In The Process of Becoming

Elle looked up and took in the peaceful view of the sun setting over the horizon. The brownish water of the lake glittered golden as stray rays from in-between the clouds hit the surface of the water. The view has been the same from her window for so many years. But today, it looked magical. She could almost imagine herself walking into that luminous shimmer that would transport her to a different world. She felt a sudden pang of intense emotion in her chest, a pain that made her realise how much she physically wanted to reach out and see what lies beyond that shimmer. Closing her eyes, she drew in a couple of deep breaths and she felt the muscles loosen. The ache eased out.

Elle continued to stare at the view for some time. She had more than enough time at hand. At 50 years old, she was a proud mother and a woman who has done very well as a wife. Like most other children of the generation, her son has shifted out of the country and is doing pretty well for himself. Elle smiled. He did not know that Elle has recently aced the usage of Instagram. She saw her son’s photos with a girl. She is pretty and compliments her son well. She silently approved.

Getting up from the corner of her bed, she walked over to the wardrobe and retrieved some more clothes. Her languid movements reflected leisure and her face was like the calm depths of an ocean. A light smile played on her lips throughout, one that typically connects actions to thoughts. She arranged the clothes in neat folds in front of her. Once done, she straightened up, walked out of the room and took a stroll through the house. Her steps were unhurried. Myriad memories flooded back into her mind, each connecting to some parts of this house. She took time, halting at every significant memory, relishing the relief and granting them their due respect.

Coming back to the room, she picked up her bags. Glancing at the group of photos arranged neatly on the bedside table, she carefully kept the bags down. She walked over to them, picked up one at a time and stared. Arranging them back exactly as they were, she picked up her bags again. Walking down the length of the house, she stepped over the gracefully ageing threshold, a subtle smirk hinting the corner of her lips.

As the last bit of the sun’s rays hit the empty room, it lit up one of the photos on the table. It was a photograph of Elle. Elegant, young and beautiful, her photo was framed in exotic wood, extending well beyond the photograph, on the left-hand-side. The wood had carved letterings in gold that read,

“My beloved wife, Elle.

You are eternal in my heart.

1967 – 2017”

The Vicious Cycle of Ever-Penitential Life

“I am so sorry! The staircase is a mess. It’s quite old and musty,” Mouli said apologetically as if asserting her agreement about the staircase with that of her guests. She quickly added, “But it leads to a very beautiful house.” She smiled. The house would definitely compensate the staircase. She ushered them into her parlour and walked them proudly down her corridor before they settled comfortably in the nicest sit-out. “Indeed,” they agreed, “the staircase does lead to a hidden gem.” Mouli’s smile widened.

Few blocks across Mouli’s house, little Lilette was playing with little Jake. They had not met each other in some time. It was Saturday, so Lilette came over to play with him. They sat speaking for a while as he showed her his brand new toy. His eyes sparkled as he taught her how to play with it.

After a while, he got busy playing with this toy and forgot all about Lilette’s presence. She patiently waited as she tried asking him about his lessons at school, waiting for him to ask about hers. When she failed, she felt her presence was perhaps unnecessary. So she told him so, bid a quick good evening to his parents and left. While she felt hurt by Jake’s indifference, she felt rather sorry for not being more patient with him. After all, they have been the best of friends. A few days later, she telephoned him. She did not receive an answer. 

Lilette’s neighbour, Harsh loved food and that fact reflected well on his physical form. Short-built and hulking, he was just about twenty years old, but he appeared to be thirty-five. It was a movie night. His friends were waiting around the corner as he ambled up to them. Every time he laid eyes on his friends, he felt a gigantic wave of despair crashing down upon him. They are all in such good shape, their presence made him appear scruffier. This diffidence weighed down on his shoulders, making them droopy and further shrinking his frame. Sometimes he felt bad about eating so much. But then, there was no helping it. Even the faintest whiff of good food drew him helplessly towards its source. Food was an addiction he was unable to deny. He stood leaning against a wall, the street light illuminating his disgruntled features, as his friends chattered away into the still night.

