Once again, I missed her.
My siren.
There she was singing to me about new stories,
Sitting right beside me,
While I plodded on with office work,
Waiting for it to be over,
So I could write down what she was telling me.
Now I sit with smartphone in hand,
Clueless of what
I was sure to have memorized.
My siren is long gone,
Disappointed at being ignored,
Suspecting of my love.
This is what happens when
You spend too much time with Work.
I hope she knows it isn’t what it looks like!
The best part about my blog posts is how I come up with innovative excuses for not posting anything. I think half of my planning time (I get around 20 minutes a day to plan and create posts, if any) goes in thinking of excuses for not posting this time and the rest of the time goes in typing it. Like today. My latest excuse is marriages… that is, in plural.
Not mine, of course. I got married nearly 10 years back…Gosh! 10 years!? And have no intention of repeating the experience of an Indian wedding. To know my thoughts about an Indian wedding, you can go through my previous posts (I do: Part 1 and I do: Part 2). To say that part 3 and 4 are still being written says volumes about the amount of time and energy that goes in describing an Indian marriage. For an immersive experience, you can watch the movie Hum Apke Hain Kaun. If you survive till the end, you can tell me what you think of it 🤣
Getting back to the point, everyone around me is suddenly getting married. For 10 years, I had been cocooned in a false sense of safety which was suddenly torn away from me when one of my husband’s cousin got engaged in August. Considering we are Indians, obviously everyone was involved. I played the clueless bhabhi (brother’s wife), and played it well. So, people decided to take it up a notch and another close cousin got engaged, then my own brother-in-law and then one of my older nieces. And since, it is inauspicious (and potentially unsafe) to keep a marriage waiting for more than three months (lest the bride or groom decide to elope–alone, of course), the marriages had to happen soon.
Ramadan is anyway a busy time but with three weddings–one in each weekend after Ramadan (one of them being my brother-in-law’s)–we were cleaning up, shopping, hosting guests, shopping, hosting guests, booking, hosting guests, attending marriage, attending guests, cleaning up, attending guests, cooking, hosting guests… hosting more guests until we couldn’t stand and couldn’t walk. Ultimately, I decided not to visit the third marriage. (I still need to talk to my aunt and apologize for bailing. I hope she forgives me.)
And did I forget to mention, I had to look nice…perfect…immaculate…polished to shiny perfection…
Especially me, because I am the eldest bhabhi of the clan. I had the duty to look like someone who was holding herself together perfectly well while all I wanted to do was whine about having to run up and down the stairs all day. I had to put on face packs while cooking and apply make up while attending guests who were filling the house to seams. I would apply blush on one cheek and go meet someone, apply shadow on half an eye and go help someone, apply lipstick on half a lip and deal with my daughter. And then I would apply mascara. And spread on different spots of my face. Then I would wash it and start over.
Sometimes I think that make up brushes are equipment of modern torture. They can’t beat you anymore so they tell you to apply make up– there are brushes for everything blush, highlighter, powder, liner, eye shadow application, shadow mixing, mascara, eyebrow… And they always poke you in the eye. You apply eye shadow–it throws powder in your eyes. You put on liner–it is more inside the eyes than out. You clean it and put on just mascara and it pokes you in the eye until you drop the brush (on your cheeks, of course) and howl in pain and swear to god’s that you would never do it again. Then you wash your face and do it again!
Not sure if I got the order correct. I never got the order correct so I got a Color Correction (CC) cream to avoid primer, foundation, concealer, highlighter… It didn’t do anything but it made it look like I was trying, so no one commented. My pathetic attempts to make up were lauded as “Well tried!” “Look at you, you have actually put on make up!”
As far as I am concerned, I looked like a pink-faced monkey. Well at least, I wasn’t looking like a silver-faced monkey like nine years back when my sister-in-law tried to do my makeup. That experience was what drove me to do my own makeup. Of course, I could have got a professional help. But I didn’t have the time in the many days of festivities.
So, I just trudged on. I would say, I did well.
Honestly, in retrospect, it wasn’t so bad. I met a lot of nice people I couldn’t recognise (because of make up, of course) but it was nice to see smiling faces and spend time with my sister-in-law who lives far away. We had a housefull of kids and loads of drama going on that it part of every Indian marriage, but it was fun.
Now, I still have laundry to deal with, which is a remnant of the marriages that started three weeks back. So, goodbye for now. I hope I have given an excuse good enough that you will excuse me for not posting for another few days! 🤣🤣🤣
I was expecting her at our neighbour’s wedding, being her first cousin. But still, it is a punch in the gut. Closing my eyes, I breath deeply to avoid doing something foolish–like grabbing her hand and running away before anyone can react…
It is a stupid thought though. Her brothers are on high alert. I can see them giving me dirty looks, like daring me to take a single step towards her. I am not going to, of course. She is off-limits now that she is married. She is tied to that man for seven lives–that mountain of a man with a huge chest and a large moustache…
Didn’t she tell him she hates moustache?
