सन्नाटा

हमारी सफ़ेद रंग की मारुती जैसे ही रफ़्तार पकड़ के शिमला से कुफरी की ओर बढ़ी, शरीर में एक ठिठुरन सी महसूस होने लगी. नवंबर की इस सर्दीली शाम के सामने मेरी पतली शाल दुर्बल साबित हो रही थी. मेरा जैकेट गाड़ी की डिक्की में था. दिल्ली से हमने जो ड्राइवर भाड़े पे लिया था वो तेज़ गति से गाड़ी को चला, या लगभग उड़ा ही रहा था. जब मैंने उसे गाड़ी दो मिनट के लिए रोकने को बोला, वो झुंझला उठा. मन मसोस के तक़रीबन २ किलोमीटर आगे पहुंचने के बाद उसने गाड़ी सड़क के किनारे रोक दी परन्तु इंजन फिर भी बंद नहीं किया. मैं ड्राइवर की अधीरता से सहम के, फुर्ती से गाड़ी से उतरी और डिक्की की ओर लपकी. जैसे ही जैकेट को बदन पे लपेटा, भीषड़ ठण्ड से तो राहत मिली परन्तु दम भी घुटने लगा. एक तो छोटी सी गाड़ी जिसके सभी शीशे कोहरे को बाहर रखने के लिए पूर्ण रूप से बंद थे, और ऊपर से पहाड़ी इलाके की वो घुमावदार सड़के जिनपे हमारी मारुती प्रकाश की गति से आगे बढ़ रही थी – मेरा सिर चकराने लगा. ड्राइवर को पुनः रोकने के लिए बोलना उचित नहीं लगा तो मैंने खुद को विचलित करने के लिए अपनी आँखें मूँद ली और यादों के समुन्दर में गोता मारा. बंद नेत्रों के परदे पे पारस के चेहरे का धुंधला प्रतिबिम्ब प्रकट हुआ. यह वही पारस था जिससे मेरी पहली मुलाकात हिमाचल की इन्हीं वादियों में तक़रीबन पांच साल पहले हुयी थी.

सुडौल शरीर, प्यारी मुस्कान, और चंचलता से भरी आँखें थी पारस की, मगर उनके नीचे जो काली झाइयां थी वह न जाने कितनी अनकही बातें अपने अंधकार में समेटे हुयी थीं. पहली ही मुलाकात में मुझे पारस एक समुन्दर के समान लगा, सतह पे एक शिशु की तरह मासूम मगर भीतर से गंभीर और रहस्यमयी. मैं तब कुछ बाईस साल की रही होंगी, रोमानी ख़यालातो वाली, और गुत्थियां सुलझाना तो मुझे बचपन से ही बहुत भाथा था, इसी कारणवश पारस ने मेरा मन मोह लिया. हमारा परिवार गर्मी की छुट्ठियो में हर साल दिल्ली की तपन को पीछे छोड़ किसी पहाड़ी इलाके में पनाह लेता था, यह तो इत्तेफाक की ही बात थी की उस साल पिताजी के अज़ीज़ मित्र, पारस के पिता ने भी कुफरी की बर्फीली पहाड़ियों में अपने परिवार के साथ मई का महीना बिताने की योजना बनाई थी. हर सुबह हम दोनों के परिवार साथ में ही हिमाचल के जंगल, मंदिर, और असीम सुंदरता से परिपूर्ण दृश्यों का लुत्फ़ उठाने निकल पड़ते. जहां सभी परिवारजनों की नज़रे शिमला की हरियाली और दूर क्षितिज के पास खड़े, धूप में पिघलती हुयी बर्फ के अंतिम अवशेषों की सफ़ेद चादर ओढ़े हुए पर्वतो पे होती, वही मेरी नज़र एकटक पारस के ह्रदय तक पहुंचने का प्रयास करती, जबकी पारस तो कहीं और ही होता. वह ना तो शिमला के सौंदर्य से प्रफुल्लित दिखता, ना ही मेरे एकतरफे आकर्षण से वाकिफ़ मालूम देता, पारस अपने ही खयालो में मशगूल रहता, वर्तमान से कहीं दूर, शायद अपने बीते हुए कल की कुछ गलियों में.

