Crack

Why don’t you take beautiful pictures of me…Ria lamented? Others take such flattering pics of their wives.  

How do you know that, Ria?

Coz I have seen those all over Facebook ! You only take pictures of stones and concrete, Arjun.  

But that’s what we’re here for…to take pictures of our house under construction. It is just documentation baby!

Ria was adamant…but documentation can also be arty

Arjun tried to console her. Ok look here, I’ve taken this picture of you. It looks so natural.

That pictured angered Ria even more. You mean to say I naturally look nerdy!

That’s not what I said… anyway never mind.  And Arjun turned his attention to taking more pictures of the workers laying bricks on the walls of what would be their first home. Sunlight rushed in through the gaping hole in the half-done porch.

No one noticed but cracks had already begun to appear...

Fiction: Rose Tinted Glasses

Every evening on her way back home from work she’d cross the house with the red blinds. At this sight, her hurried journey back home would suddenly acquire a different character…forcing her to break out of her preoccupations. Overcome by intrigue she’d let her imagination run. What was that veil concealing?

She had seen such scarlet-lit rooms earlier… fluttering curtains fighting against the breeze to hold their own …standing still long enough to conceal…protect…and then sway mischievously to tease the on-lookers’ imagination.

She’d slow down her steps, trying to steal as many glances at the window and the life within. On many occasions she had seen the shadow of a rather tall man. Going by his stature she had first pegged his age around 30, though his measured…careful walk around the house signalled someone older. Sometimes she had even seen the silhouette of what looked like young woman. What was she doing there? What if he was taking advantage of her…the poor thing? Exploitative B*^4#*d! She would seethe with anger at the very thought.

Then one day…overcome by her self-righteousness…or maybe just plain curiosity – she charged up to that house and knocked! Waiting in front of that door her thoughts ran into a frenzy…is this a mistake…what if he is a serial womanizer…a molester. It was too late to be thinking these thoughts. The door opened and on the other side stood a rather gentle looking middle-aged man. But this looks like a decent man. Half relieved-half surprised she didn’t know what to say.

Er…are you looking for someone…he asked.

She mumbled…I’ve recently moved to the neighbourhood…just thought I should get to know people around here.

He showed her in and shut the door. She heard the clang of the cowbell hung to the doorknob. Following him in - she moved her attention between him and around the house. Nothing about this place seemed unsafe or creepy though there was something weird about the way he walked. Something that suggested that he was strange in his own house. Inside…the house was sparse…little furniture…a lot of white space. Except the blinds…those looked a little blaring and out of sync with the rest of the room.

They spoke for a while…exchanged notes on…where she had come from…what he did for a living. She learnt that he was a piano teacher at the primary school. All through the conversation she couldn’t help but wonder…there was something about this place, which was not usual though she couldn’t put her finger on it. Why hasn’t he turned on the lights in the room…she wondered? Maybe he’s just trying to save on electricity…there’s enough natural light in the room.

Something jumped at her and she stood up in reaction…I must be going before it gets dark.

I am sorry Ms…I haven’t been able to offer you anything. I’ve run of tea and haven’t been able to go to the grocer yet.

Oh no…don’t bother yourself…perhaps another time

It was good that you could stop by. I hardly have any visitors.

Just as she was about to step out of that room…she turned around and remarked…your blinds

Oh aren’t those lovely? They have those little chimes hanging from them...I just heard those and had to buy them. Excuse me if they look dusty…I wouldn’t be able to see. A lady comes to clean every now and then…she hasn’t been coming you know…

All of a sudden the pieces came together in her mind…why the lights weren’t turned on…the number of bells and chimes in the house…his cautious movement.

Shocked at the putridity of her own thinking…she muttered…those blinds…those look really beautiful!

Fiction - Smoke Screen

He slid his hand into his pocket and lit up a smoke. Had it not been for the acrid smell that hit her all of a sudden, she would not have even noticed! This wasn’t one of his usual moments…she pondered. In the last three days he has only reached for a cigarette after meals. She had found his postprandial pangs unusual even when she saw him light up the very first time. That’s a strange habit! She had felt the urge to ask him about it then, but had held herself back. They had barely known each other and what if he took it wrong?

