Good Bye

He died at 27. Young and charming, he was also quick to temper. He could befriend the young and the old alike. A dear heart to women of all ages, a thorough buddy to his friends, he did not know how not to be happy.

Quite suddenly he passed away. With no illness, with no premonition, with reservations made at a quaint lodge in the hills for his photo shoot the next day, he passed away.

The family cleared his pending bills using the little savings that he had made. He had lived life on his terms, made his fast buck and spent it on all. They lovingly remembered him and attended to visitors who came for sharing in the grief. For much loved that he was.

Friends wrote about him, some sang his favourite songs, some lovingly remembered anecdotes from his days. They remembered aloud how he cared, how he laughed. How he gave his two bits even when not needed. This they remembered not aloud. They remembered times when they had to tell themselves..."If he is hard on us, he is harder on himself." For he expected the best out of others.

Today almost 7 months later there was no one to tease his sisters-in law, to ask about the girl-friends of the little nephews. He had more often than not brightened the dinner conversation. And sometimes strained it by his ethics. Quick on advice and critique he was, many a times unappreciated.

...."Had he been here now"..., they thought, ...."he would comment upon the falling marks of the adolescent niece, the decision of sister-in-law to quit job and take care of growing children, the demand of a mobile-phone by the 7-yr old nephew".

'Everyone cannot be like him. So what if we give into our weaknesses?', they had in their minds so often, thought.

“But why do people die, mama? Why can’t chacha come back?” little nephew asked the silent one’s around the table. They all had listened to all the other friends in grief, intellectualise about death, yet did not have an answer. Why can’t he come back? I will tell him that I have made a kite for him. What fun we’ll have. Won’t we, mama?”

He came back. Wearing his charming smile, he stood at the door.

Time stood still. It was them and him.
He read the emotions running on the faces of his family. Reflections of their conflict flashing like coloured images in the kaleidoscope on their faces.

Was 7 months too early to move on? Was 7 months too long to want to retrace?

His beautiful smile fell. He turned and without a backward glance, passed away. For good, this time.

Last years’ calendar in guest room

She was walking like young Bambi. Young fat pudgy legs with dimpled knees, walking unsteadily towards me.

The white chemise that she wore had red and pink embroidery around the neckline. I could not hold back my smile. There is something lovely and amazing about holding babies. When their arms lie on your shoulder and their unsteady necks wobble back and forth. They gurgle , they chuckle and you become lost.
Atleast I do.

The anticipation of the fat baby girl wearing white chemise with embroidery around the neck as she walked on those wobbly legs towards me, made me smile and extend my arms to her. Then something suddenly turned in the air. Like it happens only in dreams and in books. The room turned from cool to chilly in an instant. Every realization flashed in a moment. All those low grade movies where the child turns into a killer made sense as I saw the baby girl in white chemise, now rush to me on steady legs and an evil smile. There was no knife but I felt the cold presence of steel. The anticipation of a sharp slash. I felt the pressure of her left knee. Knees, which now I could never imagine as being cutely dimpled. There is something more macabre about an evil intention behind a beautiful façade.
I felt that pressure on my stomach.

I woke up with a start. It was so real. 4:32 am.

I froze with terror since the knock on the door sounded as real as the feeling of the pressure on my stomach. I contemplated on getting up and pulling the door open to face whatever was behind it. To face it once and for all. Then I told myself-'shut up, u just have a gory mind.'

As always happens with dreams, I could not recall it with total clarity the next morning as I told about it to Kiran and Atanu. Atanu gave me a blank look perhaps not even bothering to listen to my ramblings and Kiran mumbled something distractedly as she directed Jamuna, the baby’s nanny to clean the kitchen racks.

I had again stayed the night over at Kiran’s place. This is so common for me that my toothbrush and some clothes are stationed in Kiran and Atanu's guest room. Kiran has in fact started refering to it as my room. Every 4th day I land up at her place to coo and drool over her baby boy. Little fat boy who has brought out all my long-buried motherly and nurthering instincts.

"These days I do not feel like working", I shot back as I rushed out of her house, again promising myself that from the next day, I shall reach office in time. Another Monday in office.

Another day for me to try and finish pending reports. Another day for Kiran to discover all those new expressions that her baby comes up with (there are numerous of those- sleepy expression, i-luv-u-mamma expression, cranky expression, sulking expression, potty expression…..). Another day for Jamuna, the baby’s nanny to finish this chore and that. She measured the kitchen racks and cut an old calendar into the-measured-neat rectangles, the calendar which used to hang in the guest room.

“Didi, yeh calendar ki baby kitni sweet hai."... Jamuna told Kiran, as she put aside the swanky kitchen scissors. Steel Scissors. “……..Kitni moti…aur iska white, embroidery wala chemise kitnaaa pyaara hai ”. Dekhke lagta hai na, ki photo se nikalkar aapki god (lap) mein aa jayegi?"

my dream walked in

Ziya had to hand over a file to me which was long pending. We decided that she would drop in at my hotel on her way back from Amravati. Another colleague of hers would be accompanying her, she said. Since Ziya would be arriving at Nanded in the wee hours of the morning, I asked her to catch up her lost-bus nap in my hotel room.

Sometime after 3, I dozed off. The TV was on, the room not so dark so that my paranoia would not take over me. The last thing I remember thinking before I slept off was- I would have made Vaastu-Shaastra differently.

Remeber the scene, where Sushmita Sen's sister is home alone and so calls her boyfriend for a night over? They are in bed making love. She has her eyes closed. When she opens them, he is not there.

She goes around looking for him. Predictably, with a lot of sound effects.....she finds him dead and hanging.

Well, I dunno why, but I remembered that scene and thought to myself- It would be more scary if while the lovers were in bed....they are interuupted by a shrill piercing phone call. The girl (Sushmits Sen's sister in the movie) picks it up while naughily pulling the boyfriend closer.

The voice on the other side says.....the voice which is her lover's voice..."shweetheart, the traffic is a killer". I dunno when I will reach"...."

I remember thinking as the TV blared on that...shit...had it happened this way, it would be more scary. Imagine....in bed with your lover....and a phone call says he is in reality not there AT ALL.

Who then is the one in bed with you? Will the audience see a blue-frozen face when the lover lifts his face from the crook of the girl's shoulder or will he still look un-ghost like?

Anyways, I slept off with a scary re-do of a movie scene playing in my paranoid mind. TV blaring...1 light on since my imagination runs the better off me.


Ziya and her colleague came in at about 4 in the morning. It was cold and dark. I offered them water and surprisingly shared some official jargon. For me, 4 is midnight, yet here I was doing uncessary lip-movement. In a while we all dozed off.
I woke up when a shrill piercing call woke me up.

"Yes? I asked, wondering if the call disturbed the two dark shapes sleeping on the other side of the room. Ziya's was a bigger shape and Sunita looked tiny underneath the dark blanket.

"Hallo? Hallo?" It was a man's voice."....Madam? Madam? ...." Very faint voice. ".....Madam? This was the last dialled no. from this cell....The lady whose cell this is...I think her name is ..errr...was Ziya...I mean....madam....she and some other passengers died. Road accident Madam.....