Yet to be completed

 Having been always cocooned in the safe haven of the four walls of her room under the strict surveillant eyes of the second wife of her ailing father, Rakshanda was new to this pompous world. Living on her own terms, free, was like a dream come true.

    She was excited on her new venture, her excitement delimited with the nervous smile that decorated her lips whenever she thanked a stranger who guided her on the routes of this new city she was now living in. Delhi was a city of the rich and the poor, the people separated by a thick forbidden line of class. The classification was limited to just roads -some posh, some sleek -wherein the rich lived in big bungalows and high skyscrapers on one side of the road, and the poor had their dwellings in small, shivering, houses that stuck to each other like couples reaching out to each other for comfort in cold, and otherwise. The city and its ways marvelled Rakshanda. 

    She could go out anywhere with people barely noticing what she’s worn. even if she is out in a pyjama, no matter how far away from her residence, nobody looked a second glance very unlike the people in Bananas, where she grew up, where people would pop their eyes out on every crossroad if she ever wore a pyjama out of her home, accusing eyes that say..’A girl in a pyjama! Has she no manners?’  How do pyjamas reveal manners? Rakshanda always wondered.      

    It had been a week since she shifted into this guest house in Delhi. Small as it was, it outshone her previous abode for the air it enclosed, the air that had the smell of freedom,costlier than the most costly thing Rakshanda ever owned. She lived alone in the two-seater room, the second bed, as per records, was reserved for some Aanya Verma, who apparently had not showed up yet, and so her bed was used by Rakshanda to pile up the dry clothes that she picked from the clothesline but never got a chance, or to be honest, never took the chance to fold them up and put them back in the cupboard. The weekend was just over with all the work that was piled up for the week.

“Cock-a-doodle-doo”, went the most deadly MMA, Monday-Morning-Alarm.

How they met!

 There’s no good time for two people to meet and fall in love. If it is intended, it will be, they say. But No.This was truly not the case of Sana and Saad. It was clearly not intended but they met. And how? That will take me long. So lets start with the story of the 2 people who were not supposed to meet, but met. And not just met, they fell in love. And when they fell in love, it was like two individual ppl who could be easily lost in the crowd, found an aura so bright that they stood apart, in radiance.

Saad had been watching this girl for quite some time now. He had come to pay respects to his dead father who was buried in the best cremation grounds of the city, and who had always been insisting on Saad to get married. They said those grounds had angels visiting regularly. Exactly for the same reason had the girl chosen those grounds to cremate her loved one and she was sniffling small soft cries within herself, and was fondly being looked at by Saad. When he couldn’t hold it any longer, Saad jumped from his elevated seat, hands in this pocket, and walked towards Sana. 

Before he could reach her and offer his sympathies, she was called upon by another young lady almost the same age waving a shoe and running towards her from the other end. 

“Aapa! Aapa! Abba lost his other shoe again!”  

Jaza had been running all around the cremation ground looking for her Aapa. Adolescence comes with responsibilities and Jaza had come to terms with it by now. A sixteen year old, responsible, second girl child of Aamirah Begum and Khursheed Aalam, Jaza was well versed with her role in the universe - to keep eye on the other shoe. Aamirah Begum, may Allah rest her soul in peace, had handed over this responsibility to her at a very young age of 7. She had said on her deathbed. “Jaza, my darling, without a purpose, life is as baseless as your mother on moon. So my dear, live with this purpose, and if be, die for it. Never let go of the other shoe.” And Jaza, had memorised this like a sacred verse.

She cried victoriously when she saw Sana , panting, looking for breath, with one of the shoe still in her hand being waved with utmost audacity.

“I know, I know,” replied Sana. “I am here in this lady’s den of iniquity to get back the shoe. Seems Nusrat Bi is sleeping with the shoe in her coffin. Oh God Jaza! What am I to do now. I’ve been calling out to her but she doesn’t pay heed. I bet she’s smiling down there, that wicked witch! For once Allah miyaan, get her out here and I’ll tell her what it takes to steal my father’s shoe and sleep with it in the coffin!”