She stole a glance at him just to confirm that he was actually smoking, and quickly turned away…continuing to watch life outside as visible from the auto rickshaw in which they were travelling. Absorbing the sights and sounds that hit her consciousness, at some level she tried to identify the character of that place. Nothing that could set it apart! They could have been traveling through any other town and it would have still felt the same.

The image of him holding the cigarette elegantly between his fingers wafted before her eyes. Her gaze fixed at the buzzing activity that surrounded them, she wondered …there was something about him that was very unlike what she had imagined of a typical man. The way he moved his slender fingers, the manner in which he sat cross legged at the edge of the bed but most of all his sensibilities. Effeminate was not the right word to describe him. Perhaps a man in touch with his anima.

What was the trigger for that light?....she asked.

He looked at her bewildered not having a context to what she had been thinking.

That light…she suggested with her eyes….what was the trigger for that?

He mumbled a few indiscernible words before saying… Ummm. Just boredom…and drew in some more nicotine. She was not entirely convinced by his explanation but decided not to pursue the matter any further. Time moved at an unusual pace that evening. It was difficult to judge how many minutes had lapsed though the passage of time was evident by the fact that the auto rickshaw they were travelling in - had covered a certain distance.

Do you smoke?…he inquired of her.

This time she was cornered into silence not knowing what to say. A part of her wanted to reach for the cigarette in his hand and take a drag. Though the last time she had held one to her lips was seven years ago! What if she had forgotten how to smoke….lost the knack of holding it? What if she inhaled and her lungs rejected the fumes? Would that make her seem like a rookie? Though there was something so alluring about the very thought…of experiencing that heady rush…brought about partly by nicotine and partly the sheer act of bonding over a cig.

Why did you ask me that? She answered his question with another - still wondering to herself – had he not noticed in the three days they had spent together that she does not?

Ummm…nothing…he mumbled again - mumbling was the defense he used against confrontation.

She stared outside yet again….thinking whether the reality they would live and experience ahead could have turned out any different had she nonchalantly taken a fag.

He…wondered to himself…whether he did the right thing by resorting to the warmth of a cigarette to break the ice between them.

Rings of smoke filled the air…as she watched him from the corner of her eye – and made a mental note. Must practice smoking…to make the most of moments like these!

Fiction - Ek Churchgate – Ek Mantralaya

Come 1 pm and Maharishi Karve Marg, an otherwise a quiet…tree lined street between Kalbadevi and VT, would come alive with the giggles and chatter of a junior year students making their way home. Unlike their senior counterparts, for them the end of lecture sessions meant the end of the day in college. The beeline of two and threes that formed at the college gate would split into two directions - close to the junction where many roads met. One path would take some of these college kids into the sub-urban middle class homes of andheri, borivali and beyond. The other led to finer homes and more fortunate lives at colaba & cuff parade. These two worlds co-existed within the college campus though seldom converged.

Amidst the swarm walked Nidhi and Ruhi - two forgettable characters all of 5 feet and 6 inches. Actually Nidhi was a tad taller yet people often confused their names. Forgettable since they were neither stunningly beautiful nor exceedingly quirky. One of the two criteria was a serious requirement if one wanted to get noticed in college – an ambition that neither of them harboured. They were content just being their normal selves. The two of them were amongst 8 others who occupied the last two benches on the extreme left of the large classroom. Farthest from the professor and closest to the window from where one could peek at the senior year classrooms. Nidhi would often sit facing the window…sketching. The gothic architecture of those buildings looked good even when captured on paper by an amateur artist. Ruhi, sitting beside her would steal a glance out of the window when the professor turned her back – to catch a glimpse of the senior year boys walking in and out of their classrooms. It was a rule – each day two of eight girls took upon themselves the task of jotting down lecture notes leaving the rest to doodle, play naughts and crosses and of course enjoy the view from the window. All this meant that the xerox wallahs at kalbadevi were a happy lot.

