhil chose to ignore her folly and turned the ignition on. ‘What took you so long? The traffic becomes chaotic now.’ He was still calm. Meghana mumbled a silent prayer. Deftly, he eased the car of the underground parking and hit the road.‘I was listening to the anthem of Amma. 1088 times, she has recited it so far,’ Meghana snarled and dumped her belongings: a lunch bag, a purse and a laptop bag on the backseat of the car. Pulling the seat belt she fastened it and turned around to look if Akhil was carrying his laptop bag. He ate at work. Twice he had reached office without his laptop.
And something caught her glance. To rectify her folly, quickly she contorted her body to straighten her dabba, a pyramid shaped conical box of made of steel that had somersaulted, risking spill on the new upholstery of their luxury vehicle. Last month, he had splurged his entire bonus on the genuine leather upholstery and a flashy music system of Bose for Skoda, his new toy. Akhil shot her a murderous look. ‘A steel tiffin box shaped like a pyramid in this age and time,’ he derided her a millionth time. For heaven’s sake please change it, he urged. ‘It didn’t spill,’ she squirmed. To dispel the tension enveloping the atmosphere, she flicked the remote button of the Bose audio system. Strains of instrumental music of Pandit Shiv Kumar Sharma began to fill in the interior of the SUV.
‘It’s soothing to listen to the pitter-patter of rain in the blazing summer heat, murmured Akhil appreciatively, focusing on the road ahead. ‘It creates a visual impression of rain which soothes the mind.’ He was a careful driver, a trait gone missing in the current times.
‘It’s good you bought the music system,’ Meghana agreed reluctantly. She was an audiophile like him. Though, a holiday would have been better, she scowled. She was not going to give up her ground so fast.‘As usual you didn’t consult me before spending, neither did you give me a whiff of the impending bonus, ‘she griped.

Akhil frowned. Her ranting deeply disturbed him. He had a crucial presentation ahead. He couldn’t afford to sour his mood. He must make amends and right now.‘Am I not entitled to splurge a little on my toys?’ He asked gently as if seeking her permission. Firmly he held her hand with his free hand.She wrested her hand out of his grip. She wasn’t going to acquiesce so quickly. For months, she had been eyeing a holiday in Kashmir in anticipation of his bonus. And when he got the money, he spent it unilaterally. Her anger was legitimate, he conceded. This time winning her approval wouldn’t be easier. An uncomfortable silence brewed between them, till she reached her destination.
‘I am telling you Amma is cursed and I am going to get rid of her,’ she declared, got down and waltzed off.
'Your belongings,' he snapped to catch her mid-track.Embarrassed, she retreated and collected her stuff.She clumsily carried her different bags, while Akhil chose to sulk. Hiding behind his cool Aviators, his chocolate brown eyes refused to give away any emotion. However, she recognized his stiff stance. Little did she care and moved on.
It was difficult to gauge his emotions. Akhil sped off fuming.The Berlin wall of silence refused to evaporate between them. Unable to fire her staff, she was stuck in a strange predicament.Who was more important in the love nest that she and Akhil had built painstakingly over all these years? The answer was written on the wall, only she had refused to read it. The mechanical life took over. She began praying to the God. Only, He could help her out of this mess.‘I need to go home,’ Amma announced after a couple of days on opening the door for her. The prayers had worked. So quickly. Akhil was working on an overseas project and they were commuting to home separately from work. 

‘Water,’ she swallowed.
Amma handed her the chilled glass of Khus sherbet, her panacea to beat the summer heat. She tentatively touched the long stem of the glass with her throat before taking a sip.
A pair of eyes seared her back. Quickly she turned around. Caught snooping, Amma turned her attention to the chopped potatoes simmering in the wok.
‘You want something? ’ Meghana asked through gritted teeth. Then, she decided to leave her alone and flicked the remote. The 50 inch LED TV sprang to life. Again on EMI? It left a bad aftertaste in her mouth. Amma's decision to leave came as a relief for her. However, a replacement had to be hunted quickly. She had to energise her network. She fetched her mobile and got on the job.Later she showered and lit the huge lavender aroma candle. It was her antidote against stress.

