The Kick of Hope
(published in the Kindle edition of the e-book, Pandora's Box)
“Again you went to the park? Why don’t you come back home and cook our dinner rather than wasting your time watching those rich brats play football?”
Tinku just stands there without paying much heed to the words. Those words have become cliche in his ears and hardly matter to him any more. His father is never happy with anything he does and wants him to keep working all the time. He doesn’t understand Tinku’s secret desire to become a football player, with a jersey, like those players in the pages of the glossy sports magazines. The small one room hut the father and son live in has bare minimum stuff: one mat on the floor, a pitcher at the corner with drinking water, a few utensils, a wire hung across the room with a few clothes hanging over it, a small stool for his father to keep his watchman’s stick, whistle and torch. There are a few old sports magazines lying at another corner of the room. What is most striking in this otherwise commonplace room are the walls, full of cutouts of international and national footballers.
They both have their dinner together. His father has day duty this week, so he has cooked today's dinner. He wants his son to do it, but Tinku somehow manages to avoid the task whenever he can. Tinku hates it when his father comes back home for sleep. He has to sleep along with him and cannot look through the magazines. His father wants to keep the electricity bill to the minimum to be able to meet his expenses within his limited salary.
Next day morning, his father yells at him while leaving, “Wake up now! How much will you sleep? Eat the bun and tea I have kept there and reach the construction site on time. I have spoken to the contractor. He will give you some work this week also. Don’t spend your wage on buying those stupid magazines and cards.”
Tinku’s slumber is broken, but he manages to extend his sleep a little bit more by covering his ears with his father’s old and rugged pillow. He wakes up soon after, takes a bath in the attached tiny bathroom, eats his food, and then reaches the site. Today he has been assigned the task of helping labourers put cement sacks on their backs after unloading them from a truck. Being only 12 years of age, Tinku can hardly be engaged in important tasks. The contractor yet manages to create some or the other job opportunity for him at the site as a favour to Tinku’s father, who had once lent him some money when he was in need. Tinku works the whole day while checking the big clock at the market place, visible from the construction site. As usual, he is eagerly waiting for the evening, so he can rush to the park to watch the boys play. Evening arrives; he collects his wage and runs toward the park. On the way, he stops at the regular grocery store to collect the latest cards with photos of footballers, free with candies. He gives away the candies to the poor children sitting in front of the shop and walks away, excited with the new cards. He knows his father will scold him for spending the tiny percentage of his meagre wage, but he is used to the daily rebuke and doesn’t really care much. He notices from a distance that the boys have already started to play, so he runs as fast as he can. He stops at the edge of the ground, panting for breath. The ball comes toward him and crosses the boundary into the nearby bushes. As usual, Tinku defies all fear of snakes and lizards and runs into the bushes to get the ball. He brings it back with lot of exuberance to the boy standing nearest to him. The boy ignores him completely while simply taking away the ball from him. Tinku doesn’t mind. In fact, he never minds anything. He loves to watch them play and learn their moves and kicks. He only wishes if the boys would let him play along with them. But, it never happens. He has been coming here for 7 months now, every day without failure. He runs around collecting the ball whenever it goes in to one of the not-so-safe zones around the ground, but the boys never bother to even acknowledge him. Tinku still admires each and every one of them because of the way they play, kick the ball, run around, coordinate with each other as a team, challenge their opponents, and so on. But what fascinates him the most are the colourful jerseys that they have on themselves. Tinku loves the stripes of blue and white with dark blue shorts of one team and the black and red stripes of the other team with matching black shorts.
It’s dusk already and time for them to wrap up their game. Tinku never likes dusk. It is time for a reality check for him to go back to his own small hut and to the realisation that the scope of his life is limited. He feels sad and walks back home. Another evening of the same father-son differences! His father again shouts at him for not handing over the entire wage to him, for not coming in directly home from the site, for not keeping the meal ready for dinner, and so on. Tinku sometimes has a desperate urge to mute his father’s voice, echoing within the tiny 7 by 8 square feet room. He finishes his meal quickly, helps clean the utensils, and pretends to fall asleep.
Next day and the days thereafter repeat the same story. Tinku lives his day and night in a fast-forward mode, looking forward to that precious one hour at the park. Next week, his father has night shift. He doesn’t need to come back home so early. He can hang around for some more time at the park and listen to the coach’s lecture to the entire team. Secretly he wishes at the bottom of his heart to be discovered by the coach for his talent for the game. But, he knows it’s only a dream to help himself stay happy. It will never materialise for someone at his level in the society.