Though Nidhi and Ruhi had known each other for less than a year, people often mistook them to be childhood friends if not dizygotic twins. Its was not enough that they were always found hanging around together, thanks to the common first alphabet in their last names - their roll numbers followed one another too - 156 and 157. What was unbelievable was that they often ended up getting the same marks on tests although Nidhi’s handwriting was perfect – small, circular and evenly spaced. Though Ruhi's resembled what would appear on paper if baby rats ran across the page and left their droppings all over. At least that should have accounted for some difference in the way the professor evaluated their answer sheets. The professor always asked before handing over their exam sheets to them...'did you two copy again' - they would bother utter 'no maam' while at the same time looking at each other in shock.

Outside of the arches and foyers that symbolized life at St. Xavier's College, the world that Nidhi and Ruhi belonged to, sat at two ends on the continuum of bi-polar opposites. If one peaked into life from Nidhi's end of the continuum one would find a suburban, lower middle class Hindu home, a mother who worked at a government office to afford education for her children. Pocket allowance of 75 rupees a week, 50 of which were spent on bus fare alone leaving the rest for an occasional cup of coffee at the canteen or a rarer splurge on unbranded clothes at fashion street. On the other hand Ruhi's world comprised a large Muslim family of 6 & their 2 servants - housed in an even larger house which stood on one of the most expensive pieces of real estate that Bombay city had to offer. A 360 degree view from the balcony of that palatial house would throw back glimpses of high rises in Bombay's business district, the old university and high court buildings across the oval maidan, the white dome of the sachivaalaya and dalal street in the distance. They occupied the entire 4^th floor!

Like most others, they would walk the distance from the college gate to the traffic crossing together where they would split and continue their journey back to their divergent lives. Ruhi would look for a bus / cab outside Metro Cinema while Nidhi made her way to Marine Lines station passing by Irani coffee houses atop which stood old wooden buildings waiting to crumble.
On some days Ruhi would impulsively ask Nidhi to join her and Nidhi would agree. Waiting at the bus-stop they'd chat endlessly about the respective men in their lives - a senior year boy that Nidhi liked and Ruhi's childhood crush. The conversations about ‘will he - wont he’ would be interrupted by the regular arrivals of the dusty red BEST buses. You know I am meeting him at a family dinner this...Come, come, come that’s our bus. Ruhi was perhaps one of those few people who could say two completely unconnected things in the same breath. Once inside, on the cue of the tick tick sound made by the ticket conductor's instrument, Ruhi would open her wallet while trying to hold on to Nidhi to keep her balance and give a handful of coins to the conductor - too lazy to count the exact amount needed. Ek churchgate...ek mantralaya she said and continuing her conversation about her dinner that evening while the conductor gave them disgruntled looks and handed over their tickets and the remaining change. Sometimes they'd add up the digits on the serial number of the bus tickets till they arrived at a 2 digit number - which would then be checked for which alphabet it stood for...'S' who do i know whose name starts with 'S' who is thinking of me? At other times they'd indulge in mindless giggle as the bus took sharp turns near Flora Fountain and Churchgate with the two trying to balance themselves. That short, less than 5 minute, bus journey meant some more happy times together and that Nidhi did not have to walk in the scorching afternoon sun to the railway station. Even that extra bus ride costing 1.50 paise was a luxury considering her meagre pocket money. In the two years that they spent together in college Ruhi treated Nidhi to many more. Bus rides, movie tickets, pizza and unlimited cups of Nescafe from the dispenser at the canteen. For every 25 or so cups of coffee Ruhi bought for the both of them, Nidhi would buy two and sometimes when Ruhi was short of money she'd ask Nidhi for a buck or ten. But no one kept accounts and there was never a sense of discomfort about this. Not the first time Ruhi said 'ek churchgate - ek mantralaya' and not today…15 years hence.

Thank you arpana for the picture

Vidya's story - Part 3 - Her questions to the universe...

