The Park

“Life has given us everything we’ve asked for- a wonderful son, a beautiful home and a rewarding career. There’s nothing else we could’ve wished for.” - Arjun’s father, Deepak.

“Life has largely been composed of disappointments, but I’m happy of the decisions and small moments I’ve been given.” -          Arjun’s mother

“Life is largely about adjusting. You have to keep up with the times.” - Arjun’s wife, Indrani.

It was a breezy Sunday evening when, on my way to buying vegetables for the house, I saw the park. Through my fifteen years of living here, commuting to and fro office, I had passed it everyday. But it had, like the other objects along the way, been a blur of motion most of the times- wedged between meetings and tasks to complete before the day ran out. Today, I saw it as a grassy playground with swings and benches (for retired people like me) and shady trees to sit under, almost like a green oasis amidst the concrete desert of high-rise buildings all around. On a lark, I decided to sit there for a few minutes- vegetables and dinner- and my bahu, Indrani, could wait.

I pushed the revolving rusted iron gate and stepped in, its creaks reminding me of the little park we used to visit as children in old Lucknow. I remember Papa used to take us there as a Sunday ritual treat- Anil, my brother, for not harassing me or pulling my pigtails, and me, for being good around the house and helping Ma out in the kitchen. It had long uncut grass in patches, and shady, huge trees.  I can still remember the vivid scent of wet earth mixed with the setting afternoon sun, giving off a faintly humid aroma, while the shrill cry of the ice cream vendor could be heard as he paddled his wares on his rusty bicycle. The mali stayed in an exciting tent-like structure in the park itself- and I would question my father why we couldn’t live like that. Now, as I walked a few unsteady steps, looking around, breathing in the faint park smell, I noticed a worn stone bench under a graceful ashok tree. I decided to sit there.

It was so peaceful there- and so calm. The presence of the paani puri vendor doing brisk business just outside the green thorny hedge as he doled out crisp puris laden with all kinds of boiled delicacies, immersed in spicy green chutney water made my mouth water as I could taste those paani puris already. And, for the umpteenth time since his demise, I missed my husband, Deepak. It would have been so nice to sit with him under this tree- reminiscing about our past life. We would discuss friends, family, telephone calls, bills, and at the end of our little sojourn in this dusk drenched park, we would return home, having eaten our fill of paani puris- a taste we both shared, and which I sorely missed. For what would people say if they saw an old woman like me, in my crushed cotton saree, lining up to receive the pattal eagerly, stretching out my hand for more and smacking my lips with obvious delight?

My heart clouded as unbeckoned tears sprung to my eyes. I could never get over his untimely death- and that choking sensation when I had first heard about his accident refused to leave me even now, almost four years now- squeezing my stomach with a force so powerful that I could hardly breathe. Though it was less intense now, I could always feel a little frisson of sadness when I thought about Deepak. Things would have been different if he was there.

I had mused about this so many times since my retirement- wanting to go back to our ancestral house in Lucknow but my son, Arjun wouldn’t hear of it. “You will stay with us, Ma, in this house. There’s no question of going back to Lucknow. We will look after you.” explaining with the concerned brown eyes he had inherited from his father. Sometimes, when I caught a glimpse of his shadow, I would almost think it was Deepak. And that would be my saving grace for the day.  I kept alive by seeing my husband in my son.

The past two months post retirement were quite difficult. I would gaze out of our fifth floor house in Malad- wishing again that Deepak was there. The empty house suddenly seemed big and foreboding. I discovered nooks and crannies that I didn’t know existed as the bai broomed them off. I missed Deepak’s company and his support. I also missed a regular routine and job that would take my mind off my husband. But I was retired now.