Right across the circle, Viara walked passed the chattering group in hurried steps. She was wearing a linen shirt, paired up and tucked in well with a knee-length crepe skirt. Her shapely legs sported a pair of chic Stuart Weitzman pumps which made muffled clicking sound on the pavement as she walked. She wished they wouldn’t. It was a still night and she had no business being there, walking about on deserted roads. But there she was, walking down to her apartment which was a couple of blocks away. She had a fight with her boyfriend and had walked out of the party without thinking whether she would be able to hail a cab in time. When she couldn’t get any, she decided to walk. But even as she was processing the decision in her mind, she knew it was not the right choice. She sighed. Impulses! Every corner seemed to have a lurking presence, boring into her with invisible, gorging eyes. She felt sorry for having walked out without thinking. And the stupid skirt clinging to her like that! She wished she was wearing pants and a pair of canvas shoes. She held her breath as she almost ran around the corner that would take her closer to home. She regretted not carrying a decent set of clothes in her bag that would deem her less vulnerable to the innumerable pairs of hounding eyes. She reached home, let herself in and checked her watch. It had taken her about fourteen minutes. She closed her eyes. It was the longest fourteen minutes of her life.

It is surprising how remorseful we are all the time. Whether it is regret for having a worn-out staircase that leads home, a small misunderstanding with a dear friend which ends the most precious relationship, being fat, loving food or for wearing pretty clothes on a deserted street. Sometimes it appears that we are sorry for existing, living and breathing. And since we do exist, we are forever indebted to all the people around us for tolerating our actuality. What we forget often enough is that the people who sincerely want us would walk into the filthiest of places to get to us. They will not be hurt by the merest disparities and cut us out. They would practice more faith and patience and will remain until the end. And they certainly won’t judge us for being fat, what we wear, nor will they let us walk out unprotected into the unknown. It’s time we practice a more unapologetic life, shunning the word ‘sorry‘ whenever we aren’t supposed to be. 

No Ordinary Stairs

She uncoiled and stretched herself. Rolling to her left, she opened her eyes. Staring vacantly ahead for a very long time, she sat up ever so slowly and looked around. She was sitting on some kind of a staircase. Just a staircase. She looked around for something more. There was nothing there. Absolutely nothing. Just staircases. She tried recollecting what happened the day before and how she managed to sleep on the stairs. She could not remember a thing. Standing up, she checked herself. Her clothes appeared to be fine, just a little creased from the sleep. She called out repeatedly but to no avail. She felt a slight bit of unease creeping up from the pit of her stomach. It shouldn’t grow. Closing her eyes she took a few deep breaths. “This happens,” she reassured herself, “when the brain is disoriented, it tends to forget things and just blank out. I just need to calm myself and clear my mind.”

She stretched for a while, focusing on each part of her body at a time. Closing her eyes, she felt every muscle in her body stretch. That felt good.

She needed to find a window. There had to be some sort of hint as to where she was. Looking around she realised she had only two options. She could either go down or climb up. The box-like stairs had no railing, no adornments and no colour. Pale cream, they gave out a soft glow from within. So were the walls. No, they were not made of glass, but not cement, tiles, granite, marble or any of the usual materials either. Not very knowledgeable beyond these things, she felt a little lost. But something in her mind told her that these were no ordinary stairs. She went down a few flights, looking for any sort of window, skylight… any outlet at all. There wasn’t any. Her intuition told her to climb up instead. After what felt like half-an-hour, she started climbing back upstairs. Pausing at the landing, she could not recognise whether it was the same landing where she was sleeping. They all appeared to be the same. She decided to continue her climb.

After what felt like hours, she started feeling extremely uneasy. There was not a single opening anywhere. But it wasn’t a closed space because she was not claustrophobic. The air felt fine. That thought made her pause. Since the time she had woken up, she had not felt any wind, no change in the air pressure, no change in temperature, nothing at all. She felt neither cold nor warm. It was just right and that was how it had been since the beginning.

With furrowed brows, she continued her ascent. She scaled endlessly before realising that neither was she hungry nor fatigued by the continual exercise. The only thing that was weighing her down was her mind that was sliding more and more into despair as it started setting in that there was probably no sign of hope. She sat down as the dreadful thought loomed large. She was, perhaps, irrevocably lost in this strange state of an anonymous labyrinth.

She tried to remember what life was like before the present day. She must have had a past. She must have been someone. Why can’t she remember anything? She could bet she knew her name till a few minutes ago. Why can’t she remember her own name? Did she have a name? But it felt like she did. But now it’s not there. Maybe she could try and recall a known face or the place where she was staying. But where was she staying? What did it look like? She could not remember.