हमारे परिवार में बेटियों को अपना वर चुनने पर पाबन्दी थी, इसी कारणवश, मेरी पारस को लेकर उत्सुकता, जो की मेरी माँ की अनुभवी निग़ाहों ने आसानी से भांप ली थी, उनके लिए अपार चिंता का कारण बन गयी. यह चिंता जब उन्होंने पिताजी से व्यक्त करी तो उन्होंने सोचा की इससे पहले की उनकी बागी बेटी कुछ गलत कर बैठे, क्यों ना वह खुद ही मेरे और पारस के रिश्ते का प्रस्ताव पारस के घर वालों के पास लेकर जाएं. रिश्ता एक हफ्ते में पक्का भी हो गया, विवाह की तिथि ३ महीने बाद की तय करी गयी. पता नहीं पारस ने इस रिश्ते के लिए हाँ क्यों कहा, शायद उससे पूछा ही नहीं गया, या फिर वह अपने परिवार वालों के सामने झुक गया.

पारस के आँखों के पीछे छिपा हुआ रहस्य मुझे शादी के बाद पता चला. वह ना तो अतीत की गलियों में खोया हुआ था और ना ही किसी भयावने हादसे का बोझ उठाते हुए जी रहा था. वह तो साहित्य का प्रेमी था, बिना किसी को बताये, आधी रात को उठके कहानियाँ लिखा करता था. वह कभी भी मेरे साथ कोई दुर्व्यहवार नहीं किया, एक पति और एक मित्र का रिश्ता वह बखूबी से निभाता, मगर कभी कभी ऐसा लगता की उसकी कहानी की नायिका उसको मेरे से दूर खींच रही है. जहां मैं उसकी बाहरी मासूमियत और भीतरी गंभीरता, दोनों से मोहित थी, यह अलगाव मुझसे सहा नहीं जाता था. मैं उसकी कहानियों के चरित्रों से मिलना चाहती थी, उसकी वह काली डायरी, जिसमे वह अपने शब्दों से रोचक किस्से बुना करता था, मुझे रोज़ पुकारती थी, शायद मेरा मज़ाक भी उड़ाती थी, शायद यह कहती थी मुझसे कि तुम कितनी भी कोशिश कर लो, पारस के सबसे ज़्यादा करीब तो सदा मैं ही रहूँगी. पूर्णिमा की उस रात जब हमारे बेटे सुहास के जन्म के कुछ घंटे पहले मैं दर्द से तिलमिला के पारस का नाम पुकार रही थी तब भी वह अपनी लाइब्रेरी में अपनी डायरी से गुफ़्तगू कर रहा था. अपनी शब्दों की दुनिया में वह ऐसा खोया हुआ था की उसे मेरा भी होश नहीं था. जैसे तैसे मैंने अपनी माँ को फ़ोन लगाया और वह एम्बुलेंस लेके घर आयीं, तब जाके पारस इस दुनिया में वापस आया जहां उसके परिवार को उसकी ज़रूरत थी.

औरत का क्रोध एक ज्वालामुखी के समान होता है, महीनों से जो भावनाएँ ह्रदय में दबा के रखी थी, वह उस पूर्णिमा की रात उबलते हुए लावा की तरह बह निकलीं. घर वालों की विनती के बावज़ूद मैंने पारस को अपने बेटे से मिलने ना दिया. अस्पताल से जब छुट्टी मिली तो सीधा मायके चली गयी, पारस ने भी अधिक आपत्ति नहीं दिखाई, शायद कहीं ना कहीं वो भी शादी के दायित्व से मुक्ति चाहता था.

मेरे अगले कुछ साल सुहास की परवरिश में ना जाने कब बीत गए, सुनने में आया की पारस दिल्ली छोड़ के शिमला में बस गया. कुछ हफ्तों पहले डाक में एक किताब आयी, शीर्षक था “सन्नाटा”, और लेखक का नाम पारस शर्मा. एक बार को मन किया कि किताब को आग में भस्म कर दूँ, पर उत्सुकता भी थी कि इतने सालों के बाद पारस क्या कहना चाहता है. मैं अगली सुबह वो किताब पढ़ने बैठी तो रात तक पढ़ती ही रही, दूसरों के लिए वह किताब भले ही एक कहानी मात्र हो पर दरअसल वह पारस की ओर से मेरे लिए एक पांच सौ पन्नो का सन्देश था. कहानी का प्रमुख पात्र भी अपने काम में इतना खोया रहता था कि उसे भीड़ में भी सन्नाटा सुनाई पड़ता, और इसी बहरेपन के कारण वह अपना सब कुछ गँवा बैठा, अब वह पश्चाताप की आग में अकेले जल रहा था.अगर मैं अभी भी बाईस साल की वह रोमानी खयालातों वाली लड़की होती दो झट से पारस को पुनः स्वीकार लेती, मगर पारस की लेखनी की स्याही ने मुझे कई साल पहले ही जीवन की असल कालिख से परिचित करा दिया था.

