What the Heart Wants

Rachel wheezed her way up the last three steps. Normally she would have waited for the lift, but this was news that couldn’t wait. Dragging herself to the teacher’s lounge, she exhaustedly fell on the sofa. 

There was no one in the room right then - thank God for that - because her breathing was loud and made weird whistling noises. “This is not good” she murmured to herself remembering the many warnings her doctor had given her asking her to lose weight - especially now that she was nearing fifty.

“Rach, are you okay?” 

Marie Therese walked into the room carrying thirty notebooks with the same ease as the smile on her face. Oh, to be young again.

Rachel held her chest with her left hand and signaled to Marie to wait a few moments. Taking a sip of water from the bottle that her friend offered, she finally found the strength to speak. 

“I found one. I found one, Marie!” Rachel's grin was from ear to ear.

Marie’s eyes glistened. “Where? Really? Who?” 

But before Rachel could answer, other teachers began walking into the room and their conversation was cut short.  

__

She could never point to the exact moment that it started for her, but Marie Therese was consumed by the need to hold and caress a baby. Though she was at the peak of her fertility at the age of twenty-nine - as per an article she had read while researching ways to deal with her predicament - she wasn’t in a position to have a child. She had tried many things - prayer, reading, singing and even cooking - but nothing filled that void. She would make excuses to head to the Kindergarten section of the school she taught in; and all the KG teachers would smile awkwardly at this 12th standard Mathematics teacher who coochie-cooed their students. 

This ‘need’ wasn’t all the time, though. It ebbed and flowed. Sometimes, if she counselled her students - which she regularly had to - and she felt that the session had gone unexpectedly well, she would bask in that joy for a few days. Then, suddenly, an ad on TV, or an inconsolable infant in church would rekindle her agony. But, now Rachel's 'find' - a baby for her to cuddle and hold - filled her with an inexplicable joy. 

It wasn’t that Rachel and Marie had been close friends for long. Marie had moved from the school’s branch in a different state to this one just six months ago (because the school’s original Mathematics teacher had suddenly quit and moved continents). Having to take over classes in the middle of the academic year; getting acquainted with a bunch of new teenagers; ensuring that they finished their syllabus as per schedule; and after-school coaching for those who needed help meant that she had time for only cursory greetings with her peers.

Marie and Rachel's friendship came about in a moment. It so happened that it had been a particularly difficult day for Marie; she was on her period, her class had been uncharacteristically roguish - maybe because the academic year was coming to an end, and her principal had called her to give her an earful about not being able to handle the boisterous students.

A physically tired and emotionally exhausted Marie had known from the timetable in the teachers' lounge that all the teachers would be occupied and that she’d have at least forty minutes to herself. So, she had curled up in the corner of the sofa in the teacher’s room and wept softly. The soft rustle of the silk cotton sari that Rachel had been wearing that day had given away her presence; she hadn't known if Rachel had been standing there for a while or had just walked in. But, once they made eye contact, Rachel simply came and sat next to Marie and offered her the bottle of water she was holding. 

That was three weeks ago. Though Rachel didn’t press Marie to confide in her, Marie did end up telling her about her baby-hugging emotional need a couple of days later. “Okay, let’s find a baby to hug then. Easy!” Rachel had declared matter-of-factly. 

Only that it was far from easy. The school was chock full of children, but Marie couldn’t go hugging them and pouring her maternal emotions on students. And Marie’s absolute condition that this stay only between Rachel and herself didn’t help. So, even though there were a couple of teachers who were new mothers with gurgling infants at home, neither Rachel nor Marie approached them with their request. 

Marie would often meet at Rachel’s house. She learnt that her children were both studying to be doctors - one about to finish and the other one just starting. She had lost her husband to an aneurysm when the children were very small. They spoke about each others’ lives, their struggles and joys. Their friendship blossomed. 

So it was that an afternoon of secret crying had made friends out of strangers. 

____

“It’s sometimes a physical ache.” The pain was evident in Marie's voice. 

“I know.” Rachel held her friend's hand.

The bus ride to Valmiki Nagar was not a long one, but it felt like an eternity and when the bus stopped, it felt too short. 

Marie nervously twisted the crucifix on her chain around her fingers. Her breath came out in short bursts. 

Rachel squeezed her hand. “I’m here, don’t worry.”

They walked the short distance from the bus stop to the house. 

It was a small house, almost shack-like. 

“Hello, I am Rachel. Ramji sent me.” Rachel introduced herself to the lady who opened the door. 

“Oh, please come, please come in”. 

The lady's eyes softened at the sight of Marie. “Please do come in, Sister Therese” she welcomed her deferentially. 

The entire house could be covered in three steps to the left and three to the right. The hall was also the bedroom and the kitchen. A small door led to an outdoor toilet.  As away from the stove as possible and near the only window was a little baby, about four months old, sleeping peacefully on the floor. 

His little mouth was slightly open and his small chest rhythmically fell up and down. It looked like he had been recently bathed, because his face was white with powder and his forehead and cheeks were adorned with two big black dots. 

“Lal Bahadur” the mother whispered softly. She led Marie to the sleeping baby. 

Marie’s hands trembled as she touched the baby’s satin cheeks. His brown hair fell down his forehead in delicate curls. Her fingers touched his tiny nose and traced down to his chin. 

Tears fell down her eyes. 

“He’ll wake up in another half-hour” the lady whispered softly, “you can then hold him all you want.”

For the next forty-five minutes Rachel and the Nepali lady spoke in hushed whispers while Marie sat beside the child sometimes making his fingers curl around her little finger and sometimes just staring at his beautiful face. 

When the baby finally woke up, the mother fed him and gave him to Marie to burp. 

It was awkward, it was messy and it involved a lot of spit-up on her black and brown habit*, but Marie handled it with utter joy and gratitude.

It was late when Marie and Rachel bid adieu to Ruchi and her son Lal Bahadur. She had made both ladies promise to come for lunch that Sunday which they wholeheartedly agreed to. 

“I’d like to thank Ramji with fruits, if it’s okay with you Rachel.”

“He’d love that. Apples are his favourite,” Rachel offered, making a mental note to thank her watchman herself. It’s not always that someone would allow a stranger to indulge his sister’s child. 

“Would Mother Superior be mad at you for returning so late to the convent?”

Marie nodded. “I’m going to have to tell her the whole story, from the beginning. She might be a little angry, but I know she’ll understand.”

*habit - an attire worn by members of a religious order. 