Moving back to reality, ‘When do you want to go?’ Her voice barely concealed her relief. ‘Tomorrow, if you permit,’ Amma wanted to make it easier for her. She was seeking her permission.
Meghana was enjoying the position of authority. ‘How can you go tomorrow?’ Wait for two more days and leave on Friday. She was delving in the practicalities of running a house without a live-in help. Thank God, her mother-in-law was around. At least, someone would be there when her daughters came from school.

'Why do you want to go home all of a sudden?' She enquired. ‘I need to.’ Beyond those three words, she shut herself and began attending to chopped potatoes simmering in the wok.

‘Still, I need to know. Are you unhappy?’ She prodded. Strange but a wave of sympathy washed her over. She was an old woman. There must be compulsions that had forced her to leave the confines of her home. Guilt washed over her. She beckoned Amma. Obeying her command, Amma came and sat at her feet with downcast eyes. Her eyes were glued on her face. Crinkles beneath her lower eyelid gave her a somber expression. Her skin shone, but her luminous eyes stood out on her pale face. They had a devilish glint

‘What happened Amma?’ She gently held her hand. Her hand was cold. Slimy. Meghana recoiled at the touch and released it immediately. Her mobile rang. She rushed to her bedroom to attend it. It was a wrong number. The sky was overcast with ominous clouds. There was a loud thunder and the power went out. In the gentle light of the lavender candle, she saw Amma. Her eyes shone, like marbles and a smile danced on her lips, but she looked through her. Exasperated Meghana turned around. A motley crowd of strange faces was standing behind her. Akhil was standing right in the front. Naked fear gripped her.

Who was she?

  

She pulled her red robe tighter and quickened her steps. She had to reach the lake before the sunset. The feelings of melancholy that permeated her soul were beginning to evaporate. The setting sun always coloured her in its afterglow. She began to feel lighter. Then she sprinted with all her might to reach the lake before the sun settled in its cool embrace. With her red robe flying all over, she was like the red flame that was eager to sip the nectar of life. Surrounded by the tall pine trees, the lake was her refuge from the madding crowd. It was her haven. Quickly she looked around to check if anyone was around. No one could be, she was on her personal property, yet a little caution never hurt anyone. Assured that no-one was watching her, she threw her robe down and stepped into the cool water lapping it through her skin. The sun had settled in the lake and she could hold it in her lap. The warmth of the setting sun-saturated her parched womb that would never flower. She shed tears for the children that would never be born. After a while that seemed like a life time, she stepped out and ambled to her mansion: The Gift. Inscribed on a large brass plate the words greeted her at the gate, a solemn reminder of her past life. A life that she longed to forget, but for those words and the opulent lifestyle that she enjoyed.

She was flying for an international airline before she met her husband. Going to different countries and meeting different people helped her escape unhappiness temporarily, her faithful companion. She was born under the influence of ill-fated stars, proclaimed the family astrologer. To taper the influence of ill-fated stars, she was christened Bhagyalakshmi by him. Each time the word was uttered, it would rub off an effect on her.  If there is a God, he must be a satirist, she rued often. Her birth was followed by separation of her parents. They never got along together. A child was believed to suffuse normalcy in their matrimony. Strangely, what well-intentioned adults couldn’t achieve was entrusted to a baby to deliver!

 Her mother entrusted her parents with the responsibility to raise her. And she moved to the city of dreams, Bombay to pursue hers. The city hadn’t become Mumbai then. The salty sea water prospered her dream of becoming a lyricist, but withered her maternal instincts. The grandparents did care for her, but parental concern as a concept was alien to them. Friends were her cushion against the emotional upheavals. As she grew, there were fewer friends. Her exceptionally good looks kept girls at bay and for boys, she was a prized trophy, someone they could flaunt at the school prom. A girl, who was no more than a stray for them willing to offer her body in exchange of kindness. The boys never missed exploiting the opportunity. The momentary affection brought long-term void. When her grandfather passed away, her grandmother lost the desire to live and moved to Haridwar to await her meeting with her maker. An inexplicable sadness surrounded her life and to fill the vacuum, she joined an international airline. The long flights brought with it ample opportunities to meet new people and visit new countries. It worked as a balm for her tormented soul. Multiple strings of romances too helped bail her out of sadness, her solitary companion, but each failed romance intensified the grief until she met her erstwhile husband. He was double her age but did age matter between soul mates. And when there is loads of cash in-between, the differences merge gently and silently!