दो दिन बाद फ़िर से डाक में पारस ने कुछ भेजा. वही काली डायरी जो एक ज़माने में मेरे लिए सौतन समान थी. वह मोटी डायरी अब लगभग पूरी तरह से पारस की सुन्दर लिखावट से संवर चुकी थी मगर मुझे अब उसको पढ़ने में कोई दिलचस्पी नहीं थी. मैं अनायास ही पन्ने पलटती गयी, अचानक मुझे दो पन्नो के बीच में सुहास की एक तस्वीर मिली जो शायद पारस ने अपनी माँ से प्राप्त करी होगी. तस्वीर के पीछे पारस ने सुहास के लिए एक लोरी समान कविता लिखी थी, कविता को पढ़कर ऐसा लगा की पहली बार पारस ने किसी अन्य की संवेदनशीलता को समझा था, पहली बार उसने किसी और के लिए कुछ लिखा था.

आज इस दम घोटने वाली मारुती में अपने बेटे को एक मुलायम रज़ाई में लपेटकर मैं उसके पिता से मिलाने ले जा रही हूँ. शायद पारस और सुहास को सदैव एक दूसरे से दूर रखना दोनों के साथ नाइंसाफी होगी. आज एक बाप और बेटे का मिलाप होगा, परन्तु मेरा उस पारस से मिलना, जिसने मुझे पांच साल पहले मोहित किया था, असंभव है, क्यूंकि वह पारस तो कभी वास्तविक था ही नहीं, वह महज़ मेरी एक कल्पना थी. अपने भ्रमित विचारों के कारण मैं उसे कुछ और ही समझ बैठी थी – मेरी रचनात्मकता का भी जवाब नहीं, शायद मुझे भी एक लेखिका होना चाहिए था.

 

 

चौखट

जब महेश पहली बार सुनीता को अपने गांव लेकर आया तब अपनी नयी देवरानी को देखते ही निर्मला की आँखें फटी की फटी रह गयी. शिफॉन की चटख गुलाबी साड़ी में सुनीता किसी चलचित्र की अभिनेत्री से कम नहीं लग रही थी. एक खिलता हुआ गुलाब उसके घुंघराले बालो के सौंदर्य को और भी बढ़ा रहा था और उसके लम्बे नाखूनों पर सुर्ख लाल रंग की नेल पॉलिश चमक रही थी. वहीँ निर्मला के बालों को उसका दो साल का बेटा छोटू गोद में लटके लटके बिखेर चुका था और उसके नाखून, जोकि बर्तन धोते धोते घिस चुके थे, उनमें हल्दी का पीलापन साफ़ दिखाई दे रहा था. अपने बालों को फुर्ती से ठीक करते हुए और अपनी सादी सूती साड़ी की प्लेटें पुनः बनाकर निर्मला ने नयी बहू का आरती के साथ घर की चौखट के इस पार स्वागत कर तो लिया मगर पल्ले में बंधे एक पचास के नोट को उसके हाथ में थमाते हुए यह सोचा की इस शहरी बहू को शगुन देने का क्या फायदा जिसको गृहस्थी क्या होती है पता ही नहीं होगा.

निर्मला का भय निराधार भी नहीं था, सुनीता शहर में पली बढ़ी, एक प्रख्यात कलेक्टर की बेटी थी. वह इतने स्वतंत्र और आधुनिक खयालातों वाली लड़की थी कि अपने सहपाठी से ब्याह रचाने का फैसला भी उसने स्वयं ही कर लिया. महेश और सुनीता की शादी शहर में ही हुयी थी, तब निर्मला नें शादी में शामिल होने से इंकार कर दिया था – यह बोलकर कि छोटू को इतनी दूर ले जाना उचित नहीं होगा, परन्तु मन ही मन तो उसे यह डर खाये जा रहा था कि अगर वह उस शादी में शामिल हुयी तो उसकी स्वर्गवासी सास की आत्मा अपनी बड़ी बहू पर बेहद रोष प्रकट करेगी. लेकिन अब जब शादी हो ही गयी थी तो निर्मला को सुनीता को अपनी देवरानी के रूप में स्वीकारना ही पड़ा, पर देवरानी भी ऐसी जिसकी नाज़ुक कलाई में करछी पकड़ते ही बल पड़ जाता और पानी की एक बालटी उठाने में ही कमर में मोच आ जाती. निर्मला को लगता मानो उसने एक और बच्ची गोद ले ली हो.