Closure

For three days, I‘ve been watching the preparations with the shock and horror of an animal caught unawares. I need some warmth, some love. I desperately want to have Dad comfort me, Mom caress me and for me to strengthen them. But I know that I’ll have to control myself. This battle is personal and we’ll have to face it alone. So, I stand a little distance away, watching and waiting for the final moment.



Though the weeping has stopped; I know that it’s only a matter of time before it begins again. Occasional sniffs and silent tears gently punctuate the overpowering silence. And the weather...as if it wants to say goodbye too, is at its agonizing best-completely overcast, incessant rain and a cold that like a sword is piercing right through the soul. But, I know that this is nothing. The people here, in this small, obscure graveyard, carry in their hearts a weather, gloomier than what they are witnessing now. Or ever will.



‘Closure is the most important part of healing, pumpkin”, Dad had once told me as he had pushed the hair away from my bewildered face. ‘And that’s why mummy needs to travel so far away to see Jay Aunty’s family’. Mom, sadder than I had ever seen her, had tried in vain to smile, to shield me, her little girl, from the pain that had been hers. Her usually sparkling eyes were dull, lost in the memories of a friendship that had been almost as old as her. I had only known Mom as the funny, loud, piggy backing on Dad fireball and to have seen her like this had scared my little six year old heart.



So, forgetting her pain for a while, Mom had spent time cuddling me and telling me how much she was going to miss me and Dad. And as responsible parents, they had given me my first explanation of death. “Everyone will have to go through this, baby. Remember Grandma last year? Remember your little hamster? What? Yes, mummy and daddy too, but don’t worry, honey, not for a long time!” After much hugging and kissing, Mom had finally prepared to fly to her hometown to say goodbye to her best friend, Jay, who had lost her life to cancer. According to convention, she had gone to share the pain. But, even she had known that it was for closure.



This is for closure too, alright.



There is so much sadness, anger and even some amount of fear. But worse than anything I have ever experienced is the grief. Like salt on a gaping wound, it sprinkles itself when least expected and brings with it spasms of anger, and sometimes a numbness so obvious and hollow, that it scares me with its lifelessness.



Every time a leaf rustles or a foot shuffles, a searing pain is going through me reminding me of what is imminent. I want to cry, but I can’t. I am like a spectator witnessing an accident, desperately wanting to help, but rooted to the ground in shock and horror. I wish someone would speak, say something, just anything....everything is so deathly silent, yet, why do I hear the cacophony of a million silent voices? I am scared.



Mom is sitting under a tree, exhausted, almost physically willing the pain to escape through her tears. But the tears aren’t coming. Her spirit is weakened, ready to collapse, like her body. Her sister, my aunt, beside herself with grief, is holding Mom tightly. In vain she is trying to infuse in her some of her own warmth and her desire to live, to survive. Yes, even I’m afraid that in her grief, Mom too might turn cold and lifeless like the body in the coffin, about to be buried.



Dad’s strong arms are folded about him, overseeing in silence the preparatory work for the burial. He seems to be there, yet not. I want to be there for him, just like he has, for me, a million times.



Like the time he had found the cigarettes in my pocket. I had been scared, yet, in the fallacy of my youth and the rebellion of adolescence, I had even been ready to ‘walk out’ if Dad had even as much as raised his voice. But Dad had been a gentleman about it. That weekend, he had bought home a Nintendo –Wii. I had laughed. Undaunted, every single day, he had requested me to join him and despite my reluctance and acerbic remarks, he had continued to motivate me and had taught me to focus, to better myself. Dad didn’t know it then, but I had been experimenting drugs. But after this, the sheer guilt of disappointing him had me choose to give up both the drugs and the friends who were encouraging it.



Dad….I wish I could hug you. But I myself am broken, crushed. The blind can’t lead the blind. For him, the reality of the cemetery contradicts immensely with the comfort of denial. Like a stabbed person, unsure of the blood flowing out of his wound, he is in shock, beyond the pain. So he stands rooted to the ground, staring at the freshly dug grave, looking lost and worse, hopeless.



The gray day seems like night. However, the rain has slowed in intensity. There seems to be a strange, shameless hope. Hope of a better weather entwined with the agony of the finality. Suddenly, my mother, with the anguish of one losing her own life, wails.



The moment has arrived.



The coffin is being lifted. With a mixture of reverence and fear, it’s being slowly lowered to its final resting place. And, as if to pay its last respects, in a final burst of adieu, a painful goodbye kiss, the final embrace before the journey, the sun shines for one brief moment and sunlight falls on the coffin.



And I watch myself being buried.

Acts of kindness

Sama’s countenance brightened the entire corridor. Finally, FINALLY!! She unsuccessfully attempted to quell her grinning (it seemed so inappropriate), but those who saw her didn’t mind at all. She was such a lovely person, so kind and down to earth; she deserved all the joy she was exuding.

It had been two months and eight days since the hospital had become her home. It had been that long since her husband had come home with the fever, complained of uneasiness and later that night had had his first heart attack. Sama always wondered where she had got the strength, both physical and mental, to cope with the situation (being a spiritual person, she knew the answer, but wondered nevertheless). She could never believe how she, a blissfully ignorant home maker, had found the presence of mind to call the ambulance, pack up important things, withdraw money and bring along his health insurance card. The support she got was stupendous. Friends, family, her husband’s colleagues would be there day and night to show their support. Her husband slowly recovered and as days went by, everyone became busy with their own lives (it was understandable) and the visitors slowly stopped coming, making do with phone calls.

But Sama didn’t mind. For two weeks, she and her husband had been shown all the love and care they could ever hope for. And anyways, it had been a pleasant revelation to Sama (and her husband), that she was quite the independent and confident woman, so different from the shy girl who had moved to the city from a little town, to live with her husband. From running about to buying medicines and operation theatre replacements, to getting the nurse to check on his stats regularly, she was a well oiled machine in motion.

It had been close to three weeks after his surgery and doctors had recommended they stay on for at least another month for observations and tests. She definitely didn’t mind being cooped up in the room or becoming a well known face at the hospital, but her practical husband had advised her to go about the place, take a walk outside and get some fresh air. Though excited, she was still scared to venture out alone. But her husband’s confidence in her boosted hers and she did.