If you'd like to read about Vidya you could read it here (part 1) and here (part2)

She gazed out of the window as houses, trees and people ran countercurrent. Beads of water trickled from one curve to another on the corroded window grill. Hanging with resolve for a while before they would ultimately give in and fall below to the next level and then the next… until there was no trace left of them. Where would they all ultimately go, she asked her self? Some droplets flew right at her along with the cool breeze that gently slapped her face. It had stopped raining only minutes back. Unusual for the time of the year that otherwise had incessant rain washing away the fringes of life that existed alongside railway tracks. Vidya, though was oblivious of the starting and stopping of the rain. Her eyes focused on the rain droplets that fell into a rhythm, pulling her thoughts inwards. I watched her closely sitting at the diagonally opposite end.

There was an unusual silence in the compartment. No sound of women clamoring for seats…no bunch of giddy college girls breaking into a raucous laugher at a drop of a hat. This silence created a song of its own. The cadence of the metal handles atop swaying from side to side and the near empty compartment lilting to that tempo. Her still…calm face veiled the battle of thoughts in her mind. Her small voice throwing at her - a dozen questions a minute...it did not wait to even get an answer to one question before there were a barrage of others…Vidya knew that any answer she would give to herself would only open a chain of new thoughts…new questions. Years of conditioning and advice from elders about ‘learning to accept’ her situation had quietened her senses.

______________________________________________________________________

Vidya was amongst the brightest of her 8 siblings, a trait that won her disproportionate affection and encouragement from dada. Amma of course was quick to express her displeasure. ‘Don’t encourage her so much that her expectations take her soaring into the sky. One cannot fly high on pure hope alone. It is not in our means to let our girls study forever. After her matriculation, we must find a suitable house for Vidya. That’s it. Then our duty is over. Then she has to comply with what her in laws wish for her. You don’t fuel her desire to study further. She cannot think of herself and her life only when she has 5 younger sisters in the waiting’

Rukmini Devi (amma as we know her) was a woman of few words. Most of her time and energy were consumed by the domestic duties. In a marriage defined by traditional roles she did not find it her prerogative to voice her opinion. But Vidya was coming of age and amma knew that if her dreams were allowed to rise unfettered…the fall from those heights would be equally excruciating.

They were coming to see her. Her pleas were met with silence. This is the first time she had seen her father’s stone grey eyes filled with helplessness instead of hope for her.

His silence infuriated her even more. She paced up and down vigorously. Amma circled around her, holding the bright pink saree in her hand trying to calm vidya’s nerves. All the while that she was made to sit in front of her prospective in-laws she did not utter a word…nor did her eyes move away from her toes. Her face brushed with a crimson hue stuffed with anger that she could not express. If the fate of her life was to be decided without any consultation, she saw no sense in offering her approval or the lack of it. She married Shaym not knowing what he even looked like. That was her first and perhaps biggest lesson in ‘acceptance’.

________________________________________________________________________

Over the course of her life….she learnt to accept….an early marriage, a sudden loss of support and encouragement from her father, an almost overnight change in status from a girl-without-a-care to a woman responsible for a family of five…an acerbic mother-in-law…loss of dreams…loss of freedom…loss of personal time and space…being treated like a guest in the house she grew up in…that every night she would have to sleep with a man for whom she was always less beautiful than the cover girls on cine magazines…less attractive than the characters from the prurient literature that he indulged in….that nobody would ask her even once how she felt or what she wanted…constant fatigue…that holidays only meant more work at home…that children who she devoted herself to would grow up and get a life where she was not going to fit in…that when she fell ill people in her house got irritated until she dragged herself out of bed and started cooking again…that her life was all about give…give…give…that no matter how hard she tried she would never be good enough for them!

The day started as usual today…nothing out of the ordinary…except it was one of those mornings when repressed emotions and rebellious thoughts refused to listen and stay contained with the bounds of the self where they would not been seen or heard by anyone else. One of those mornings when on waking up you get the feeling that someone or something has died and you silently mourn the death of a part of you! One such days Vidya would lose herself in introspection…trying to draw strength from her thoughts. As she wound up her morning chores her eyes were tearful - a result of the acrid smell of onions which she chopped deftly. She thought – that she chopped onions everyday – they why today did she feel a pain in her heart while her eyes shed water?