I sneak another look at her. She doesn’t seem to have noticed me. She doesn’t look any worse for wear anyway, like she is doing fine without me. So, it seems only I was holding out the candle for her.
She looks lovely, like a proper indian married woman sporting a red salwar suit, large traditional red bindi on her forehead, red and white chuda adorning her arms and a red embroidered dupatta covering her head…
She used to hate red. She was against girls being typecasted into reds and pinks. She had once made me swear that I would never ask her to wear red or cover her head after our marriage…
Our marriage…well, it doesn’t seem to be on her mind anymore now. She seems serene, smiling politely as she nods at something her aunt is saying…
She used joke that married women act all grown up in public and don’t laugh because they are not free to laugh anymore; that I should never expect that of her…
She used to be a wildflower, not ready to fit in the social bouquet.
I don’t know what to expect of her anymore.
But somethings never change. Anyone knowing her would see that she is already bored of the conversation. She was never the one for small talk. But she is trying to be polite. But her gaze is already drifting away from her aunt, looking for an escape.
Suddenly, her gaze falls on me and her entire being lights up. She starts to take a step towards me…
But her husband asks her something. The realisation returns and the light dies out of her eyes. She smiles a fake smile at him reserved for people she can barely tolerate and returns to acting like a grown-up..
She is one off the bouquet now.
Muskurata toh ab bhi hai,
Bhale gairo ke sath hi,
Us guldaste me ab wo
Gulistan si khushbu nhi.
Lately, I have been working as a jewellery- and dress-designer for probably the richest doll on the Earth. She is the Barbie I gifted to my daughter last summer, she is named as Elsa (after the Disney princess, of course). Ever since then, I have been hard at making dresses suitable for her station in life.
Lately, my daughter requested my help for making jewellery for Lady Elsa based on her original designs.
Within a couple of hours, we had seven new sets of necklaces and earrings, along with a tiara, made out of buttons, fake pearls from my junk jewellery and metal wire, held together with a lot of love (because love is a magic and only magic can hold these fragile things together). That, of course, excludes the four previous jewellery sets that had been lost in the previous month.
My payment was ten-kisses-a-piece, which I consider quite generous.
It is rather nice working for those rich in love. 😀
Author’s note: This post is based on a real incident…well, more or less. I was looking out of the window and witnessed what looked like a clear case of eve-teasing. I am just trying to look at it from the victim’s perspective.
Jeez! How many times do I have to say ‘No’ for someone to understand it? Here I am pecking quietly on the tin shed, eating the grains supplied by the human working below, when this jerk flies down and lands close to me.
So, I think, “Oh! He wants to share”. I move aside and make space for him.
And what does he do? He scoots closer…so close, I can smell the enticing smell of peppermint leaves on his breath.
So, I move further away. And his trots closer.
Sheesh! I jump on the closest low wall, and he follows like he is stitched to my shadow.
I run on the wall, and he follows calling after me, “Hey! Wait up. You are too fast! I can’t keep up!”
I am like, “Dude! That is precisely the point. I don’t want you to keep up with me.”
And he’s like, “Huh?” And he flies and lands too close yet again.
What the heck! Can’t he just go and eat some wheat grains, groom his feathers or sleep on a rooftop somewhere else…far, far away? I can’t be caught talking to him. I’ll be a laughingstock for a lifetime! So, I take flight this time. And he stupidly chases me in the air!
Can’t he see I am not interested? There are better things to do in life than date a stupid pigeon who goes by the name “Rapunzel”! I mean, what woman would ever want to date a guy named Rapunzel!?
I don’t want to be mean, but he leaves me no choice. So, I sit down on a stone archway to the next-door temple and say what sounds like the greatest cuss words ever known to the pigeon-kind, “Rapunzel! Go away!”
He sits a little farther this time, “Not you too! I am NOT Rapunzel!”
“What do you think I am–a chick-just-hatched? I have heard that human girl call you ‘Rapunzel’ at least a dozen times.”
“How do you know that? Have you been keeping tabs on me?” He asks, looking smug.
“I am not keeping tabs on you,” I hope I am not blushing like stupid human girls. “I live here. I hear things.”
“Well, then you know that she calls all pigeons ‘Rapunzel’.”
“Liar!”