Five minutes at a time, she increased her walking duration and her confidence. Taking in gulps of fresh air and reveling in the joy of being freed from inhibitions, she slowly began enjoying her walks. The sights, sounds and smells of the bustling street a far cry from the silence and sanctity of the hospital. The smells of freshly woven jasmine flowers, rose garlands, mingled with the delicious aroma of freshly fried raw banana bajjis, and the smell of camphor from the temple all filled her with a sense of contentment, reminding her of her childhood and her carefree adolescent days. The people were mostly engrossed in their own work, or simply looked past her, which was the way it was in the cities (she had learnt after her marriage). But, she didn’t mind that. It gave her an opportunity to observe them. And it was during one of these walks that she encountered the couple.

They were very old. The woman could have easily been past her eighties and the old man was definitely older than his wife. But, he stood at the fringe of a bus stop (identifiable by the restless crowd all looking in the same direction, three pushcarts selling hot steaming idlis, crushed ice lollies and freshly squeezed sweet lime juice, and not by any sign) with a bowl in his hand, trying to make eye contact with the passers by, to help pay for a day’s meal, perhaps. Sama’s eyes met his, and she heard his plea. She wasn’t sure if it was the ‘oldness’ or the quick checking glances she had observed the old man give his handicapped wife every few minutes, but her heart melted. Buying two neatly packed idlis (with chutney and sambar), she gave one each to the old man and his wife. There was no reaction from the woman, but the old man’s eyes shone with gratitude and there was probably a smile beneath his thick white beard.

It became a routine. For the rest of the month, every day, she would buy this couple their day’s meal and go back to the hospital to recount the tales of the evening to her hospital bound husband. Now, two months and eight days later, after the doctor had given the go ahead for her husband to go home for the rest of the compulsory rest period, Sama stood bright and happy, looking forward to going back to the comfort and convenience of her home, the mango tree in the backyard and her potted plants (which her neighbors were watering everyday). In the joy of the moment, she remembered nothing else, but her husband did. So after some discussion, Sama and her husband decided to do something about the old couple’s daily meal.

***

Raju saw the ‘madam’ give the pack of idlis to the old couple, as she had done so for the past few weeks. He had sold her the food. What a nice person she was. And he knew, that seeing a well dressed lady such as her buy from his shop, several others too had joined his list of customers and he had begun doing pretty well. In fact, he had become so busy that he had to ‘employ’ a young chap every evening to help clean up the dishes. Yes, the past few weeks had been good for his business. And now, this kind lady had given him one thousand rupees and had requested him to continue feeding the couple as before (and insisted that he not tell them who their benefactor was). She was to come back in two month’s time, which would be enough to sponsor their food for another period of time. Kindness was truly divine and this lady was an angel.

***
Sama shielded the sun from her eyes. Her husband, much better than before, turned the ignition off and joined his wife to scan the street for the old couple. There was no sign of them. Raju and his pushcart were missing too. Sama was a little disappointed, her husband could tell, and he gave her a knowing look. They had done what they could. As Sama and her husband were getting back into the car, they heard a ‘madam, MADAM’ and instinctively turned towards the voice. It was Raju. Panting and puffing, he approached the couple.

For three days, he had given the old couple their daily ration of idlis. On the fourth day, they were nowhere to be seen. He embarrassedly told Sama, that he waited for a week before he did what he did. There was a tiny block of place available for rent close by, so he used the money that Sama had given him, along with some of his savings and rented it. He now sold ‘tiffin’, ‘tea, coffee’ and some odd bits and ends like biscuits and sweets. He was doing alright. Yes, much better than before. He felt guilty, he said, for using the money meant for a charitable purpose. And he hoped that the couple didn’t think he was a crook.

Sama’s husband looked at her and she looked down. After what seemed like a very long time, she looked at Raju square in the eye and said, “If you were a crook, you would have never come running to tell us all this.” Raju’s conscience was appeased and Sama went back home feeling glad that the world still had conscientious people.

***

And what happened to the old couple? Sama was not the only one to observe them. A kindhearted gentleman contacted a local old age home run by the Missionaries of Charity which offered them a place to stay and spend their last days in dignity. The old man gladly accepted for himself and his wife. And now, enjoyed more than just one meal a day and more than just idli!


***



Idli

Beautiful

People are always nice to me.



At work, colleagues make eye contact and give me genuine smiles. In the supermarket, I always get served as soon as possible, so that I dont have to tire myself waiting in long queues. Stories of my special illness reach before I do and I always get the best customer service. My happy go lucky nature; sparkling eyes and contagious laughter make me feel nice, it feels like I make other people’s lives just a little better. Its all sunshine for me.



Until I come home in the evenings, that is.



The door is the first reminder of who I am. Its wide frame jabbing at my side, sneering and saying, ‘Welcome back to hell, honey’. I am scared to enter my own house. Because, the truth is always there, sometimes lurking behind the shadows of my memories like a thief, but most of the time, like an ugly scar, commanding my attention. Either ways, it always leaves me like a victim of an accident. Beaten, bruised and in agonizing pain.



It has been what, close to two years now, and the lies I had begun as mere emotional crutches have now become pillars of truths for my sorry existence. Even my conscience has stopped its occasional pricking, and suddenly, the discomfort of spinning my tales has vanished. But if the truth had been told, the world would have known that even though I wasn’t really sick, I indeed did have a disease. And it was in my head.



****



Two years ago, I had met this person at a mutual friend’s get together. Soft spoken, well educated, stylishly dressed, Sam was all that a girl looking to settle down could ever want. But, I wasn’t looking to settle down. I wanted all the fun of a relationship without the strings. He, however, wanted those strings. I knew that he genuinely liked me, maybe even loved me. We had a mismatch right there; I knew it from the start. But, I think I was desperate for a companion and so just went with the flow. He was great, really. He complimented me, bought me wonderful gifts, and took me to great places. He made me glad. But I yearned for wild. For crazy. For mind blowing.



And soon I got what I wanted.



The annual office party was proposed to be held in a beach house instead of the regular conference-socialize-dinner-bye bye schedule in some five star hotel in the city. Everyone was so excited. My excitement however was short lived as soon as I remembered that I’ll have to bring Sam along as my ‘guest’. Not like he embarrassed me or anything, but, I had a feeling that I wouldn’t be able to ‘socialize’ as well as I would normally, if he were around. So I lied to him; told him that it was a very confidential, senior -management –alone- invited business meet slash dinner weekend and that even though I really wanted to him to come along...



His understanding nature was almost pitiful. He believed in ‘putting himself in another’s shoes’. That’s why, when I told him about this, despite his immense disappointment, he analyzed, rationalized out loud and came to a conclusion that agreed with what I had initially wanted. Phew.