The interview was brief and abrupt.

She was 29 when she met him. Her husband was a prominent businessman. He was mesmerized by her beauty, the moment he saw her on one of his business trips. He had seen many beauties before, but she was different. He wanted her in his space, in his world of collectibles. It was his style. When he saw exquisite things, he collected it. His house was a veritable museum. It even had a chunk of Berlin wall and he owned a piece of the moon too. The only difference was that she was living. For him, it didn’t matter! Emotions had no place in his world. Her induction to his world happened over a brief interview on a crisp evening. The mellowing sun had coloured the gazebo where they sat across each other in ochre. She was meeting him informally for the first time.

‘How important is sex for you?’ He questioned abruptly.

‘Excuse me!’ She was taken aback. ‘Is this why you have called me to discuss?’ She grabbed her purse and got up. The discussion had come to an end.

‘Please sit down and hear me,’ he implored. Her patience had worn out and she didn’t want to persist.

‘Sit down, please,’ he commanded. The word please came as a whisper. ‘For each minute I will pay you a lakh.’ The authoritative tone was back at work. The offer was tempting for her. Ten minutes mean ten lakhs. The old man is enamoured!!

She sat down with arms crossed. He was a hard negotiator. If she played her cards well, her financial worries would be sorted, for good. An end to   bearing tantrums of ill-mannered guests.

‘I want to own you.’ He spoke.

‘I am not an object. You can’t own me,’ she spat. The man is a psycho. It was such a waste of an exceptionally beautiful sunset, she thought. The sun had hidden behind the tall pine trees.

‘You can term it marriage.’ He clarified. And what future does this marriage hold for me? ‘Widowhood looms on the horizon for me, if I marry you,’ she said stitching her reason together.

‘Yes, it does, but you will be rich beyond your wildest dreams,’ he hit the nail on the head.

‘And  young enough to remarry,’ he said as an afterthought.

An unusual marriage proposal, she smirked. He smiled.

‘Coffee?’ He enquired.

She nodded. He pressed the intercom and ordered at once. His agility belied his age, only the knotted fingers betrayed his secret.

The fingers have endured a lot from step-mother’s cane to disciplinarian dad’s foot rule. His voice was devoid of emotion.

The coffee came complete with homemade gingerbread cookies on a silver platter. He took one. She languished with the coffee.

‘I am not straight.’ The words sprang without a prelude.

He had learned long back that the easiest way to make a conversation was to do it right away.

‘Yes, I can make that out. You are a twisted soul,’ she said with contempt.

Instantly, she recovered. Why do you want to marry me then?

Because you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.

‘But I am alive, I have my needs.’

‘Except sex, I can fulfill all,’ he began to negotiate, a comfortable territory for him.

‘I had it enough in the past,’ she spoke with downcast eyes. The first encounter happened on the thirteenth birthday. Since then, there had been no looking back: the only time, when happiness overwhelms my soul and melancholy disappears.

‘Does it matter for you now?’ he had to be sure. A scoop was the last thing he wanted now.

‘I am only 29. It does.’ She admitted candidly. But, I can give it up. As if it was a bad habit.

I should let her go. She doesn’t belong to my world.

He paused. Her midnight black eyes had cast her spell.

How would it feel to own her body and soul? Blood had begun to flow south and he was keen to wrap his limbs around her long legs.

The wedding was a quiet affair. Her mother was busy handling her niggling issues in her uncomfortable matrimony. She had married thrice and was still looking for a perfect match.

'Why do you want to get married so soon?' She screamed at Bhagyalaxmi on the telephone.

‘Are you coming for my wedding?’ Her voice had choked. It always did when she suppressed tears. Her throat had turned salty.

