A winter's tale

I don’t know how long I was sitting there for. Hours, probably. I just held the card in my hand, too numb to even weep. It was short.

Mummy,

Reached safely. It’s beautiful here. Megs and I are having a blast. Hope you and Pa are well. See you soon. Don’t miss me too much.

Love you,

S

If the picture on the postcard was anything to go by, yes I’m sure his honeymoon was fantastic. Though the card was over ten years old, it wasn’t faded, the ink hadn’t smudged. It was like I had gotten it in the post a few days earlier.

I don’t even know why I had dug out all the letters and cards he had even given me. It was pure masochism. Maybe a part of me thought it would help my grief. It didn’t seem to though. It was only making me feel worse. I was not only re-living every moment I ever spent with my son, I was also re-living how I found out he had died.

It was a perfect nightmare. Roused from the deepest of sleep by a shrieking telephone, only to hear your son had died in bomb blasts. Unexpected bomb blasts in a crowded market. On a perfectly normal weekend. Later people said I was lucky he was even found and identified. Many people are still missing or have not been identified. Lucky me, indeed.

I wasn’t even sure if I had heard the nurse right. Nurse or whoever she was.

“Hello?

Uh-huh.

Is that Mrs Chaturvedi?

Yes. Who’s this? Do you know what time it is?

Yes Ma’am, I’m sorry to call you so late, but it’s about your son.

What about him?

I’m calling from Nehru Hospital. I’m sorry Ma’am… your son was wounded in bomb blasts which took place in the evening. He suffered bad internal injuries. We couldn’t save him.

……….

Hello?

Yes.

I’m sorry Ma’am, your son passed away a few hours back.

……….

Hello?

Yes.

Are you ok?

Are you sure it was him? How can you be sure?

His wife was with him Ma’am. She got hurt too, but she made it. She identified him and asked us to call you. She’s in the Emergency Room getting treated for second-degree burns.

Oh. Ok. Which hospital did you say?

Nehru.

Ok. Thank you.”

And that was that. My old fool of a husband had slept through the worst moment of my life. I sat there wondering what to do. Then I woke him up and told him. He cried like a baby while I held him. And we went to Delhi to bring home the corpse of our only child.

I sat in my study three weeks later, after all the ceremonies were over. Poring through letters he had sent me, gifts he had given me. The big scrawl I nagged about his entire life was all that I had left of him. My son. I had given birth to him, nearly lost my own life in the process, and lost him 38 years later. Who am I to grieve, I thought sometimes. Meghna was left to live her entire life without him. She had to bring up Dhruv also alone.

“Hema?”

My husband’s concerned voice shook me out of my thoughts. His eyes were still red, but concern was etched on his forehead as he examined me from the door. As if he was waiting for me to fall apart.

“Yes. I’m fine. What is it?

Nothing Hema… I’m just worried you know. You’ve not eaten, you’ve not even cried.

I’ve been busy, Ved. Who do you think organised everything, right from ice for the corpse to where the ashes would be dumped, and what food the funeral guests would eat.”

And I turned back to my letters.

He crept away quietly. I couldn’t blame him. He had lost a son too. An only child. He didn’t want to lose his ageing wife to the grief as well.

I put away the letters in a plastic folder, careful to fold them as my son had folded them. I sighed. There was nothing I could do. Nothing anybody could do to bring him back. Or to ease this suffering. I stood at the window and watched the snow fall outside, covering everything with a blanket of white. All the blood, the tears, the charred bodies, the bullets and wailing babies, women… It was going to be a very cold winter for us in Darjeeling.

Meghna and our grandson were in Kolkata with her parents. Luckily Dhruv had not gone to the market that day with his parents. And luckily his mother was bargaining with a shop owner while her husband wandered. Otherwise he would have lost both parents. Meghna suffered minor burns. It was more psychological and emotional damage she had suffered.

