Fishmonger

 The road is just the front .

When you stop and peer into the shop , the bottom drops off, and so does your jaw .

The floor of the shop is a slanting slope , on the sides of which , gravity defying wicker baskets and white insulation boxes , are kept . White boxes of thermocol keep fish and other perishable items as advertised on the shop sign outside .

There is a chopping board , which is a large tree stump , bearing thousand knife cuts , but scrubbed clean and covered with a muslin cloth . An array of large sharp knives next to the chopping board , declare the wares of the shop , amply .

A covered dustbin is inadequate to disguise the odours from the offals and a sleepy , one eyed and one eared dog , at the doorway , gives me a mildly interested glance . As if he knew that more visitors mean more and fresh offals .

A couple of knowing crows sat on the high tension wire , high up , outside , keeping a watchful eye , while pretending to look elsewhere .

There is no one inside . I mean humans .

A cage full of poultry sitting quietly , occasionally letting out a piteous squawk of protest .

The walls comprise of old sarees hung to keep the breeze out , which , of course , makes its way in via billowing thin fabric . A reinforcement of beaten tin sheets pathetically rattling with each gust .

Another older sign inside the tin roofed hutment declared this to be a " Non vegetarian paradise " that specialised in selling you " chicken , mutton , eggs and fish " .

In the landlocked region we live in , white thermocol boxes herald the arrival of fish . Specially on the lookout are people raised in the coastal regions , like Bengal , whose ancestors have thrived on fish for generations .

Responding to a call older than myself probably , I found myself clearing my throat at the entrance to this unique shop , where the meagre act of selling your wares will entail a mountain climbing of sorts . I was wondering which muscular and long legged powerful being is about to emerge from behind those billowing saree curtains , when a tiny boy emerged .

Standing at the base , he looked puny , positively fragile .

Fair and clear skinned , he wore a striped white shirt , crumpled but clean , dark pants , a clean pair of chappals and his hair was oiled and slickly combed .He had obviously , dressed up for work . Like a proper adult shopkeeper .

"Kya chahiye ?" He asked , with proper respectful intonation , striding up the slope with ease and long strides .

Upon hearing my reply, he nimbly climbed down to the valley , and started displaying his wares .

Expecting some adult to emerge any moment from a slit in the saree , I kept looking right and left , as I negotiated the perilous path downhill . There were strategically placed pieces of brick to resemble crude steps , but they seemed too tiny for my broad , sneakered feet .

Out of sheer force of habit , I asked " Isn't there an anyone around ?"

I regretted the question immediately . The boy , possibly used to this question , didn't answer me . He just proceeded to show me his wares .

I chose a golden scaled rohu , a delicacy .

Climbing past me , he swiftly weighed it and declared the weight .

Then , proceeded to clean and chop it up in perfect pieces with what can only be described as professional finesse.

He had , obviously , been doing this for a long time .

A gentleman , standing behind me , reeking of bidi smoke, asked "How old are you ?"

"13" . He replied precisely .

The dog , lazily opened his remaining eye and stared at the bidi smoker , as if saying "Seriously ? You had to ask that ?"

Midway through processing the fish , he got up and sharpened his chopping knife , with a sharpening tool , secreted in the derelict tin wall .

As I carried my expertly double bagged fare , the gaze of the crows followed me .

I wondered what family exigency had transformed this kid into an adult .

Making him a bread winner at a time when boys his age are learning the spelling of bread . 

A visit to the beauty parlour

 "Blah, blah, blah."

I tried to shut out my hearing . I was sitting with hair slick with hair dye , slowly trickling down my earlobes and back of the neck into my brand new T shirt . The total lack of heating in the beauty parlour was not helping . My scalp was frozen shut . My brain was slowly following .

The new bride seemed in her late teens . Chubby and hirsute . The baby fat was still very much evident . The mother chaperoning her was more insistent and conscious of beauty treatments than the daughter .

"Full body waxing , facial , massage , manicure , pedicure ...."

Some words were familiar , others were just blah .

Then the mom leaned forward and whispered into my dye-applying lady's ear ,

"What about streaks ?"