निर्मला एक सादे विचारों वाली स्त्री थी, उसको सुनीता के रूप रंग और परवरिश से कोई ईर्ष्या नहीं थी, परन्तु सुनीता का फर्राटेदार अंग्रेजी बोलना, छोटू को कहानी की किताबें पढ़कर सुनाना और अंग्रेजी के अक्षर लिखना सिखाना निर्मला को बहुत खलता था. निर्मला के लिए काला अक्षर भैंस बराबर था, अपने पिताजी से उसे यही शिकायत थी कि जहाँ उन्होंने उसके भाइयों की शिक्षा में कोई कसर नहीं छोड़ी, वहीँ अपनी बेटी को कभी भी शिक्षा योग्य नहीं समझा. उसने घर की चौखट लाँघी तो सिर्फ ससुराल में कदम रखने के लिए, जहाँ उसके पढ़े लिखे होने की कोई आवश्यकता नहीं थी, जहाँ उसका अस्तित्व बस चूल्हा जलाने और कपड़े धोने तक सीमित था.

सुनीता जब व्यापार के हिसाब किताब में महेश की सहायता करती और लेन देन सम्बंधित कार्यों के लिए पास के शहरों में जाती तब निर्मला यह सोचती की अगर वह भी किसी कलेक्टर के घर जन्मी होती तो आज उसके भी तितलियों के समान पर होते. जब सुनीता बाहर जाती तब निर्मला चुपके से उसके कमरे में घुसकर उसके उपन्यासों के पन्नों को बड़ी उत्सुकता से पलटती, कभी स्याही को सूंघती तो कभी अपनी उँगलियों से एक एक अक्षर को सहलाती. उन चंद पलों में उसे न तो कुकर की सीटी सुनाई देती और न ही छोटू की पुकारें, जब पुनः सचेत होती तब खुद पर शर्म भी आती और क्रोध भी – “ऐसे बुत की तरह किताब को देखने से कोई पढ़ना थोड़ी न सीख जाता है” – वह खुद को डांटते हुए रसोई की ओर भागती.

एक दिन सुनीता शहर से जल्दी वापस आ गयी और अपनी जेठानी को किताबों के संदूक का निरीक्षण करते हुए रंगे हाथों पकड़ लिया. निर्मला झेंप कर बिना कुछ बोले तेज़ी से कमरे के बाहर चली गई. मामला नाज़ुक था, मगर निर्मला की किताब को उलटा पकड़कर एकटक घूरने वाली छवि बार बार सुनीता के ज़हन में आती रहती, इसलिए उसने एक दिन निर्मला से धीमी आवाज़ में पूछ ही लिया – “भाभी आप को पढ़ना सीखना हैं? मैं सिखा सकती हूँ”.

उस दिन से रोज़ शाम को खाना चढ़ाने के बाद निर्मला सुनीता से पढ़ना लिखना सीखने लगी. जिन हाथों को बस सर्फ़ के पानी नें छीला और चूल्हे की गर्मी नें झुलसाया था उन हाथों में जब एक कलम आयी तो लेखनी से न जाने कितने अनकहे शब्द फूट पड़े. निर्मला आधी रात को उठकर चुपके से एक नोटबुक में अपने जीवन के रोचक किस्सों के बारे में लिखती, और इस कार्य से उसे इतनी ख़ुशी मिलती की वह पहली बार एक सम्पूर्ण नारी होने का गर्व महसूस करने लगी.

एक मई की दोपहर, जब घर में छोटू और निर्मला के अलावा कोई नहीं था तब गाँव के साहूकार नें मकान के दरवाज़े पर दस्तक दी. अंदर आकर पानी के दो गिलास पीने के बाद जब साहूकार जी को गर्मी से थोड़ी राहत मिली तब उन्होंने निर्मला को बताया कि वह उसके पति द्वारा लिए गए एक ब्याज का सूत वसूल करने आये हैं और अगर पैसे उसी दिन नहीं दिए गए तो अनुबंध के अनुसार दुगना सूत भरना पड़ेगा. जब साहूकार जी नें बोला की सूत की कीमत दस हज़ार रुपये है तब पहले तो निर्मला सकपका गयी – उसके पति ४-५ दिन के बाद ही लौटने वाले थे और घर में इतनी बड़ी नगद राशि थी भी नहीं – फिर खुद को थोड़ा संभाल कर और जितना लेन देन के बारे में सुनीता से सीखा था वह याद करते हुए निर्मला नें अनुबंध के कागज़ात देखने का अनुरोध किया. साहूकार जी पहले तो इस निवेदन पर हँस पड़े, मगर जब देखा की निर्मला हाथ बढ़ाये खड़ी हैं तो असमंजस से कागज़ात उसके हाथ में थमा दिए. निर्मला पढ़ने में माहिर हो चुकी थी, उसने चंद मिनटों में ही यह समझ लिया की साहूकार एक हज़ार की जगह दस हज़ार रुपये मांग रहा हैं. वह अंदर के कमरे से एक हज़ार रुपये लेकर आयी और साहूकार के हाथ में थमाते हुए बोला “साहूकार जी, अब इस गाँव में भी पढ़ी-लिखी लड़कियाँ रहने लगी हैं, आप हमारी आँखों में धूल नहीं झोंक पाओगे”. साहूकार नें पैसे लिए और झेंपते हुए घर से रवाना हो गया. दरवाज़ा बंद करते हुए निर्मला की नज़र घर की चौखट पर पड़ी – वह चौखट जो निर्मला को पहले बेड़ियों समान लगती थी, आज उसके चातुर्य की दाद दे रही थी. 