It’s Monday. His father is on night shift. He is watching the game intently at the park. He has also helped the boys by picking up their ball from a puddle once and from the dark bushes once. The match gets over. The coach starts collecting the boys in a group to teach them some new tricks of kicking. Tinku takes a strategic position, so it offends nobody yet he can listen to the coach upon paying undivided attention. Of course, he cannot follow the technical parts too well and completely misses out on the jargons. But, he will still listen. It is thrilling! While he is busy in this activity, he feels a tap on his back. He is startled and turns around. His gaze falls on the face of an old man, who is curiously looking at him. The man looks very respectable, with checkered collars peeping out of his grey V-necked sweater on light grey trousers. His appearance is added a tinge of sophistication with the Irish cap on his head above his rimless spectacles. The wrinkles on his face become more visible as he smiles, “What’s up? What are you up to, young man?”
“Nothing. Do you have a problem?”
“Well … not exactly. But, I am curious to know what you are listening to with so much of effort?”
“Nothing. I am just standing here. It’s a public place ... There’s nice wind ... I am just enjoying the weather.”
“Join me for a walk then.”
Tinku feels irritated now as he is missing out on the instructions behind him. Very hesitatingly, he nods and joins the old man.
They walk for a while without talking, Tinku’s heart and mind being completely absorbed at the coach’s session with the boys.
“We have shifted here last week. I am coming here for a walk since the last two days. I did not see you yesterday and the day before. Do you come here often?”
“I come here everyday. But, today I am staying back a little later than usual as I don’t need to rush back home.”
The old man stops and turns around to look at his face questioningly, “And why so? What’s special today?”
“Today my father has night shift. He is a watchman and will be back home tomorrow early morning. So, I can hang around for some more time before going home.”
“Do you like football?”
Tinku remains silent. Why does this old man want to know so much about him? Why should he divulge so much to him? After all, he doesn’t come to the park to make friends. Talking so much will only dilute his true intention of being around here at this time of the day.
“I played football very well in my childhood and youth. I represented my school and later my office at various tournaments. How wonderful were those days!” the old man sighs.
Now this is something interesting. “You were a football player? Do you know Messi?”
“Of course, I know Messi. I still watch football in TV. He is a superb player. But, I am more familiar with the styles of Pele and Maradona. I used to follow them very closely.”
Tinku now finds this conversation enthralling and stops worrying about the coach’s instructions.
“We didn’t have internet at that time, but we used to gather whatever information we could from radio and later from TV. I used to keep cutouts too from newspapers and magazines.”
Wow! This sounds so familiar! Tinku’s head starts filling up with questions now.
“What was your position in the game?” he asks and soon both of them indulge in an hour long conversation on football, sharing their likes and preferences.
It’s dark and the old man wants to take a leave as his son and daughter-in-law would be back by now and will get worried if he doesn’t get back home on time.
“But I would love to meet you tomorrow. Will you come?”
“I never fail to come here,” Tinku answered with a sense of pride. For so many months now, he has associated his identity and the reason of his being with this one hour of football watching.
The old man smiles at him. Thereafter, he leaves the park through the north gate. Tinku realises it’s very late and runs fast to the south gate, which is toward his house.
Next day, the old man again catches him while he is listening intently to the coach’s instructions. Tinku starts walking along with him today without any second thoughts.
“Why do you stand here every day and listen to him?”
“I want to learn the game.”
“Where do you play?”
Tinku is not sure how to answer this question, but he chooses to be honest with this old man. He looks like a genuine human being to him and, therefore, Tinku doesn’t feel any need to lie to him, “I have never played ... I am sure I can play, but I don’t have anybody to play with.”
The old man understands the entire situation now, “So those guys have never included you in their game? I saw you running around to pick up their ball from here and there.”
“Oh ... I love to do that ... they never asked me to do that. But, yes, they never call me to join them,” he looks down. "… But if given an opportunity, I am sure I can play very well. I am watching them for so many months now and I also manage to listen to the coach’s instructions from time to time.”
“Do you want to play tomorrow?”
“How will I? Who will play with me? I am a poor boy. They don’t want to talk to me. I don’t have a football. My father takes away all my wage, so I can’t even buy one.”
“We will see,” said the old man and left for the day.
“Wow! You’ve got a ball!”
“Yes ... we both can play with it. You will learn the game while my weak bones will get some exercise.”