***



The beach house was great! The sea, the sand, the people, the booze! I walked hand in hand with him, to the immense envy of the other women!



He was a colleague’s friend, and very single. We had both tried to play the mating game, a few minutes after I entered the beach house, but the fact was that there was no need. Even the simplest act of him staring at me while I was pretending to ignore him was ecstasy in ways I had never known, I savored it. Though we didn’t speak a word to each other, the vibes were not very hard to miss. Our chemistry was, simply put, explosive. A single glance my way made me stand singed to my skin, vulnerable and wanting. Passing him in the hallway, experiencing the merest hint of his body’s heat, filled me with a pleasure so intense that I wanted to throw up. And experience it some more, again.



In this entire lustful, silent, hullabaloo, was there even a moment that I thought about Sam? About the man waiting at home for me, planning some silly surprise to ‘make up for the boring meeting, darling’? No, I don’t think so. However, there was this one awkward microsecond when my conscience did unexpectedly rear its groggy head, but I put it to sleep with a shot of vodka. I was in no mood for advice.



It had begun with a tingling at the nape of my neck, the mating games were over and now, it was time for the ritual.



What a night it was. He gave me all. Crazy, fun, wild, passionate, he was everything I wanted in a man. We had very little conversation and whatever we had, he had me in splits. It was great being with him. He was a painter, two years my junior. Quirky, unpredictable and innovative, he was as opposite to Sam as fire was to water. Before the weekend was over, I knew that this wasn’t.



So, it was adieu to boring Sam, right? No. In a twisted, contorted way, I realized that I didn’t want to leave him. Not because I loved him or because he gave me expensive gifts, but because at that time I had believed that being with him reminded me of what I secretly had. Like letting myself go hungry before I went for a banquet, I spent days with Sam, to only savor more my nights with the painter of my dreams.

***



My house is engulfed in darkness; it always is, because I keep it that way. Sometimes I feel like I am a bat in disguise- light hurt me, darkness comforted me. Today was not a nice day. So many random things happened and each, like a stab from a dagger, pierced my heart with the memories of my past. It shook me from the stupor of my routine and reminded me of all the things I had lost. And how. It reminded me of that fateful day. I turned high the volume to the TV and in hopes that it would drain out the screaming in my head. And distract me from noticing the shadow I was casting.



***



I don’t think I was a bad person, just a pretty girl, conscious of her strengths and intelligent enough to use it to her advantage. And it was during this strategic time that I had met Sam. Apart from being rich and handsome, he was so.....unaffected by the bad things of the world. Don’t get me wrong, he wasn’t gullible or anything, just, pure hearted. The kind of person you would expect to return your borrowed car with a full tank. He was a serious, self made guy, believed in love, in compromises, in adjustments. He was too nice for his own good, and I think, the universe conspired and brought him to me, to strike the balance.





The day I met him, it took me three minutes to realize that this guy was besotted. He had later confessed that he had been too nervous to approach me and had waited a good three months before he had worked up the courage. He was so different from any of the men I had been with. He didn’t play games with me. He was sweet and never shied from telling me that he loved me. I didn’t want to be affected by sweet words, because, from my previous experiences, I knew that all this led to just one thing. It stood on four legs and had a mattress on top. But his sincerity and honesty began making inroads into my defenses. That was the time I should have let go of my inhibitions, broken down my walls. But, old habits die hard. And even at twenty eight, along with deep desires to be ‘normal’ and ‘settled’, I was also craving for wild, crazy and mind blowing.



And again, the universe conspired and sent the painter into my life.





***



You just know when it isn’t your day, or your evening. First the TV stops working suddenly and the next thing I know I've poured strawberry syrup all over myself. And now as I am washing away the sticky liquid from my hand, I resist the impulse to glance at myself in the mirror. I dont have to see my face to remind myself of my condition. My hands, my feet, my body are enough reminders. But, looking into the mirror would force me to look into my eyes and a fallen person like me just didn’t have the guts. Yet, today, after many months, maybe because of the couple I had seen sharing an ice cream, I want to take a peek, catch a glimpse, to see, if the years that had gone by had given me the guts to face myself.



***







The day Sam and I got married, a year after we had met, I decided to stop everything ‘infidel’. I was now a man’s wife, I was Mrs. Sam and I had an expectation to live up to. I had even quit my job, taking up freelancing and giving myself fancy titles. When I broke off with the painter, to my immense relief, he took it well. He didn’t know I that I was married, just that 'things were not working out' and 'grandma was ill and needed me'. So we said goodbye on good terms and parted as friends.



Does an alcoholic ever ‘leave’ his addiction? Does a slave to cocaine really give it up for ever? Though being a wife was nice, suddenly, I began fantasizing about the days when I wasn’t addressed as a Mrs. And as passionately as a lion prowling for a prey, thoughts of the painter began to percolate into my mind. He was a living breathing reminder of my ‘wild days’. Devoid of any feelings for him, I just wanted to meet him to experience a ‘thrill’. Just once. And I promised myself that promiscuity would then have seen the last of me.



Maybe I should have heeded the signs. No, I should have heeded the signs. I had chosen the middle of the week for my little secret rendezvous. Sam would be busy with work and won’t notice if I came back home a little late. But, on that day (of all the days) Sam decided to stay back home and take rest. I had to catch a train to a different town and time was running out. So, like a good wife, I made him some soup and bolted out of the house, in case he saw the guilt in my eyes. The car wouldn’t start. Hearing the engine dying after every ignition, he came out, fixed it and sent me out to my adultery with a kiss on my forehead. I should have stopped the car and went back home with him. All the four signals I had to cross before I reached the station were red. I should have taken a U turn and gone home to my sick husband. The train was twenty minutes late. I should have cancelled the ticket, repented and gone back to Sam, given him a hug and stayed home with him. But despite the heavy feeling in my heart, despite my intuition screaming, asking me to turn back, I entered the train.









***



Its amazing how one simple thing can lead to another to another to another. A couple sharing an ice cream, a smart woman in a business suit, a metallic grey Volvo, reminded me of the things I had wanted to forget and leave buried in the recesses of my mind. Led me to look at myself in the mirror, to search for my wedding photos, to see the videos Sam and I had taken together and to bear the searing pain in my heart. It was self inflicted punishment- my penance.



***







That day, when I sat beside Sam’s bed in the hospital, his eyes dilated and unfocussed, I couldn’t move. My heart was heavier than myself, and I wasn’t sure whom the doctor had meant when he said, ‘no hope’. I had died and gone to hell, because along with my body, my soul too was burning in the fire of my guilt. Sam’s hands were in mine as I willed with all my heart, praying like a child; to a God I had forgotten long ago, to even replace his life with mine.



