Morning glory

I knew the instant I woke up it was going to be a bad day. After hitting the snooze button at least three times I had officially made my day worse by already being late. Sighing, I blearily opened my eyes, thankful not to see a total stranger occupying the other side of my bed. Not that it happens often. But that would have made me hopelessly late for work.

The instant I looked at my reflection in the mirror I knew my thoughts were confirmed. Bad day, bad hair day, bad face day… I sighed again. You know those movies where people’s reflections in the mirror get a mind of their own? I half expected mine to get evil as well. But it didn’t happen. The person staring back at me was no monster. It was me.

My cell phone buzzed. Text messages annoyed me. I ignored it but the buzzing continued. Not a text message. My mother, for sure. I picked up.

“Yes Ma.”

“As much as I’d love to bring up a dreary little brat like you, I’m not your mother.”

“Morning, sunshine.”

“Morning, Tara, Good morning in fact!” chirped my best friend of three and a half years.

“It’s not good. And you’re practically my mother. Now what’s the story, morning glory. I’m already late.”

“Nothing. Wanted to check on you. You were pretty moody last night.”

“You hesitated a brief millisecond before opting for the word ‘moody’. More later. Gotta run.”

“Yes, well.” Sigh. “You were something. Moody maybe. Be happy, love. Ta.”

Sigh. Moody monster me.

Forty five minutes later my car refused to start. Forty five minutes because none of my clothes were back from the dry-cleaners and I had to iron one of my dreary white shirts myself. Pristine white shirts look awful if they’re not ironed perfectly. And I decided since it was going to be a bad day, I might as well try to look slightly less monstrous. Closed black pumps, my nicest black trousers, pristine white shirt and tons of make-up (I was going for a subtle look) and I thought I was there.

After freezing my pumps off in the Delhi winter for a while my hardy little car finally started. A sigh again, but this time it was relief.

I got to work, got yelled at by my boss and settled into my chair with my first cup of coffee for the day. There were going to be several more.

About an hour of Facebook-ing later I began getting the calls. Are you ok, is everyone ok? Er, yes, why wouldn’t I be. I didn’t bother asking. People were weird sometimes. News began trickling in though. And even though I’m not in the news industry it’s only so long before you find out your city is being targeted by er, what’s the word... yes, terrorists.

I didn’t believe it for quite a while. Then someone switched on the news and boss didn’t seem to mind. He was glued to it himself in his own cabin. Man, these 24-hour news channels sure knew how to do their job, I thought. Or not. Frown. Weren’t they over-dramatising things just a wee bit?

Well Delhi’s been through a lot, I thought. This was nothing. And I returned to work.

“What if this is my last day on Earth?” shrieked a particularly annoying colleague.

Well annoying she was, but… what if she was right? Hmm. I wish I didn’t look my worst and I certainly wish I had been in a better mood that day. If it were my last, I mean. Then the best friend called.

“Yes, I’m alive. Fine. Kicking. Rather hard, mind you. What about you?”

“Marry me? I don’t want to die alone!”

“It’s illegal in this country for people of the same sex to marry, sweetie.”

And so it went on. She was freaking out along with half the people in my area. So what if a teensy bomb went off in some random dustbin in La La land. It’s not like the nation’s capital would collapse or politicians would care. The world wouldn’t even blink if a few more Indians died. They’d probably think, good, there’s too many people in this world anyway.

A couple of hours later things got worse actually. Much to my surprise. And pleasure actually. It was going to be an exciting day after all.

Police started scouring our industrial area since terrorists apparently claimed they were aiming for the business people now. Another reason not to join my sector. Go figure.

A couple of hours later they had sealed our building off. God knows why. And they planned to evacuate 560 odd people using a rooftop. Erm. Ohkayy… Luckily since I was two floors below the roof, I was only the 100^th or so person out. Or not.

As I walked to the roof I heard gunfire. And that's when I finally began to hyperventilate. My life flashed before my eyes. If only I’d married one of my one night stands. And had a kid. Or been happy. Or made my mother happy. Maybe I should have just married my best friend. You’re too young to die, what are you thinking, screamed my rational inner voice. Which was quickly suffocated by more panic and adrenaline.

A suited, booted army looking guy stuck his hand in and yelled at me to follow him. We were at the entrace to the rooftop now. And I was at the head of the line it seemed. I blindly shook my head. People were pushing me from behind, he was yelling… But I could only hear the helicopter and more gunfire. I was finally pushed into his arms and he dragged me to where there were about five other employees standing.

Then I heard something fall and hit the ground with a metallic chink. Slow motion. The army looking guy yelled at some others who resembled him, they all rushed for the metallic looking thing and… it blew up. Oops. It really was a bad day. But who would notice a couple more dead Indians? Certainly not George Bush, Condoleeza Rice or diplomats of other countries, for all their sympathy and big talk. Or our very own Prime Minister for that matter. And that was the last thing I remember thinking before my senses were rocked by a huge explosion.

helpless

It’s the rule of Mother Nature.

Survival of the fittest.

So why do the best perish?

And the rotten apples stay behind?

To rule over countries,

Wreak misery on friends,

Lie to their bosses,

Get undeserved promotions.

My psychiatrist said…

Talk to me. Please.

But I sat in silence.

What if she was one of them?

Pretending to be my friend.

Friends who’ve stabbed,

Terrosists who’ve killed.

Who to trust,

And whose shoulder to cry on?

People ready to think the worst.

But what if they really knew.

The grey clouds,

Without any silver lining,

Glasses of wine gone sour,

Glass mirrors,

With cracks in them,

Airline tickets with endless conditions,

Silver earrings gone rusty,

And faithful dogs

Who’ve grown weary.

What if they knew?

Would it make any difference at all?

It’s the end of the world,

It’s 4.23 am,

I’m still at work,

Trying to make a difference,

But I know I won’t.

It’s too late.

Tick tock, the clock mocks me.

It mocks my brother,

My divorced parents,

My ageing step-mother

And the terrorists.

I don’t know their religion,

But they want to know mine.

Security checks my bags as I step in for a glass of beer.

The clock ticks.

People pass the buck.

But nobody really cares.

Except the families.

Families of the corpses.

I’m no Kurt Cobain.

But did he ever wonder…

Why aren’t the drugs working?

Grieving mothers

Under sedatives,

Worried citizens,

Popping Crocins.

Helpless writers,

Puzzled foreign secretaries,

Weary citizens,

Fretting mothers,

Scheming politicians.

Take your pick.

I picked the drugs.

But they didn’t work.

Nothing erases their images.

Images of good apples perishing,

Terror all consuming.

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.

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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.