They both select an empty patch on the field, not very far from the place where the football teams play. The old man starts instructing him on how to place the ball, how to kick it, how to aim, and so on. Tinku feels elated. His joy knows no bounds. He follows the old man’s instructions diligently, but struggles a lot on his first day. After all, there’s a lot of difference between watching and listening and actually being on the field with a ball. They sit on a nearby bench to rest for a while. The old man takes out cut pieces of fruits for them both. They both relish them and have a hearty conversation.
Tinku reaches home tired that day and immediately falls asleep. His father enters home the next day morning only to find that nothing is kept cooked for him and starts shouting at Tinku. Tinku jolts awake only to discover himself back to his reality. He ignores his father as usual, cooks something hurriedly, and leaves for work thereafter while his father goes on to sleep.
His life is not the same any more. He feels as if he is on seventh heaven! The whole day, he remains very happy. The labourers at the construction site notice the change in him and smile at his happiness. Tinku rushes to the park as soon as he can without even stopping at the grocery store. He doesn’t want to miss out on a single minute. He keeps watching the boys play till he is joined by the old man with the football. Today, the old man is wearing a polyester football tshirt with matching polyester shorts. Tinku’s eyes are awe-struck by the dress. He doesn’t say anything and walks over to their designated zone along with the old man. Upon reaching there, the old man hands over a packet to him and says,”My daughter-in-law took me out for shopping today morning. I didn’t know what to buy, so I bought these football jerseys.” Tinku opens the packet while listening to him. Even in his remotest dreams, he had not expected that somebody would gift him an Argentinian football jersey with Messi’s name printed on the back. His eyes fill with tears and he breaks out in to a sob. The old man gives him some time and then hugs him tightly, "Let’s play now. You have already wasted 5 minutes.”
It’s been a month they are practising daily. The old man has agreed to come an hour early when Tinku’s father has day shift. Tinku’s moves and kicks are getting better with each passing day. He is also allowed to keep the football with him, so he can practise whenever he gets a chance. He has often noticed the coach watching him play from a distance. He feels proud and happy with the turn of events in his life. Football has been his passion and he’s been unfettered in his determination to pursue this sports. But, the fact that he will actually play the sports is a dream come true. His father was shocked to discover the jersey and new football in the room, but calmed down when Tinku told him the whole story and gave him a detailed account of his wages in support of his statement.
Tinku is walking back and forth for a long time now. The boys have finished their match and are gathered around the coach. Tinku is restless and doesn’t want to listen to the coach today. He has been waiting for over an hour for grandpa, that’s what he has been calling the old man off late. What’s wrong! He has never skipped a single day. He was supposed to teach him the technique of ‘feint and dribble’ today. Tinku has been so excited; he could hardly sleep last night. He has heard the coach use this term, but never really understood what it actually means. Darkness engulfs the park. Tinku reluctantly exits the gate and walks toward his home.
Each following day witnesses the same story. Tinku gets worried and feels helpless. He has never asked grandpa about his home address. Being from a poor background, he thought that would be an infringement on the rich man’s right to privacy. He has heard enough instances of poor fellows being suspected of theft and other crimes. He walks toward the north gate, which has various gated communities lined up across the road. With his determination of not leaving a single stone unturned, he approaches each community within 5 kilometres of distance to find out grandpa. Obviously, the security guards don’t entertain the vague enquiries of a poor boy about a resident.
Three weeks have passed by since his last meeting with grandpa. Tinku continues with his habit of coming to the park everyday in his jersey, practising the strokes taught by grandpa, watching the boys play, and listening to the coach’s instructions. The entry of grandpa into his life has been a godsend. He has finally experienced the pleasure of kicking a ball and taming it. His skin has felt the touch of the polyester fabric of the football jersey. But, as they say good things don’t last forever, grandpa’s visitation was also very temporal. Yet like his relentless passion for football, Tinku is hopeful that grandpa will turn up from the north gate one fine day for sure.
When Hope is the Only Option
I was worried now. It was four days in a row that she was not in. Whatever she was going through, there were three things she had never compromised upon: her regularity, her dedication to work, and the smile on her innocent face.
The last time she left my house, it was just another regular day. She had walked in with her usual friendly smile, started with her regular chit-chat, cooked our dinner, and left as usual. She was wearing the same blue faded kurta with unmatched green pyjamas and a black dupatta. It was evident that she had dressed up in a hurry from among a restricted set of options for herself. But the happiness on her face would hardly divert anybody's attention from her beaming face to her clothes.