"What about them ?" a generous splotch of dye landed on my shoulder . "Ooooh ! Sorry , sorry , sorry madam " Vigorous rubbing , rubbing , rubbing of my shoulder

"Kitna ?" The mother was insistent . How much ? She really wanted to export a shiny faced , fair , hairless , polished and streaked maiden to Canada , where the groom lived .

And she had money to fulfill all her desires , vicariously , through her daughter .

The beautician hummed and hawed , and ruminated as she continued to drop more gloops of dye on my body / attire .

I could hear the cogs and wheels of her brain turning this way and that through the superficial volley of sorrys , directed at me . Being a nice person , and less of a fleecer , she came up with a random number .

"2000 to 3000." She cocked her head thoughtfully , dye brush in gloved hand , and then nodded to herself , "Yes , 2000 to 3000"

"It can be either 2000 or 3000. How can it be both ?" The mother , now defensive ,had crossed her arms . A reactive swish of the brush , and the deep melanin of her hairy arm got a coat of black .

"Ooooooh , sorry , sorry , sorry , sooooorrrry !" An extra sorry for an extra zero . I was just paying 300.

"Madam !" With a definitive flourish , the beautician , placed the offending brush in a bowl , removed her gloves , placed her free hand on one hip , and gesticulated placatingly with the other hand . "It depends on the number of streaks you want your child to have . "

Before the mother could answer , a loud wail emanated from the inner chambers , the sanctum sanctorum , where you are laid prone on a bed and various parts of your body is beautified.

It was the daughter . Some liniment , being slathered on her face had entered her eyes .

"Aapka ho gaya madam , now keep sitting still for the next half an hour . " The beautician issued strict warning to me , before darting inside to save the would be bride's eyes , and therefore the day .

An assistant took the fall .
"Why can't you be more careful ?"

"But I ..."

"yes , why can't you ? You are charging me through the roof , still so careless " The Mother bear was in full form , protecting her cub . Lying vulnerably on the reccine bed , sobbing , She looked every inch the baby grizzly . How was she to transform into a kpop star in a months' time was my wonder and beautician's worry .

I peeked through rivulets of dye and dared to ask "How old is she ?"

Both, the beautician and mother turned around at this impertinent interlude , looking quite upset .

"Madam , please do not get up , you will splash dye everywhere . "

"She is old enough . " The mother pursed her lips . Not saying anything more .

"I am 15 . I didn't even want to marry . I have to give my exams next weeeeek " The sobs exploded into full scale wail fest . The beautician slapped her forehead in resignation , the mother went to placate her hysterical offspring , and I quietly got up , paid and left , after igniting world war three . 

The Mishras of the Shiva temple

 No one knew Mishrain's name .

Neither us , her confidantes . Nor my grandmother , who knew everyone's names in the village . I doubt if her demented husband , who laid beneath the peepul , talking to the birds , with his loose pyjama strings ,and drool trickling down his chin knew , in his heyday , that is .

I have serious doubts if that name ,  existed , ever . 

For she was Mishrain , the wife of Mishra , for all and sundry . 

Her identity , forever linked to a man , now a shell of a being , barking at the dogs , and howling in sync with them , at nightfall . 

He was tied to the tree trunk , from his wrists . His several , some successful ,attempts , at running away berserk , having been thwarted by friendly townspeople . He was rescued , on five different occasions , in various degrees of dishevelment and bewilderment . Always , he would be brought , or rather , dragged back , raggedy and filthy , looking totally confused  , shouting garbled curses . 

Mishrain did not have the resources to get him treated at a fancy hospital . 

She only knew that her husband was alive , and that he was her moon , and her stars , her morning , her night , her Shiva , her Krishna , the reason behind her fasts , the sindur in her scalp , the bindi on her forehead , and her general existence . 

Everytime he returned , Mishraji was greeted by a mohalla of wailing women , who silenced up immediately , broke off , patted Mishrain on the back and departed hastily .

 I remember many a gathering dark of  sudden rural nightfall , clinging fearfully to my grandmother's saree , as this man was brought in , howling and shrieking . In my kids' eyes , he was nothing short of a monster , who made Mishrain's life hell by being the thoughtless wretch he had become . 