The Wire Mesh

Whenever the dust settled after an afternoon storm, the sweet seller arrived at my doorstep with a guilty smile on his bearded face. He would sit in the verandah for about an hour, carefully blowing away the red mud from the surface of the homemade sweetmeats. I often asked him how he could live with selling those contaminated sweets but he claimed that the earthiness enhanced their flavour. Despite this clever justification, he would always keep my batch at the bottom of his bag, cautiously wrapped in butter paper.

Feelings diffused through the wire mesh of my front door, creating a wonderful harmony on each side. I was sheltered yet troubled while he was wild and raw but frightened of overstepping the boundaries defined by society. He was so afraid of disturbing the fragile balance of this friendship that he always left my bundle of sweets at the door. The risk of the dream ending with an accidental brush of fingertips made him insist on keeping the barrier of the wire mesh between us at all times.

Whenever I asked him about his family, he would cheesily remark that in this city I was all he had.  This response was not unfair considering that he never questioned the absence of another soul in a bungalow that was clearly not meant for one. Our sporadic encounters were enough for love to blossom in our youthful hearts. With no means of contacting him, I would pray for a storm whenever I yearned for his company. He would magically appear from behind the murky curtain of smog, his tray of sweets dangling from his neck, his hands behind his back as if they were holding a message that he was too shy to deliver.

Ours was a language of silence, of subdued smiles and unheard whispers. He knew nothing about the world that existed beyond the shadows of my drawing room but he knew everything about me. Softly humming my favorite song, he would display the sweet treat of the day as if it was a painting expressing his love. Layers of powdered sugar always embraced his thick fingers that were evidently meant for a hardier profession than brewing syrups. It almost seemed like he was running away from his past, trying to hide his pain in the whirls of his Jalebis, concealing the blemishes with thin slices of almonds.

His gentle voice would echo through the empty house until the next storm brought him my way. Years passed, neighbours changed, the paint of the bungalow started peeling in places, but the taste of his Coconut Barfi remained the same. Not all storms are the harbingers of happy times though. Unfortunately, I had to learn this lesson the hard way.

One night the thunder shook the house and the pouring rain didn’t cease for hours. As the feeble rays of the rising sun struggled to pierce through the shroud of clouds, I heard a strange metallic clang at my door. There he was, wet, pale and cold. This storm was one that he could not defeat. His tray of sweets still couldn’t manage to breach the boundary that had kept us apart for years.

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A Summer Rendesvouz : A Tale Of An Indian Summer

I can almost taste the gale that gently singes my face. A hot and salty mix of gases that has driven the men and animals into the shadows. I seem to be immune to these poisonous winds as they barely tickle my skin and drift away to consume more innocent lives. As I stand on the balcony that looms over the melting roads, my thoughts get corrupted by the heat of the Indian summer.

One must not trust their instincts in the summer months. The angry weather gods entertain themselves by pushing us towards evil temptations. To recover my senses, I crush a mango leaf and inhale the raw aroma of heavenly nectar. The fruit is just a momentary indulgence while the potent scent of the leaf lasts all day long. It transports me to the childhood days when I would rush out in the middle of a dust storm to gather the fallen golden and green orbs.

My hosts think that I am crazy to be out in the unforgiving heat. I am summoned into a dark, cool room where the other guests are already seated. The frosted windows are an unconvincing lie; they appear to be icy but leave painful blisters on the fingers. The familiar sound of steel hitting against glass echoes in the room and the hostess hands out tall tumblers of pink sherbet. The tinkling of the spoons continues as the guests dissolve the viscous syrup in the water, only to find it settled at the bottom of their glasses again. Unable to defy the force of gravity, they hurriedly gulp down the drink to end this unfair battle.