For all that she was going through for the last three years, even the most ordinary events made me panic of an impending doom in her life. I still remember the day she had come to my house for the first time, looking for work.
“Madam, I heard you are looking for a cook. I can make Italian, Chinese, Thai, and Arabian cuisines.”
“And Indian? Sorry, I am looking for someone who can make simple regular Indian food that we can consume.”
Taken by surprise a little bit, she replied sheepishly,“Of course, madam. Actually people get more impressed when they know I can cook so many types of cuisines, so I had to learn.”
“I appreciate that. However, I need no grand meals, just tasty, edible, and healthy food.” I told her with a smile.
She smiled too and her journey started at my house from the very same day. This was exactly one year back from today. Sunita was her name. Very friendly, a considerably good cook with a passion for creativity in cooking, a wife, a daughter-in-law, but most importantly a mother of her son. Her life revolved around her 5 year old son, whom she was determined to make an established, successful executive in some IT company. Whatever it takes …
Often, I asked her about her husband, but her responses were very vague … like “he drives auto-rickshaw,” “he works at a construction site,” “he delivers milk,” and so on. Even once in a while when it would get very late for her at work, nobody came to pick her up. It didn’t take me long to realise that she was the breadwinner of the family of five. She woke up at 4 am in the morning to serve her family first and then start on her cooking spree from one house to another. She came to my house at 7 pm and still she could afford to smile. As a working woman, I can hardly retain my patience and smile by the end of every demanding day at work. However, nothing looked daunting to this woman. Once she entered the kitchen, she took charge of it completely. She insisted that I didn’t buy readymade spices from outside. Instead, she would powder whole spices every day in the grinder and make curries with freshly ground spices, adding a delicious aroma to the food and to the kitchen. She would also take time to cut all the vegetables in exactly equal shapes and sizes. Often, I advised her not to be so perfect as she might get late to go home. But, she wouldn’t mind that extra time in order to ensure the curry looked perfect. During her tenure in my house, I and my husband became very pampered eaters; after all, we were getting the most perfectly attempted cooking every night, right on our dining table.
The only thing I didn’t like about her was her habit of asking for things: once she asked me to give her twelve 10 rupee coins, the ones with the silver colour at the centre encircled by a thick golden border. She never asked for cash as such, but used to ask for old decorative items or anything that she felt we could reject. I was confident that she would never dare to commit a theft, but I quite disapproved of her scrutiny and observation skills around my house. She would pick up every broken item and discarded stuff even though I might just treat them as mere throwaways. I had no idea what she would do with them. My husband suggested she might be selling them off to some scrap dealer for money. So, I started keeping all the junk in the house for her, including old and broken jewellery pieces, key chains, and all kinds of embellishments. The smile on her face on receiving these worn-out things was way more than her happiness upon receiving her salary every month.
Sunita also stood apart from her peers in her avid interest to learn. She often used to bring books to my house and clarify things from me to be able to help her son study. She didn’t want to fail as a respectable mother in front of her son. Her son was going to an English-medium school and had classmates from respectable families. Her constant dedication to her child and efforts to be along with him in all his pursuits were making the child fare pretty well in school, so nobody really bothered about his economic background. She was very keen on teaching drawing to her son, but didn’t have the money to do so. Gradually, she initiated drawing for her son with the help of some white A4 sheets from me and old crayons from another house. Life was certainly not a bed of roses for her, but it looked happy and satisfactory enough until I discovered a dark side to her life.
Within a few months, she started asking me for more work in my house or in the neighbourhood. I discouraged her as she already looked overburdened. Time went by and she was not able to accommodate the extra work she was taking up within her schedule; this was resulting in the deterioration of her health. However, she was desperate to get some extra money. She informed me that her son’s expenses were going up and, therefore, she was not able to contribute to the household as much as she had been able to do earlier. One day, soon after this conversation, she entered my house with big cuts on her right elbow and the back of her neck. I asked, but she didn’t respond. Such instances kept on increasing with time. Gradually, almost every fourth day, she would enter my house with bruises on her face or slow down at work due to wrist or elbow pain. I often enquired, but she wouldn’t reveal a word. I gave up as I was getting the service I had asked for. After all, it didn’t befit me to encroach on her privacy if she was not comfortable. However, the frequency gradually increased; every other day, she was coming to work with cuts and wounds. Once she entered my house with a big black eye. I was shocked to look at her although she didn’t abandon her beaming smile. I insisted, “You have to tell me what’s going on. Else, you are not allowed to enter my house.” She stared at me with a bewildered expression, but soon after burst into tears.