I could hear Ved watch the news. The political statements and usual hoo-haa had begun. In fact it was almost over by now. Only people like Meghna, Dhruv, Ved and me, people who had lost loved ones in the blasts… only we remembered it. Only we thought about it everyday. Our resilient country had moved on already and forgotten about it. Sometimes I wish we weren’t so resilient. That the capital would collapse after such attacks. At least they would do something about it then.

Sometimes I even hoped there would be bigger terror attacks in our country. Just so that people would not forget about it and move on. Then I would remember… I’m not a terrorist. I’m a 65-year-old mother and Congress supporter. Why am I thinking such thoughts? Because your gods, your government, everyone has failed you… I’d push the voice away and continue grieving. I suppose that’s how terrorists were born. Those who let the voices get to them. Each had their own stories of grief, loss, sorrow to tell. Everybody suffered. Everybody hurts.

I continued to watch the snow, hoping it could blanket my grief as well. It was going to be a long winter.

---

Since nobody in my country has been able to talk or think about anything else since last Wednesday... This is in memory of everybody who died in the Mumbai terror attacks last week.

November rain

The branch sways like flimsy lace,

Tears pouring down its rugged face.

Doors banging open and shut,

Thunder rolling in the power cut.

Grey skies, clouds flying,

My dog in her corner, crying.

Darkness consumes my home,

As I ignore the world and my phone.

Hard, heavy, cold rain,

Hoping it’ll wash away the pain,

The boredom, frustration, the grey.

But it’s the rain who wins the fray.

Slashing against helpless glass panes,

The city handicapped as it rains.

The November rain ushering in

A New Year; maybe one without anymore sin.

Huddled watchmen, empty roads,

The crisp air filling my pores.

It’s not so bad, I think.

Bringing me back from the brink.

Where I nearly fell into a pit again,

An abyss where I won’t have a friend.

Lyrics of a song flash through my head,

Thoughts of a new beginning consume me instead.

I step back from the black hole,

From people who suck out my soul.

The dogs frolic in the water,

A mother screams for her daughter.

The wind continues to rage against the tree,

But this time it’s to make her free.

My phones buzzes, power returns.

Something in the distance my dog discerns.

I ignore the buzzing and the light.

Make my way back into my thoughts, the deep night.

Grateful Cinderella

She sat at the bar, sipping on some concoction which didn’t look too great. But it wasn’t her drink I was looking at. There was something about her. I wouldn’t call her mysterious or even sexy. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Anti-social maybe? And nonchalant. She was immersed in her own thoughts as she stirred her drink slowly. The bad jazz music and several other guys checking her out didn’t make any difference to her at all.

I would have walked out if I hadn’t seen her. My friends were late as usual. Who knew if they’d even turn up. On an impulse I decided to try and talk to her. Try being the operative word. I straightened my tie, crumpled after nearly 12 hours in office, gave myself the once-over in a nearby mirror and strode over to her. The bartender chuckled as I sat down on the barstool next to hers. Obviously my intentions were clear.

“One whiskey please. RC on the rocks.”

I had no clue what to do next. I sat there for what felt like an hour, wondering what to say to her. I found myself staring at her and tried to make myself stop several times. She was still in her own little world. A simple black sleeveless top, paired with a flowy kind of skirt and flat slippers. Her straight, black hair covered most of her face so I didn’t even know what she looked like.

“You waiting for someone?”

Er. Was she talking to me? I still couldn’t see much of her face so I was wondering if she was the one who even spoke, before she looked at me straight in the eye.

She raised her eyebrows. Piercing black eyes. I gulped. I don’t know why. And straightened my tie again.

“Are you waiting for someone?”

“Uhm. . Ya. I mean, I think so. I don’t know if they’re coming or not. May take them a while.”

“Hmm. I’m Kowsalya.”

“Uh hi. I’m uh Deepak.”

“Hi uh Deepak,” she chuckled. “Am I making you nervous?”

My mind went completely blank. What the hell was I supposed to say? Yes, you’re making me sweat like a labourer but I don’t know why….?!