After receiving everyone’s condolences and saying good bye to the last of those who had come to pay their final respects, I went back to our room. Sam’s and mine. The empty bed stood before me as a testament of my life. It was by losing him that I realized how much I needed him. It was his absence that helped dawn on me that I was in love with this man. That I had loved him from the moment he had said ‘hi’. I had loved him when I was at the beach house; I had loved him when I was in the train. I had always loved him. And with the viciousness of an enemy who pulled out my heart with his bear hands, the universe witnessed with a smirk, the crumbling down of me.



His heart attack was so sudden and unexpected that even he didn’t know what to do. Had I been there.........but it was all over. Sam had died whispering that he loved me. What a pitiful, sorry, broken creature I was, wailing with the pain of lost love in my heart.



***





The photos and CDs are back in the box. This evening was tremendously painful and not to mention exhausting. As I slowly ambled towards my bedroom, I feel like the door has sensed my pain. Its not sneering anymore, just seems to look at me with pity.



After Sam's death, the grief and the loneliness had gotten to me. Or maybe it was my guilt. Or maybe it was all of it. I became a recluse. I moved into a different town, far away from where I lived, someplace where no one would know me. After a year and a half of mourning and negligence, one day, while entering my house, I had to call emergency services, and to the humiliation of me, waited, as the carpenters broke the door around me, to make way for me to get through. The entrances to all the rooms in my house had to be widened to accommodate me.



I now work in an obscure shop, existing one day, to get through the night and exist through the other. The very beauty that I had found to be my weapon, my pillar of strength had, like a fair weather friend deserted me. The very men, who would have otherwise openly stared at me in admiration, now ignored me, as a gesture of kindness- so that I didn’t have to see the looks of disgust on their faces.



If anyone cared to ask, I began saying that I had a 'special illness'.



My size, so markedly obvious, made me famous in ways I had never wanted to be. So, to bear the barbs, I began laughing along with them, my sorrow and my grief hidden behind my smiles and laughter.



It was now time to sleep. To forget the agonies and the guilt for a few hours and hope that Sam would come in my dreams and call me ‘beautiful’.

Marriage Miracle

The sunset enchanted her. The waves, the sand, the palm trees and for some reason, even the long stretch of road was making her heart bubble with joy. She thought back to the last week, trying not to let the glee escape her lips. She was married! The ceremonies, the million little things that her parents and brothers made sure were in place, the wedding, the….here she blushed a little….first night. She stole a glance at her husband, his serious face focusing on the road ahead. How she loved this man….she couldn't even begin describing the joy that he brought into her life. He was a good person and a wonderful lover. Though, throughout the journey, he had seemed a little pensive. She desperately wanted to ask him again if everything was ok, but remembered what her sister had once told her “Nish, if there is one thing, just one thing that you must know about men- it’s to not nag. If you don’t get an answer for a question right away, wait. There will come a time.” Nish smiled as she remembered the few days before the wedding, when her sister and she had had ‘the talk’! How they had giggled and laughed! She did miss her family, but right now, her senses were saturated with love, kisses and caresses.

They were going to meet his aunt. She thought it was silly of her, but, sensed an undercurrent of a certain something that she couldn't place. Was it his body language? He always looked elsewhere, portraying a noncommittal air that she thought deeply contradicted with the expensive gifts he had bought for his aunt as well as the almost eighteen hour drive he had volunteered to. Come to think of it, she thought it was pretty weird, the silence that had descended over the entire house when they had begun getting ready to leave. She tried to push these thoughts to the back of her mind, reprimanding herself for criticizing her husband and his parents. They were mighty nice to her and it was so sweet of them to have gifted the house that she and her husband were going to move into after this trip. Anyways, she decided to look forward to meeting her husband’s aunt. She had a house right by the sea side and imagining her husband and herself walking along the shore, hand in hand, stealing kisses only doubled her excitement!

--------------------------*

Nisha wiped her tears even as she curled up trying to draw some warmth from herself. She could still hear voices below and knew that they were probably still discussing what had happened. The mere thought of the incident and the ensuing row brought fresh tears to her eyes and again, she sobbed. She couldn't believe the transformation in her husband. Why pretend to be nice initially and then turn into a screaming, yelling monster? She pulled the blanket over her ears, trying to shield the distant voices that seemed to her as if they were just blaming her over and over again.

--------------------------*

The day they reached the house, it was already late, so after a brief introduction and a simple supper, every one went to bed. Her husband’s aunt had welcomed her with open arms, was so jovial and cheerful. It was such a pleasure to be in the same room as her. Nisha’s husband however, had completely changed into a serious, glum looking person, so different from the naughty, hilarious man she had encountered just a few months ago. Assuming that it was just the long journey, she didn't press any further and snuggled up in the warm bed, beside her handsome husband and slept a wonderful sleep.

The next day too, her husband’s introversion continued, leaving her a little confused and frankly, annoyed. Auntie however, left no time for her to brood over her husband, taking her all over the little town, showing her the shops, the farms, the romantic beaches; she had actually winked at Nisha when she said ‘romantic’ making her blush violently and at the same time double up with laughter. When they went to the bird sanctuary, a few hours away from the town, her husband refused to hike up to the hills and it hurt her a little, that he declined her requests, but all it took was a “Prathee…” from his aunt and he was instantly on his way to the top. Well, as long as it was an aunt and not some other younger, prettier woman.

--------------------------*


She heard footsteps and quickly proceeded to wipe her tears and pull the blanket tighter over herself. She didn't want to talk to her husband right now, maybe not for quite a while, after the way he had treated her, that too in front of strangers. The door to her bedroom opened as silent tears streamed down her face.


--------------------------*

The visit to the bird sanctuary was especially dear to Nisha, as her husband began to ‘thaw’ a little and at one point, when no one was watching, even held her hand and kissed her. Her heart was just bubbling over and she couldn't wait to get back home for some more well deserved intimacy. When they returned home, Auntie’s two sons were also there with their families. It was the best get together Nisha had experienced after her wedding. Auntie’s sons were perfect gentleman and their wives treated her like a little sister. They wouldn’t even let her set the table. Nisha alternated between playing with the two children who were just like their grandmother, bubbly and energetic, and participating in the conversations. After dinner, the children were put to sleep and the adults were catching up on family gossip, while Nisha listened in and learnt the names and characteristics of at least a dozen relatives she had met at the wedding. It was only when she asked Auntie about Uncle, that she noticed two things. Her husband, who had been holding her hand for so long, suddenly let go and she, personally, had a sense of foreboding.

