‘If only’… quite likewise the movie our lives chug along with its uncertainties, certainties and serendipities. Carl Sagan though opined for ‘a speck of dust suspended in sunbeam’ legit for the wanted, unwanted mess we are occupied with in this pale blue dot of the universe; nevertheless he had to wander into distant space in acquisition of the vision.
“Hello Maa..”
“Meera why aren’t you coming home...been two years; let people do and judge whatever they want to…”, Surprisingly enough, my mother had been the protagonist of every chapter of my life ushering both motivation and ‘sea-storms’ into this tiny, wobbly boat of mine.
“I’ve told you that there’s lot to do here; anyway you had come to meet a few months before..” tried to pacify her thoughts of me possibly turning to a nomad or breaking away from the shattered ‘family’ bonds.
“Listen.. I gotta go. I have to make ‘gajar ka halwa’ for my friends!” I answered to evade and let her voice get drowned away in the hustle-bustle of the city.
Roorkee, a small city situated in the Devbhumi, housing a branch of the sacred Ganga is now my ‘shore’. But that doesn’t delude the remnants in the limbic part of the brain; perhaps the fallible nature inherent to the mortals derives pleasure in scavenging scars that only time can heal. Lost in the cacophony, still a part of me drifts to ‘why did they fallout even after marriage, isn’t that what binds people eternally together…forever? Aren’t parents the ones responsible to be the embodiment of love? But weren’t I also lured into that mirage of ‘happily ever-after’ and barbarously ridiculed for the sheer foolishness…marred my career as well.’
“Ma’am… anything else you needed? Should I pack these carrots??” Standing at the make-shift stall of the vegetable seller, I had paused immersed in the dilemma in the background until his words brought me back to consciousness.
“Yeah Bhaiya…these that I had chosen”, hurriedly packed them alongwith other stuff from the civil line (marketplace) and made steadfast for the entry-gate realizing that cooking the dish to my satisfaction will undoubtedly take time. It was dusk already and fog had begun building and expanding its floating castle. The children who generally sit at the gate surrounded me tugging at the end of my dupatta only to leave after I placed a packet of biscuit in their hands.The battered ends of it reminded me of the day I giggled into smiles when the little puppies at the ashram dig their teeth hushing me to play with them.
“Hello…yes Vishal Sir, yeah I have asked for them in the shop… I had asked for the quantity and we could pick them up on our way…ok”, the phone rang and I attended to the concern raised; either to escape the inner somersaults or truly being moved by the plight of children I have earlier volunteered for NGOs and here we make a visit to a children’s shelter in Bahadarabad teaching them English, drawing, dance and science almost twice every month. This organisation is run by NGOs and children here are from the local areas and the north-eastern states as well; looking into their eyes reflects an emptiness in me and I find no other way than reciprocating it with love. While holding and caressing the roughness of their hands I’d asked them to which one of the tiny tot said, “Didi, bring Vaseline next time.” I held back my tears.
“Bhaiya, Kasturba Bhawan”, I took the e-rickshaw much prevalent in the campus and sailed back to my comfortable abode. I hastened to cook with doubts clouding up if I had chosen the ‘right’ ones to make the dish perfect. Rashmi Ma’am and I crumbled up near the ‘illegit’ induction cooker and whilst I tended to the ghee melting away in the pans, the carrots were neatly grated. Rashmi Ma’am--my aide and only ‘sink’ I had known since I came here. It is through her that I first met Gagan Sir, Harshit Sir and Abhishek. It didn’t take much effort or time for our bonding to blossom that eventually lit up an otherwise darkened part of my wobbly boat.
“Where are you two…we are waiting at Azad.” Gagan Sir’s voice floated from the other side.
“Yeah we’re coming … there is something called patience” I retorted.
We packed everything carefully and hurried to the Azad Bhawan---the boys’ hostel that was spacious enough for evening gatherings, meetings; it also served as a common juncture for all the visits we make to the ashram.
I knew it. They had fooled us and arrived only after we reached the spot. I opened my pandora box; the aroma filling the air. The halwa, the plum cake and coffee---all ready to be gulped all ready to be gulped down. Harshit Sir had managed to slip into a red robe (probably borrowed it) with a Santa hat to twin it with. I couldn’t help but let out a laugh; he had been to Jaipur lately and I’d been teasing him ever since.
"They've beautiful ghaghras Meera, you want one?" Krish had asked me once...
Harshit Sir snatched the cake and juxtaposed a colorful wrapped box in front of me uttering, “Here...this is the gift from Jaipur I had long hidden, henceforth don’t you ever play the ‘please-give-me-attention’ game!” with a smirk.
“Its delicious...” remarked Abhishek.
We sat under the star-lit sky munching away the edibles and sipping away our coffee; bursting into laughter every now and then. Somewhere the north-star shone brightly that had remained a witness to the birth of the ‘loved’ one and an epitome of peace.