'I would love to, but…..'The line went silent. She refused to hear anything beyond but. The three-lettered-word always dominated her life, eager to snap her happiness whenever it dared to bloom.

Marrying someone twice your age was not something to flaunt. At least not for me. She rubbed her nose vigorously and refused to shed tears. They are for weak hearted. And I am committing suicide? 

On her wedding, she wore a beautiful pink handmade Banarasi sari adorned with real zari gold border and antique motifs, a gift from her grandmother. The wedding happened quickly. The signing of papers and exchange of garlands didn't take long. She had carried a silver vermillion box. The old man didn’t believe in it. She wore it herself. The red dash illuminated her face. She was happy. At least there was someone with whom she could share her evenings. No more hanging around in the bar in alien cities and drinking margaritas all alone.

We are leaving tonight for the honeymoon. He shared with her on the drive back home. Take my card and shop your heart’s content. He was pampering her.

The old man winked. He was feeling like a king.
'I don’t want to shop anything and what honeymoon? I haven’t recovered from our conversation.' She was coming to terms of the matrimonial alliance.

'Well..that was not true.' He smiled showing his pearlies that received monthly attention from the dentist. I just wanted to be sure about our relationship. He didn't want to tell her about his visit to the urologist prior to the wedding to fix his limp concern. 
By building it on a lie. She was upset. What if I had forged an affair? You wouldn't need to...

'Well…you would not. I had got your background check done.'

This was getting spookier. And what was the report?

They didn’t give you a clean chit.

All that matters for me now is that you are mine.

He fished in his coat’s pocket.

A 20 carat diamond gleamed holding her attention hostage surrounded by rubies and emeralds.

This is for my lovely wife. He gently slipped the ring on her finger and kissed it.

She had never been happier.   
She wanted to go to Paris. But for him, Paris was like Mumbai, where he could go for a cuppa when his heart  desired. With an exotic beauty like her, the place had to be surreal. And he had a place in mind: Belfort, a beautiful countryside in France.
Bhagyalaxmi was thrilled when she saw the place. Lissome French women, bathed in exotic scents, sashayed around and the lovely houses had baskets full of blooms hanging from their windows.
Rather than renting a five-star hotel, they rented an apartment. It gave BL the luxury to cook and own the house, just the way she desired. 

After ages, he felt alive and young. A young wife had ignited his dormant soul. And she brought tremendous luck for him. She was like his angel of fortune. And he was delighted that the angel of fortune was with him.

He struck deals like never before and each time a jackpot awaited him. The old man was happy. Amidst all this happiness, he forgot, his identity. He was the child of sorrow. Grief could not elude him for long. It was like his second skin. 

Like all good things in life, this too had to come to an end. And it did abruptly. He was a dark soul. Actually, a zombie. Someone who had sold his soul to the devil for commercial success. And success, he did achieve phenomenally. But, at a price of soul less living. A price where devil could control anything of his.

And the devil did extract a price. A price that tore his heart while paying. How much he wished to run away to a far away land with BL where devil could never lay his eyes on their happiness. They eloped to the far away land and settled in the Gift, their mansion.

Well, money can settle a lot many worries

Curiosity killed the cat

For Joseph the inn was his home. It was not a place to refresh and move on, but to stay and ponder on the future that was as bleak as the kettle on which he simmered tea for the souls inhabiting the inn. The only son of the housekeeper, the inn was his world and beyond. He ran errands for the residents, cooked simple meals for them. He could make it fancy, if the benefactor decided to reward him accordingly. The forlorn souls of the inn enmeshed in mundane were too busy to notice his entrepreneurial instincts. As a result, khichdi, daliya were the staple foods served at the inn. Not that the recipients had any complaints. Inn was just a stop-over. What they ate for a night didn’t make any difference to them except to the ones who lived there, including Joseph. The bland food had coloured his life in multiple shades of grey. The only exception to the monochrome tones came in the company of Rachel. Just like him the inn was home for her too. The grand-daughter of the solitary security guard who could barely guard himself at the ripe age of 65, she was like a breath of fresh air in the dilapidated inn. Like a brook, she brought joys to all san prejudice or malice.

