Rashmi's Space

Clay figurines. Colourful. Vibrant. Bucolic. That is their trade. Dealing in snazzy, bright clay figurines, bowls, masks, wall-hangings. They sit by the side of the road. Their wares displayed along the pavement. So people can see when passing – on foot, in their cars. Every once in a while, someone passes in their car and then parks the car further along the road and comes walking back to inspect something that has caught their eye. They ask the price. Which is usually not too much. They still bargain. And eventually, at a much lesser price than the artifact is worth, they buy the piece. It will look amazing on their feature wall, they think. It will dazzle their boring passageway. It will welcome their guests warmly... But more often than not, no one buys much. Especially on working days. Busy days. When the adults are rushing to and back from work and the children are tired, being taken to school and back. But they still sit there. Their wares spread. Eve...

“Don’t run on the lawn!” Meera looked up from her laptop. It was Sunday morning and while Meera caught up on her mails and other news, Pari, her niece, and Ayah, Pari’s caretaker-cum-nanny-cum-companion-cum-governess were in the garden. Ayah was pruning the roses, while Pari was jumping around the garden and playing in the shade of the orange trees lining the compound wall. All the time, trampling over the lawn that Ayah had freshly watered – hence, the reprimand. Meera smiled. Ayah was good for Pari. She ensured that the girl kept her head on her shoulders despite being a ‘gifted’ child of above average intelligence, who was ‘pampered’ and ‘spoilt silly’ (according to Ayah) by Meera. It felt just like yesterday – although it was almost close to nine years now – that Pari and Ayah had walked into Meera’s home, and her life. Meera’s sister had died giving birth to Pari. Pari’s father had never been around. And thus, Meera had become the sole legal guardian to her...

Note: This is Part 2 of a love story, the first part of which, you can read here ! The rain was coming down hard. Most shops had closed and people had disappeared indoors. The library, just a few blocks away, would’ve been a haven, if only she hadn’t left it! The few auto rickshaws standing near the pavement had already refused to take her home. And Simi stood shivering under a tree, clutching her backpack tightly.  There has to be a way out of this! “Hi!” Simi turned as a young man came rushing in from the rain to stand next to her under the tree. “Are you alone?” he asked, taking off the hood of his jacket. “Vivaan!” Simi was surprised, and pleased. “Yes!” he said, with that lopsided smile; “What are you doing here all alone? Come on over?” he asked, pointing to the direction of his home, Varsha’s home; that was just around the corner. Simi looked up nervously. That would be the best thing to do. Wait out the rain at Varsha’s home. She could...

"ओळख पाहू ही  कोण?" मी आईच्या हातातल्या फोन मध्ये डोकावलो. फोटोत एक तरुणी, सायकल वर स्वार, ट्रॅक पॅन्ट आणि टी-शर्ट  घातलेली, कॅमेऱ्याकडे पाहून स्मितहास्य करीत होती. "अरे पाहतोयस काय नुसता, ओळख ना कोण आहे ही." पुन्हा आईने विचारले. मी मक्खपणे मान हलवली. "मला नाही माहीत."  "अरे, हि नमिता! छत्र्यांची!" "बरं..." "अरे बरं काय? तुझ्या शाळेत होती ही! नर्सरीत तुझा डबा खायची बघ? आणि तू उपाशी, रडत रडत घरी यायचास..." नर्सरीत ही मुलगी माझ्या वर्गात होती, इथपर्यंत ठीक आहे. पण ती मला रडवीत असे, हे कशाला महत्त्वाचा होतं, कुणास ठाऊक. "आता हिला ओळख..." "अगं  आई काय तू..."  "हे बघ, प्रिया, अनघा, अगदी तुझ्या पक्या चे सुद्धा फोटो आहेत माझ्या फोन वर!" आई अभिमानाने म्हणाली. "पक्या?" "पंकज पाध्ये रे, नववीत तुझ्या वर्गात होता तो? तो थायलंड ला असतो, बरीच वर्ष झाली आता. एक दोन वर्षात कॅनडा ला शिफ्ट व्हायच म्हणतोय." मी आ वाचून आई कडे पहातच राहिलो! माझा हा नववीतला मित्र, माझ्य...

“Would you be paying cash or card, Ma’am?” he asked. “Cash.” He nodded and rang up the bill. He gave her the room key and pointed towards the left. “Third room.” He said. She took the key, picked up the one bag that she was carrying in addition to her handbag, and went on her way. The bag was clearly heavy. She could barely lift it, he saw. She was almost dragging it. He offered to help, but she refused politely. The hour was late. What was she doing here, so late in the night with a bag so huge? He wondered. But then the very next moment, he shrugged the thought away. It was none of his business. She could be anyone. She was no one to him. She was in for the night. She had paid in advance. Cash. She would be gone tomorrow. Early in the morning, she had said. Maybe even before he awoke, he thought now with a tinge of disappointment. He made a mental note of waking up early tomorrow so he would at least see her leave. Not many people walked in these doors who ...

A hundred and forty kilometres. A little above three hours. Three and a half, tops, with any unscheduled breaks. Before noon, she would be at her destination. Myra took a deep breath. Found a local radio station she could live with, and cranked up the engine. The automatic sprang to life with a slow purr.     The traffic was light at this time of the morning, and she was on the highway within a half hour of starting out. She had now found a station playing classics, with hourly news thrown in, in the local language. The sun was shining behind her. The cloud cover increasing ahead of her. Shades on her eyes, she put the car on cruise control, and stared straight ahead.   At first she wasn’t sure she had heard it right. But she reduced the volume on the radio anyway. And tried to hear more carefully. She was right! There it was – the muffled, but unmistakable thumping noise coming from the car! Myra groaned. Oh, please! Not a flat! Not now! It wasn’t the ...

The light was too harsh. Even at 2 am, when the world slept outside, oblivious to everything going on around him, that was the one thing Rahul noticed.  White, stark, bright light – illuminating even the tiniest of corners. Much like the last time he had been waiting in this space. No, not this. A similar space. He had decided never to go back there. And he hadn’t. He was hoping that would change the outcome this time. That it would make it different from what had happened the last time. He was hoping, that changing the place would ensure that his fate changed too. Although, it wasn’t merely the place that was now different. The nurse coming out of the operation theatre, at a run, broke his reverie. Rahul stood up to ask her how things were, inside. But before he could even manage an ‘excuse me, sister,’ she had run past him in her hurry. Rahul swallowed the rising panic in his throat and held on to the back of a plastic chair for support. The chair was bolted to...

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 ...