It’s her third letter in a week The cries are getting louder, I’m scared to have a peek. I can see the letters bold behind drops of tears, They are mine they are hers, they stink of fear. Every now and then she reaches out her hand, Wanting to be pulled out before meeting the dead-end. The numbness has started to fill in her body Is it a graveyard? Is she a dead body?
I’m trying to remember when did it started Did I ignored, joked around or sincerely responded? But I’m fine, neither dead nor dying, About to grab her hand only to find a thousand chains tying. How do I break it how does it shatter Who is dragging me down, is it me, is it her? I realised, even her stillness is better than my vehemence Breathes make you drown, corpses just float seamless.
But it’s not the final call yet I am here till the sun sets. Whatever it takes to break the chains, My fatigue should not put her efforts in vain. Till the letters stop bringing in cries I’m using my breath to keep her alive.
It was past 6 in the evening. I was returning home from college, riding pillion with my sister. Although my college gets over at 4pm already, I had to stay at my sister’s office for nearly 2 hours because apparently she suddenly got reminded of some important work that she had to finish before we could head home. After spending almost two hours with a poor WiFi I wasn’t certainly in a good mood but now that we were finally heading back home, I felt more relaxed. But, as we were moving, suddenly we had to stop and everyone around us had to stop too. The traffic light had just turned red.
Anytime after 5pm is basically people just rushing back to their homes after a day that can for one reason or another be deemed as stressful. I could see the irritated expression on everyone’s faces and feel the frustration in the air as the clock on the traffic light started counting backwards from 180 seconds. Amidst the same stressed, drained out of energy expression on almost everyone’s faces my eyes certainly stuck at one particular scene.
Besides us two bikes were standing, one in front of the other, and beside those bikes was a car. However what caught my attention was not the car but the people inside the car. There were two boys on the front seat and a girl and a boy on the backseat. They looked like college students almost the same age as me. The boys were all wearing suits. The girl was wearing a black dress. Black hair, a little longer than shoulder length. Although I could not see her face clearly, I just felt she might be pretty. However what stood out to me were her earrings. They did not match with her dress at all. To be precise she was wearing jhumka, one that someone would wear with a saree or salwar kurta. Their attires brought me to the conclusion that they were either returning from their freshers or farewell party. I was not able to see the boy’s face who was sitting with the girl. I could see the girl’s hair. They were facing eachother. Probably kissing.
Suddenly the girl backed off. She got a call. At the same time there was a knock on their car’s window. It was a beggar, with an empty bowl, trying to make a living out of the red traffic light. The girl rolled down the window, with her phone pressed to her ear with one hand, she answered the call, “hmm papa“. While trying to get some money out of her purse she answered again, “abhi college pe hi hai friends se mil le thoda tab nikalte hai” (still at the college, let me meet my friends then we’ll leave)
With a little bit confused face, as if trying to figure out what the other person was about to say, she said again, “abhi to Shrishti ke yaha jana hai. Usko kuch important kaam hai phir 8 baje tak pakka ghar. Wo apni car se chhod degi.” (Have to go to Shrishti’s place. She got some important work. Then I will be home by 8pm, promise. She will drop me home in her car)
“Ok. Bye. Love you.”
She cut the call. Gave a coin to the beggar. The boys who were sitting quietly till now, finally started speaking again. The one on the driver’s seat said something that made all of them laugh. The girl rolled up the window again with a little smile on her face.
She was most probably lying to her dad. Because the four lane intersection was definitely not her college. For a second I was taken back to my freshers party. Almost all of my classmates went to a club after the official college party was over, to have fun on their own. I didn’t. More like I couldn’t. I wanted to but for ‘some’ reasons which can qualify as ‘precautions to stay safe’, I couldn’t.
The uncle, sitting on his bike right beside us side eyed them. He was probably frowning, probably thinking,”what has happened to this generation?”
Suddenly the car started moving. Engines were on again. All the vehicles started moving. Countdown was over, the traffic light was green. The car was going straight while we had to turn right. As far as I could, my eyes followed the car, or to be honest, the girl. The last thing I saw was that, she was laughing. I don’t know the reason, but she had the most genuine laugh on her face. My heart felt happy.
Wherever she went after that, I just hope she returned home by 8pm, with the same genuine laugh on her face.
When I was in twelfth standard, we were taught a poem at school, ‘My mother at sixty six’, by Kamala Das. The poem is about the fears of the poet, which she felt looking at her mother’s dull and pale face. The sudden realisation that her mother has grown old, and will not be with her forever, makes the poet a bit uncomfortable.
When I first read the poem, it was just another chapter of the syllabus which I had to study to score good marks in the exams. But, today, something happened that made me realise a lot of things. I saw my father holding a glass of water. His hands were trembling. And all of a sudden I could picturize not just the set up in which My mother at sixty six was written, but also the pain the poet must have felt while writing it.
Do you know what causes shaky hands, especially at an older age? I, unfortunately know. Sometimes, it’s easier to move on if you don’t know certain things, and I wish I didn’t knew. That strange feeling when you start hesitating to call your dad to pick you up, because you know it might not be good for their health. When you know, your mom isn’t making you do certain things because she wants to teach you, but simply because she just cannot do it on her own. When your parents falling sick is not just a random excuse to take leave from college or work, but actually makes you feel scared. It’s sad. It’s annoying. I don’t know any other words to describe this feeling or maybe I just don’t want to use harsher or more realistic terms.
Sometimes I think I’m feeling this way only because I don’t want to take responsibilities. Maybe I just want it going the same way it was. Living a carefree life, under the shelter of my parents, just how my childhood was. But it’s not totally correct. I am okay being the responsible child but, I still want someone to hold my back. Someone to correct me, to scold me.
What is even weird is that, the only thing that makes you feel a bit relaxed from these feelings is the thought that you too will go through this phase. Just a few more years, and you will be in your parents shoes and your children in yours. This is how it has always been.
Kamala Das in the poem tried to distract herself from these thoughts by looking at young trees. I will try that too. Young trees, young saplings, new buds, new flowers, another dawn , another day.
Random Thoughts 