The three sisters

 Three sisters . We are three sisters . My eldest sister is older to me by seven years and my second sister is older to me by two years. Only the oldest was ever called didi, a respectful suffix . Meaning elder sister . The years between us just added to the spice . 

We had nick names for everyone. Including ourselves . We laughed at the silliest jokes , we still do ; and we had each others backs . In thick times and in thin , we were there for each other , and that is what made us click . Teen deviyan , or the three Goddesses ,  was the name of a popular movie . A bollywood hit during our growing up years was called Trimurti . 

We were rebellious in our own way . We got enrolled in courses , in colleges , away from home . The farther , the better . One of us crossed seas and wound up in University of Dublin , to do her doctorate . Other did her JRF( Junior Research Fellowship)  from the Indian Institute Of Technology  , a prestigious Institute in whole of India. Me , the youngest , became a captain in the Army , commissioned by non other than the President of India himself . Later , we would all fall prey to that disease of our generation . Wherein we sacrificed our careers to look after kids and families . But we had our moment under the sun . We all did . And we are proud of that .

What adventures we had . From running off to the cattle enclosure , unchaperoned , barefoot , to falling in love and marrying a person of our own choice . We all have been there, done that . We would write lilting poems in two languages  and read novels in a third language . We were expat bengalis . Having been brought up in Jharkhand , but being bengalis as per our roots , we had the best of both the worlds as we straddled two cultures , learnt english on the way , and worked our way through several dialects  . We laughed at the unctuousness of Sanskrit , the pretentiousness of English , the hilarity of bhojpuri , and the buffoonery of Hindi. We also laughed at the inability-to -laugh-at -oneself kind of self importance of bengali . Puffed up bhadraloks . 

We painted stunning paintings and cooked delicious food . We scaled peaks and travelled widely . We were all voracious readers . We were the incomparable three . 

The keys

 The story began when the ladies club was to meet after a long , enforced hiatus due to Covid.

It came to everyone's notice that the keys to a certain cupboard was missing. The said cupboard held immeasurable joy in terms of tambola cards, tickets, decorative items and extra stationery.

I was told by my friend who was also my next door neighbour that I should get it " most probably" from the mess office. 

She , in a helpful gesture, called up the mess office to find out, before hand . She was told that three ma'ams used to send their orderlies to a boy called Harsh . 

The secretary , who being in the family way , was relieved of all responsibilities , with immediate effect .

The second , who was known to , putting it mildly , " put a finger in every pie " .

The third , bluntly refused to have anything to do with the key , now or ever . Upon being asked , she threatened to take the boy Harsh to task . Rather harsh. 

Next , I went to the mess office and asked for Harsh . A tall strapping fellow uncoiled himself from behind a pile of British era drawers , from  where he was valiantly trying to extricate a file . The drawer clung to the desired object , and the wooden contraption rattled pleadingly . 

The said person wore a white coat , not unlike the medical fraternity , and it was monogrammed " Amit " . 

"Yes ,ma'am ." He smoothed his hair , kicking the drawer shut , after having declared a temporary truce . 

"I am looking for Harsh ." 

"I am Harsh ." He said with some finality .

"I thought you were Amit ." I pointed to his chest .

"I am also called Amit ." He held his hands behind his back , and came to a stand-at-ease position . 

This was getting confusing . I looked around and caught sight of Tyagiji . He was a warrant officer , and I was pretty sure he did not operate under various aliases . 

"I am looking for the cupboard key Tyagiji ." I asked him .

Immediately , Amit or Harsh , moved aside to reveal a small metal cupboard , painted olive green , bearing a number on its top right corner , and on the left corner the legend "Remove me first in case of fire ." I wondered why would anyone bother removing tambola tickets to safety in case of a fire ? In fact it should be allowed to burn to a crisp , while other important things are being saved . 