Only later when education had opened our eyes somewhat , I began appreciating the difference medical help made to psychiatric patient's life . 

A few young men kept  him back , from the brink of mortal peril . 

One day  he was rescued , after he made himself comfortable on the bitterly cold of parallel railway tracks ; on another occasion , he was discovered begging for food in some unknown part of the city . Twice he was rescued from the police lock up . 

In short , he was a menace , when free . 

So , the youngsters kept an eye on him , and helped Mishrain , tie him up to the peepul tree during the day .

At nightfall , Mishrain untied him , while he stared at her , stranger fashion , with bloodshot eyes , muttering swear words .

Then she took him into their tiny two room house next to the tree , and locked the door behind her . 

Once away from the prying , and largely indifferent eyes of the world , she bathed him with well water drawn by her own hands , scrubbed him clean , applied liniments on his chafed wrists , combed his hair, clothed him  and fed him . 

How she achieved this , in a violent , madman , is a testimony to Mishrain's devotion to him and her unwavering faith in the Lord . 

Only then would Mishrain , who survived on few cups of tea throughout the day , would permit herself to eat . Only when her "Shiva " had been fed . In some grotesque twist of rituals , she put him , a demented , crazed person , before her own  needs . As luck would have it , Mishraji's first name was Mahadev , which is a synonym for Lord Shiva . True to his nature , as it were , Shiva , in this case , was both the maker , and destroyer of Mishrain's life , peace and well being . 

 His shrieks and abuses , plus his desire and ability to wreck Mishrain's immaculately kept household would necessitate the aforementioned tethering of Mishraji . 

Another important reason was the proximity of the village temple , the erstwhile workplace of Mishraji . The devotees came in a steady stream , and were scared of and by Mishraji . As the offerings were shared by the new Pundit , a successor of Mishraji , the temple was also a source of Mishrain's meagre income. Enough to keep the soul and body together .Hence it  was important that Mishraji doesn't interrupt the proceedings . 

The festival days were the worst . 

When the celebrations , extended into the nights , and Mishrain , would flutter helplessly , between the Shiva statue in the temple , and her Shiva tethered to the tree outside , nearly naked , filthy and hungry . 

One cold February night , when the cattle were still being covered in gunny sacks , and Lord Shiva was to be married at the stroke of midnight , Mishrain , sat huddled in the corner of her room , praying for Shiva to help her , getting steadily hypoglycemic , almost to the point of passing out . 

Around 1130 pm , a huge uproar from the outside woke up Mishrain , and sighing , she prayed to the Lord to save her and Himself . 

Mishrain peeked out into the now deserted road , to see the Peepul tree fallen . It was an old and dried up  tree , but for an emaciated madman to have pulled it down like that , it must have required superhuman energy . 

Next , there was a huge commotion from the temple premises . Peaceful lilting bhajans were replaced by shouts and screams. 

Mishrain rushed to the temple . Suddenly , everything seemed to be happening in slow motion . 

All else was blurred , just a naked madman , who had flung himself at the massive granite Shivling , his skull cracked , and a stream of blood gushing out onto the marigold and bel leaf strewn path . His arms held the Shivling in a bear hug . 

Mishrain let out a sigh like high pitched sound and crumpled at the gates .

Both of them passed away that fateful day . 

Mishraji due to severe head injury and Mishrain , due to prolonged hypoglycemia and shock . 

Both their photographs were procured from distant relatives and framed and hung inside the temple . An impromptu canonisation of sorts elevated the long suffering couple to the status of Gods. They were worshipped with garlands and tikkas of chandan applied on an ancient , sepia tinted likeness of their younger  selves . Both are smiling in the black and white photo. 

"Possibly taken at their wedding " , my grandmother would declare sagely .

Few years passed , and their home was put up on sale by the new Pundit . That was when a plastic folder of  old documents were dug up in the beaten earth floor . They were possibly , intentionally buried by Mishrain , to keep them from getting misplaced in a crazy household .

The most interesting find was Mishrain's first name . She was called "Uma". 

A felled field and a trippy feast

 It is October, the days have shortened and the mating season is on the wane.

