Fireside festoons

Rebeca’s eyes bore into the depths of the starlit sky, the tranquil night sitting by her. A little away on her right, the pages of a diary fluttered, romancing the breeze in the light-out hours.

Her friends had returned to their tents after a campfire cookout. The music, the chatter, the giggles, and snuggles had all receded, but Rebeca longed to sit by the dying fire. As the popping embers wafted up in the air and merged into the darkness, she hugged her knees and rested her head on them.

The colourful paper festoons strung up between the trees on the periphery of the green meadow whistled with the wind, swooshing and swaying in complete abandon. What a carefree life they must have known. And then to be part of such an ethereal orchestra. Rebeca softly shut her eyes and drew in a deep breath. As she let the lungful linger, every cell of her being came alive.

 Plucking out a few strands of grass, Rebeca caught a note from her younger years and began to hum. “I sent a letter to my mother. On the way I dropped it…” How much she had loved this song back in school. Stray but fond memories washed ashore. Staying with her musings, she stretched out for the diary, pulled it closer and settled on one of its pages. But then she had no pen on her.

Even as the heavens watched, Rebeca whipped out a long-stalked vibrant red rose and carefully placed the flower, still soft and dewy, on the unscathed white page. She then gently shut the diary and drew it to her bosom. Was it just a flower or a feeling she had pressed between the pages of her favourite diary? Who could tell? Maybe the star-lit firmament gazing down from above? 

(This post is part of the A to Z Challenge) 

Envelope unpeeled

Jaya’s breathing grew laboured. Was the finish line appearing in sight? Subodh, her husband, sat beside her on a backstool, gently stroking her hair, his other hand clasping hers. Her skin felt warm; life was still on. But how long? Wasn't the ink fading?   

Rolling her prayer beads, Jaya’s mother sat on the other side of the bed, her world-weary eyes betraying no emotion. In a quick span of five years, she had lost her husband and her son. And now to be living through this. At the far end of the room, partially masked by a view-cutter, stood Neelu. It felt like a gut punch seeing her mother lying in a tangle of wires and tubes, only skin and bones. She stood there transfixed, till Jaya lifted her hand, gesturing to her to come closer.

Jaya reached under her pillow and with much difficulty, pulled out an envelope. Subodh offered to help, but she declined. Everything around was turning into a blur, except for Neelu, whose face emerged close to hers. Wish the chapters of life could be rehearsed, thought Jaya, offering her distraught daughter a faint smile. Slightly raising her hands, she nodded at Neelu. This time Maa needed a hug.

Neelu rested her head on Jaya’s chest; she could feel her beating heart. A dread washed over her. The clock was ticking? How long would the music last? Jaya shut tight her moist eyes. Tears rolled down Neelu’s cheeks, soaking the hospital gown her mother was wearing. Her head was humming with questions to which, she knew, she’d never have the answers.

After what felt like the last of eternity, Neelu lifted her head. The nurse had come to check Jaya’s vitals. Nothing but a routine assessment, more to tick the boxes on the patient card. Doctors had already given their verdict. Neelu carefully pulled the envelope out of her mother’s grasp.

Twenty years had passed since that evening when her life was brutally recast. But Neelu hadn’t yet opened the envelope. Across continents and countries, she carried it with her. 

That night when Neelu’s mother passed away, all that the teenager had to cling on to life was that precious blue envelope. But just when she thought she’d open it, she noticed it had been sealed with tiny blobs of tears. That instant Neelu decided never to peel it open. She'd preserve the last insignia of her tangible bond with her mother.    

(This post is part of the A to Z Challenge) 

 

 

Dear dream

It was one of those days that had wrung Dorothy out. A mid-term paper, and that too math, a hospital run, an hour of babysitting her twin nieces, and then a friend’s engagement party. She had ticked them all off and was now ready drop.  

The last ounce of energy out, Dorothy dragged herself into her studio apartment, flopped on the bed, patches of makeup on, clothes on, even the tired sneakers on. The wine from the party had provoked a headache and she wanted a gulp of water. But the sipper on the kitchen counter felt too much of an effort. Under the hum of the ceiling fan, her eyelids grew heavier than falling bricks.