Auntie just smiled and asked her younger daughter-in-law to get the family album from the showcase. Nisha being closest to it offered to do the honors and proceeded to carefully remove the album from among the scores of books in the case. She wasn’t sure if it was the hike at the sanctuary, or the bulky album or just the fact that there were six pairs of eyes staring at her back (being a victim of terrible stage fright), Nisha swooned slightly and in the process her elbow knocked over something. It was probably a second later that she heard a crash and a few seconds more for her to feel the sting of a slap, but, it was eternity, when she dropped the album and stared into the eyes of her husband, whose face was so severely contorted with rage, that for a moment, she feared her very life.

Pandemonium broke out as Auntie’s sons immediately came to restrain her husband, while Auntie and the daughters in law, tried in vain, to console the heart broken Nisha. But she couldn’t hear anything. There was a silence that surpassed all their words and noise. Humiliated and hurt, she broke free from the embrace of the concerned women and went to her room, her eyes streaming down only a fraction of the pain that her heart felt.

--------------------------*

“Nisha….” Auntie’s caring voice reminded her of her mother and she couldn’t pretend any more. As she began sobbing, Auntie’s gentle embrace began comforting her and after a few minutes, the sobbing gave way to silent crying. Auntie spoke to her saying “You must not be angry with Prathee my dear….what he did is unforgivable, yet, you must find a way to forgive him. His behavior today has shocked us too…but I can understand…” Nisha’s look of disbelief prompted her to elaborate as her own eyes began to well with tears. “When Prathee was about ten years old, he and his parents had come here for a vacation. My husband was the Professor of Marine Biology in the college that’s right beside the sanctuary. Prathee like all boys his age was a very curious young child. His affection towards his uncle was so great that he used to confidently say that he would one day become a marine biologist himself. He especially loved the sea. Was so daring and adventurous, had a careless abandon. My children have been warned several times not to go near the sea when not accompanied by adults; they were older boys then and so were more acquainted with the perils of the ocean. But nothing stopped Prathee. I still remember him, thin like a reed, shy, yet, jumping out of his pants even before we reached the sea and abandoning all his inhibitions, running into the ocean. All of us fearing his safety would scream and run after him.” There was a joy in Auntie’s face, the recollection of those days, with her husband, probably. Nisha had stopped crying by now and was intently listening to Auntie’s narration.
But before Auntie could continue, the door to the bedroom opened and her husband and cousins walked in. Nisha’s heart contracted within her, the sight of her husband, bringing back the agony that had been hers just a while ago. But, there was something about him that stopped her from turning her face away from him, from stonewalling herself to the vibes of regret he was sending her way. It was his eyes. They were moist, his eyelashes, clumped, some still wet from….tears? And her heart just melted.

Auntie and the others left the couple alone. For a few minutes no one said anything, however, aware of the embarrassment of his actions, Nisha took the first step and asked him to sit beside her. With a burning shame, he apologized for his behavior. She smiled and forgave.


--------------------------*

The new house was beautiful. Everything went according to plan, oh except for the curtains. He had been quite persistent about wanting red ones (they go with the wall, he had said), but, her knowledge of color therapy combined with her persuasive skills finally won, so light green with lemon yellow flowers it was.

As she sipped her coffee waiting for him to return from dropping his parents home, she thanked God for Auntie who had helped her understand her husband. Someone she had known for so long, yet only came to know just a few days ago.

The day prior to leaving, Auntie had taken Nisha to a beach, some distance from the house. There, she proceeded to tell her about how, one evening, when Uncle was returning from the college, he had spotted Prathee all alone, venturing out into the sea. The little boy, who didn’t know how to swim, soon panicked and was dragged into the depths of the ocean. She told her how her husband, who already suffered from heart ailments, had managed to save the child, but suffered a heart attack and within hours of saving a life, lost his own.

Prathee owed his life to his Uncle, but, at the same time, for so many years, was consumed by the guilt of his actions. No one ever spoke about this incident after that, which was probably wrong, because, it would have been better to talk about it and calm a child’s raging conscience. The vase that Nisha had broken was Uncle’s gift to Auntie on their first wedding anniversary and it was ridiculous, how Prathee was more concerned about these things than Auntie herself.

Auntie and her sons, that night, spoke to Prathee at length, consoling him, helping him appease his scarred conscience and finally find some peace. That which should have been done nineteen years ago was done and Prathee could finally breathe. In those few days, Nisha felt like she had known her husband for eternity. She loved him more, for his gentle soul, for the loving person that he is.


--------------------------*


Nisha heard the car coming in; she smiled as went to open the door of ‘their’ house for her husband.


--------------------------*

Best Friend

He was a common sight there. The legless beggar, his aluminum bowl, his crutches, the ragged wooden stick (to keep unruly children and dogs at bay) and the brown dog, pale pink skin (with powdery white on the edges) showing where the hair had fallen off, bitten off, who knows.

Every morning, like the sun, this man and animal pair would slowly walk the long (for the legless beggar) walk from the slum dwelling ten minutes away from here. Here was a junction. Spices met textiles and became friends with cosmetics, wheat and rice were neighbors and there was the medicine shop. Men and women, walked up and down the shops, children stopped by at the cycle repair shop, getting their wheels blown for a rupee, while pretty adolescent girls could get it done for free. They would ride away with a scorn mingled with a flattered smile – some boy liked them, even if it were the shabby, smelling of grease (and sweat) cycle shop boy. Their lists began thus.

In the midst of all this, sat the old beggar and his dog. But no one really paid any attention to the old beggar or his older looking dog. I call him old, because he was wrinkled and white haired. He could have been a decent fifty five, who knows, who cared. The bakery (Iyengar’s Best Bakery) beside the chicken shop (Akbar Proeteeins – For your meaty needs) was kind enough to give him a bun and the dog a slice of bread every day. They survived, somehow on buns and bread, this man and animal pair.

For years, this (legless) beggar and the (partially bald) dog, earned their daily bread (literally) this way. No one remembered not seeing them. Shops came, shops went. The junk and old newspapers shop gave way to an internet café, the pharmacy had once been a local DMK makeshift office, the bicycle shop was a relative new comer as was the meat shop. It was Shanthini Textiles and Iyengar’s Best Bakery that had been around for long, but if you were to ask them, even they wouldn’t be able to remember a time when the beggar or his dog weren’t around. Maybe they were right, maybe they weren’t. No one really cared.