She closed her eyes and tried hard to focus. A mango tree, certain mud pathway, an untidy child, cool breeze, a warm pair of eyes… she couldn’t remember anything beyond this. She let out a slow, heavy sigh. Was it daytime or night-time? She could not tell. She covered her face with her hands and her face contorted. She felt she was crying but no tears came out of her eyes.

She sat like that for what felt like forever. What was the point? She was stuck here. Why keep climbing when she could wait right on that landing until death delivers her from this chaos. But what if she was already dead? Perhaps this was hell… since heaven was out of the question. Maybe a certain after-life. She was doomed to an endless maze of stairs. No, no that cannot possibly be the case. After-life cannot be so blah! A tiny voice from within her told her this was not an after-life. But her thoughts contradicted it. Why else then, after climbing for so long, she felt no thirst, no hunger and no exhaustion? Why was she unable to cry? And if she was not feeling any exhaustion, in all likelihood she was not aging either. Which meant she was stuck here for an eternity. None of it made any sense. Her rational mind pushed her to believe she was not human anymore. But the little voice inside her was persistent in its plea.

She sat there wondering what to do. Afterlife or not, she could not possibly spend an eternity on a staircase. Besides, there was nothing better to do. Steeling her mind, she stood up and started her climb.

A Walk With The Moon

The young woman loves sitting and listening to her mother’s reminisces. The lively glimpses into the life of a joint-family and its pros and cons. That’s why she often gently tugs her into the swirling mass of cheery nostalgia. And her mother never fails her. The older woman gladly plunges into her vivid past, merrily trotting down the familiar, dusty lanes and often fishes out something that has unknowingly left a deep mark on her.

Sometimes the simplicity of the incidents baffles her. But then again, when she sits alone and ponders over them, she realises how simple life probably was at the time and how uncomplicated the common human minds used to be.

She sat at the ledge, thinking about her mother’s family home. To her, it’s her mama bari, in other words, her uncle’s home. She has never met her grandfather. He has passed away long before her mother was married. So mama took over all the responsibilities, being the elder child and a son. It is over 3 centuries old now, the sprawling ancestral home with traditional, old-school architecture, large, airy rooms, full-length windows… dark crimson flooring serving as the base for thick, sturdy walls and high ceilings, from which, rickety fans hung down precariously. Long, winding veranda circles along the inner side of the house and overlooks the ground floor. Even on the hottest of summer days, the house maintains its pleasant, peaceful atmosphere, perhaps because of its untainted make.

Today the dilapidated house has nothing much left in it. Or perhaps, that is how it appears to the outsider’s eyes. But to her mother, it is a treasure trove of memories, it is her home, her childhood, her shelter and an indispensable part of her beautiful past.

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Whenever the young woman visits her mama bari, she gets lost in those web of enchanting stories. To her, the house is like Gandalf, a wise old man who is centuries old. It’s rustic, chipping walls have witnessed generations of happiness and sadness… a silent onlooker to history forever changing colours and taking shape – from black and white to sepia, from sepia to chrome and now, from chrome to HD. As a child, she used to believe the house has some mysterious doorway or a secret portal that leads to a magical land. She only needs to find out where it is. So she would take her little sister along and sneak into every hidden corner of the house. But she could never get access to the rooms behind the locked doors. They still remain mysteriously closed to her.

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Sometimes while walking around the house, she carefully takes in the sealed off staircases, locked and abandoned rooms and the dreary corridors… and then suddenly, the cobwebs recede, the house is washed with lively light, a sudden tinkering laughter is heard from behind one of the closed doors, someone calls her mother from the second floor, her young, beautiful mother runs up the staircase, two steps at a time to meet that distant voice, someone is washing up near the choubachha or the water tank, her nanibuni (mama’s wife) is calling out to the maid from the kitchen, “didiiiii, o didiiii.” Oh and right there, by the entrance, mama is coming back from his shop. The house is merrily buzzing with life and each soul is writing a different story which converges and diverges in time.

Someone calls her from behind and the lively scenes recede, leaving behind a strange echo. She turns and walks back into her gran’s room. Her mother is sitting on the ancient bed, she joins her. She eagerly looks at her mother and mutters in disbelief, “I still don’t believe it. It is impossible Ma. You cannot possibly do something like that.” Her mother gives her a wistful smile. “When I was your age, I used to. The moon used to be my constant companion throughout the night.” So the young woman smiles at her mother’s sparkling eyes and says, “Tell me more.”

