The Silver Lining - II

Somewhere in the past, the stilted window looked at the sun peeking bright through the dark billows. She sat on the couch with a gaze through the window, feeling the warm touch of the rays. The rays touched her dusky skin and scattered through the room. The thought of him filled the space and she could feel the warmth of him like that of the rays. His thoughts were all she craved for. Every breath, every blink, every sigh and every smile reminded of him. The words he spoke echoed in her mind and silenced the knock at the door.

Startled, as she went to the door, a deep anxiety caught her. Her surprise and a bizarre trepidation greeted him at the door as they met for the third time. He could only feel the surprise though. She was suddenly feeling happy and at a loss of words at the same time. His smile had an aberrant numbness and perfunctory feel which brought all approaching affairs to a halt at the foundation and the art of which he had mastered over time. Deb had a veil on him that he so proudly held close. A part of it was conscious and played. But the part which was comatose eclipsed the other and it became increasingly difficult for her to hold her back. Her breath fell short, her eyes missed a blink, her sigh became heavy and her smile widened a degree.

Deb lived a block away and had met her during one of the art exhibitions in town. As he stared at one of the charcoal art for what seemed like an eternity trying to understand the nuances, she stood by appreciating the same work. Both admired the work in subtle silence. Deb studied art as an interest apart from his regular job. She was never an art enthusiast and eager to understand the cryptic form, quietly asked Deb about it. She made a sincere effort in listening to him for the next five minutes. The art was dissected and unfolded to its minutest details. Playing with and weaving intricate words into a lucid narration was his forte. She was so engrossed in the immaculate expression of his words that she failed to notice when he had left. But his fragrance lingered in the air.

With a widened degree of smile she opened the door. Deb had come over to invite her to the exhibition at the end of the town.

They met frequently over the next few months in the block, in the alleys and beside the Wall where he sat often. Deb often leaned on the wall with a drooping head to let his creative ideas flow. He was a copyright par excellence. The wall was a bright red brick structure and stood at the end of the alley less frequented. It had an open view of the distant fields and the expanding sky. Nearby was a Peepal tree the shadow of which covered the wall during the entire noon. It was here that hours of words, touch and feel sew through the red bricks when they met. The moonlight played a gleaming display of light and shade through the Peepal leaves in the background.

Debanjana was in love.

[...in continuation to a previous post]

The Newspaper Man

He was assiduously energetic in delivering his lot. Sundar had seen the dark side of life in his early years which had made him humble. He now immensely respected life and took all adversity in stride. Having to deliver newspapers at door steps was how he started his mornings. The first light saw him on his bicycle with a bundle tied up the at the back of his seat, each day every day.

Being from a lesser privileged background and losing his parents at an early age had brought him the gritty predisposition of character and will with which he now held is head high. As he pedaled his way through the streets in Mysore, Sundar saw all grades of life at sunrise as he had seen so as a child. He crossed the blatant streets with people in misery living in dilapidated brick houses who did not have the luxury of a newspaper, to the streets where he delivered his lot. He threw the paper in the plush lawns and there came running the pet carrying the newspaper inside to his master. He watched the money plants and crotons rising through the walls of the bungalows which had its bricks polished impeccably and windows with shining glasses. Seeing this he pedaled to the next house.

The uphill ride on his way back was a strenuous task. Every pedal stroke reminded him of the pains he had been through in the days gone by. The strokes however were no more a pain to him. It was like a daily endeavor that he mastered to perfection with his breath synchronized to his rhythm. After he reached the top he always halted and took a deep breath as a mark of celebration and accomplishment. The morning was over here and the day took over. Over the years he worked on several moderately paying jobs with equal aplomb but never quit his morning job. This was a work he was born to do. Little did the man reading the newspaper on his easy chair, sipping the hot morning coffee realize that the payment at the end of the month for the thirty rounds of paper went to the self righteous man who had once had to work at his kinfolk’s place to earn the next hours meal and who left them bidding a thank you. He was all of sixteen when he took the job and continued since.

It was on a Sunday morning with the breeze flowing gently on his face. Sundar stopped by the modest yellow house with a rose shrub mounted on a usually closed window. The walls had become pale over the years but the rose on the window pane were incredibly red. There was not a day that he saw the shrub without a flower or a bud on it. But today the shrub had been pale too with no flowers to boast. Instead of throwing the newspaper above the gate, he went in towards the window. Before this he collected some water in a container from the garden. As he was watering the plant, the window opened and there stood Savitri on the other side with a container too. She said that she had no idea why the plant was dying. They watered the plant together. As he was leaving he handed over the paper to her and said, don’t worry, times will change. The sudden breeze blew her hair back and he saw the glimmer in her eyes.

They watered the plant together for the next few days and when delivering the next Sunday Times, he saw the plant boasting a bud. That day he talked to her for over an hour and got late to work. He didn’t mind though.

Years passed by and Sundar now has two bright children. He was decisive that his end of studies after the eighth grade will never be repeated again. The children visit reputed schools in the city.

As he returns home today after delivering newspapers, a home which does not have polished bricks, shining glasses on windows or crotons rising up the wall, has Savitri waiting for him at the door with a hot cup of coffee and has the same twinkle in the eyes he had seen for the first time fifteen years ago. The rose shrub blossoming implausibly red roses in the entire town looks in awe.

[Inspired by a real life, but exaggerated at places for reader’s fervor]

The Silver Lining

She walked on the road like an impassive being and knew not what lay ahead. The clouds were turning darker by the minute. Trees swayed in the wind and the dust took over the lingering visibility. She walked withholding a lifetime in her palms which held a fistful of perpetual thoughts.

She walked across the wall much visited. The wall had a different and atypical look to its colour today. The bricks were beginning to loosen. The cementing between the bricks had turned into a lump of faded adhesive and was trying hard to hold on to the blocks. The colour had turned from a bright red to a depressing shade. The chameleon on the wall had attuned its colour too. She recalled the defining moments of her life spent inclining on the very wall. Hours of words, touch and feel that were sewn through the bricks were now splitting apart with the dilapidated wall.

The clouds meanwhile were getting darker and mysterious. There was a vitriolic rumbling in the thunder. The thunder shook the ground below her feet and she felt the earth reciprocating the sky through her. And then it poured in a sudden vehemence. The water fell and wet the dry earth in a hurry. Rivulets begun flowing and soon turned into a canal of restless water. It was ominous but there was a characteristic softness in the flow. The water made its own way traversing the most convenient path.

The specs of dust and sweat on her face were washing away in a hurry too. The tears slowly became difficult to distinguish from the water on her face. Her lips were slowly giving way to a slight upward curve and a contended smile. The droplets accumulated on her brows and then dried away.

She looked at her empty palms and she ran. And ran, like she never did before. The anklet on her left leg broke away and so did the embedded beads. The beads spread accross the sand in all quarters sparkling along with the solemn droplets. The air started smelling fresh again.

The sun was now peeking bright, through the dark billows. She was Debanjana, the silver lining in the cloud.