Every other week, a kind lady would drop a bag of almost rotting oranges or apples or bread or whatever it was that needed to be given away, not eaten by the household. Or a moral science class inspired ten year old will donate the Lay’s potato crisps he had bought with his saved up one and two rupee coins (Do a good deed a day until it becomes a habit) and walk away with a glow, awed at how good it felt to do a good deed, promising to do it every day; forgetting it as soon as his father beat him with his belt for scoring less in math.

But, they survived, somehow, this man and animal pair on such generosities. No one ever bothered them, for they never bothered anyone. He wouldn’t even call out for alms, this legless beggar. Lost in contemplation, eyes closed, only the slack, open mouth and the gentle snore would give away his guise- he slept. But his hand however, forever, was on the dog. Those who noticed the rags and the bowl dropped in a coin or two, that’s all. The dog, silently sat beside its master, the beggar master, the master who depended on the goers by and the comers in for his daily bread, not unlike the dog. Fiercely protective of its food provider, its master, its only ‘human touch’ (for who would touch a leprous dog?) it growled when the odd stray dog came within its sight, or when the children from the slum, their slum, came to meet their friend (the bicycle shop boy) and would stand jeering at the legless beggar, nondi pichakara (their blooming manhood recharged with gossip of who slept with who and which girl was easy). One of them would kick the tar less excuse for a road and mischievously watch the beggar and his tufts- of- hair- lost dog’s reaction through a film of brown dust. The dog would growl and the beggar, look away. Sometimes, when their testosterones were running high, a pebble or two might be hurled at him. Or them. Whoever. Who cared.

The gentle soul from the bakery, would sometimes care. When the hooligans began their ‘look who is tough enough to break that beggar’ stunts, he would come screaming at them, in his broken Tamil, tainted with Malayalam. Nasally, he would call them and their mothers names, punctuated with a ‘patti’ and a ‘thendi’. The boys would scoot- their little masculine egos hurt. Promising themselves, each other that one day the lungi (lifted precariously high, showing his checked undershorts) clad bastard would meet his death, through them, one day…some day.

Why he cared, even he didn’t know. But to, that lonesome twosome, his heart went out. Away from his home in Kerala (a night’s journey by train and a ‘bumby’ bus ride for three hours he would tell anyone who asked), he felt a stranger in this land of the Pandis. From his shop window, he could see another one who felt (probably) a stranger here too, stranger among those who didn’t have to beg to eat. So, all six days (Sundays closed) he would donate a bun, the cheapest of the lot (50 paisa only) and walk away feeling the same glow of the ten year old mixed with philosophies of the unfairness of life running in his head – a result of age. Only, no beatings for him, he had run away from all of that.

So like father and son, like thick friends, like a couple, this duo would walk (with crutches) and trot (the dog, of course) up, in the mornings, and down, in the evenings, to his shack, beside the sewer, the only place that he could find for himself and the dog. Even for a slum dweller, in cramped conditions, he had no neighbors to boast of. Just he and his dog. Six years ago, he had found a pup, lying in the rubbish, probably beaten by devils own little children or attacked by other dogs. In his scavenge for food, he found this little fellow, whining (that’s what caught his attention). So he grabbed the puppy and the half eaten packet of Parle-G lying next to it. They broke bread together (biscuit, to be precise), this man and animal. And it had been so for six years. Could be since forever. It didn’t really matter.

But it had begun to matter to the beggar. The dog was refusing to eat the slice of bread. It was refusing to drink water (not the sewer water, water from the municipality tap), it even refused the bit of bun. Sometimes, he noticed that the dog would sit staring at him, or something and suddenly its eyeballs would whirl up inside its lids and it would wheeze. The breath of death. His heart would clutch within him, this legless beggar’s. He would pull the dog to him, rub its tummy, its neck, its back, something, look at me, get those eyeballs back. And the dog would stop its deathly wheeze, the eyeballs would come back. Tired, it would bring its paws together; gently lay it’s head on them and sleep. Ears flopped.

Death has a smell. You can smell it, from far. Decay and decompose come later. This is different. It’s a tangible smell. It has tentacles. They swish, the sway. And are cold. Like the fingers of a witch, long, grey and gnarly, they clasp the heart. Tendon by tendon, tendril by tendril, they pull it apart. You know, that its time.

He knew too. But he didn’t care. He didn’t care about death. He didn’t care about the bun before him. He didn’t care about the crowd gathering around him, he didn’t care about the tch tches of the housewives and the wrinkled noses of their children. He didn’t care about the blood running down his back. All he cared was about his dog. He cradled it like a baby. Stiff legs, open, as if to embrace. Bloody mouth. Bleeding. He gently patted its parched back, like a mother her sleeping child. Sleeping the sleep of eternity. He swayed, side to side, a lullaby in his head. Shhhh…cant you see, my baby is sleeping. Keep quiet, please.

The moist eyed malayali, moist hearted, drawn by the crowd, gently (as was his nature) asked for way, through the crowd, to pay his condolences. No broken Tamil this time. Just, ‘Ende deivamey’. There was a white van; there was an almost black man, in faded white, tinted blue uniform. There were a few curses, the dog wouldn’t leave its master, or the master wouldn’t leave his dog. Mother, child. No one knew. Did they care?

No one remained. The dust from the van had settled, people had begun their going ins and coming outs. There was just a junction and at the junction sat an old man, wrinkled and white haired, crutches by his side, an aluminum bowl and a ragged wooden stick. For those who had seen him before, they knew that he was incomplete, like an ocean without a shore. Incomplete. For those who hadn’t, he was just a legless beggar. With red eyes. Drunk maybe. They didn’t know the truth, did they? Did they care?

A few days and everyone forgot everything. Just a passing breeze. They didn’t even remember the beggar any more. Out of sight, out of mind. They malayli gentle man would often wonder. There was a bun waiting. No more bread slices. But he didn’t know that he was better of selling them for the 50 paisa that they were worth, because he didn’t know that there was no one to eat it.