The egrets who sported orangish neck for the whole of monsoon are slowly and surely turning white.

A maidan with full grown grass was bristling menacingly in the backyard. At its glory, a six foot tall man was likely to disappear in its depths with nary a ripple.

There is no telling what types of wildlife, creeping snakes, lizards, generations of chameleons , and nesting pairs of mongoose the grassland hid in its bowels.

One fine drizzly day , a tractor was sent in . Armed with sawtoothed rotatory blades at its underside , it got to work, hacking grass , spraying the cut sheaves, this way and that.

But what was most remarkable in this entire operation were the egrets .

Hordes of them . An egret public address system had somehow gone off, and now there were hundreds of them flying before the tractor feeding on frogs, lizards , crickets and grasshoppers flushed out from beneath the dense grass .

Crows, the ever  vigilant scrounger, were also joined in by cautiously high stepping lapwings . I thought the slow movements and generally sad demeanor of the lapwings meant a general loss of habitat and possible destruction of a few odd nests.

That was before I saw them hog several dragonflies , wings still piteously beating clamped into determined beaks , that I realised that the field had been flattened into an enormous avian smorgasbord .

The bright green grass have pale whitish undersides . 

So the field looked, in the aftermath of clearance, a large pale swathe of death festooned with the most delectable morsels .

The egrets look like grandpas , with baggy throats quivering with anticipation as they feast off their own dining table. Heads are pulled back and jutted ahead with each careful , deliberate step, like a nonagenarian badly in need of a walking stick. 

It is easy to mock an egret till you watch it unfold its long, pristine white wings  and take off with a whoosh .

You watch heavenwards , tethered to the land ,puny human . 

Growing old

 Every day 

I grow old 

Intolerant 

Senile 

Forgetful 

Fat and deaf 

Ignorant 

Incompetent 

Insolent 

Indolent 

Caught between 

Beliefs and doubts 

Fanaticism 

And skepticism 

Wondering 

What ifs 

What nots 

Every sunset 

You rue the weather 

Why didn't it rain today? 

Will it rain tomorrow? 

If , wonder 

Whether 

And all of a sudden

You are ether 

The lift

 It was a routine day . The bell of the lift rang , people trooped in , ringing in their floors , one by one . Then the lift slowly shut with a decisive clang and slowly descended . 

Everyone kept their eyes down , one boy , who appeared to be a delivery guy , kept up a low toned , almost inaudible conversation . Others checked their phones .

The lift halted at 16 th floor , and  an anxious, slightly hysterical  mother , her hair dishevelled from running around in haste , midriff wet from early morning cooking and bathing kids , nailbeds still white from hasty atta kneading for tiffin paranthas , rushed in . She was clutching a pink satchel full of books , with Princess Elsa from the Frozen movie smiling slyly from the front , while gripping the left  hand of a small girl , roughly 6 years old , in the other hand . A hastily swung water bottle still dripped drop drop on the lift floor , a coquettish Elsa smiled over her shoulder , through the thicket of her white braid , even on the water bottle . 

The girl , clad in white shirt with the school’s logo embroidered over the right breast pocket , and a crisply pressed blue skirt , fiddled with a gel pen in her right hand . 

In the quiet of the lift , two sounds were distinct , the steady drip-drip of the water from the bottle , and click - clickety -click from the child’s hand. 

In one swift , wild movement , the mother snatched the pen from her daughter’s hands , and tishtened the screw top of the water bottle , silencing both sounds , simultaneously . Shaking her head with an unspoken warning , and a stern look , she handed over the pen back to the girl . 

The lift stopped at ground floor and  the harried mother exited quickly , hair flying , literally dragging her daughter behind her , for the fear of missing the school bus . 

The delivery boy was still on the phone , the other people also filed out one by one . 

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It is the diwali night . 

the building society has organised a “Ranga rang karyakram “ ( colourful cultural function ) 

Again the venue is the lift . 

A lady in black enters , filling the elevator with  large clouds of cheap perfume , just like a car belching exhaust . 

Her black saree has a thin gold border. in turn bordered by a large lace , intricately designed , also gold . Her ears are adorned with black beads dangling from a large circle hoop of pur gold , and her sandals are black blocks with gold straps . 