“Uh…” had to suffice.

“That’s ok. I do it to a lot of people. Never did it to my step-mother though.”

Right. I could tell a story coming on.

“Can I buy you a drink Kowsalya? Uh, once you’re done with the one you have I mean.”

She chuckled again. Funny though how the smile never seemed to reach her eyes. Was she acting or just very unhappy?

“Sure. Call me Sindhu.”

“Huh?”

“My father named me Kowsalya. People started calling me Sindhu after my step-mother and step-sisters did. Long story. You got time?”

“Yes.” Now I was intrigued.

“Well. Sounds corny but I’m a Cinderella of sorts. Not in the sense that I’ll turn beautiful, find Prince Charming and live happily ever after. But in the sense that my mom died when I was born. Dad was in the army so he travelled a lot. But he adored me. And I loved him more than anything in the world. I was in hostel in Pune. Sahyadri. Heard of it? Anyway, when I went back after my 10^th standard board exams he had a big announcement. He was getting married. I didn’t return to Sahyadri after my 10^th because they don’t have 11^th and 12^th there. No Pre-university college either. Since the step-mother and her two kids were from down south he put me in a boarding school in Ooty. He died when I was in the 12^th. Some assignment gone wrong.

My step-mother hated me. Dad had left all the property to me, all his money to her. Nothing to the two girls. Don’t know if he hated them, maybe he saw through their façade. She hated me the minute she set her eyes on me. Always called me ungrateful. I don’t know why I had to show her any gratitude, she never did anything for me. That’s why I was relieved when Pa put me in boarding again. I couldn’t bear to live with them, even though it meant more time away from my father.

After he died, she refused to put me in college. Said she didn’t have the money. Though she spent it all on clothes and stuff for her girls. She never spent a paisa on me. The maids used to keep quitting because the step-mother and her girls would scream at them and demand so much. One day I started cleaning up because no maids had come in many weeks, and the house was dirtier than a garbage dump. I shouldn’t have. That day onwards she expected me to clean the house. Like I was her maid.

I would do everything from then on. Cook, clean, sew, buy groceries, run behind her and her two bitches. It continued for almost five years.” She heaved a huge sigh. I noticed her drink was over and signalled to the bartender to get her another one.

“I’ve always wanted to try a cosmopolitan. You mind?” she asked me.

“Why should I?”

“Oh right, you’re not my evil step-mom. Sorry.” Another half-smile which didn’t reach anywhere near her eyes. Now I knew why.

“Then what?”

“Right. A few months back some boy fell in love with me. He saw me while I was walking to the vegetable store. He started following me, and I got very freaked out. One day I finally yelled at him but he said he’d been following me because he was scared to talk to me. And all that jazz.” She took a sip of her cosmopolitan.

“I didn’t mind the attention. Or the fact that I finally had someone who cared about me for the first time in God knows how long. My school friends gave up on me years ago. I couldn’t call, couldn’t write, couldn’t email… I wasn’t allowed to communicate with anyone. Anyway I was really grateful for a friend.” She stopped talking. I was digesting everything she had said. I didn’t know how to react, even. So I just waited. But she didn’t say anything. Was that the end?

“Sindhu?” I murmured gently.

“Yeah, sorry. Was just thinking.” She sniffed. Another big gulp of her drink.

“She had him killed. She found out about him and had him killed. Don’t ask me how. I woke up and found a finger in my bed one morning. And a picture of him tied somewhere to a chair, gagged and…” she choked down a sob.

“It’s ok.” I put my hand on her but she flinched so I took my hand back.

“Sorry. I’m not used to people touching me unless it’s to hit me. My boyfriend never got past holding my hand. We never even had the chance to kiss.” Full-fledged crying now.

She stopped almost immediately though. And apologised.

“I don’t like making a scene.”

“Sindhu, what happened? Did you go to the police?”

