“In another life, in
another dream, let me belong to them, forever” , she whispered to the
angels who lifted her gentle spirit into the world she deserved better.
*********
Paaras waited outside the doors of the Operation Theatre,
the bulb still indicated a red, he was not tensed. He knew everything would be
fine, and very soon it would be celebration time. He went back to the
unfinished level of his ‘Angry Birds’ on his I-Phone He was addicted to the
game more than anything else. .It was his mission in life to clear the maximum
levels.
“One day while I am
dying and the angels are taking me away, you will still be hooked to the game!”,
she had taunted at his addiction. She had looked cute saying that, like the
yellow bird in his phone!
The bulb turned transparent. Like lava that cools after the
most violent volcano, he quickly put his phone inside and rushed towards the
door. The same nurse who had rushed his wife into the OT came out, she looked
like an angel this time with her perfect white uniform. All she lacked was the
halo above her head. Paaras waited like a little kid, who waits for his gift
from Santa during Christmas. As the nurse came closer, his legs were shivering with excitement. His gift
was with her, wrapped in the finest cotton and he could not but wait for it to
be unwrapped.
‘Congratulations Sir!! You have been blessed with a girl!’,
the nurse said as she handed Paaras his possession. He felt elated. He always
wanted a daughter, from the very time he knew he held the power of creation, he
had dreamt of this very moment from the time he knew his wife was pregnant. He
wanted the moment to freeze, like the snow flakes on the Christmas trees, as he
melted away into the joy of turning into a father to this bundle of joy!
The baby felt like pink candy floss, dipped in the charms of
infinite innocence. Her rose lips, her tiny fingers, her little toes , her
lashes ; everything so beautiful, he could not but admire Him for such a
wonderful creation.
He went into the ward his wife was shifted to. The doctors
said, she was exhausted after a tedious labour trial for a normal delivery,
which she had failed, followed by a caesarean. She looked at peace now, with a
soft smile painted across her lips that put even Mona Lisa to shame. He was
proud of her. He would wait for her to wake up and live her dream. She too
wanted a daughter, a complete family they were now! He carefully placed his
daughter beside her in the cradle and went outside. He would loot all the sweet
shops today, it was celebration time after all!
He quickly remembered he had to make a call, he pulled out
his I-Phone and started dialing the number. If there was one person in the
whole wide world, he wanted to share the happiness with; it would be the person
on the very end of the line.
“The number you have called is currently out of reach”, the
lady with the faked honey dipped voice chimed. At many occasions, he had hated
the fake lady with the irritating extra dose of sweetness; but today he wanted
to stuff in a few Motichoor Ladoos even
in her mouth. ‘Maybe she is busy; or
on top of some hill writing away to glory’ , he said to himself and walked out
of the hospital to buy a truck of Motichoor
Ladoos.
It was the twelfth day since
Paaras was hit with the tornado. It had come with the twirls of both
unexplainable happiness and sorrow. He wondered how in one moment, life could bring
both the emotions together that it became difficult to choose which of them had
a profound impact. On one side, was his little princess who was born into his
world, bringing with her incomparable joy and satisfaction and on the other
side was her; whom he had lost to the dunes of death. She was all he had ever had, she was all that
he thought he will ever have. Those beautiful shimmering eyes, like stars
swimming in the foams of the milky way, that serenity on her face that silenced
the storms in him, now to be found only as darkened embers that had dissolved
into the holy waters that morning.
The evening was adorned with festivity. It was his
princess’s Naamkarna after all.
She was dressed in the tiniest silk frock he had ever seen.
She looked beautiful, like a butterfly out of the silken cocoon, out to explore
the world on her own. After all the rituals, the priest asked him to whisper
the name into her ears. As he took a step forward, his wife, Siya pushed him
aside and went to her angel.
“Chavvi”, she whispered as the baby smiled for the
first time in twelve days.