She seems to have come upon all this wealth , suddenly , and quite late in life . Seems to be in her sixties , wrinkles adorn her neck , there were dirt filled cracks in her heel , and patches of gry hair had escaped henna application at the back . 

She had along with her , a short stocky person , carrying a sack of potato chips packets and biscuits . He wore a black sherwani , adorned with shiny sequins , and a thick gold ropy chain around his neck , almost like a dog collar . The gold chain barely had any place to move , nestled as it was in the fat folds of his neck . 

“Aaa gaya sab kuch na ?” The lady asked , deigning to do a half turn towards him , blasting us with a fresh wave of the cheap perfume , and revealing a black velvet purse , with gild bead trimmings . 

The man nodded , in agreement , a bleary moist eyed look and a nervous twitchy demeanour , pointing to either substance abuse , or a mental deficiency . 

Rich relatives are known to keep poor ones in their homes , using them as domestic helps , in return for bed and lodging . 

Soon , the ground floor arrived , and the couple departed , leaving traces of jasmine on the air . 

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It is holi and we are barricaded inside . The lift comes , opens , and departs . Screams , shouts and snatches of drunken revelery can be heard . Girls scream , men laugh , and the world looks the other way , for this day of colourful celebration , often turns into bawdy gross behaviour from even the genteel folk . Once in a year , disinhibition and chaos reigns everywhere , from the gutters to the tallest skyscrapers . 

Common and good sense flees , to hide underneath beds . 

The bell rings . Once , twice . Short rings . Third time it rings loud and clear and for long . 

 It cannot be ignored . 

The spy hole reveals an unknown face , covered in black paint and few splotches of pink colour . Only his eye whites  and teeth remain uncoloured . 

Reluctantly , the door is opened , an inch . A brazen foot enters the doorway , jamming the narrow space in between the door and the wall . His accomplice , another human blackened from head to toe , balances on the stair railings on all four , and hoots like an owl, alternately chattering like a monkey , a feat achieved only by gymnasts , or the fully  stoned .

Panic rises . A valiant attempt is made to dislodge the foot , a woodland suede covered in three shades of gulal , impossible to clean and thereby ruined . 

Finally I succeed . Slam the door and lock it. Quickly dialled the building security . Bawdy songs are heard in the background . 

More monkey chatterings and scampering of feet heard from the landing, even as the lift opens and security guards come out brandishing truncheons . 

The owl hoots one last time , trailing into a whimper . Truncheon blows land on certain body parts and the duo are bundled into the lift, one guard pressing g for ground , and talking to the other on phone , presumably on the ground floor , ready to apprehend the miscreants . 

The bell rings again . 

It is the security guards now . Colour splotched uniform , stupid grin on the face , lecherous look in the eyes . Absolutely inebriated. Asking fpr bakhsheesh . They have left their own celebrations to come “ save us “ , a price will have to be paid . A single drop of saliva dropping out of the open mouth , like a salivating hyena , spotting the prey . 

No option but to slide a hundred rupee note through the bottom of the door . 

In a world full of coloured zombies , we are the sane ones , caged in . 

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The neighbours cat leaps into the hurried , noiseless , brightly lit and air conditioned comfort of the lift . Before I can .

One step on the threshold , I try to cajole her to come out . SHe looks at me defiant , perplexed . 

Defeated , I have to draw back and let the door close on the feline occupant . I cant travel with a stray cat . 

Strays win . again . 

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Sabzi Wala

At 12 sharp , on most weekdays , my phone rings . Even before I pick the call , I know who it is .

The local vegetable vendor . He doesn't do this for lack of customers . He does this because , he doesn't want me to be deprived of the freshest watermelon , the reddest tomatoes , and the firmest bananas. For , like a true gentleman , he doesn't stop his customers , made up of a motley gaggle of housewives and house helps , from squeezing , sniffing and holding the merchandise . Then abandoning the pale , the squishy , and the spotted , in favour of the firm , the shiny and the blemish free . 

Survival of the fittest at its best . 