A strong breeze brings in tufts of dried grass from the parched garden. A cruel reminder of the brevity of life, yet my heart still yearns for the scorching sunlight. These kind souls are depriving me of my one true love, the passionate rays of the sun. I feel powerless as they feed me course after course of chilled delicacies. They don’t realize that the heat is my mistress and my muse. I reach into my pocket for the vial that I carry around for such occasions. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

I politely refuse the dessert that drugs the lunch party and induces a state of deep slumber. It is amusing to watch grown men and women doze off on the dining table, their hair swimming in gravy. As much as I want to stand and admire my handiwork, there is not much time to spare. I rush out of this prison of practicality with my trunk in one hand and the host’s wallet in the other.

One must not trust their instincts in the summer months.

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The Claustrophobic Classroom: How I Do Not Fit In

I sat on the edge of the bench in the corner, palms moist with sweat, praying vehemently that she wouldn’t make it in time for the first period. I must have said my prayers wrong because the familiar clicking of heels was fast approaching. The musky perfume tickled my nostrils even before her red toenails had crossed the doorway. She looked miffed as usual; I quickly altered my prayers and requested God to prevent any pieces of chalk from flying in my direction that day. Every tick of the clock was an achievement, a moment bravely survived, although my throat was dry with fear. The much-awaited bell finally broke the monotonous rumble of the mathematical formulae that she recited in her robotic voice. She disappeared from the room in one swift motion, with an extremely audible sigh of relief. I often wonder why she chose to become a teacher if the mere sight of children was such an annoyance to her.

We marched towards the playground for the physical education class, a meandering line of kids ranked according to height. The class was less of a learning experience and more of a humiliation as I could barely jump with my tiny legs while the lanky girls leaped from one end of the monkey ladder to the other. You cannot hide in the shadows on a playground; all your shortcomings are on display in the unforgiving sunlight. The lunch break is not much better either, the classmates exhibit delectable goodies while my humble sandwich drowns with shame in a sea of sugary jam. The barely nibbled at toast is better off as a misshapen lump that I sneakily discard in the bin.

Story time is what follows the lunch break, a faint glimmer in a realm of darkness. Now I can quietly sit and dream about a life devoid of school and bullies. A world where one is not mocked for the shabby state of their second-hand uniform or scolded for speaking too softly. Where discipline does not mean the lack of expression and everyone is not expected to have the same handwriting. Where parents do not blindly believe the notes sent back by teachers and the worth of a child is not measured by their elocution skills alone. In such a wonderful land we will not need to restrict our imagination to one period of storytelling and the playground will not be a battlefield. But for now, the story time is over and an hour of sticking beads on fabric with trembling fingers lies ahead. The sole consolation lies in the fact that only twenty days remain until the summer break.

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An Empty Canvas

The morning sun was playing a game of Hide and Seek with her that day. Peeking through the puffy clouds, he giggled at her cheerfully and sprayed a few droplets of golden light all over her face. He was the only one who recognised her youthfulness that was shrouded by the veil of age. Indeed, it was hard to keep the buoyant spirit alive, considering that she was the oldest member of a family that spanned across four generations.

Once her grandkids started talking, she no longer remained Vimla, as everyone began calling her Amma, the term for grandmother in the local dialect. That morning she sat in the balcony of her room, stealing glances at those very children as they indulged in the festivities of Holi in the garden below. Eons ago, when she had first stepped into this household, she used to celebrate this festival of colours with much vigour. No person who dared to venture into the verandah could escape without being drenched in brilliant shades of red, blue and green.

Amma had always nurtured an unfaltering love for colours. Be it the mesmerising kaleidoscope of Bandhini dupattas at the cloth merchant’s store or the delightful display of Indian sweetmeats doused in pink and yellow syrup, the colours always implored her to bring them home. Much to the disapproval of her elders, she would wade through the slushy mud of the pond in the backyard for the violet water lilies that matched the curtains in her room. She would spend hours gazing at the butterflies that fluttered around the spring blossoms and would create colourful wind chimes out of her broken glass bangles.

Little did she know that broken bangles would soon dictate the rest of her life, owing to the untimely demise of her beloved husband. She was extremely cross at grandpa for abandoning her, but more so for snatching away the colours from her existence. A widow’s attire of a plain white sari and a lifestyle devoid of frolic and freedom made her resent each moment. However, the seasoned hands of time eventually moulded her and she slowly succumbed to her dreadful destiny. But today was the festival of Holi, the only day when dilemmas and doubts would befuddle her. Was it a sin to hug her little ones covered in Gulal or to ignore the sobbing of her great grandchild who wanted to throw a water balloon at her?