Joseph looked forward to her arrival. Sipping the mundane masala tea, in her company beneath the shady mango tree brought him immense joy. His heart bloomed and the gloominess evaporated a bit from his life. Rachel to looked forward to their togetherness, but for a different reason. She was enticed by the mirror, placed in the centre of the house that allowed the inhabitants to attend to their vanity before leaving the precincts of the inn.  While Joseph simmered the tea, she stood before the mirror to catch unhurried glances of herself. The grapevine suggested that the mirror was a gift to the inn-owner from a man of the nether world. 

Why would someone accept such a gift too. Rachel wondered.

'Do such people exist in the real life too?' The curiosity got the better of her and she asked Joseph. Casually. Just like that. The one query that you wish to get off your mind.

It was a dull evening. Beneath   the shade of the mango tree, he blew ringlets of smoke.

By the looks of it, he was not  happy with the query. She let it go. Certainly, it was not true. She concluded and struggled to reconcile with the monochrome shades of grey. 

Encased in the most intricate wooden carving, it was the most beautiful mirror, she had ever seen. Not that she had seen many. Ugly, tiny, stained mirrors encased in black peeling metal that could cut the finger of careless lookers dominated her world. More than the mirror, she admired the image that preened at her. Lovingly, she caressed her pale complexion, dove-like eyes and lush berry lips.

‘What a waste!’ She sighed.  

Joseph caught her reflection and gave her an air kiss from the kitchen where he was hovering over the bubbling tea, lest it should spill. Not that he cared about the spic and span kitchen. Smeared with oil and turmeric spills all over, his kitchen was as messy as it could be. But he was short of milk and he had no desire to cut down the quantity of tea he sipped. It tasted divine in the presence of Rachel. She was an angel. She doesn’t belong here. Like him!  The inn was a place for morose souls. They would suffocate her.

‘I want to sample the real world.’ Rachel spoke aloud to her reflection reverberating his thoughts. Before my beauty withers away!

 ‘Each time you stand before the mirror, you get lost in a different world. I begin to feel that you are not with me,’ Joseph grumbled as he balanced the steaming two hot cups of masala chai in his hands.

‘This is just a mirror, albeit a big one,’ Joseph agreed reluctantly as he sat comfortably in the shade of the mango tree.

‘You will never know what the mirror means to me,’ Rachel was sad. The sparkle of her eyes dimmed. Joseph’s heart skipped a beat.

‘A mirror is a mirror,’ he smirked. Rachel stayed quiet. No one would understand her predicament. She wanted colours in her world, the most vibrant ones, not the gloomy shades of grey.

‘Okay! Come with me,’ Joseph commanded. His voice was as crisp as the morning air. He entwined his hand with Rachel ignoring her protests and led her to the mirror.

‘Touch it,’ he ordered. His voice was a whisper.

Rachel obeyed. Gingerly she touched the glossy surface of the mirror. It cracked. The depression grew wider sucking her hand inside it.

Rachel shrieked in horror. Joseph’s eyes glinted of unadulterated evil.

He tore the crack wider with his bare hands. Blood dripped on the floor. He was unmindful of it. 

‘This is the stairway to hell,’ he proclaimed.

Inside a gaggle of forlorn souls hooted for her. They were impatient for her to join their tribe.

'They are the people who were too busy to say a kind word to me, while going about their mundane routine. For whom inn was a just a stop -over and who didn't care for me,' he spat.

Rachel refused to register his words. It couldn't be true. They had shared so many evenings together. He is her sole companion.

But he just now cracked the mirror open!

'I can go in and come out at my will. I am the master of the mirror. I am the one who brought it here,'

'You are evil,' she acknowledged with gloom.

 'Yes, I am,' he accepted. 'Like two sides of the coin goodness and evil co-exist. I am the one who makes you realise the brighter side of life by giving you glimpses of the darker side of the world.' He was getting philosophical.

Cutting his thoughts short, he said, 'Don't get me wrong. I don't belong to your world but I am in love with the liveliness of this world.' He expressed his agony. The pain that seared his soul.