“No. Something like this had happened earlier. My friend was trying to get in touch with me, and came by the house. That bitch had her beaten up. Showed me pictures. I went to the police. Nothing came of it. I don’t know if she was sleeping with the constable there or what but they didn’t do anything. Even file an FIR.”

“What happened. How did you leave then?”

“They went out that day. The day I found his pictures. She bashed me up till I could barely walk. I walked though. Oh yes, I did. I washed my sheets and everything, found some gloves, dumped the finger and photos under her mattress. When they came back I instigated a fight with her. She tried to hit me again but I was prepared. I caught her alone. She’s menopausal and weak now. Was. I was standing in front of a rather large brass Nataraja statue. I hit her on the head. Her daughters came. Predictably, they also tried to lash out at me. So I did the same with them. And I called the police. Self-defense.

I used every trick in the book. But it wasn’t all lies. Five years… No, it was more. Seven years of having them in my life, losing my father, the man I fell in love with… losing everyone. I told the police everything. They even managed to find his body. Now I have the house a bit of money. And I don’t know what to do with it. It’s only been two months or so.

I remember what she said as she lay there, in a pool of her own blood.

“You ungrateful, scheming bitch,” she sputtered, through the blood in her mouth.

“No, Ma.” It was the first time I ever called her that. And the last time. “I’m very, very grateful. I don’t mind everything you’ve put me through. It’s worth this. This moment… looking at you, dying in your own blood. And soon, it’ll be your daughters’ turns too. I’m extremely grateful for the opportunity you’ve given me. Now, I can get away with it all.”

She’d gone by then.

Didn’t you read about me in the papers?”

I couldn’t reply. I was too… shaken? I shook my head.

“Hmm. Congratulations then. You’re the first person I’ve spoken to apart from a reporter. That’s my story. Sindhu they called me because they began calling me Cinderella. It became Sindhu. But my name is Kowsalya.”

I cleared my throat. “Well, I suppose I’m grateful to you step-mother and step-sisters as well.”

Raised eyebrow. Piercing look again.

“If that didn’t happen, I may have never met you. Am I right?”

Stranger

“Aha! It’s perfect.”

“Balls it’s perfect… It’s totally messed up and you know it.”

“Could you try being a little more supportive?”

“Dude, my oldest and closest friend just committed a crime, what do you expect me to do?”

“Explain to me why you would help me, then throw attitude at me.”

“Fuck off, at least I helped you… This is no little crime, mind you.”

“God help me… What else was I supposed to do?”

“Honey, are you trying to tell me there’s no other way to tell a boy you don’t want to marry him, and that you have to bloody kill him?!”

“I… I don’t know. I mean.. Mom and Dad were pressurising me so much and I can’t marry someone I barely know!”

“Just listen to yourself.”

“Killing him was like… Unplanned.”

“Listen, let’s clean this up before somebody finds us and this body.”

“My God.. You’re right, what do we do with the body!”

“No need to freak out, I have a plan.”

“Oh my God, oh my God (continues into a murmur)”

“Precisely why I came… You girls can’t handle such gory stuff.”

“Quit picking on me, just help me!” (trying to turn the body over)

“Right, put on these gloves first and then dump the knife in this bag.”

“Sure, but first give me a hand will you.”

“That I will, but put the gloves on before you touch the body… Oh see you flipped him on your own anyway.”

“Uhhhhm. Dude I think we have a problem because this isn’t the guy. It’s some stranger!”

“Very well, don’t listen to me and use gloves, we’ll just get…….. WHAT?! What are you fricking insane?!”

“Well, it looks like him! And this is his bed so I thought it was him! I thought I was doing the right thing!”

“X chromosomes aren’t all that they’re made out to be I see… What the hell are you gonna do now?”

“You’re right, I don’t think we should have done this. Oh my god.”

“Zoicks, as Scooby Doo would say. Now what?”

----

This is an exercise thought up by a friend of mine, which involves telling a story in 26 sentences. The sentences begin with alphabets starting from A, B, C… and going up to Z.