The wind howled against the Venetian blinds and rattled the wooden planks enough to wake up probably the entire locality. Probably everyone did stir a bit in their beds, turn to the other side or pull over the displaced quilt but only two feet left the quiet comfort of the warm bed and descended the two feet to place themselves on the cold concrete floor. The height felt much more than two feet but the two feet were determined to descend.
Adorning the rest of the five feet frame above the two determined feet was a sombre sari, wrapped around very eloquently. It was of the lightest possible hue of yellow and was complimented by her white blouse and contrasted by the bright red vermilion mark on her forehead that continued for a small distance through her salt-and-pepper hair. It was about a few inches inside from this vermilion stained forehead that a memory illuminated itself in the recesses that hand long gone dark.
It was 1987.The day was sunny and glorious. The numerous Gods in the Hindu Pantheon of ‘Swarg’ seemed to be smiling down upon the Khetarpal Parade Ground in Poona. The passing out parade of the latest batch of the NDA had just ended and the almost atrociously well-coordinated display of drills and marching had left the audience entranced and mesmerized. A haze of activity followed during which she was led by uniformed personnel from one location to another and after about three quarters of an hour when the coveted name was called she walked up to a uniformed personnel and pinned a star to the uniform . A hand, more muscular than she recalled, wrapped itself lovingly around her diminutive frame and a soft voice whispered into her ear,” Maa aap toh super hain hi aur aaj mere pass star hain toh maa-beta ban gaya dekhiye superstar”. He always had a thing for cheesy lines from his favouite films. She had smiled back at his boyish face as each other’s pride reflected themselves in each other’s eyes.
A single tear trickled down from the same eyes now glassy in remembrance. The hands however were busy at work as if mocking her sentimental eyes. The fingers fumbled in the dark for the cabinet door and having located it swung it open mildly. They then proceeded to locate the usual small square box. She didn’t need her eyes. Her fingers were too accustomed to the job. Having obtained the desirable, her legs carried her out of the room and through the long open verandah and down the old rickety staircase. The wind was chilly and the atmosphere better suited a couple wanting to cuddle but the flimsy sari seemed to be enough for her. As she descended the last stair another memory flooded back to torment her emotional eyes.
It was 2000.The day was sunny and glorious. Outside it seemed nothing could go wrong. Inside the old dilapidated North Calcuttan mansion all she remembered are stony faces, distraught faces, faces sapped of all emotion, trembling hands, hands enclosed in other hands, tear-soaked eyes, glassy eyes, eyes that were scared to look into other eyes, legs that had given in under the sudden weight that had descended upon the stooping shoulders and utter silence broken by the occasional sob or howl that contradicted the universe outside. It was all a haze, all uncertain and unclear. Everything happened at breakneck speed and before she knew it her world had come crashing down although her dilapidated house still stood tall as if mocking the frailty of her world. One moment she was reliving the best memory of her life, looking into her son’s eyes with pride and seeing the same reflected there and the next moment she was staring at her son’s closed eyes begging them to open, begging them to reflect. Her fingers clutched his uniform, brushed against the ice cold metal stars and ran over the fatal wound that had been so wonderfully cleaned, betraying the impact it had had. She did not want to let go but the respect accorded to the General only extended to a quarter of an hour with his mother before he was saluted out of the world. She had looked back at his still boyish face one last time. This time there was no smile. There was no reflection. There was no soft voice murmuring a cheesy line.
Her ever-efficient legs carried her to the giant doors which she swung open and stepped outside. Her fingers worked of their own accord and after sometime she managed to complete her task and walked back inside closing the doors behind her without drawing anyone’s attention.
Across the street the long haired man dressed in rags put down the bottle he was about to open and stepped out from the shadows. He crossed the narrow lane and walked upto the giant doors and sat down. The lamp that the lady had so efficiently lit gave him the warmth he needed.
“I’ll never get to open that bottle what with this lady lighting up the whole place every night“, he thought to himself.
He looked at the lamp and then at the marble plaque above it. It had only one name, the name of a man although the only person he had ever seen leave or enter the mansion was the lady.
“General Alok Kumar Agarwal”, the man read aloud.
The bottled rolled away into the gutters.