“Easy Aapa. Don’t speak ill of the dead.” Sana eyed her little sister irritably and Jaza burst into giggles. 

Saad was a spectacle to all this. He had visited his father’s grave many a times before. He had seen people crying for their loved ones, chanting prayers, lighting candles, planting flowers. This was the first time he witnessed light hearted laughter on a grave.

The Guest

     Her pillow complained of being wet, her clock was not left alone that night. She had been sniffing all through the night, restless, deprived of sleep, attempting every way possible to link the scrambled pieces of puzzle that were in her mind, to a meaningful picture. Every picture she could make out of the pieces, made her cry. Her brain had become a labyrinth of the figments of her imaginations where she had lost herself. Her tears finally dried and the sniffing stopped. She turned over on her bed, closed her eyes. It seemed to her that she was numb, devoid of everything heavy, every single feeling, pain or otherwise, that could vouch for her being alive. Suddenly she felt no mass. So light a self, her mortal hands were headed up against the air pressure, as she felt falling into a blissful abyss, eyes closed, head first.

 

    She woke up to the pleasant hum of the birds. So beautiful this state is, lifeless and dull. Nothing to look forward to, nothing to keep expectations from. Simple, pure bliss. Crying somehow, gives more meaning, more substance to you, even if it renders you massless, hopeless, and everything in you “less”. Its good to lose for you don't have to worry about the win. Its good to stay depressed, for you don't have to pretend to be happy. It actually is good to feel this void in yourself, for then every veil you adorn yourself with is set ablaze to reveal the true you. The lonely you. The weak you. But you. 

 

    She looked at the clock by her bedside. 10:14 a.m. She wondered if he had left. She wished he had left. And immediate to this wish, she apologised realising how cruel a thought it was. 

 

    How beautifully manipulated a woman is by a man. His bad, and she felt guilty. 

 

    She did not want to run into him again, but why? Why did she want to punish him when she knew he was not the one to be blamed.

 

    She thought of the day he had come over to see her exactly a week before. When she allowed him to stay in the house for the week, how could have Sana known he would leave her in this state. And, even if she had known, she wouldn’t have refused. After all, he was Saad’s friend and a new face for the town. Saad, Sana’s husband, would have never let him stay anywhere else. If Saad was alive…

 

    He had come to pay his condolences. He had come to share grief like many others who came to give Sana a shoulder to cry upon, a shoulder Sana never needed. She hardly cried in the daytime. She was strong enough to not let the broad daylight bear witness to her tears. It was the night that had the power of extracting all the strength she mustered in the daytime, and leave her vulnerable. 

 

    Six days of the friend’s stay passed for Sana like all the other days after Saad, without any direction, clueless and blank. It was the sixth night that brought the turmoil in Sana’s heart and mind.

 

    Saad had lost his life in a car accident. At least this was what Sana knew, until that sixth night.

 

    Asad. Asad was Saad’s friend who had come over to stay with Sana. But this meeting was not like any other, he had come with an objective. Poor Sana. Little did she knew she was falling into the trap that was being laid by Asad. A broken heart is always an easy catch. Asad knew this very well for he was a practised player.

The Album

    There she was…engulfed in the loneliness that surrounded her; sitting with her legs crouched, hands enveloping her bare legs, chin on her knees. It was dark. Sana liked darkness. Light, she knew, had little weight. Effervescent. It was the darkness that was substantial, had mass that stayed with you. Sana had long come to enjoy darkness. But today, no matter how much the darkness weighed, she was looking for a ray of light. Even a small one today would eradicate all the darkness in the room, only if. She had been waiting for the break of dawn for long now. Her knees were paining. She straightened her legs, stretched the toes to align them with her legs. She got up from bed, switched on the light, got hold of an album placed on the table and sat carelessly back on the bed. 

 

    She flipped open the album that was a case to so many memories. Running her fingers on the first picture…she saw herself. Six days old little Sana lying on the bed, wrapped in a blanket, staring blankly at the camera with small minuscule eyes. There also was a picture when she was five-month-old, lying on the floor and beaming all over, her right toe wrapped around her right hand fingers. Next was of her on her father’s shoulder. Wearing a feather cap, she looked adorable. Then there were some other beautiful memories. 