Keeping my focus , I asked again , as no answer was forthcoming . Amit aka Harsh stared at Tyagiji , Tyagiji looked at him back , and both turned their heads simultaneously to look at a new entrant in the mess office room , a nervous looking thin man , possibly , a cleaner . He stood frozen at the door , his face speaking for him" What did I do wrong , this time ? " 

Tyagiji finally pulled himself together , and shrug his shoulders apologetically . 

" We don't have it maam ." 

"We don't have it maam ." Echoed Amit .

The cleaner boy , still frozen at the door , nodded vigorously .

"Then who has it ?" I sighed . This was going to be very tricky .

Everyone looked at each other again . Everyone had an epiphany . Simultaneously .

"A K Ma'am has it ." 

"Yes, A K Ma'am has it ." 

The cleaner boy nodded his head again . The Gods had whispered into his ears too. 

A K or Wing Commander A K Singh was the mess secretary , and his wife shouldered many of the station's responsibilities . A woman of amazing abilities , she also ran marathons , in her free time . 

So, I scooted off to A K 's home . Delicious cooking smells flooded her various plants on the landing and on the stairs . By the time I had reached the doorbell , next to which lay a placard declaring all the names of the various occupants of the house , I was fairly drooling myself . 

The plants were , of course , drooping from a surfeit of stimulation .

The door was opened by the maid . "Madam hain ?" was answered by madam herself . She rushed out into her cerulean blue sitting room . Her hands were smeared with food . "She was feeding her daughter . 

Her daughter is in class seven . Ten years plus , gangly , tall , bespectacled . Just like the father . Mom right now , appeared very flustered .

The key , Mrs Paul ? I don't have it ." 

Rachna aka Mrs A K , quickly dialled some numbers , and breathed urgently into the phone . I was left admiring her sapphire cushions , bean bags , Buddhas . I even drank water from a sapphire bottomed  tumbler . 

Then she quickly dialled off and turned to me . Rachna does everything fast . She is like that boy flash from "The  incredibles ". 

Before I could gulp down the last sip of her blue tinted water , she had spoken .

Last ladies club function , the key was with her , at the end of which it was handed to a person called Kishore . 

I was glad I was onboard so far . I cheerfully answered "Lets ask Kishore." 

"I was talking to him , right now , Mrs Paul." Ah , the whispered conversation . 

"He says he gave it to Mrs. S's eldest daughter . Mrs . S has two daughters . One is tennish , other four-ish. 

I hated all Kishores of the universe at that moment . Why daughter ? Why not mother ? There is no telling what kids will do to keys . Specially , ones that open doors to suff that keep their mothers busy and away from them . 

Mine have done interesting things to keys , coins , jewellery , and other shiny things , in the past. Hiding them is a  small part of the problem. Easily accomplished .

I shuddered . 

And came back . Told my neighbouring friend that the key is lost to posterity , in such and such manner .

Three days later she handed me the keys . The keys were with Mrs.S . Apparently , she has raised  god fearing kids , or at least mother fearing ones .  

My favourite holiday

 When we were younger , we went to this meadow . It was a forest once . Long time ago . Now , It is a grassy ridge . Beautiful lush green grass in every direction , except the south . A thin line of trees guarded the meadow , jealously , like its own personal secret . You had to cross the clump of trees to reach the ridge . The trees huddled together , blotting out the sun , and looking angrily at us intruders . The wind whispered ” Go back , you fools .”

Then , abruptly , the crunch of the leaves underfoot , gave way to soft velvety dawn of the luxuriant grass . The shade gave way to brilliant sun , and the birds chirped happily , winging it in the blue sky . It was like an impossible dream .
We sat on the ridge top, and had sandwiches , coffee from the flask . Mostly , we just sat and stared at the breathtaking beauty around . There was not much to speak out there . You just drank it all in . Hungrily . A road ran some distance away , making occasional noise when some vehicle passed by .
The silence and the green and the sun were so healing and therapeutic .
It stayed inside us , long after the holiday was over . In the bustle of the day , going around a crowded city , doing endless , meaningless chores , somewhere , in our hearts , a patch of emerald earth , and a fragment of azure sky with happy birds remained . Like a tiny , secret refuge from the chaos of life .