 Most of the people who flocked to this vendor  are elderly . The "online-ly challenged " , if you may . No , it is not an insult . 

I consider myself to be a part of this breed of humans , rapidly vanishing . An endangered breed who still like to haggle the price of lauki with their human thela vendors , and not order it at thrice the price on some faceless app . The possibility of being saddled with a rotting cabbage , and having to wage a time -consuming , and soul-crushing , online battle , for a refund , and an apology , is very real . Not worth it . It is easier to let the black hole of the online world consume your hard earned 50 bucks. That too ,  for a cabbage that your vendor would charge you , possibly 20 rupees for . 

 The pluses are many . You ask your regular sabzi vendor , if his mother was discharged from ICU . He tells you , she has "passed " , while passing his own hand over his recently shaved head , indicating the funeral of a loved one in recent past . You tut - tut , keep silent for a moment , then launch into a tirade over rising prices , wretched politics and the sticky hot weather . He matches  you , word for word , shaking his head , nodding vigorously , speaking up when needed , and winding your interaction with a bunch of dhania and a fistful of green chillies , thrown in for free .

 He even lowers his prices , and his guard , in criticising the ruling party , for you are that item , the "regular " .

For years , I have known his sons , his wife and him , as they take turns to run the shop . His sons are in college and high school and I keep forgetting their classes . I am scared to ask too , as I know that most of the time they are busy measuring out merchandise , and handing over the patrons their bags bulging with spinach and gourds , onions and tomatoes , the coloured and the green . All that work must leave little room , intent , or interest for scholarly pursuits . 

Last week , the vendor took a loan from his bank , and bought an electric powered mini truck . It is shiny , white , new , and has immediately raised his status , both in other's eyes , and probably his own . Old friends , gardeners , masons , odd job boys , drop in , touch his vehicle gingerly , and ask him how much it cost ? Where did he buy it from ? The gas cylinder supplier , having an old petrol driven mini of his own , offers suggestions as  where he could have gotten a better deal from , etc etc . All this has raised his self esteem in the eyes of his erstwhile friends , who probably don't consider him  equal any more . With a single material possession , he has elevated himself , in ways , in which years of slogging wouldn't have . 

Of late , as a sign of prosperity and good business , he buys large transparent bags of strawberries , kiwi fruit . musk melon (an exotic variety called "Bobby ") ,  button mushrooms , and a crate of alphonso mangoes . 

These are expensive and fragile items and have , what is called a "niche market " . 

Despite catering to a certain income group , it is interesting to note that there are some people , who have more expending power , even in the "earthy " realm of vegetable buying . 

As someone wise had noted once "Men are created equal , but some are more equal than the others ". 

Bird brains

A pair of pigeons have been scouting my balcony for a place to make nest for the past two weeks . To discourage them , I planted petunias in my pots , and placed them directly in the path to their dreams of domestic bliss . 

I had rolled in pots inside wrought iron stands , like mounted cannons , ready for war . 

 But they out witted me . 

One night I heard lot of flurry of wings and feathers . I knew they were conducting nocturnal recon and attack stratagems . 

Next morning I found my beloved two toned petunia blossoms licking the floor , as their base had been flattened by avian diligence , splaying the green shoots , now wilted, and the purple and white fine petals , grazed the floor , pitifully . 

I removed the said pot .

The wounded warrior was replaced by a sturdy rose plant  , with little or no girth . The pot and the plant were both slim, like a ballistic missile  . The stem was sturdy , almost wooden , Trojan Horse fashion . The plant was armoured with thorns .

Hah .Beat this , birdbrains !! I exclaimed , in my mind , like a triumphant mammal  .

Next morning a flimsy , but sturdy bed of twigs emerged , balancing itself on two pots . One rose plant , two the fallen warrior , petunia . 

The twigs had been sourced from the dried branches of rose , de thorned , possibly by sharp beaks . The nest was taking shape , despite my best efforts . 

The maid refused to throw the nest and thereby " destroy someone's home " , an age old superstition in Hinduism ." Lest trouble befalls the thrower's home "

So the nest stayed . Precarious , and porous , and fragile . 