So here it was ... another case of domestic abuse. She had a drunkard husband, who was jobless but still dominating enough to put the responsibility of himself and his parents on a woman, both physically and financially. He objected to her efforts of raising the kid so efficiently. He instead wanted him to go out and earn money after his school hours. Sunita would protest it vehemently and get beaten up every time. Every expense on her kid, like a birthday gift for him, gifts for his school friends on their birthdays, material for school projects and events, school stationery and books, would bring about the wrath of her husband on her. Her in-laws wanted to play it safe and maintained silence on all the household issues to ensure their security in the house. They anyway had no savings and were well aware of the fact that they had brought up a useless human being. Taking the son’s side might put them in trouble with the daughter-in-law, who was footing the bills for all their old-age medical ailments along with their basic necessities of food, clothing and shelter. Inversely, taking the daughter-in-law’s side might result in their vulnerability to their son’s mindless banters and cruel wrath. So, Sunita fought her battle alone in her little world with no support from anyone, even though she was the facilitator of the survival of all the family members.
The next day, she entered my house with a big handmade bag. I was quite surprised and raised my eyebrow pointing at that. With a smile stretching from ear to ear, she started to open it. And what did I see? ... There were lots of small handicraft items, like pen holders, ashtrays, fruit trays, flower vases, photo frames — made from all sorts of things like broken decorative items, broken pieces of furniture, cloth pieces, clay and colours. I could also see a nice cushion cover with lots of 10 rupee coins stitched along the four edges at equal distance. The beauty of all these items was the collage, their uniqueness and the vibrant choice of colours.
“Where did you get all this from?”
“I have made them all myself, madam.” She spoke with pride. She had been making these things secretly in a corner of her house and her family had never bothered to notice them because they were all hidden behind her son’s school books and other stuff.
“Wow! They look amazing! So now I know what you were doing with all those things you have been taking from me and the other houses.”
Her face gleamed with her signature smile.
Not before long, I helped her sell the stuff by connecting her with people in my neighbourhood area. Entire day she would work as a cook and at night she would make the handicraft pieces. A woman near my house helped her further by making an informal contract of buying 30 items from her every month. She was, in turn, planning to sell them online as Indian handicraft items on her existing garment retail website. Whatever the margin was for that woman, Sunita was elated to find the right platform for her talent and efforts. That day onward, she started working harder to ensure she was able to deliver as committed. My neighbour also paid her some money in advance, so Sunita could buy better material for her artefacts. So thrilled was she with the entire progression of events in her life that her creative passion started to outstretch its limits. She was creating things that were totally unique in the market. Every day, she would surprise me with one innovative item.
But, the stroke of bad luck hit her soon enough. One day, her husband discovered her secret project and tortured her violently to extract more money. He destroyed most of the stuff she was working on and gave her a bleeding ear. Sunita was very weak the next day and could hardly retain her vigour. Clearly, she needed a few days to recuperate from the recent attack on her. She was also losing money due to the sudden interruption in the delivery of her order. I used all my corporate managerial skills to convince my neighbour that she would soon be up and back again with the best of items. But, a week passed by and the woman was getting irritated as she was running a monetary loss. As I was the one to connect these two people, I had to intervene and decide something before things got out of control. After using my excellent negotiation skills on my husband, I came up with a plan. Sunita would keep her things in our guest room and spend one extra hour in our house every day after her cooking was done to work on her creative pursuits. Things again started getting better. The demand kept on increasing, so Sunita’s cash inflow also improved. She was able to enrol her son in drawing classes with this additional earning. She also bought vitamin and calcium supplements for her son to ensure nothing was compromised on in his grooming.
Her life was going on like that, but the turmoil in her personal life was increasing. It was evident from her face. I asked her often, but she always stopped me by saying, “Madam, this one hour is the only time I get in the whole day to follow my passion and do things to make my son’s future better. I don’t want to spoil that feeling by talking about the woes.” I completely respected her request and decided to shut my mouth thereupon.