The bank where I worked as a Manager for the past five years still continued to stand solid- the one structure where I put in all efforts, worked from nine to nine, missing parties (not that they mattered much to me) and birthdays (how did it matter now that my husband was not there?). Now it seemed to mock me every time we passed it- “Look," it seemed to say- "you gave me many hours of your life- and I am still standing without you. You thought you were my life support system- that I would crumble without you? I don’t really need you”… Sometimes I would feel unwanted- like my role in life was over- and then, I would glance up to my little puja in my room, pick up the Ramayana, and flip the pages till I reached the Prashnavali. I would stay immersed in it, asking questions about Arjun, Indrani, Deepak, Anil’s family, and myself till it would be time to prepare meals.

And thus, in the role of a homemaker I felt my last wishes of life being fulfilled.

I ran my hand over the smooth texture of the stone bench. It had looked so worn from afar- I had assumed it would be uncomfortable to sit on- deceived by its appearance- just as I felt I had been deceived by Indrani the first time Arjun had brought her home, almost two years ago. Then, demure and shy in a pale pink salwar kameez (I remember, because she told me she had designed it herself), she looked every inch the quintessential small town girl that I was so keen on Arjun to marry. She had respectfully served out coffee and crisp pakoras to everyone- reserving her own plate for last. She spoke in a small, subdued voice about her own family- her father was a businessman, and her mother, a schoolteacher. Being the only child like Arjun, had led to a deep sense of aloofness about her, which I read, at that time, as being shy. Little was I to know that this smiling, doe eyed girl would metamorphose into a strong, willful and opinionated career woman just six months later. It wasn’t as if we didn’t get along well, I thought over, as I watched a young couple in their mid-twenties occupy the bench opposite mine. It was just a case of mistaken character, I thought wryly.

The young woman, who looked about 25, had a thick streak of vermilion sindoor in the parting of her hair, and wore a cheap purple synthetic sari. She was gesturing wildly to the man accompanying her, who also looked about 25, dressed in a striped shirt and black pants, her glass bangles making a faint noise as she spoke in Marathi, and I could catch faint strains of maala maihit nahin emanating from her. Though the Marathi couple looked fairly well off, one could see that they weren’t very rich by the state of their shoes. Shoes…I thought about Indrani again. She worked as a production-co-coordinator in a large production house- something to do with making ad-films- and she had the largest fetish and collection of shoes that I had ever seen. At the time of her marriage, there was a separate carton, the size of a washing machine, which had been delivered home as part of her possessions- and I was aghast to see that all it contained was shoes- flat sandals, strappy stilletoes, jogging sneakers, fashionable chappals, fur boots and everything in between. I couldn’t understand at first why she needed so many- I had just three pairs of flat chappals which I wore with everything- the same design in different colours- and she had just laughed it off- “Mummy-ji, I just like shoes- I like collecting them.” And she proudly displayed her latest acquisition- a parrot green pair of curved chappals that I had only seen models wearing in the latest issue of Femina, which, alongwith Cosmpolitan and Elle were like Ramayana for Indrani. She had also stopped wearing sindoor in her hair, a little over a month after her marriage. I hadn’t told her then, but she had brought up the subject herself- saying that it didn’t look too good with all those western outfits. And besides, I had overheard her jokingly tell her friend on the phone- she didn’t quite like to look married and flaunt the signs of a married woman. How I wished then, that I could have been her- I would’ve gladly switched places with her- to have my husband around, to wear sindoor in my hair and a bindi on my forehead- and my collection of gold, silver and diamond mangalsutras- wrapped in soft tissue, lying in the bottom of my dressing table. Sometimes, during the day, when I would feel especially lonely, I would take them out, one by one, and lay them on the bed, remembering with fondness, the occasions I had worn them on, fingering golden filigree here- a clutch of diamonds there- admiring the black and golden beads and feeling them against my cheek. Somehow, I felt their pity- those black eyed beads, watching me from within their cosy home in the confines of the drawer.