A painful scream disrupted her train of thoughts and brought her back to the present. As she rushed downstairs to investigate, the tiny bucket, carefully balanced on the door, tipped over and soaked her in a vibrant hue of vermillion. The innocent prank released her from the constraints of a widow’s garb and revived the ebullient girl who was unaware of limitations. For the first time in decades, Amma enjoyed this joyous occasion and embraced her precious colours again. Such is the power of white, it is blank and boring but ever willing to move with the times and absorb the splashes of paint that Change throws in its direction.

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Thorny Nettles: An Unfortunate Love Story

The yearning for solitude led them into the haunted woods. They were forewarned by well-wishers about the cursed willows, but there was no other refuge in the vicinity that could shelter sprouting love from the perils of practicality. Misty eyes firmly set on each other, they bid adieu to concerned friends and entered the realm of relentless romance. They were pleasantly surprised to be greeted by sunlit trails and chirping birds. The melodious music of nature muffled the troubled whispers of lost souls who had traversed this path before.

Seven days flew by, joyous hours doused with the sweet nectar of love, untarnished by the worries of the material world. The seventh night was a moonless one but hunger forced them to venture into the shadows in the search of food. This was their first encounter with reality since they had pledged their lives to each other. The woods seemed claustrophobic in the darkness. Shrieking bats flew over their heads, their sharp claws brushed her hair. Dead branches scraped his legs, making red rivulets flow down his skin. Shiny eyes, green and yellow, appeared in the thorny bushes. The cloudless sky began to shed tears; the grey pellets were nothing like the hailstones they had seen before.

Overcome with fear and fatigue, she wanted to return to their den but his resolve was undeterred. He left her in a cave lit up by a swarm of fireflies and continued to wade through the murky water that had engulfed the daisies. He squeezed through a dense bamboo forest to reach a path that was miraculously dry. The intertwining branches of ancient trees had created a tunnel that appeared to stretch for miles. The sound of a gushing waterfall enticed him towards the other end. He had reached mid-way when the first rays of sunshine pierced through the canopy of leaves and magically transported him back to the spot where he had left her.

The itch of defeat disturbed him all day and the moment the sun drowned in the invisible sea, he rushed back to the tunnel. Unfortunately, he was unsuccessful yet again and found himself beside her as soon as dawn broke. This continued for several weeks, the rainbows, butterflies and silver clouds were not sufficient to heal the wounds of failure. Even the sight of her face, deep in a satisfied slumber, became a constant reminder of his shortcomings. He was irked because she couldn’t associate with the undying urge to win this curious game.

Each night he tried a new tactic until he was left with just one. The final strategy worked marvellously well and he plunged ecstatically into the pristine waters that sparkled in his victorious glow. Knowing that she was dead broke all restraints of inhibition and helped him run faster than he ever could.

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The Mother Of The Moon

The last black strand of her mane turned grey the day Asha lost her youngest child to the cruel clutches of tuberculosis. For the first time in fifty years, the lamp in the village temple was not lit as soon as the sun hit the horizon. The sunlight left the sky and the sanity her mind. Muttering angrily to herself, Asha ran barefoot towards the river where they had strewn the ashes of her beloved son.

She stood knee-deep in the icy water for several hours, pulling out weeds in an attempt to catch one more glimpse of her baby’s face.  She was finally broken out of her trance by the realization that there was a shimmering glow a few feet away. There he was with his innocent visage, cherubic smile, and half closed eyes. The reflection of the moon in the inky water provided her assurance that she still had a purpose, she was still a mother.

From that day, Asha became a nocturnal wanderer, who carried her son around in a bowl of water from the holy river. She sobbed uncontrollably when stormy clouds engulfed his cheeks or when he abandoned her for his monthly excursions. When the villagers brought over some food, she would drop it in the vessel. When the wind blew fiercely, she would cover him with her Sari. When thirsty birds attacked him, she would injure them with pebbles.

Many years passed, the memories of the clever village priestess slowly faded and the locals got accustomed to the feverish ramblings of a senile widow. Tales of the Mother of the Moon spread beyond the precincts of the village. Claims were made that she possessed mystical powers. A place previously unheard of became a popular tourist halt, where the moon shone with an unparalleled vibrancy. However, as with everything that garners public attention, the enigmatic woman soon became the subject of a national debate.