As days passed by, I started developing a relationship with her — at a different level — not of a friend, a neighbour or her employer, but a relationship of empathy, trust and hope. I started to envision my success in her success - in her success of achieving something, of making a difference in her little world. I literally started waiting for her every day to come, finish her cooking and achieve another creative feat. Life had become pretty mechanical for me; I was reduced down to a glass marble fitting in to the available empty slot. I was just going on with it as if that was the only life preconceived and pre-decided for me, irrespective of my aspirations and passion. I had once wanted to become a musician, but had to pursue an engineering degree followed by MBA to be part of the rat race. After all, who wants to fall behind whatever the race might be for. But, here was a woman, who didn’t have the best of circumstances, whose woes weighed heavier than her joys, yet she was making it happen — of finding the path to her creative fervour. She was almost stricken by a muse to bring to life her frenzy. She was a woman who knew what she wanted. She was alone, unstoppable and fearless. I realised I had started to live my dream through her.
So, when she didn’t turn up for four days, I was worried.
“Order something from outside. She will come back in a day or two. She might be sick,” said my husband.
No … then she would have informed me. She is not picking up my call. I was worried not just about her whereabouts, but I was also missing her for she had become a part of me in the last few months. She was the strength of my life, who was teaching me thousand lessons through her smile and diligence.
I thought of finding out from others about her residence and drop in, but didn’t dare knowing her husband’s nature. After all, I never intended to take the family head-on to speak up for her. So, I started generally enquiring from her peers and her friends. Nobody had a clue except one girl. She told me that something had gone terribly wrong. There was a huge fight in the house a few days back and she had not seen Sunita since then. Was she well? No idea. What about her son? He was going to school normally. Thank God! That spoke for itself. She must be fine then, might be a little depressed or down with body pain due to thrashes. I decided to wait for some time.
She finally turned up after a week. No smile, very skinny, dishevelled hair - totally unlike her. I was so relieved to see her that I uttered "What happened?” and broke out into tears. She looked at me composedly for some time, but soon after broke down in tears too. I didn’t want to stop her as she looked overwhelmingly grieved and needed to let go. She cried incessantly, howling and beating her head on her knees.
She spoke after a while: “Nothing is the same anymore. All these years, I was living with a lie and my world was centred around that lie.”
“I am totally clueless. What are you saying?”
“They never gave her to me. I brought up another woman’s child.”
“What!!!”
“He doesn’t even belong to me. He is my husband’s son with another woman and he gave my baby to her for money … to live that life. And nobody has a clue where they are.” Tears flowed down vehemently and she cried like nothing I had witnessed hitherto.
“What next?” I asked when both of us were quiet and sitting blankly on the floor.
“I have to rush now to pick him up from school. I will resume work at your house from tomorrow.” With this, she brushed past me and soon disappeared out of the room.
Life had turned upside down for her and yet nothing had really changed on a day-to-day basis. She would continue to look after the family, work harder and harder to bring up the boy in her house, and strive toward the self-imposed task of making him successful. After all, that was the only hope she could afford to have.
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An Epiphany
She sat in the Starbucks cafe, sipping her coffee and staring out of the window. The blood stained knife lay next to her handbag, covered with her blue silk scarf. There was a plethora of pain and sadness engulfing the air around her. Her eyes were red and swollen. She felt like a weak carcass of bones, gathered together by the thin flesh around it. Every breath of her was reminding her of dejection and abandonment.
As she took her next sip, her mind flew back to her meeting with Kunal the previous evening.
“You know, nobody has ever loved and cared for me so much, not even my parents. You are the greatest gift of God to me.”
Kunal smiled at her, playing with his phone.
“Life has been kind to me that I met you. I am so excited about our wedding next month.” Kunal looked at the other side. Prerna couldn’t notice his expression, but it was obvious that Kunal was as elated as she was with the progress of events in their lives.
“But you have to promise one thing to me, Kunal. Once we are married, you are going to cut down on your business trips.”
“Honey, that reminds me. I need to rush now … have to work on an important presentation for the meeting tomorrow. Come, I will drop you.”
They both got into Kunal’s black sedan, shining in the dark. Prerna used to be awe-struck even after dating this man for one year at his style and attractiveness. The sedan drove fast on the scantily crowded road to the tune of random English hip-hop songs on FM radio channel. Once inside the car, Prerna didn’t engage in any more conversation as Kunal didn’t like talking once he was behind the wheel. “I just want to enjoy my music when I am driving,” he would say. After taking a couple of turns into the lanes from the main road, Prerna’s beautiful duplex house was visible. The wind was cradling the huge pink teddy bear on the swing of her first floor terrace. It was Kunal’s first gift to her. It was so huge that she had to allow him to help her carry it home in front of the prying eyes of her grandma.