Paaras had tried calling Chavvi quite a number of times that
day. And every time he did, the same faked lady had answered. He wondered if
the faked lady would have had diabetes by then, guessing the number of Motichoors he had virtually stuffed in
her mouth. He was worried by night, and so was Siya. Siya had woken up to her
dream transformed into reality and both she and Paaras had celebrated it
together. What they now missed was Chavvi. Siya longed to see the gush of
happiness on her face, it had soothed her on many occasions, she longed to hug
her and bask in the warmth of her optimism. Where had she disappeared?
Late the same night, Paaras had received a call from her
number. He had been animatedly playing ‘Angry Birds’ again He had excitedly
picked up the call and had marched into the excitement of the day and was
silenced by the news from the other end.
“She was run over by a truck this morning on her way to the
hospital. Nothing of her remains but for a mess of blood and bones’, her
distant relative had wailed.
The storm had come, Paaras had cried, cried for the loss he
once owned. Siya had cried too. All the hospital staff was left wondering what
had gone wrong.
Paaras and Chavvi were best friends. From the day their
memories could trace back, they were the best of buddies ever. From the time of nursery days to the times of
Paaras’s marriage; from the times of punishments in the corridors to the times
of rifts between Paaras and his wife; from the times of walking out of the
college gates as graduates to the times Paaras walked into the gates of
fatherhood. They were inseparable, with the understanding of timeless comrades.
For the last twenty six years, they had lived every emotion together. They were
united in the extremes of the worst and the best. It was not love; as others around
them thought. It was certainly something above friendship but less than love,
and in such relations you could never mount any higher falling lower!
Siya was never offended about what they both had for each
other. In fact, she was drawn to Chavvi’s aura. The first time Paaras had
introduced her to Chavvi, both of them had instantaneously gelled into a
bondage of sisterhood. Paaras cursed the man who had once said that two women
can never get along! What followed were
innumerable memories of the three together. Paaras and Chavvi effortlessly
dragged Siya into their world, telling tales of childhood and youth, as all
three laughed and cried at the same time. Chavvi always gave them both their
personal space, never intruding into their problems and only had something to
say when they sought her help. Though
Siya had tied the knots with Paaras, she often wondered if she was married to
them both! Paaras often lovingly looked
at the two women, without whom his life was much more than incomplete.
*************
It was a month now. That morning Paaras had received a
courier. And inside lay Chavvi’s most priced possessions. Her writings, Her
poems. Her diary. He had the first right on them, more than anybody else. And
her family understood that well. She was an amazing writer, the one who
captured everything beautiful in the whims of her pen. It was her passion, her
way to escape from the miseries of life. She never believed in revolting
against the unfairness she was thrown into . She simply believed in accepting
it all, taking refuge under the realm of her writings. She never even shared
her writings with anyone, except for a few dear ones. All her works had the
potential of being published, she had never bothered. It was never her dream.
‘I live in my stories. One day, I’ll live my
story’ she often said.
Paaras opened the books that lay infront of him, as Siya
pulled over a chair and joined him. Chavvi loved writing with a fountain pen,
she had said her blue ink had a deeper tinge with the nib. From class five till
the day she had penned her last story, everything was in blue ink; from a
fountain pen. Paaras could feel the scent of the rose she always wore on her in
the pages. He missed her. He missed her terrible. He missed her in the spaces
between the words in her sentences, in her undotted I’s and J’s, in her
undoodled margins, in her complete signature. She always signed backwards, with
the C of her name starting from the right corner and the I at the left with a
strike of a line throughout her name.
‘Urdu main sign kar
rahi hai kya?’, Paaras had asked her once.
‘Nahin Nahin. It has a
deep meaning . What begins with me, should end with me know!’ she had told,
admiring the silliness of her own philosophy
He felt the void of her absence in the presence of her words
that echoed her thoughts. As he read more and more and flipped through the
pages, he could trace the stains of wisped tears on a few pages. Siya noticed
them too, both of them knew the answer. It was better some answers remain
unquestioned.
Paaras had decided then, her writings would be published.
The world had to know that there was solace in pain, beauty in injustice, hope in the dark, soul in the
dead. He knew of the outcome: a best-seller without the autograph by its author!