As her closing thoughts rippled out, Dorothy pulled up her duvet of dreams and melted into a far-off frame. It was a night flooded in moonlight and she was seated in a convertible, her arms stretched out, a mellow breeze blowing her curls. The car was snaking through an unpaved road in the midst of a ripe maize field. Dorothy could feel the warmth of intimacy as her fingers grazed against the hand on the gears, strong and rugged. The scent was familiar, the music among her favorite. But who was this person at the wheel?

Silly banters, peals of laughter and yet there was no face reveal. As Dorothy turned sides, the dream began to dissolve. Oh no! She was desperate to latch onto it. But the alarm had gone off, yanking her back to reality. Eclipsed by a sense of longing, she made a last-ditch attempt to again get drawn in by sleep. But that was not to be.

Dorothy sat up, her head still pounding. Who was this person at the wheel? The dream had concealed more than it revealed. She felt hollow. As the day stretched out from morning to noon and beyond, all she wished for was a sequel to it. May be on another day filled to the gills, when sleep would take her over to complete the picture of her dreams.      

(This post is part of the A to Z Challenge) 

Canvas of memories

 

Unsure but willing, she gingerly lifted the paint brush. And on cue, little Clara went up on her toes to offer Mrs Martini the palette of colours. Life is not always palatable, but that doesn't mean you don’t taste it twice, thought Mrs Martini, as she paused to pick out from a splattering of blue, green, red, orange, white, and yellow, all streaming into a puddle of hues. 

The octogenarian had gathered with her 5 grandchildren -- Kevin, Robbie, Stella, Stacy, and Clara – for an evening of musings and banter. The kids had planned it all and granny's time was blocked days in advance. No other adult was allowed in the room. There were only five tickets to 'Grannyverse'.

It was the Sunday before Christmas. No sooner the clock struck 5, Stacy and Clara appeared to receive granny in her room. 'Granny, drop whatever it is you are doing," Stacy affectionately ordered, turning Mrs Martini towards her. Clara held out a satin sash with glittering gold borders. 'You Are Our Grannyverse', read the words in cursive. Mrs Martini bent forward and Clara draped it for her, albeit with some effort. The sisters together led Mrs Martini to the room where the others had already gathered.

Kevin, Robbie and Stella had meticulously worked out the details of their date night with granny. A petal shower, followed by a round of storytelling -- ‘oral memories drawn from the lofts of time’ as granny would put it – a cake and cookie binge, and finally a dabble with colours, each one in the room leaving an imprint on the ‘Canvas of Memories’ placed on an easel.

And now it was Mrs Martini’s turn. What could she draw? “Come on, granny. You have got to do this. We aren't saying goodnight otherwise,” said Robbie with a toothy grin. Stella put an arm around Mrs Martini’s bony shoulders and whispered in her ear: “We love you, granny and how much!” Planting a peck on Stella's cheek and ruffling Kevin's hair, Mrs Martini smeared the brush with red, a small amount of orange, and a hint of white and lifted her hand to draw a wobbly heart. "My fading but throbbing heart," thought Mrs Martini as she completed the strokes and slowly put down the brush.

 Turning to her grandkids, she drew them all into a giant hug, little Clara squashed in the great huddle. “You, my dears, have a home each in my heart. And thank you, honeybuns! My heart will pulsate with memories of this evening fondly and forever,” said Mrs Martini, her eyes glazing with tears. 

(This post is part of the A to Z Challenge) 

Bambi and his bestie

Poppins could feel something tender and moist sniffing at her toes. It was Bambi, the adorable mess of a pup, who’d mastered the art of pawing his way into her room, no permission sought. Bambi would wait no more than a minute or two before getting on to the bed to wake up his bestie. Why it was already time to play fetch! 