'Can he love?' Rachel thought. 

'Yes, he did. May be a reflection, just like the mirror.'

'Please let me go.' She begged exploiting the only opportunity that existed. 

Welcome to my world. Joseph pushed her in.

The crack closed trapping in Rachel. 

It was a long night

‘As you sow so shall you reap! Come fast. I have little time.' In three lines,' Didi dictated her. She had perfected the art!

Reluctantly, she looked at the fax once again, now crumpled in a ball. As you sow so shall you reap. The words leapt at her. With all their might !

The dictum dictated Didi's life. It was her explanation for all wrong-doings happening in the world, which she even linked to the past life. Whenever she and Dada, her younger brother concocted mischief, her grim reminder stung at them, more forcefully than a slap. One day dada disappeared just like dad. A bunch of neighbours who had visited Rishikesh during Kumbh had spotted him.

But, where did Didi go wrong? As far as Debjani could remember, Didi was sold to kindness. Every morning she fed birds, made rotis for strays and was kind to people around. She gave alms liberally; never missed her twice a day tryst with gods and the weekly fast. In addition, she observed ekadashis with fervour.

But the fax re-emphasized the fact that Debjani was wrong. She could never muster courage to ask Didi the unknown facets of her life. She had to now. Before she left.

Six months ago, Debjani had literally dragged Didi to the plush, seven-star hospital in the suburb where they lived. After all, she slogged day in and day out for the hospital, and the least they could do was to perform a health check on her mother. The worst fears came true. She was suffering from the last stage of cervical cancer. Suddenly, the world came to an end.

‘No, we will go to Tata Memorial. You can’t leave us. Dad departed, dada disappeared and I can’t let you go.’ Debjani shrieked  in horror.  She could not imagine a life without her.

Didi smiled. A calm genial smile, as if she was eager to meet her maker. I don’t want this treatment tamasha. Didi was firm. 

‘You can’t bully me anymore, Debjani was furious.

‘As you sow so shall you reap,’ Didi purred in the passenger seat of the car with feline grace. Did doctors diagnose her of viral? Debjani thought.

‘You are going to die. For heaven’s sake now quit this sow- reap business. I need you,’ Debjani sobbed.  Didi smoothed her hair. Next morning Didi left for Ranchi.

The calls connected them. Didi was her enthusiastic self. The blooming flowers, errant servants, puja bells formed the staple of conversation. With practiced ease she dodged uncomfortable questions. A genial homeopath was treating her and she was doing well.

The sudden fax broke the carefully built charade. The next day, Debjani boarded the familiar Air India to Ranchi. Didi had sent the driver to pick her up.

‘How is Didi?’ She asked the young driver as they eased out of the airport.

‘Not good.’ His grim expression conveyed the unsaid. Didi was more than a mother to him. She had found the young lad at the Kali mandir on a Saturday. Huddled outside the temple, the boy begged for prasad from people emerging out of the temple.

Didi handed out two pedas and the boy devoured, only to spread his palm again.

‘Hungry?’

 Didi enquired. No, I want for my mother.

Where is she? The boy indicated to a bag of bones nearby, covered in a black blanket in tatters.

Didi went closer. A stench reeked.

She was dead, may be days ago. Didi got the last rites performed and brought Munna home. She began tutoring him at home and later got him admitted to a school.

This was the Didi, Debjani knew! She shut her eyes tight lest tears would spill. This trick worked since childhood. It did today too.

Debjani was never a child. She grew up really fast. At the age of three, she had house keys to enter the home. Perched on a step ladder then she locked the door. The three hours of wait for her mother to return were interminably long. The hours were spent gazing at the birds that flocked her courtyard. Every morning, Didi kept grains for bird. And the hours went by in solitude.

Life sprang in the house once Didi was back from the school. She would throw her sling on the nearest couch, like it was a plague and hug her close to her bosom.