Next day  , two tiny eggs appeared .  Tiny , white , fragile hand  grenades . Not in the nest , but on the pristine , tiled , swept and mopped floor . The tiny circle of twigs had given away , under the weight of the next generation , and had parted . 

Loopholes . 

We both looked at it warily. 

My maid picked up the eggs, gingerly , and placed them gently back on the ressurected twig bed .

They promptly  fell through again , this time , with a tiny crack and splat .

The yolks run pitifully out .

The pigeon parents watched from the sunshade , red eyes locked onto the human balcony , cocking their heads , in disbelief and disappointment . 

They thought to themselves " Another one bites the dust, ehh, another one gone. " 

Together they flew away , never to appear again . At least , for now , they had surrendered . 

My maid , playing the Sherlock Holmes , rationally concluded that the eggs must have been laid on the floor itself . The twig nest having been demolished by a rival probably . 

In the end , in this war of wits , our birds had probably been betrayed by friendly fire . 

Billowing Curtains

 Billowing curtains have quite a story to tell. 

Billowing curtains  , as  my scaredy self learnt today evening , means simply , that I have left my  door open , while watering the plants outside . That the neighbour's cat has quietly slunk in through  the main door , and is busy sniffing my bedsheets in your bedroom , while my back was turned . It was a mild progression from the last time when she was found perched on my bed , licking her undersides . That , however , didn't imply that she remembers my hastily thrown bata chappal from the last time .

Billowing curtains throws me and unwary people like me , constantly , into hot water . 

I was , at a certain chaotic period of my life , constantly in and out of the house. Told a guest's wife on phone that no , he wasn't in yet . I was standing in the balcony , talking to her , happened to glance in the direction of the guest room . The curtains were , you guessed it , billowing . So , the ceiling fan had been switched on , (it was summer ) and  he was in . I told the caller so much and had to spend next half hour explaining and "apologising " for "lying " to her . She , most definitely , smelt a rat . Still does . Well , can't blame her . I would have too , in similar circumstances . The culprit , in my opinion , were the blissfully , gloriously , billowing curtains . 

On another occasion, I was video calling an elder , who saw my curtains billowing in carefree abandon of the summer breeze tempered with cool blasts from the AC . Commented on how shabby and faded and thin they looked . So , I was "gifted " a pair that has double layered protection against the sun , and has an outer layer resembling a tarp that had  been laid over a freshly cemented pathway , with workers stomping down it . Grey  ash , brown , thick and with criss cross pattern on them . They are called "Total blackout " curtains , and they do anything but billow . They now stand stolidly grey , in neat folds , staring down at me like nuns from my high school . 

In hospitals , it is a given that the wards should have cheerful cotton curtains . Cheerful , so as to cheer the inmates , who are in pain , obviously ; and cotton because of its breathable quality . So much other life saving and ailment relieving activities go on in the wards that little or no attention is paid to these linen fragments flapping pathetically , watching the ebb and flow of life from top of the window edges . 

Once upon a time , a VIP's better half fell sick . It was a minor ailment . Possibly food poisoning  at one of those gatherings , which the services are famous for . Well , a normal individual would have taken an antacid , laid in the bed , and would have gotten up ,next morning , fresh as a daisy . 

Not for our protagonist here . She had to be admitted into the hospital and all the big wigs ,came to see her , read her case sheet , fussed around  , and declared her gravely ill . Everyone took turns to take care of the lady , to their best possible ability , and servile subordinates slipped in and out of the room , bearing trays of succour . Looking grave and unctuous . 

The lady , during a gap  in her incredible and ceaseless care , took a breather and looked up . Possibly heavenwards . 

Somewhere in between the pristinely painted white clinical ceilings and the glory of a manicured garden, outside, lay a vast expanse of a fabric . A fabric that was possibly , as old as the hospital . The large maroon roses had turned an evil shade of brown and the fabric , almost threadbare , let in sunlight from in between its fibres . The thin , almost translucent cloth moved , and dust motes danced gleefully in the stream of a sunbeam cast upon crinkly white , new bedsheets on the bed . Someone had hastily pulled the curtain , that was so unused to being pulled , that it had practically disintegrated . One sunbeam danced on the patient's hastily moved legs and another smote her directly in the left eye , blinding her for an instant . A scream followed a madly ringing bedside bell , and an army of nursing staff raced to address whatever emergency lay unfolding in the VIP Room . 

