Rashmi's Space

Note: This is the second and concluding part of the story. Do check out the story so far in  Part 1  so you are up to date :)  I hear a tentative knock on the door. And then a question, softly: “Baba, are you asleep?” “No. Come in,” I call out and my daughter walks in. It is late in the night. Dinner is long over. And my daughter has come to see me. My daughter, who is the most like me of my three children – the only one I had wanted to be there when I returned home today with the auto driver, but was not there because she was visiting a friend in a different city. My daughter, who is my only true source of happiness. My daughter – the only one who loves me for who I am, and not for the locked box I keep in the safe in my closet. My daughter, who lives with us because she has never married. She has vitiligo, you see. Sometimes I feel, I have failed her there. Because even though she has always been beautiful to me, even with the white patches ...

Note: This is the beginning of the story.  Do check out Part 2 for the conclusion.  It is all a blur. The roads, the trees, the shops that pass by, they are all familiar, and yet, unfamiliar to me. The bright lights that zoom past, are they streetlamps? Or lights from the shops? The buildings that pass, the bus stops dotting this tree-lined avenue, the playground in the distance where boys must be playing football in the fading light – it is all a blur. There must be people walking on the pavement, some waiting at the bus stops, some crossing the road – but to me, they are all a blur too. I sit in an auto rickshaw and it zooms away, very fast, making me dizzy. I sit here, clutching the slim iron rod that separates the driver’s seat from the passengers’, and hope that the driver takes me home safely, in one piece. I know he intends to. That is where we are going, in fact – home. But the thing is, see, I had thought it was very close, just around the corner; turns ...

"... na kahin chanda, na kahin taare... jyot ke pyaase mere, nain bechaare... tarapat, tasasat, umar gawayi... poocho na kaise maine rain bitayi..." An old melody. The twilight hour. Strong, bold notes. An older voice. On his evening walk, he passes the gazebo in the park marked Senior Citizens Area, he cannot help but stop a moment and listen as the elderly man finishes his rendition of the timeless Mohd. Rafi melody. As soon as he is finished, there is a smattering of applause and smiles and nostalgia all around. He finds a smile spreading across his face automatically. He knows this song. He has heard it on Vividh Bharati several times as a child, when his own father, who now would be close to the singer's age, would put on the radio in the mornings and late in the nights. The old man doesn't sound like a trained singer, more like an enthusiast; but his wonderfully clear voice rings out in the failing light making the evening mesmerising, ma...

“Whoa! Did you see that?” the little one screamed, astonished! “Hmmm,” “Dad! Check this out! Quick, its going to disappear, Dad!” “Oh wow! Yeah, hmmm,” (without looking) And then there is silence. Wondering what’s going on? Ok, let me give you the complete picture: This story is about a father and his son. The father is a promising young go getter climbing the corporate ladder; and because he hardly gets any time to spend with his little one through the week, he has brought his son to the park on a weekend. The child, delighted as he is to spend time with Dad, has spotted a squirrel scurrying to a tree to stash the nuts that it is holding in its tiny hands. The squirrel is running away fast and the boy urges his father to look at this amazing sight! His father though, is busy texting on his smartphone. He answers in monosyllables, and actually fakes it when he says “wow!” without even looking up from his phone. He thinks he has gotten away with it and ...

We are but minutes - little things Each one furnished with sixty wings, With each we fly on our unseen track, And not a minute ever comes back. We are but minutes - yet each one bears  A little burden of joys and cares, Patiently take the minutes of pain, The worst of minutes cannot remain. We are but minutes - when we bring A few of the drops from pleasure's spring,  Taste their sweetness while we stay, It takes but a minute to fly away. We are but minutes - use us well, For how we are used we must one day tell;  Who uses us has hours to use, Who loses minutes, whole years must lose. -Anonymous