“Well, I am a bit wrong there. If you sit on her windowsill in a group, she will probably call you Rapunzel and the rest of the group will be Ella, Snow White, Elsa, Bella and other Disney princesses in that exact order. She can’t tell that some of us are Prince Charming!”
I am intrigued now, “Are you ‘Prince Charming’ then? I mean, it is nearly just as bad!”
“Ugh! No! I don’t have a name. You can just call me ‘Hulk’!”
Eww! “I think, I’ll pass.”
“So, will you come out with me? I know a really cool place with loads of fresh grain and an amazing view of the river,” he says as he carefully moves closer to me on the top of the stone archway, looking a little unsure of himself this time.
Good! I like him better when he is not being haughty…
I mean, I don’t really like him like that…
Well, at least not yet…
Sigh! Who am I kidding? I have been keeping tabs on him…
Still, I roll my eyes, trying to play hard to get, “You really don’t know when to give up!”
He has probably sensed I am giving up, because he stands up a little taller, “I know exactly when to give up, which is why I am not giving up on you yet.” He tilts his face to a side inquisitively, which makes his neck shine in a multitude of colours. “So, are you coming with me before all the fresh grain is gone?”
“Well, lead the way. I will probably dump you after we have eaten anyway, Rapunzel!” He rolls his eyes and smiles, and we take off to the nearest fields I have already visited alone this morning.
I know it will be better with him by my side, smelling minty and looking like Prince Charming. But I am not telling him that. At least, not yet!
Author’s note again: To learn more about how my daughter named Rapunzel (poor dear), you can go through my other posts here: Meet Rapunzel and Rapunzel 2.0
Bijli giri jaha par, us zakhm se barish risti hai.
Teri bewafai mere asman ka dil cheer kar gayi.
Translation:
Rains bleed from the wounds where the lightning struck;
Your betrayal tore through the heart of my sky.
Author’s note: Thank you, Lauren for providing the first line of the story.
The letter contained the most unexpected news I could imagine. For the hundredth time, I reread those ragged, cursive words written in a weak hand on a paper with roses printed on it. The paper is of the finest quality, worthy of a person of means.
My dearest,
I wish we had more time together, but I cannot undo the turn my life has taken. On the verge of death, I see you, and you alone, as my closest relative. This estate now belongs to you.
Love,
D. F. Allistor
I hazard a look at the life-size portrait hanging behind my bed—the mischievous blue eyes seem to twinkle with mirth. I avert my eyes trying to ignore the portrait—the proverbial elephant in the room. D. F. Allistor died recently, leaving this estate to me. His attorney had mailed me the letter after his death along with the documentation of inheritance.
When I first received it, I had instantly sent a letter back letting him know that there was a mistake; that I was an orphan with no living relatives and didn’t know any dead ones; that I had never been to the estate before, and neither did I know the last owner nor did I ever hear of him; and hence, I could not be the person in this will.
But the attorney was sure, “I know it sounds improbable, even to me. But while I am unaware of the nature of your relationship with the late Donovon Frederick Allistor yet, the details provided to me by him match you exactly, down to the last letter of your name, address, parentage and work history.”
This reply had rattled me. I am not a public figure, and I have no social media account. Researching about me from across the country must have taken a lot of time and resources. Yet, this relative had never approached me while he was alive, not even when I was abused by foster parents and turned into a servant of their household. All those years, I had waited for some relative to come forward and claim me. Now that I was out of that situation, inheriting this obscene amount of money and the sprawling estate seems meaningless. Well, almost…
Two years back, I had left my foster home at the first opportunity and started working at the hospital in the Hospice ward. In return, I received weekly paychecks and had a small quarter to live in. It was a tough life. The people I took care of were waiting to die and death was a frequent visitor. It isn’t fair to have to work in a place that reeked of death just to be able to survive.
I tried to stay aloof most of the times—tears were a luxury for meant for people with means. But it was difficult when some of the patients cared so much for me. They often offered words of care and caution like family. Charles had even offered to adopt me—I had to remind him that I was too old to be adopted. And Martha had offered me a job at her home, but, of course, the job was only until Martha was alive, which wasn’t long. And that place was right next door to the Cancer ward, where I had met Eric…
He used to make me laugh—even declared his “undying love” and “married” me by twisting his ventilator tube and slipping it on my finger as a ring, joking that I would soon be a rich widow! He died last month with his bald head in my lap and wrinkled hands holding mine. I had stayed with him until an ambulance came and took him back to his city to be buried. That was the only day I had allowed myself to cry.
It isn’t fair at all!
All this while, there was a someone with means who knew about me and could have supported me! But he had waited until his death.