The storm caused by such an upsurge in emotions did not take more than a couple of hours to settle down. The cacophony of noises of women laughing and joking in the train drowned out the feeble voice of her conscience throwing questions at her. Except today when Vidya was alone…well almost…there were only two others besides her…me and a woman standing at the door holding up the fluttering end of her saree in an attempt to dry it. Vidya had involuntarily fixed her gaze at the speeding train that she could see sitting by the window. She thought about the length of time ahead of her…all the days…months ahead that she would have to live. She wondered whether it was it possible for her to remain stoic, unemotional…undisturbed by her life? Was it possible for her to hold back her reactions, remain unaffected by their constant barbs? She had learnt to accept no doubt, but had continued to be affected by it all. Then in a flash, a thought nudged her out of her trance like gaze.

If the soul is the seat of all that one senses and the body only a vehicle to facilitate this experience, she questioned - whether it was possible for her to allow her soul to die a premature death and leave her body to lead its mortal existence on this earth?

Her thoughts escaped her being. She looked expectant. As though she had posed her question to the universe and was waiting an answer. As the train approached the shadowy domes of the tungsten lit VT station, the universe answered…‘The train arrived on platform 1 is slow local for Thane…’

Vidya slid her bag on her shoulders and walked away into the distance. My eyes followed her as I saw people from the opposite side, almost walking into her and moving away just in time…giving her strange looks. She seemed oblivious of her surroundings…as though her soul had just escaped her.

Did her dreams stop? - The (not so) short story

Taking of from where we left

It was a little beyond 6 of the morning hour. A warm start to the day in March though things were about to heat up. For Vidya…was rummaging through her things - It was time for her to leave for school but she could not find her pen. Anger was building up inside her - she knew it had to be someone. It was too important a thing for her to have misplaced carelessly. The pen was a gift from her father when she entered class 5 – the threshold to higher secondary and today was the day of her exam. How could she have lost it when she had even preserved the slim cardboard box that came along with it? It lay ensconced wrapped in the cellophane. She had touched it only once careful not to leave any finger prints on its shinny gold exterior.

Amma stood behind her holding the warm brass tumbler of milk with the edge of her duppatta. Common drink your milk and go to school…you will be late for your exam…I will find it and keep it for you when you are away

But amma…I want to write my paper with it. When dada gave it to me he blessed me and told me I would come first in class. Now how will I write my exam and come first. You don’t understand anything amma

She went from corner to corner in that little room which was no more than 10 steps whichever direction you walked. Moving frantically between the almirah… the side of the cot…and her school bag…her trail replicated the movements of an angry buzzing bee who has been disturbed on her hive…waiting to strike back. Sonia her twin watched her silently. Sonia was unusually quiet this morning. If this had been any other day, they would have by now left home bickering and pulling at each other’s plaits. Then as though in a flash of brilliance it struck Vidya.

Soni…bring down your bag from your shoulders…I know it’s in there
No didi… (Sonia called her didi since Vidya had come to the world 3 mins before she could arrive)…I promise I don’t have it

Then bring down your bag…by now Vidya hands were tugging at the shoulder strap testing its resolve to stay in place. Amma helplessly watched the two jostle…careful beta…you will spill the milk…it’s a bad omen…Vidya aren’t you my sensible one...aren't you

Vidya and Sonia would see amma speak in the background…her words filled the air surrounding them though none could permeate their consciousness. If not for the ink blot on Sonia’s bag, this fight would have continued unendingly.