The car pulled over near the gate and Prerna looked at Kunal, “Call me up when you reach.” Kunal glanced at her, “I am feeling very tired and have a long day tomorrow. You better move now!” Prerna, hesitatingly, got out of the car. She loved him so much, but why would he act so coldly at times! Kunal waved at her and turned the car to exit the lane. Soon, the sparklingly rich black car was out of sight.
Lately, Kunal had been traveling too frequently. His trips were not planned and pretty abrupt. All of a sudden, in the middle of a conversation, he would remember about his next trip and leave hurriedly. Prerna didn’t like it, but her father had approved of this match only because Kunal looked like a “promising guy, focused on his career.” Prerna always wanted Kunal to at least message him once he reached home. They had had fights in the past over this and he had finally agreed to make it a ritual. It had been two hours already and he had still not messaged her. She tried calling him up, but the phone was unreachable. She was getting anxious but had to rush downstairs as her family was already at the table, waiting for her to join them for dinner. Her father was as usual talking about the forthcoming wedding in the house. In fact, all the family members had no topic of conversation other than her wedding since the time it was fixed one month ago. Today also, on the dining table, it was the same story.
“I would rather have him marry her tomorrow than wait for a month. Do you think our neighbours are not watching her coming back so late with him everyday?” scorned grandma.
“It’s okay, ma. Don’t worry! I am very proud of my two daughters. They will never do anything to taint my reputation. They have always made me proud and she will do well in her marriage also. Kunal is definitely not the kind of guy I would have selected for my daughter. But, she believes he is the right match for her. In fact, I must say he is focusing a lot on his career these days. I don’t see him hanging around much.”
Prerna knew that her father was still not convinced of Kunal at the bottom of his heart but was forced to give in to her emotional blackmail. After an argument of one hour, she had finally said: “If not him, I will never marry in my life. I cannot give anybody else the same place. At least, I should be free to make that choice for myself. Now you decide.” “Of course, I cannot have you unmarried all your life. But, I advise you to think again.”
Dinner got over with her sister and mother still discussing the arrival dates of the relatives from different parts of the world.
Prerna soon excused herself upstairs as Kunal had still not called her. She quickly grabbed her phone to check for messages. Yes, there was one from Kunal. “Thank God!” She sighed a breath of relief only to be surprised at the following words: “It’s been difficult … I have been trying to tell you. This is not working. I have not been able to cope up with your increasing demands. I don’t think we are compatible enough to make this relationship last longer. You have hurried me up into this. I’ve spoken to my parents already and they are fine with my decision.”
She got confused for a while. Was this one of the several kinds of jokes going around on WhatsApp, which Kunal had forwarded to her. She read over and again. No, this was not a forward, it was a customised message - directly from Kunal. She tried calling him up, but the phone was unreachable yet again. The entire universe around her shattered. In the last one year, she had never thought of anything other than Kunal. He had driven her crazy with his attention and love. She had introduced him to all her friends and family. She always felt a sense of pride in the jealous look of her friends at the sight of Kunal along her side. Was it all false then? Was her happiness so fragile and transient … like a house of cards? One stroke and it’s gone down. What will she do now? What’s her future without him? What’s her life without him? How will she face the world outside? And then it suddenly struck her. How will she face her family? Her father, her mother, her grandma, her sister! What was their fault in the entire thing! Why did Kunal do this to her? She kept weeping all through the night and tried calling him up but to no avail.
Her eyes opened to the sunlight falling into her room from the window that was left ajar throughout the night. Her head was feeling very heavy and she was feeling extremely melancholic. She checked her phone quickly. There was one more message from Kunal. She quickly clicked on it. It read: “Please leave me now. I really don’t want any pleading from you to make this relationship work because I don't want to be with you anymore. I have made up my mind. Just let me be.”
There was really nothing else to say any more. It was all over. She was let down by the person she had entrusted her life with. She went to the bathroom, washed herself and changed her clothes. It was important to cleanse herself after what she had just gone through. Breakfast was ready downstairs. Her mom was calling out for her. But how would she announce the grim reality to them? What would she tell them! Her father might be furious. Her grandma wouldn’t let her live with a head held high any more in the house. She, who was an exemplary sibling all her life to her younger sister, had brought shame to her too. Her mother had always supported her daughters silently against all the rants of the grandma and had been their source of strength and hope. How would she react? She too would have to stoop down too low and wouldn’t be able to stand up straight again!