The pawsome friendship began one summer noon. Poppins had just finished school and was tarrying at the gate, waiting for aunt Suzi who’d walk her home. Glancing at her watch, Suzi paced up to Poppins and greeted her with a quick cuddle. She removed the bunny bag from Poppins’s shoulders and took her little hand in hers.

It was a Friday, and a visit to the ice cream parlour was due. Aunt Suzi had promised Poppins her favourite gelato. A few steps out of school, something spritely bounced up behind the two. The little fella had clearly picked his favourite. Who else, but Poppins. Bambi circled around her, stomping at her feet, tailing her at every step, tripping her even. Poppings dodged for a bit, but Bambi snuggled around. The pup wore his heart on his forehead, a strawberry-shaped white patch right between two googly eyes. His body was all brown and the four white paws looked like he had the booties on.

When Poppins and Suzi entered the ice cream booth, Bambi parked himself at the door. He was happy to rest for a bit, his eyes pinned on Poppins. That afternoon he followed them home. And just like the gelato, Poppins’s heart melted. “Mumma, meet Bambi. Bambi meet mumma,” declared Poppins. The new member had to be formally introduced. “Bambi? Did we not meet him only an hour back? You’ve got him a name already,” exclaimed aunt Suzi.  Bambi stood there looking distracted, a little flustered and sheepishly meeting eyes with the adults in the room.

Bambi had to do little to impress. Poppins was adamant on having her new fried home. That evening, mumma and Poppins sat together to make Bambi his first toy, a colourful rope ball. 

(This post is part of the A to Z Challenge) 

Attu’s umbrella

 

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Attu’s eyes constantly flitted to something she’d placed underneath her frock that spread around her in a little circle. A smile played on her lips, even as her mother fed her morsels of the day’s last meal, a mash of watery lentil soup and coarse rice. It didn’t matter to Attu what she was eating. When Amma fed her, every bite was delectable.  

Amma thought they were Attu’s favourite stones with which she and her friend Guddi played tic-tac-toe on a dry patch of land adjacent to their hut. They’d draw the grids with dry stalks plucked from a  mango tree nearby and frolic around till sundown. Attu had painted the stones in bright yellow and red and took great care not to misplace them. But no, they weren’t the stones. Something else had caught her fancy.

Amma and Attu locked eyes across a mischievous silence, the ember glow of the dying woodfire on which dinner was readied, taking the space in its warm embrace. It had been raining all day and the clouds looked unrelenting. “What are you up to, Attu? What do you have there beside you,” asked Amma. Attu squinted in glee and even let out a giggle. But she wouldn’t utter a word. It was her little dinner time secret that would pop out only after the last bite. Attu again sneaked a look to her left, this time with great love.

Amma’s eyes suddenly swelled with tears. An evening storm followed by heavy rain had brought down the electric pole. Their modest dwelling had descended into darkness and Amma was thankful for it. Sitting across each other under candle light, her little girl wouldn’t have caught her tears; she quickly blinked them back. Attu gulped down the last bite in a hurry and squealed, “Amma, see this.” She pulled out an umbrella and Amma immediately recognized it. It was the same umbrella her employer had given her earlier in the day, a worn-out piece, torn in many places.

Attu had only known banana leaves for umbrellas, available in plenty all around her hut. This one was a big deal. She flung open the polka-dotted brolly, jolting Amma out of her daze. “Amma, can I take this to school tomorrow,” she asked with pleading puppy eyes. “Attu, this has many holes in it. It won’t save you from rain, my dear. Let me first stitch it for you,” replied Amma. Attu peeked out of the open umbrella, flashed a broad smile and gushed: “Amma, just how I can see you through the holes here, I will have the sun streaming down on me when it stops raining. Wouldn’t that be awesome?”

Filled with despair, Amma smiled. Her six-year-old heartbeat had learned to fend for herself the little joys of life. That night Attu went to bed a tad too excited and even slipped out a little prayer. Amma gazed out the window at the night sky; the clouds rumbled. She pulled a sheet over Attu and kissed her goodnight.

(This post is part of the A to Z Challenge)