Vidya gulped down her glass of milk…Sonia almost pulling her out of the door. Amma stood there watching the girls run…she stood until all she could see were a pair of plaits swinging in the distance.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mama…what are you thinking about…I have been asking you for the past 10 minute…have you seen my pen anywhere....i’m going to miss my bus again today…

Vidya had been standing there still…once again words filled the air….only this time they were her daughters words. Beta…where is the pen I had given you…

Mama…what are you saying…I am asking you about my pen…and you are talking about something else…

Beta… I hope you have not lost it…that pen is special… dada had …

Suhani interrupting…Oh God mama...you and your ancient thoughts and your ancient things…I am getting late…I have taken 20 rupees from your purse; I will buy a new one from jeevat chacha…

Vidya stood by the little window in the kitchen, stroking the money plant that grew out of the kissan jam bottle. 3 stories below, the sweeper created clouds of dust with his vigorous movements. Summer was at its peak, dry dust filled the air and even as early as 7 a.m. the sunlight was stinging! Vidya wondered…the summer was not so harsh two decades back. White sun lit rays raced through empty spaces in the wooden door that formed a shadow of criss cross patterns on the courtyard. Vidya and her sisters hopped on the shadows as Amma dressed the floor with a new coat of cow dung. Those shadows…and the shadows of the past were a cool…safe haven from the stinging sunlight of the day.

The clock played a familiar tune and Shyam yelled in the background….neither were music to her ears. It was 8 and Vidya was not her usual efficient self this morning. Shyam cursed her and left home without his packed lunch. Vidya already knew what to expect of the day ahead. The 8.09 local was definitely out of question. That meant she had to take the 8.19 fast instead….that is only if she was allowed to enter at Dadar…she had some chance of making it to work on time. Else, a late mark on the roster. She had already reached late last Monday since Suhani had to be dropped to school when she had woken up late and missed her school bus. Shyam had refused to drop though the school was a 5 minute walk from the bus stop where Shyam took the 332. Suhani, her brother, Shyam’s parents, the maid - chanda, the kitchen and the running of the house – were all Vidya’s responsibility. If Vidya wanted to work, she was to make sure that she would not fall short of any of his primary duties first.

Memories have a way of forcing themselves into the present. Memories did not realize that Vidya was already late. Like a stubborn child, they trudged along with her through the morning. Suhani losing her pen had resulted in Vidya losing herself and her morning to her past. I think somehow Vidya was allowing herself to get lost. These were the only comforts she could allow herself. Her home where she had spent most of her growing years was in the vicinity. She would pass by that plot of land which was now home to plaza theatre. It was prime property in the heart of dadar, one of the busiest suburbs in Bombay. Had the 17 families who once lived there owned that property, they would have been sitting on a pot of gold. But the houses had been leased to them for 20 years as part of the rehabilitation exercise for a paltry sum of 25 rupaiyahs. Though Vidya’s life had started 10 years before she arrived with her family at railway colony, Dadar, her years spent there were the most precious memories from her past. Life before that was a hazy vision of Larkana – her place of birth. Her 10 years there had been reduced to just two images in her mind – one of the thick iron chain bolting the door to their ancestral house and the second and the most vivid memory of the time when there was a black out on the train to Karachi.

But more about that another time…Vidya needs to try and make it to the 8.19 and she has just 3 mins to go…

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This story continues here

Walls of Silence...A Short Story

Vidya was perhaps only 20 when she married Shyaam. They stood beside each other for a third of the day as people bee lined to greet them and hand them large parcels wrapped in blotchy pink and blue paper. Looking doe-eyed, sometimes she would steal a glance at him and see her life beyond. He…completely oblivious of her gesture….engaged his colleagues and friends in banter, asking them to feed themselves heartily before leaving. Their voices drowned in the backdrop of loud music played with the intention of evoking amorous feelings in the couple….sun saiba sun, pyaar ki dhun…maine tujhe chun liya…

They were the last to eat, she looked frail and weighed down with the garlands around her neck and her heavy pallu that pulled her head down with its weight. - When she had seen the saree her aunt had chosen for her nuptials, she could barely hold it and had complained about it to her mom. But the decision was overruled while she was politely explained how she would have to learn to bear the weight of much more in the days to come. Besides, a bride always needs to have her eyes to the ground and the heavy pallu over the head did a marvelous job of ensuring that. Brides who look straight up, are considered impudent remarked the aunt, teaching her the ways of the new adult world she was about to enter. - They were served food on a common dinner plate as shyaam’s sister giggled and rafiq the cameraman insisted on taking shots of them feeding each other. She could barely eat, partly out of excitement and partly fear. Lost in her thoughts she would gaze away at the morsels of food…waiting for her man to put down the spoon and before she knew it, he had put it down only that the morsels had vanished.