Her thoughts were wandering in the labyrinth of her mind. Somehow, she gathered courage to go downstairs. She realised it was very late. Her sister had already left for college. Grandma always preferred to have her breakfast in her room. Her parents were in a hurry to go out to order flowers for the wedding ceremony. That gave her some breathing space in the midst of the chaos. Her father enquired after her health, but she managed to excuse her appearance by complaining of a headache. Her mother advised her to take rest and pop a pill if needed. Soon after they left, Prerna went to the kitchen to empty her breakfast plate into the dustbin. Suddenly, her glance was arrested by the steel knife near the kitchen basin.
Within a few minutes, she found herself upstairs with the knife in her hand. She didn’t know why she had brought it with her. The house was quiet. Her grandma used to be busy with her bath and prayers in the morning hours until lunch. It was just 10 am. She was alone and nobody was watching her. Her parents would be late to come back home. In the evening, they would go out again for the next set of arrangements. She had to stop all this. She didn’t have the guts to divulge the truth to her parents in the morning nor she had the courage to contact them now and unravel the reality over a call. She was lost in her thoughts while her hands were fumbling with the knife, the sharp edge facing her left wrist. She looked at her own reflection in the mirror across the room. Within a few seconds, she was daring herself, “Prerna, this is the only way out of this mess.”
“Can I take this chair?” Prerna almost felt a jolt in her mind. The voice repeated itself. Prerna glanced toward the voice and nodded.
She had no idea how many hours had passed by. She looked at her coffee, which had become cold. Her gaze next travelled to the top of the knife, peeping through the blue scarf. She had not washed the blood on it. She wanted to keep it as it was to remind herself of her failed attempt at suicide, at a relationship, at marriage — to remind herself that she needed the courage to take some definitive action today. Her bandaged wrist was still aching, but she somehow enjoyed the physical pain over her mental trauma. She had come out of the house to escape from the environment of festivity and celebration. She chose this particular Starbucks outlet, as it was usually empty at this time of the hour except for a few late risers, who wanted to grab a quick breakfast before entering their offices in the nearby buildings. Prerna had taken a corner table, overlooking the busy pavement outside. The lingering headache was still there.
She looked outside and suddenly noticed a child, about seven year old, running among the moving traffic on the road to every possible person around, asking for something. He was coming back every now and then to a small girl, lying on the roadside. Something about that boy, may be his agony or despair, caught Prerna’s attention as a reflection of her own state. Her gaze started following him inquisitively to see what he was up to. The girl looked very sick; she was probably running a fever. There was a dirty and torn piece of wet cloth on her forehead. But, people on the street were too busy to really bother to take notice of these two little human beings and their strong survival instincts. The boy was panting profusely and was even pushed aside roughly a couple of times, but he didn’t give up. An old man, who had just helped two passengers alight from his hand-pulled rickshaw and was collecting the fare from them, while wiping off sweat from his wrinkled forehead, took notice of the children and called the boy. The boy immediately brought him to the girl and together they lifted her on to the rickshaw to the nearby medical shop on the other side of the street. They were not visible any more.
A sudden curiosity lighted up within her. She quickly kept the blue scarf with the knife inside her handbag, disposed of the used paper cup, came out of the cafe shop and started walking toward the clinic on the other side of the street. It was an open clinic. At a closer look, she noticed a doctor examining the sick girl, while the old man stood next to them. The boy was anxiously waiting at the entrance. She touched the boy at his back and asked him,
“Who is she?”
“She is my sister.”
“What happened to her?”
“She is not well,” he replied with a sad face.
“And is that your father?”
“I don’t know who he is. He must be God, who has come to help us,” his face brightened up as he spoke. “How do you know he is God?”
“My mother told me on her deathbed: ‘Whenever you’re in trouble and the entire world turns its back on you, God will appear in different forms to help you’.”
“Do you really believe in God?”
“Yes Ma’am. That’s how I am surviving. I have some trouble or the other everyday and I manage to come out of it everyday. How is that possible if not for God!”
Prerna was stupefied at the words of the seven year old kid, who was struggling on a daily basis yet so hopeful of life and its varied solutions. She felt very little beside him to be unable to face even a single blow on herself. She realised there was so much more to life than herself. She had been so selfish in the last one year as well as all her life to centre around her own being when there’s so much love around … waiting to be discovered. She hugged the boy, took out a few thousand rupee notes from her handbag and handed them over to him along with her business card to give her a call if he needed help. She took out the knife from her bag, threw it in a nearby dustbin and started walking back home.
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