 

    She was going through the album little knowing that these captured frames were holding her captive of moments that have passed, times that she has already lived. She turned the page. The pictures were her mother’s. She stared. Mothers do not need a description. They, all over the world, are the same. She continued to stare at her poise demeanour as if trying to derive strength from the way her mother stared back. 

 

    With uncertain hands, she flipped the page again for the next picture, ‘his’ picture from last year when they visited China. He was leaning against the wall, carefully enough to not ruin the blazer, hands folded against his chest. He gave a brief smile, just a small one. Looking at the picture, suddenly Sana put her gaze away in an attempt to not meet his eyes, staring into the wall of her room again. The memory of that day flashed across her eyes as if it was just yesterday. 

 

    “Sana okay. Just because you insist. Take your damn picture and make it quick! We don’t want to miss the train!” Saad had said. He was not very comfortable with the camera. 

 

    “Not here Saad! Lets go to that wall! Please, please please!” Sana had pleaded like a baby.

 

    “You win Sana, anyday! Love you so much!” He had held her in his arms and had kissed her cheeks softly. They had then run towards the wall where Sana had clicked him. And he had taken Sana’s picture which did not come out very well. 

 

“Saad you know, you’re a horrible photographer!” 

 

“Sana you know, I know that.”  And they had laughed together. 

 

    The sound of the laughs in her mind brought her back to reality. She yearningly looked at him again, picked up the album, held it close to her bosom and cried. She switched off the light of her room and cried her heart out. For long she didn’t notice the light in the room.. the little golden rays finding its way through the small opening of the window. Was it him? Had he come to comfort her? No. It was just the light. The wait for the morning was over. 

 

    It is going to be a long day for Sana today. Today, she will sit numb, surrounded by unwanted people. Yet again today people will hug her and she will cry for the one who said he’ll never make her cry. Today, exactly one year ago, she had lost her Saad. Today is going to be hard for Mrs Sana Saad.

Sooraj

Am I losing my mind again? 

    They call me crazy. It has been several years to that incident, but years hardly define time. I am not sure what we call it scientifically, but it has to have some relationship with relativity because even today the memory of that horrible day is as fresh as a baby’s smile. Ah. Let’s not mention babies. I think I’ve lost the right even over the word. Mothers, they say, give a life. I took away two. Hate me for it, but I wish I could think as casual as I write. Can you believe my children tell me I have hallucinations. I mean, seriously? When I tell them not to make too much of a noise in the corridor, they say they’re watching television. Hah. Do they think their mother is crazy? I neither have children nor television. 

    I’ll tell you all for my heart has lost it now. I can’t think of a punishment or a pain worthy enough. I leave it for you to decide. I found this diary one night in the room of my elder son, Sooraj. I must say his teachers were right. For his age, he was good with the English Language. The cover page read: “Sooraj’s Experiments with Truth”. This was copied. He was a fan of the Mahatma. 

******** 

Page 1 17th May, 2003. 

Dear Diary, 

        Awkward this is. How should I start? I am Sooraj Ahuja, a student of class 6. I am a shy child, i do not have very many friends. Lets be friends, what say? Yes? Great! I’ll write to you whenever I need a friend. And you’ll listen to me. Deal? Done! Now that you’ve decided to be my friend, I’l tell you more about myself. I have a wonderful family. A beautiful mother, a doting father. A brother, Aditya. He is five years younger to me and is always upto some prank. Don't ever go by his looks. As simple as he may seem in his demeanour, trust me, he’s a devil. Mumma knows this, she is the only one in the house, after me of course, who can see his eyes twinkle with mischief even as his mouth is set in a sulky moue. I love him. Mumma loves him pretty much too, but not as much as she loves me. I am her “achha bachha”, her good child. I never tell daddy that she loves Hritik Roshan. She even said that in front of me. I fear daddy will be upset. I once overheard my seniors talking in school. They said love without a relationship fades in somedays. Mumma has not even met Hritik Roshan. Her love too will fade. Never mind. This is enough of an introduction for today now. Got to go, momma calling! Bye! 