“Well, there is always magic in simplicity my darling,” she said. “Whether you believe it or not, that is completely up to you.”

Her eyes grew dreamy and her voice took on a certain youthful chirpiness as she started narrating the past. Every night, before going to bed, she used to open all the windows overlooking the west. Located close to the banks of the Ganges, pleasant breeze often infiltrated the balmy nights. Deep into the night, the room used to glow bright silver as the moon shone directly at it.

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Her mother said, “Even if I was fast asleep, the moon would softly wake me up with its persistent light shining unto me. Then as it gently drifted across the sky, I would follow it with my eyes. Sometimes it played hide-and-seek with me, cheekily hiding behind a dark cloud as I waited for it to show itself.” The daughter smiled affectionately at her mother’s excitement. Her mother continued, “Often, while waiting for it to come out, I used to drift off to sleep. Sometimes I would wake up as it shows itself, sometimes I did not. Serves it right, for making me wait so long!” chided her mother with complete gusto. “And this used to be our secret little game with each other, every single night for so many years.”

As the young woman listened to the story, she wondered whether she has been looking for magic in the wrong places. Perhaps her mother is right. Perhaps there is magic in the simplest of things, things that we often tend to overlook in our busy course of life.

“And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.”  ― Roald Dahl

PS. Dedicated to my mother and to that unforgettable past, that shall forever remain. Always have faith!

 

Drifting into the Light

Sitting close by the window, she stretched out her aged hand towards the table and took out a loose sheet of paper. With a lot of love and care, she started folding it. In a minute it was ready. Her eyes shone as she assessed the tiny paper boat. A beautiful smile lit up her face as her eyes grew distant. She drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes.

Aishwarya Khan Bhaduri

The sky was slightly overcast. She was sitting on the stairs, crying. Her small palms covered her face and tiny drops of tears trickled from in-between her fingers and fell onto her lovely dress, creating a tiny pool of drench. Her little body shook with emotions and fervor. She felt terribly lost and her little heart was brimming with grief.

After a very long time, attempting to wipe away the big fat tears with the back of her tiny hands, she opened her eyes and looked up. She stopped for a moment and looked around. There were two men talking by a tea shop, the smell of freshly brewed tea and bread wafted through the air. A small boy, at the end of the staircase, was playing with some beautiful round glass balls. They were marbles, some of them were exquisite colors. The sun reflected through them and created motley patterns on the ground. She kept watching the boy play. Some left-over drops of tears still trickled down her untidy cheeks but she was oblivious to them.

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She watched intently as his hands arranged the marbles into various shapes with great skill before he started hitting them with another marble. After some time she noticed that his hands have stopped what they were doing and in order to figure out what had led him to do so, she looked up to his face. A pair of clear, sparkling eyes looked straight back at her and she was slightly taken aback by the directness of it all. She froze in place, not knowing how to react and felt as if she has been caught stealing. Moments ticked by and she could feel her heart beating close to her ears. And then, out of the blue, the boy’s face broke into a brilliant smile. And it looked like perfect sunshine.

She awkwardly smiled back and he held out a marble to her. She took it from him and her smile grew. It reflected a serene green light as the sun sparkled through it. She held it tightly in her fist. He stood there thinking for a while. She got up, caught hold his hand and pulled him down the stairs. He followed without questioning. In an instant, they tore through the winding alleys and the fields to the place she loved the most in the world. They almost ran into it when they saw it. He abruptly pulled to a stop and caught hold of her dress just when she was about to tumble into the water. They fell down on the grass laughing. Lounging there for a while, they made figures out of grass. And then suddenly, an idea struck him.

He tore two sheets of paper from his notebook and started folding them. She watched with curiosity as he made two paper boats. One he handed to her and the other he held in his hand and smiled. They carefully walked towards the lake and bent down at the water’s edge. He gently dropped the boat onto the water surface and lightly worked with his hand, urging the boat further into the lake. Looking at him, she followed his lead, her boat lightly towing his into the lake. The weather was sweet and balmy as they sat there watching the two boats sailing into the setting sun. The light lapping of the golden water and the chirping birds returning home from somewhere afar, the moment felt magical.