Various organizations battled for the custody of the poor victim of misfortune. A women’s welfare trust emerged victorious and immediately transported a reluctant Asha to their nearest shelter. The treatment and care restored her reasoning abilities and she led a healthy life until she was reunited with her real son at the ripe age of 90. The moon, on the other hand, still lives on as an insignificant orb, whose former glory was stifled by the dust of reality and despair.

The Kitchen Window

The colonial mansion that had once been the residence of aristocratic families and wealthy merchants now offered cheap accommodation to scores of unfortunate souls. The grandeur of this former palace had been heavily diminished by the clotheslines in the corridors that were adorned with mismatched socks. Frame-shaped patches of nothingness had replaced the paintings on the wall; the artist had fed at least a dozen mouths.

The resourceful caretaker relied on the neglectful ownership of the heir to earn a few extra pennies and some blessings from the distressed seekers of shelter. These were not people who were poor from the lack of trying, the population comprised of failed businessmen and eloped lovers, rebellious daughters, and struggling writers. They were ashamed of their living conditions but proud of their lives. These determined warriors would rather live in this shoddy house than surrender themselves to societal norms.

Vibha was probably the youngest of the lot and most definitely the poorest. Her income from selling handcrafted toys was barely sufficient to pay for the makeshift bedroom that had been created in one of the kitchens. Not a single meal had been served here in over decades, yet everything from the walls to the pillows reeked of mustard oil. The smell, however, was a smaller distraction than the perpetual noises from the room next door.

The couple that occupied the adjoining dining room seemed to be suffering from a marriage gone sour. Thanks to the tiny wooden window that the architect had added for the expedited delivery of food, Vibha knew more about her neighbors than she would have preferred. The creaking of the bed, the dissatisfied groans and the slaps delivered on the poor bride’s cheek, Vibha bore witness to the gradual progression of the husband towards permanent drunkenness.

On being startled out of sleep by a particularly loud thud one night, Vibha broke the only rule of the house to never interfere in others’ private matters. She hesitantly peered through a crack in the window. The sight of a purplish black bruise on the woman’s face gave her enough courage to unlatch the bolt and gently tap on the rotting wood. The window was soon unlatched from the other end as well. Vibha lifted the flap as quietly as possible and quickly retreated after placing a jar of salve on the ledge.

Uma never returned the jar but did slip through some incense sticks to suppress the stench of oil. The window became a portal connecting two lives; several whispered words of hope were exchanged. Neither knew whether the hushed stories the other told were true or false but the love with which they held hands through the window, while the inebriated spouse snored away, was real.

The Parijat Tree #2 Of Highways and Hearsay

The moment she muffled the inner cries of past regrets, even the most mundane objects started speaking to her. They had some fascinating tales to tell. Wind chimes sang about the clandestine meetings of forbidden lovers while statues complained of neglect at the hands of heartbroken owners. The abandoned slipper of a drunken reveller felt as worthless as the chandeliers that lit deserted hallways.

The whimsical wind beckoned her to travel to places unseen and to challenge the invisible boundaries that were holding her back. She set out on an unusual journey, hitchhiking her way to an undecided destination. She traversed several miles sitting beside a jovial truck driver, whose humanity suppressed the stench of alcohol that accompanied his laughter. At every hairpin bend of the road, she prayed that her luck would shield them from the ill effects of the perilous liquid.

She chose not to spend the fortune that she had undeservingly inherited and instead found comfort in the strangest of shelters. On one occasion, a kind priest offered her refuge in the abode of the local deity, whereas another night was spent in the veranda of a village hospital. Curious, wrinkled faces stared at her through the windows while the less energetic patients made their presence felt with intermittent groans. The solitary compounder eventually got tired of chiding her for this irresponsible behaviour and dozed off on the steps in an attempt to keep her safe till dawn. She, on the other hand, stayed wide awake until the night was defeated by the sunshine that spread impartially over the youthful and the dying.

Not all the encounters with strangers were as pleasant. One evening she found herself walking down a hilly section of the highway with no vehicle in sight. A flickering bulb, hanging by a bare wire over the doorway of a closed Dhaba, was her only hope. The caretaker reluctantly offered her some insipid food along with unsolicited advice on how to mend her ways. He claimed to be blessed with clairvoyance and declared that she was born to ruin the life of a man. She remained undeterred as this was not the first time that someone had refused to look beyond her daring nature and undeniable beauty, an unfortunate mix for any woman to possess.

After a week of venturing into the exhilarating unknown, she found herself tracing back her footsteps to the concrete confines that she had once wanted to demolish. Only when she branched out was she able to appreciate her roots. She had blossomed like the Parijat tree but was still attached to the soil of a former prison that was now a retreat to rest her weary wings.

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