Tight! Really close. Debjani squeezed her eyes. Then, she stormed the kitchen to cook something delicious and nutritious for both of them. She had her way with the pots and the pans. Like everyone else they complied with her commands. A nutritious meal of rice pulao, upma or poha replete with vegetables and raita lingered in her memory. Two hours later children came: her students. She was terrific with numbers and the students taught by her did exceptionally well in Maths. Her popularity soared as a Maths teacher. It’s from here that the word Didi and Mrs. Mrinal Kapoor became synonymous. Debjani too began to call her Didi. She chided her initially, but then gave in.

Their placid world was interrupted when Dad joined them. Yes, he came back all of a sudden. Just the way he had left. Didi and dad fought initially in hushed tones after Debjani pretended to sleep. The contents of the fight were beyond her comprehension, but she knew well the acrimonious tone. Soon Dada was born. Their world had hop-scotched to nearly perfect. They went for Sunday movies, followed by trip to Firayalal for softy cones and Madras café for dosas. Dad began to work in Uphar cinema house as a Manager.

Those were the happiest years of Deb’s life. A smile escaped her lips. Pranav loved to address her as Deb. Conventionally, he was her boy friend but Debjani was not ready to move ahead with him. ‘Commitment phobic,’ Pranav had termed her.

The car jerked to a stop halting her thoughts.  She had reached home. A dog barked.

Did Didi adopt a pet? ‘Hush Chotu!’

Didi’s mellifluous voice stirred the surroundings.

She was standing at the terrace, wearing her red and white border traditional Bengali sari. A red Hibiscus flower was tucked in the side of her ear. A red Kumkum dot made her face come alive.

Their eyes met. In an instant, Didi’s eyes sparkled with joy.

‘When did you bring Chotu home?’ Debjani was sure the pet was a recipient of her charity.

‘Oh! A callous owner had deserted the pet to fend for itself while going overseas.’ Didi filled in her.

‘And you brought it home.’ Debjani completed the rest. Of course, for all such animals, Didi’s home was a sanctuary. Since her childhood, she had seen many battered birds, injured cats and dogs being brought to home.

‘You should have been a vet instead of a Maths teacher,’ remarked Debjani.

Didi laughed. Tears brimmed in her eyes. They were a treacherous pair and could never contain either joy or sorrow.

So the fax worked? Didi smiled; her trademark lopsided smile.

‘This was the only way to get you here.’ Debjani threw her arms ups in frustration. Though a huge burden was off her chest!

There was no need to scare my wits out with your fax. Debjani feigned anger between mouthfuls of food. At least it would warn Didi not to pull such theatrics again.

Around midnight, Debjani decided to call it a day. It had been a unusually tiring day. She was up at five in the morning to board the 8 am flight. For someone who could not sleep before half past midnight, it had been a tiring day. But all her fears and apprehensions evaporated, after seeing Didi.

Just then Didi strolled in with two coffee mugs. ‘What keeps you awake till late?’ Debjani relished the role reversal. ‘And I am no celebrity for a coffee session.’

Didi brought the coffee mug closer to Debjani, a self-confessed coffee-holic. It was her fuel!

Debjani gave in to temptation. ‘And, you switched to green tea.’ She was happy to note the change.

Not that I would have wanted to trade my masala tea, with anything else in the world, but the doc convinced that drinking this brew was good for my immunity. And it is not green tea.

‘How are your reports?’ Debjani enquired.

‘Well they are not bad. Not as scary as they seemed at the seven-star hospital you dragged me to,’

Debjani mumbled a silent prayer. Even the thought of a life without her was painful.

‘You forgot to add sugar to coffee,’ Debjani commented after having a sip.

'Oops!' Didi spoke casually examining her manicured nails.

‘A trip to nail-bar is due,’ remarked Debjani.

‘Yes,’ Didi agreed absentmindedly.

 In a flick of tongue, the hapless container attached itself to the projectile of Didi's tongue from the shelf where it was kept. But, before it could land on the bed all victorious, Debjani caught it midway, flourishing her lizard like tongue.

Finally, I got it right, Debjani felt victorious on catching the container.

‘Two can play the game now,’ said Didi.

The shadows of tongues forking out danced in the darkness. It was a long night!