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She forgot all about her sorrow and looked at her reflection into the water. Her tear-strained face nestled in between cascades of untidy hair. But she found her reflection rather beautiful and smiled at herself. Then suddenly she noticed a smiling face looking back at her from the reflection. He had noticed what she was doing and had popped up beside her. She grinned back and splashed some water at him. He sat back shocked. She was quite sure he was angry with her. Her face fell. Then suddenly, in a flash, he splashed water on her and started laughing. She squealed and splashed water back at him. They kept playing for a while until they realized they are hopelessly drenched.

Climbing back onto the field, they sat under a tree,  then edged closer to each other to keep warm. He brought out the marbles and taught her how to play with them. As the evening drew to a close, she was almost as good as him at the game. It was time for them to go back home. They intertwined their pinkies and promised to each other without uttering a word, they will forever remain the best of friends and the strongest of well-wishers to each other. She saw him smile as his warm eyes reflected the setting sun and she closed her eyes.

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When she reopened them, she was back by the window, the paper boat perched comfortably on her lap and the setting sun was almost nearing the horizon.

The Tiger’s Eyes

He came growling into the night

of my still and steady mind,

looked straight into my eyes,

and just stood.

The bright yellow never wavered,

holding my gaze,

as though they are set in a stone.

Cold beads of sweat

broke out on my forehead,

but I still held the gaze.

My throat was parched

and my soul was tethering.

I knew then, that if I looked away,

all shall be lost.

I needed to trap him inside me

for some time longer, at all cost.

He stood his ground

and I refused to give in.

Suddenly, from afar,

someone started playing the lute

and alas, the trance was broken.

He slowly walked back and all went mute.

The Bird That Took Her Soul

She sat in front of her counsellor and tried to initiate a pleasant, nonchalant smile. But it did not come to her naturally. Just stretching her lips into a smile felt like such a task, she chose to let it be. The counsellor asked her to lean back and feel comfortable. But she felt very edgy and rigid. She did not feel like moving an inch from where she was and how she was, perched at the corner of the couch. Not that she was very comfortable this way, but for some unknown reason, she felt uncomfortable in a very comfortable sort of way.

She forced herself to unfreeze from the position and moved herself. With much effort, she shifted back and placed herself comfortably on the couch. Once settled, she drew in a deep breath and felt rather thankful to have heeded the counsellor’s words. An almost invisible smile played on across her lips before fading away almost instantaneously.

Looking up at the ceiling she felt blank momentarily. She did not know how she would conversate at all. Her throat felt knotted and dry and she was afraid that if she tried to speak, no sound would come out. Or worse, she would probably give out a loud, funny squeak.

The counsellor has started speaking. She shifted her focus back towards him. “So tell me, how did you spend this weekend?” He always starts off the conversation with this question. She found it rather monotonous but always obliged. After all, it is his job. She tried to recall what she did this weekend. Oh yes! Friday evening she sat down with her parents for a while, a matter of simple family affair. But some time into the rendezvous, she felt this sudden rush hitting her. She excused herself and ran off to imprint her idea on the canvas. The evening and almost the entire night, her hands worked tirelessly until the creation was complete.

She does not know if it is truly a masterpiece or not. She is always unsure of her own creations. It’s as if they are always missing something in them. Some important ingredient perhaps. But others liked them as they are. They kept ranting about how good they are and how they always convey so much. She does not think much about all that. She just pours out everything that comes to her, printing them out on any empty space she can put her hands on, filling them up with variant and deep-set colours and emotions. And after they are created, she does not care much about whether they are liked by others.  She does not want to attract the professional critiques anyway. But sometimes they are unavoidable. And she does not stop them from saying anything that they want to say. She does not create art for others, she never did. Her work attracted attention and with that came unwarranted unrequited fame. And after that came demands for specific, guided creations. Unfortunately, she is incapable of saying, ‘NO‘. So she always ends up accepting the offers.

Holly Lay

Saturday was less eventful, at least for a while. She sat whiling away her time by the little pond behind her home. The slight movement of the water and its gently lapping noise soothed her soul. There used to be a fountain here. A few years back, with the help of few friends, she had fought in favour of removing the fountain so that it cannot gorge on gallons of water while the world is facing water scarcity. After long hours of debate, they finally decided on using recycled water. The same water would keep cleaning itself before gushing out of the snout.