******** 

My Sooraj. My heart aches to think of him. I see him behind the door whenever I call for him. I see him hiding, he still is hiding there I know. A good boy he was, my achha bachha. Don’t know whats got onto him these days. He never listens to me. I keep shouting, he runs away. “SOORAJ! I say COME BACK!! Sooraj….Sooraj…Sooraj…SOORAJ….aaaahhh….” 

Did I just sleep? What am I doing here lying on the floor somebody tell me please?! 

Oh. Age. Age is never a loyal friend I tell you. You never know when you grow old. Have you met Mrs Nancy yet? No? Don’t then. As much as a pretty face she is, she is a liar. A Big Time Liar. She lives the door next to me. She used to say age is just a number. My number is 38. And look at me. Do I not look close to 83? 

Ding-Dong. Ding-Dong. 

That must be Sarla. She comes every morning at 9 and stays with me till the evening. She is my husband’s idea of his own replacement. I don’t know where Mr Ahuja is these days. Because of his business meetings, he is mostly out of town. He seldom visits. I don’t blame him, he always has extra on his plate.

 “Good morning Didi! Hey Bhagwan!! How did you get hurt?? Did you fall down? Have you been thinking again? Didi I told you to sleep! And give me this diary. You don’t read it again!” 

“Don’t you touch this Diary Sarla!! Just take me to my bed.” 

Sarla is obedient. From the time I hit her hard with a steel glass, she takes my orders. She has brought be to bed, cleaned me all up and fed me poha. And the diary…well the diary. The diary is Sooraj’s. Did I tell you I hate him. Did I tell him I hate him? 

******** 

“ADITYA!! ADITYA? Oh God!! What did you do to him Sooraj!! Aditya! Did you push him Sooraj? Mr Ahuja!! MR AHUJA!! Come fast!! Sooraj what did you do to him? WHY? Get out! GO GO. Just Go! Aditya my boy…you’ll be fine! Mr Ahuja call the ambulance!! My boy you’ll be just fine…Mr Ahuja did you listen!! CALL THE AMBULANCE! He’s losing blood!” I lost him. My boy, Aditya. They were playing, both of them. Sooraj and Aditya. He fell from the rooftop. Just the way Sooraj fell the next day. I saw him though. I could not stop him. He didn’t listen to me. He was not my boy. Mr Ahuja had brought him from a slum when he was only 6 months. As filthy as the boy was, I loved him. Or did I not? Why did I do this to him? Aah! Sooraj. Sooraj you’re there on the rooftop I can see you. Come here boy, don’t run away from me! Come to mumma. Sooraj NO! Sooraj stop my boy! NO! Sooraj Mumma’s coming….Sooraj hold on. Please don't jump! Sooraj I’m sorry! Mumma loves you! SOORAJ I LOVE YOU MY SON! SOORAJ! SOORAJ!!! 

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

Stay

Stay.
Before it is the break of dawn, stay.
Sit next to me, let my heart mourn, stay.

These eyes,
I can’t just lift them up.
Please drop your gaze,
And turn your face
To the other side
And let me hide
My tears. Stay.

My breath is heavy,
I can’t just talk.
Come close to me
And let me be
Engulfed in your arm
So serene, so calm,
So safe. Stay.

Tomorrow, you know
The day will see
A different you
And a different me.
The spell will break,
The promises fake.
For tomorrow you know
We will part ways.
Until it is another day, Stay.

To be together, there ain’t a way.
I know.
I know.
I know.
But stay.

He finds me Beautiful

A tarred soul.
I wring it out, it drips of guilt
Making dark patches on the floor of time.
Patches that take the shapes of Devils.
In its grey silhouette,
He says Black is in.
He finds me beautiful.

A subtle smile.
It once was a careless laugh
Uprooted and moulded
Cooked to serve the sophisticated.
In its dying spirit
He says it gives life.
He finds me beautiful.

The silent eyes.
Kohled with tacit sins
Witnessed over the years.
Sins that remain unspoken,
Unpunished and Celebrated.
In their shameless gleam
He says they tell stories.
He finds me beautiful.