Not a True Story IV

Attachment is self defeating. It is what divides the real from the surreal. For a moment, he felt on top of the world. He had the ideal life. One that might have been called enviable. But such a life leads to strings. Strings all over the place.

In the middle of the night! A loud crash and bang deafening and cruel. What could have been that noise? He did not want to wake up but that beating on his door would not stop. He rolled over and tried hard to not wake up. Damn these people. Why did they follow him upto the house when he made it very clear that he was not going to be part of the show? They were not going to leave him alone.

"Go away!" he shouted or so he thought in his half asleep state.

And then he woke with a start. He had been dreaming. The people at the office did not want him to choreograph the fashion show in the annual company day celebrations. And that banging was no knock. To his horror, it dawned on him that someone was trying to break in, albeit loudly, into his house.

He was up with a start. He knew how to remain calm. He sat up on his bed and listened again. There! That bang again. Slowly, he got out of bed and struggled with his slippers. Then he walked towards the living room. Funny, he had left the lights on. He was normally very careful. How forgetful! At the door, he paused. There was silence on the other side. Then all of a sudden, someone shouted and he heard footsteps scampering up the stairs near his door that led to the terrace. He dared not peep out of the window. They might spot him. They could be armed. They most certainly had to be armed. And they seemed like a lot of people. That was a strange way to burgle.

At these times, like many other times before, he had that defeated anger at his neighbours because they were really a 'good for nothing' lot. Even if his neighbours had heard the noise and commotion, none would venture out. The sissies. He reached for his cell phone and at the same time rushed to see if the balcony door was locked. To his relief, it was closed. They could not enter from there. And they could not peep in because the blinds were drawn. Funny, he never drew the blinds at night. He tried to recollect why he had gone to sleep without switching off the lights and also drawn the blinds. He switched on the cell phone but it would not switch on. The lousy thing! The battery must have drained. He went and called from the landline. First he called Aslan, his friend. He could not reach him. Then he called Lama. He was unreachable too. Must have switched off their phones. At that moment, someone landed with a thud on his balcony and started scraping at the sliding door.

He rushed to the balcony door and then stopped short. It was locked. They might break the glass! He stepped back as some more people landed on his balcony. Damn the top floor. His mother had cautioned him and had asked him to get a trellis fitted in the balcony. He had not paid attention saying it would spoil the look.

The scraping increased. Someone shouted. Was he under attack? How bizzare. At this point he panicked and reached for the large chef's knife from the kitchen counter and waited, poised, at the balcony door. Some more confused voices. Someone was saying he could not see a thing. Then a sharp buzzing sound and then a crash. The glass pane had been breached. A dark gloved hand reached in for the latch and then opened the door. All the while, he stood still, poised and ready to spring at the first being that entered. It was his house. One he had painfully constructed and put together. He was going to defend his demesne.

But when the first figure entered, he could not believe his eyes. There, poured in, one after another, four uniformed policemen. They rushed into his bedroom almost without looking anywhere. He followed them. There, they turned the sheet over the bed and turned away. He looked at the bed and something inside him turned. He lifted the knife but noticed his hand was empty. Leaning forward, he stared, in disbelief, at his own decaying corpse.

Mother

In a family of seven, if five are children then there really is a lot going on for the parents. It is all too well to say that in an agrarian society the larger the family, the better the workforce. And it was true for a long time till it became necessary for the human heart to be ambitious and want a little more.

The fourth child was a daughter. She had seen the plight of the family. She realised that if she were to escape the trials her older sisters faced everyday, she would have to do better. But who is to help a little girl who wanted, above all things to ensure that her mother got a full meal. Mother sometimes went hungry because a large family wanted economy and frugality and the ability to do a lot with very little. Five growing appetites really did not help. It did not.

Our girl observed as her mother finished off what remained in the cooking vessels after the household was fed. She watched, with a burning desire to take her mother out on a shopping spree and sit in one of those hotels and feed her to her heart's content. Sometimes mother spied her looking and called her to her bosom. She offered her a morsel like so many mothers we know do when they see their young while eating. Our girl never refused. For though it pained her to eat out of mother's share, it gave her immnse joy to be fed by her mother.

Such a beautiful thing life is. One of the most beautiful things about life is that it goes on. It continues. It finds its way inspite of all odds. It did for that farmer's household. It continued so that the older children grew up and were quite easily disposed, because they were girls and especially among the poor, a poor man always wants a bride and a poor father a son-in-law. Our girl felt the pain of separation from her sisters; she cried with them when they returned after being beaten by their husbands; she paid them visits when mother wanted to send any little speciality that smetimes was bestowed on the household. All the while, she wondered in her wretchedness and dreamt of happiness.

They say that the human spirit is indomitable. And in our country, with the lack of opportunity, the smallest ray of hope brings out with it, the very essence of the human spirit in its want. And such was the spirit of this girl that her father sold his oxen to pay for her college fees so that she could go and study in the city. She spent four hard years there while her family kept its hope of alleviation alive.

Towards the end of her studies, she came down with a condition that required the surgical removal of the tonsils. Such things are never good for a poor family. Mother sent her brother to the hospital. He met her before the operation. He opened the packet of home made sweets her mother sent her. She could not eat them. She worried as to where her brother would stay the night. They had no relatives in the city. So she asked him to wait outside the ward and eat what mother had sent while she was operated on. He faithfully did that. To this day, when I look into those eyes, they tell me of a sister who worried for her brother just before an operation and never stopped being grateful for him being there when she felt like the loneliest person in the world. And she told me of how he sat there all night and how in a special sort of way, there was a special magic of love that came and protected her.

She got a job. The first in the family. For once, things began to look up. She sent her brother to college. She gave money to her sisters so that they could gain respect in their respective household. She saved every bit she could and bestowed all her love on her loved ones. Mother and she spent an afternoon together, once, when she paid them a visit like she occasionally did, for her job was in the city. Mother plaited her curly hair and they talked of many things. She sensed that all was not right with mother. That afternoon, in the verandah of her house, they shared that special bond of mother and daughter. Mother had made her make a promise. She made the girl promise to take care of her brother. Such promises are lightly made but dearly kept.

Mother died a few months later. She had bone cancer and yet again, the family was thrown into darkness. I never met the girl's mother. But I probably do not have to. I met the daughter who cannot be any different. I met her the very first time when she took me to her bosom and filled me with the light of love and life. The girl. My mother.