Companionship is like a fountain of life. You draw from it, you drink from it. You play with the waters, you quench your thirst, you sprinkle yourself with it. You live with it and it lives with you. It nurtures you and you grow, blossom. You can’t remember a time in your life when that fountain wasn’t there and you can’t imagine a time in your life when that fountain is not going to be. And like all good things, the fountain comes to an end. And you wither inside. Maybe that’s why, that night, a heart wrenching cry was heard, maybe that’s why after some time (or maybe it was the smell of death) the night soil worker couldn’t sleep and stood outside the shack and repeated his, ‘aiya, enna aachi?’(Sir, what happened) maybe since there was no response, he tentatively walked into the shack and saw the picture of a little blonde girl, with blue eyes, saying shhhhhh…silence please, he saw the aluminum bowl, the ragged wooden stick, the crutches. Maybe that’s why he saw a dead man. Legless, broken hearted and dead.

Reunion

Ram sat on the window sill contemplating what to do, while trying to keep his mind from screaming in panic. It first started as a mere irritation, turned into a bit of anger and slowly metamorphosed into the panic that was beginning to gnaw at every cell in his body. He suddenly felt so helpless, so small, so….in need of her.

Today was Wednesday, when Geetha had her weekly meetings, hence came home after 7pm. It was Ram’s duty to make sure that he came home early to take care of little Sid. The barely five yet child came home from school at 2, stayed in the neighbor’s house with another kid his age till about 5, when Geetha would pick him up from there as she came back home from office. That was the routine everyday, except on Wednesdays. That was Ram’s day. He knew that the child loved these days when, to give him and himself a break from routine, father and son would go to the beach, eat ice cream, talk about the day and after several attempts at restraining the little boy, the father would let him play in the sand and hold his hand while he shouted in glee as the waves came gushing forth in all their glory.

That was probably the only time that Ram smiled. His relationship with Geetha was going nowhere. The love they had shared before marriage and the few years after marriage seemed like a dream. Geetha was busy with her work, barely had time for him, in fact, barely had time for herself. It had been years since they spent time together, just them. Where did all the love go? Marriage was supposed to be a fulfillment of love, not its strangulation. Did he love her? Did she love him?

Stop! This wasn’t the time to shed tears about a stumbling marriage. Sid was missing and Ram was panicking. He picked up his cell phone and called Geetha.

“Geetha, can you come home immediately?”

“Ram, I am just about to wrap the meeting, can’t this wait?”

“Listen….it’s about Sid. He is missing.”

Silence.

“I’ll be right there."

***

Geetha fought many things at the same time. Anger, frustration, panic, helplessness and tears. How could Ram be so careless? Where could Sid have gone? Was he kidnapped? Was he safe? He loved watching the vehicles go zip past on the roads…was he..NO!!NO!She had to stop these pessimistic thoughts. She quickly parked her bike and came running up the two floors, too impatient to wait for the elevator.
Sid, Sid. Her only child. Her only hope. Her only reason to still be in this marriage. What will she do?? God! Please let him be safe. Please.

***

Ram stood behind Geetha as she and the neighbor tried to cajole information out of Sid’s little friend. All that they could make out was that they had begun playing hide-and-seek and while he was still counting, Sid went and hid somewhere and now it was time for homework, so if they saw him, could they please tell him that the game is over and that Sid has to be the catcher tomorrow?

Ram could literally feel the panic waves from Geetha hit him, as he was sure; the vibes from him were hitting her. He was so thankful when she had walked into the room. He literally heaved a sigh of relief, like they had almost found Sid. Geetha was here, things were bound to take a positive turn now. He was grateful to her for not blaming him or jabbing him with acerbic accusations. He wanted to cry, it was his mistake. He should have been here by 5; the damn Union and their bloody damn stories about bad management. He had stuck around to talk to some colleagues and by the time he reached the neighbor’s house to pick Sid up, it was almost 6.30. It was his fault Sid was missing now and it was terribly decent of Geetha not to mention it.

After searching the vicinity and talking to few more people. Geetha and Ram went to the school, informed the staff in charge that Sid was missing, went to the local police station, lodged a complaint, gave Sid’s recent picture and description and came back home.

The silence was overwhelming. The grief, palpable. They both sat on the sofa, each lost in their own thoughts. Ram’s were as much about Geetha as they were about Sid. She was so beautiful.Inside out. It seemed like motherhood had only made her more charming. She was staring at the tea table. Her shoulders slumped, head hung, eyes glazed. She was so sad, so hurt. And it was all his mistake. He was the reason Sid was missing. He was the reason the marriage was slumping.

He had begun spending more and more time at office. For the Union. He was a smart, successful individual and everyone came to him for advice. Slowly, he had a following and soon he was giving speeches and fighting elections. He was now the Deputy General Secretary of the Union and it was almost a given that he would be the next General Secretary. Coming home late, going out of station for days in a row, sometimes weeks, until one day Geetha told him that enough was enough, and in case he forgot, they had a child and Wednesdays had to become Ram’s days. He started the crack and his indifference to the widening was only making it wider.

He got up from the sofa, walked up to Geetha and sat beside her. She didn’t even stir. He felt so awkward. But it was his doing and the undoing had to be his too. The days before their marriage, he couldn’t keep his hands and eyes off her. Her soft supple skin, her beautiful eyes, her melodious voice, her glorious hair, her sweet lips…oh, how he missed her, how he loved her. It was as if all the lights had been switched on, as if all the dams were broken and the waters gushed out. He put his arms around her and hugged her. God, it had been so long since they had hugged. He gave her the bear hug that she loved. Held her close to him as she sobbed, wept her heart out and hugged him back. He held her as his tears fell on her neck. As he said a thousand sorrys’ to make up for the lost years. Sid was their unification. He was the result of their love. How could they, who loved Sid so much, have drifted apart? It was downright silly for two people to love their child so much and not love each other. He loved her and told her so. She sobbed as she told him that she loved him too.

The bell rang. Wiping their tears, the reunited lovers rushed to the door. It could be the police, could be anyone. God, let it be Sid. Please.

And there she was, their neighbor. WITH SID!!! The earth would never have witnessed a scene so full of joy and love as Geetha wept and picked up Sid in her arms, held him close to her bosom and kissed him a million times. Ram, let the child be with the mother and hugged them both and kissed them. There were tears in his eyes. The neighbor apologetically narrated the tale of hide and seek which the two children had decided to play; and Sid, of all the places had decided to hide in the almirah, and fell asleep!! At about 8pm, when the family had sat for dinner, there was a loud cry from the bedroom and a totally freaked out neighbor and her husband ran to discover the origin of that scream! And lo and behold! It was the lost child!

After many grateful handshakes and thank you s, the small family stood inside and said a prayer of thanks to the Almighty.

Geetha and Ram had gotten their child back! The child had gotten his parents back. Really. It was a divine reunion!