Needless to say , the offending curtains were removed , trashed , replaced pronto , by grey and brown "total blackout " double layered curtains, that added to the grim efficiency of the hospital. They also blocked any cheerful view of the garden outside  . They didn't billow anymore . 

The tiny stone temple

 The wind felt chill , almost immediately as the sun dipped. 

Standing on the terrace, looking out at the erstwhile green expanse , shrouded in darkness and mystery now. 

It was the same , just a few trees that dotted the fields had disappeared. It was just another expanse of flat land , made easier for combine harvesters . Earlier ,the land border demarcating each field would be a hard ridge, grassless from being  pounded  by so many bare feet. Hard worked souls rested beneath trees to  catch their breath, drink water, eat frugal meals, catch a nap . 

I looked out towards the house. The golden tips of trees from the fading sun melted swiftly into the darkness of the sudden night you witness only in villages.  Air becomes crisp and cold, a soft breeze blows , softening the heat of the day , and crickets come out . 

The well , at the back , now with plaster cracked at several places, even the chunks falling in , barely standing. The stone temple , dark and mysterious , beyond the wall . 

I remembered the day the wall was erected. Hastily, irreverently, angrily. Grandma had cradled her in her lap and had wept . 

Her bony knees poking through the pale whitish saree she always wore . The smell of cardamoms and cloves emanating from her . I remember looking up at her face and hating the person who made her grandmother weep . 

I  had barely seen this person . But I  had promised herself that l would hate this faceless person, and I had held onto the hatred, like a comforting thought. 

Everything that lay beyond that short wall was hateful . 

Except for the dark stone temple which was in the family for generations . 

I remembered my grandmother telling me that it was the most ancient thing in the family . Made of a black stone, with a tiny window, and large iron door .  The room was ritually purified , cleaned up and pooja performed every year during Durga Puja . 

Once the ten days were over , it was locked and we went back home walking on a tiny stone path , carefully closing the wicket gate behind us . It was this wicket gate that was removed and a brick wall built hastily to stop us from " trespassing" into his home. The nerve. It didn't help that he was the son of my grandfathers younger brother , my father's cousin , and would have to , perforce, come and touch my grandparents feet at every vijayadashami evening.

We kids were herded into rooms , while these deplorable people were being served tea and sweets. Ladoo and khaja from my grandma's secret larder . Stone faced , head covered , she would hover in the kitchen. She remained stone faced even when the young upstarts came to touch her feet. 

My grandfather did all the small talk . Grandma watched the charade from the distant safety of her kitchen . We just heard snippets of conversation from faceless voices , locked up in our rooms . 

Outraged and afraid that they would eat up all our beloved pooja sweets , we would emerge an hour later to find a relieved grandma smiling. 

We were given sweets too . Plenty were made during the pooja. 

A ritual that she never missed was the evening aarti . Standing at the well , behind the wall, a flickering ghee lamp would be waved in the direction of the temple and chants murmured . A head covered in white saree pallu , bowed in reverence, eyes closed , sandalwood smoke rising fragrant from her brass pooja thali . 

A flickering beacon of hope in a sea of darkness, a firefly, an act of defiance. 

That is when I saw her . 

At the well . Behind the wall . A ghee diya flickered. A head bowed. A pale white saree. A tiny sphere of unsteady light that attempted to fight the growing darkness. 

Then slowly, the light caved in and all encompassing darkness rushed in . A gust of wind blew away the lamp . Just the sandalwood fragrance lingered onto the air . 

I drew my shawl around me. Shivering . A faint smell of cloves in the air .

A voice shouted at me from the stairs , holding aloft a kerosene lantern. "Beware , the steps are broken."

"The deed is ready for you to sign " . "Buyers will come tomorrow, again."

" You are not staying the night are you? The car is waiting." 

I shook my head in negative. Not trusting to speak 

The  caretaker took a look at me and said " what? You saw her too ? Yeah. She comes very often at the well" .