Initially, I was angry, confused and unsure of the stroke of unusually good luck. But there was no point declining the opportunity this estate presented. It came with a lot of money and no debt. It could set me up for life and help me start over, attend college and, maybe, become someone I could be proud of. The place came with a housekeeper and a gardener who were paid through a trust fund—I didn’t have to be alone here. So, I left the job at the hospital and moved here.
*****
I love the place. It is beautiful and not very old. My resentment towards late D.F. Allistor is gradually dissipating. But even after being in the house for two days, I’m still unsure of my relationship with him. I always keep wondering if someone will come and make a claim for the estate, calling me a fraud and usurper.
I can’t put it off anymore. So, I broach the topic with the housekeeper about the previous owner without making it look like I didn’t know him. She seems very fond of him, “Oh! He was a fine man, ma’am. A little mischievous but he had a good heart. Always helped me when I was in trouble with my husband. Even in his death, he left a trust fund, so I don’t have to go back to him. Taken too early, I say! Twenty-four is not the age to die!” Tears are gathering in the corners of her eyes.
24? “When did he commission this portrait?”
“Just two years back when a local artist was unable to pay her mortgage. He gave her enough money without making it sound like charity.”
How can I hold a grudge against such a person? Earlier, I had assumed he was older. But taken at 24? For the first time, I look properly at the portrait with the twinkling eyes, looking for a similarity in his face and mine—some family connection I never knew of. The face feels faintly familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it.
Thinking of something to say, I pick the most obvious topic, “How did he die?”
She looked at me with doubt in her eyes, “Cancer. You know all about it, of course. By the time doctors diagnosed it, he only had a few months left. He got chemotherapy and radiation done in a facility close by. The poor boy lost all his hair, eyebrows and lashes, and he was so frail in those last days—it was impossible to recognise him! And later, he went to that big hospital in your city all alone, for his parents were both dead and gone. He wouldn’t let me come because my youngest is still only 3. When he met you, he was finally so happy. He told me all about it over the phone…”
Her voice trailed away, as she read the doubt on my face, “You did know him, didn’t you?”
I could picture him in the hospital, mischievous blue eyes framed by a frail, bald face and a charming smile, slipping the twisted ventilator tube like a ring on my finger, his bald head in my lap and wrinkled hands holding mine…
Frederick…Eric…
*****
For the millionth time, I reread those ragged, cursive words written in a weak hand on a paper with roses printed on it. I look at the life-size portrait hanging behind my bed.
The mischievous blue eyes seem to twinkle with love…
Been too lost to speak;
Been too lost to quiet;
Been too long I could think of what to say besides.
…
Feels like forever;
When you were by my side,
Been too long ever since I felt the pain subside.
…
Wait for me, won’t you?
I will be along
Wait for me, won’t you?
You won’t be alone…
…
Been too far away
On the other side of the sun.
Too long since I touched the fresh earth
and didn’t feel the burn.
…
Lost in space forever,
I didn’t see until you were gone;
Now there’s nothing but to wonder
When I’ll be along…
…
Wait for me
there, my love;
I’ll be along…
Wait for me
won’t you?
I will be along…
_________________________________________________
Author’s note: Not sure where this one came up from. I am not a song writer, but I was singing it as I wrote it. I could hear my brother’s guitar in my mind, strumming a quick beat as I sang it. And for some reason, it feels like a piece of my heart.
The ever-present frigidness is now fiery warm;
The spring had come suddenly
and now, I wish it gone;
For there is no softness, no gentleness as such;
Only the passionate sun
that burns all he touch;
And makes you wish for icy winds and torrential storm.
Love is just barely here,
and now, I wish it gone.
I stand at the subway gates. Her train is late. That has me worried. She is a creature of habit, always visiting the subway at the same time every day. What if she decides not to come at all because of the delay? Could I live through the eighty-six thousand seconds that pass between today and tomorrow?
When I first met her, it was in the same spot when I was called to duty by a church minister to get rid of the riffraff that riddled the enclosed space. I was one of the best guardian angels, killing all the specters at the breath of my sword. But, then, she stepped down from the midnight train, her melancholy eyes drawing me in. She walked towards the subway gate…towards me…and the world around me melted into an array of colours and nothingness.
I think the minister shouted to get rid of her but how could I?!
He called her as the most dangerous one but I couldn’t see why.
I think he sighed, “Not this one too,” but couldn’t care less.
Since then, for Almighty-knows-how-many years, I stand rooted in the same spot waiting for her to step down from the midnight train and walk towards the subway gates–towards me–like the hundreds of other specters before and after me.
(Author’s note: I saw this picture on Unsplash by Andrew Ling and it spoke to me. All I wrote is what the picture breathed into my ears.)
Short Stories | Fish-eye Perspective 