The morning after, she woke up in a strange, different house amongst people who were now her family. That space with two and a half rooms housed 5 adults and the two children who were yet to come. Shyaam lived with his parents and his unmarried sister, kamla. For the next 38 years, although much changed in her life, many things remained the same. Each of those 13000 odd mornings she was the first to wake up and get the house in order before rushing off to catch the 8.09 local to VT. The train ride lasted a precious 45 mins. It was in these three quarters of an hour that she could laugh out loud and share her feelings, frustrations and the warm sheera that she had sneakily made for her ‘train friends’. It is here where she could catch a breath of fresh fishy air devoid of judgments and barbs before encountering the humdrum of the day. This morning dose of laugher and later her office ‘fruit club’ would fortify her to face her supervisor, shyaam, kamla and the rest. Evening rides were less fun since it was seldom possible for the friends to co-ordinate their train timings and at the end of a long hard day patience was a rare commodity. An innocent nudge or a push could spiral into the ugliest of catfights.

In the short span of 5 waking hours that she spent at home, shyaam managed to express displeasure about something new each day. If it was not about…why she had stored mangoes in the fridge, it was about the disfigured tooth paste tube! Vidya had learnt to live with this reality and the fact that shyaam drank and smoked at home each day – traits she detested but could do nothing about. What saved her sanity was that on many days she was too tired to feel any emotion. She served her full term at the railway office where she had begun as an intern after her matriculation. Her children, married before her retirement day which she looked forward to having fulfilled her duties as an employee, mother and a wife. Though there was that faint regret of not meeting her train friends and the outside world. Retirement day was big in her life since her colleagues handed her good wishes and an Electric Oven bought with the kitty which people had contributed to generously. The supervisor spoke kind words for a change and they all feasted on hot gulab jamuns and samosas which the peon had ran across the road to fetch just in time for the party.

Post retirement…life was different to say the least. 5 hours of vidya’s existence within the confines of the four walls had stretched to 24. She could only go out to buy veggies once in a few days since the 3 floor climb to her house was not something her aching knees could take more often. Since he would see her home more, Shyaam had found more reasons each day to express his anger and frustration. When he would take an afternoon nap after reading the filmy gossipy magazines he had subscribed to, she would lie there quietly, eyes wide open, asking herself the one question that she had asked herself repeatedly since 1968…she wondered what she was doing wrong, she wondered whether she could do anything that would make him happy? Shyaam blamed her for anything and everything that would wrong….the phone line going dead to the high phone bills owing to their daughter in law’s frequent calls to her mama who lived in Delhi. Vidya could not even ignore his rants. Without anything to distract her, they would ring in her ears all day. Then one day when she went on her regular visit to the vegetable market, she could not find her way back home. She was bewildered since the vegetable vendor was addressing her by some name that seemed unfamiliar to her. Mrs Khana from next door helped her reach home that night. Shyaam lashed out at her for gallivanting in the dark and said it was unbecoming of her to do that at her age. Sometimes she would forget names and faces of people she knew. ‘Have I seen you before…I don’t remember meeting you’ …she had told shyaam’s uncle who was visiting them. Shyaam had put restrictions on her movement out of the house after the incident when she had lost her way home. She grew very quiet and sometimes would call her sister and tell her that she was feeling strange inside but by the end of the call would not remember having such a conversation. Her daughter visited her for 3 days en route their trip to lonavala. That perked her up a bit. After many days, her cheeks looked flushed again. Post he daughters visit, Vidya seemed normal. Quieter than before but not lost. One afternoon while shyaam lay in bed, she opened the door and walked out of her house. She was last spotted by one of their neighbors at VT station. He had tried to talk to her but found that she would not respond. Perhaps that she created a silence around her that no one could penetrate!
alzheimers, story

__________________________________________________________________

Update : Vidya's story does not end here...Did her dreams stop...I was asked...Here is what I had to say