Birds chirped somewhere nearby. she turned to see where they are but could not spot even one. All of a sudden, one tiny ball of fur flashed past her gaze and disappeared among the trees. She frantically scanned the area, trying to get a glimpse of it. From nowhere it appeared again and hovered over her . What a beautiful little bird it was! It’s daredeviltry amused her. She sat still, smiling at the bird, watching its tiny green wings effortlessly fluttering at high speed as they worked to keep the quaint thing afloat. It reminded her of Harry Potter’s snitch. Her smile grew wider. After making sure that she is quite harmless, the bird gracefully touched down few metres away from her. It tilted the head slightly to watch her with it’s clear beady eyes, its beautiful blue neck stretched to one side. Then it took two tiny hops closer. as she sat like a stone, almost refusing to breathe, watching the bird in wonder. She felt even her breath might scare it away. Perched just about a meter away from her, it cast its steady intent glance towards her as if gauging her the way she would read her artistic subjects, with minute scrutiny. Then without any prior warning, it flew off without one backward glance and disappeared. She suddenly felt forlorn and distraught. One moment it was right there, weaving this special moment with her that felt magical, the next moment it felt like a dream.

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That night she couldn’t sleep. As if that bird has taken away her soul and all that remained with her was an empty shell. She tried painting on Sunday but she couldn’t. It felt as though she has hit a dead end and a knot formed in her throat. And that is why she is here to meet her counsellor. But now that she is here, how will she articulate what has really happened! Even if she did manage to explain it, he will think she is being  preposterous. So she crisply narrated the course of her two days as if everything was absolutely bland and mundane. Sometimes somethings are perhaps best left unexplained.

Ruminations of a Small Boy

Little Yaksh looked on. There is a train of people moving forward, some dancing, some walking at a slow pace and some crying. Vibrant shredded colours flying about as they flung flowers at the people around them and at the glass box. Yaksh scratched his head. He can see a man sleeping inside the box. He needs to have a closer look. Thinks about running into the pandemonium but he knows he will be stopped. He scowled at the thought. Grandpa is always so strict. He has warned Yaksh not to step outside the threshold of the main door. “A lakshman rekha,” he had said, his eyes big and animated. “It never fairs too well to cross the line.” Yaksh cannot understand why there are constantly so many lines and so many rules. Don’t do this, don’t do that, at the end he was told, “don’t ask so many questions!” But he always has so many questions. And most of them always go unanswered. And yet they are elders and are said to be wiser. Irony! Anyway, for now, he will carefully observe everything and take a mental note as to what he wants to ask Didu.

As he watched the crowd walk forward Yaksh thought about how he sleeps every night. He sleeps with his grandpa and didu. Not in a box like this man. Those people out there are making so much noise. Why is the ruckus not disturbing this man’s sleep? When Yaksh sleeps, he is cozily nestled in between his grandparents and everything is very quiet and calm around them. But he nevertheless turns and tosses whenever grandpa snores too much and he is not able to sleep. The box man has not moved an inch or twitched even, since the past ten minutes in spite of so much noise around him. He is not able to understand any of this. He thought of asking kaka, but then he knows kaka always deviates from the topic by telling him some random stories. 

This man must be about grandpa’s age, given the amount of white hair he has. But he does not seem to be snoring. He has heard his father snore softly in his sleep. It is not as loud as grandpa’s. Sonu does not snore. Sonu is his best friend from school. He had asked didu whether he snored. She had said no. He has tried retaining consciousness while sleeping, in order to hear whether he snores but he kept waking up. Tonight he will try again.

The vividness of the procession dazzled Yaksh. Yellow and orange flew bright and high into the sparkling azure sky. The loud and shrill rhythm of the drums and the trumpet pierced through his ears. Something about the whole scene sent shivers down his spine. His big brown eyes fluttered as a sudden gust of wind pelted huge amount of dust at him. He had to avert his eyes away from the scene in order to avoid the dust from going into them. A child wailed somewhere close by and a car honked. Yaksh looked back when the procession was nearing its end. The flowers remain scattered on the road, a street dog sniffing around and occasionally peeing near the bushes.

Yaksh felt a sudden lull. Sasha, their five and a half-year-old alsatian, was lounging under the shade of the palm tree in their garden. He wished Sasha could speak. That dog was more reciprocative than any human being he has known till date. Maybe she will answer his queries. If she also did not know, they could both sit and ponder on it. He had a feeling, dogs were way wiser than human beings. or at least they appear to be so. Humans worry so much about what to eat, what to wear, money, cars, houses, what to do, what not to do, how to live and how not to live…  a dog just sits under a tree and remains blissfully unaware of all the commotions around her.

Sasha turned to look at Yaksh and their eyes met for quite some time. He looked deep into her lovely beady eyes and it felt as though the dog had some profound understanding of things. She wagged her tail fervently for a while and then went back to lounging by herself as Yaksh looked on. 

The Birch Tree

She sat by the window, staring into space. Several minutes passed by. Then she slowly raised her palm into the sunlight and took a good look at her gradually but surely withering hands, following every weather-beaten line and wrinkle with her eyes. Her face still radiated strength and confidence. But her body refused to cooperate now. The old woman did not have much strength in her legs to get up and walk till the kitchen or the bathroom. Her big, tired eyes looked droopy and distant.

“Ma, the nurse has come to get you ready for the day. Please co-operate with her,” she heard her daughter-in-law say. She always cooperated. When had she ever not! She chose not to say anything and continued to stare outside.
A small boy had come out from one of the buildings. He was searching for something among the bushes. Must be the ball they use to play with. Those boys used to play cricket all the time before. Nowadays they were hardly seen outside, constantly hooked on that remote and the television set. God only knows what kind of fun that was! No running around, no hide-and-seek, no climbing trees…
She recalled her youthful days. When she was young, even at the age of eighteen or nineteen, she used to run around with her friends and siblings, playing on the fields and roads. That used to be the simplest kind of fun!

She sighed. Life does not remain as simple forever. That is the biggest irony. That was the era of the black and whites, where everything was in just two colours. Today the world is full of high definition gradients. But why is it then that the world is not as vibrant and beautiful?
The boy must have found what he was looking for. He straightened up and walked back into the building. The old woman tried to see what was in his hand. Looked like something bigger than a ball. Oh, but her eyes had grown so weak and sensitive. She could not make out what it was even after squinting.
She shifted her focus back to the stub right across the building. There used to be a beautiful birch tree here, tall, regal and quaint. She used to stand at this window and keep looking at it merrily swaying in the wind. When she had first learnt how to use a camera she had hopped around excited, like a joyous school child. And that birch tree had been her first subject. Her husband had subtly chided her for not taking shots of human beings and the dear ones, of him and the children. She did not want to tell him, this tree was what she loved the most. And it had always loved her back, silently, gently as it swayed in the breeze and smiled at her.

She felt a gentle tug from behind. The nurse had come. The old woman was fond of this girl. Beautiful golden hair and pleasant eyes, she remembered the day she had confided in her something quite amusing… or so she felt at the time.
Initially, when she had joined as her nurse and attendant, she used to remain quiet and attentive at all times. The old woman preferred it that way, too much interaction was not her forte. One day when she got a little chatty, she asked the girl about herself and the girl transformed into a completely different person. “I am a huge, huge fan of yours,” she gushed. She went on to talk about her humble past. She admitted that she has read all of her works. When she saw the advertisement for this post, she immediately applied for it and got through. Then she added sheepishly, “I have seen you on covers of your books and on Tv. I have had a girl crush on you ever since.”
The old woman’s amusement knew no bounds. She was spellbound for some time before she could gather herself back together. Once she felt she has found her voice, she said she was humbled by the amount of affection the girl has been harbouring for her. Presently she was quite old and unfortunately not inclined towards women that way. To her surprise, the nurse giggled and said, she had no such intentions herself and she was talking about a moment of the past.
Quite relieved, she asked the nurse why was she still serving her then. She could do something more interesting than serve an old worn-out woman. She had thought for a moment before replying, “It is perhaps because I am being selfish. I expect to learn a lot from you and talk about various things. I want to know and understand your mind from up close, the mind that has created such wonders and has stirred up something deep inside me. I wish to pick your mind.” And all of this she confessed with such subtle honesty, the old woman was quite moved.
Since then, the girl had been her constant companion, reading to her, talking and sharing insights and experiences, while the old woman advised and guided her.

Today, the old woman was quite lost in her thoughts. The girl understood that and silently went about her chores. She did not disturb her. While leaving, she quietly pecked her cheek and closed the door behind her. The old woman kept staring at the stub of the bygone birch tree.