A little way further in the Park, I noticed a young boy, about fourteen years old, doubled over a textbook, completely oblivious to the surroundings- reminding me of Arjun. I remembered the traumatic journey from Lucknow to Bombay- when Deepak had been transferred to the Bandra branch of the bank he worked in then. I had also requested a transfer- at that time, the decision to move to a completely new city was challenging, and exciting. But I remember how heavy hearted we were when we left behind our old ancestral house, that Deepak had inherited from his forefathers- a large, sprawling structure with more tenements than the Bara Imambara- situated in the heart of Aminabad- a sturdy stone edifice which had more rooms than we would ever need- always occupied by our tenants and servants. In the moonlight, it looked as majestic and picturesque, if not more, as the Taj Mahal itself, and I remembered, how, as a shy bride, I had stepped over the stone porch, knocking over a gold tumbler of rice, leaving red feet marks wherever I went. Deepak’s mother and father were the most loving in-laws one could ever find. I missed Deepak’ s mother- I had taken to calling her Amma- who was modern in her thinking, and traditional in acting. She taught me to cook the most delicious hyderabadi biryani (having learnt it from her best friend, who was a Muslim) and dahi ka ghosht. I remember now, because I can smell the spicy garam masala of the bhel puri that is wafting through the green leaves of the hedge, mixing in with the smell of mud and bodies.

Watching the young boy’s lips move as he silently repeated his lesson to himself, gently rocking back and forth in that motion to facilitate learning, I thought of Arjun’s reaction when he had learnt that we would be shifting cities. “What about Baba and Amma?” he had asked in a frightened voice- and when he was told they would be staying back for the time being, he had locked himself on the terrace- and had refused to come down all day. It took me all the coaxing and plying with aloo-puri- his favourite food, to persuade him that it would be alright, and that Bombay was a better place- planting thoughts of the sun-kissed sea, huge waves and thousands of pigeons of Marine Drive into his nine year old brain. Though it had been very difficult for us, adjusting to the small two-bedroomed flat in bustling Dadar after the opulence and freedom of a mansion, I remember Arjun had settled in the best. He had made friends on the first day of school itself- and though I had been worried about him coming home in tears and wanting to go back, the scene never replayed itself more than a couple of times in the next one year- as both Deepak and I juggled jobs, house and child, which left us with little time for ourselves. We had become like machines- running back and forth- traveling the same route from home to work, and back- catching little fragments of happiness in the time we could spare from weekend chores to sit together- watch a movie together- take Arjun out for a drive. At night, I remember, we would be too exhausted to even talk about the day, and many times I found Deepak snoring in a deep sleep before I could switch off the bedside lamp. But even though those years seem a blur of movement and work, I still remember Deepak’s warm body next to mine as we slept- his reassuring arms and the cosy warmth that engulfed me whenever I turned in my sleep- the sheer physicality of his being, his presence, which I ached for to touch and hold.

As I grew further engrossed in my thoughts, I heard the sweet twittery call of an unknown bird sitting on the branch right above me, and noticed a woman walking with deliberate steps, barefeet, on the small patch of grass opposite me. She looked about as old as me- was she retired, like me, spending the worst time of the evening – the time when a husband’s presence is sorely missed in this park, alone? Did she too, have a son and his wife to go back to? Did she too, feel unwanted in the midst of such youth and vigour? For a brief fleeting moment, I was tempted to go upto her and speak to her, but then, something drew me back- the same emotion which had forced me to slink into the shadows of my own room when Arjun and Indrani had thrown a weekend beer and apples party for their friends. That night, I could hear the loud baritones of his friends over the head-throbbing rap music through the thin door that separated my bedroom from the hall. Once, I think, I heard a small knock on the door- maybe it was Arjun with some dessert as I had stoutly refused to have the strawberries in wine sauce that Indrani had prepared. I had never touched a drop of liquor in my life, and I was proud of it.

The next morning, I heard Indrani had a hangover- and I was further disappointed- though I made sure I didn’t say a word of it to anyone. After all, if Arjun didn’t say anything, who was I to comment?

At that moment, I remembered how, on Deepak’s out-of-turn promotion, we had thrown a lavish party at Mayfair Rooms in Worli- even Amma and Babuji had been flown down for the occasion- much to Arjun’s delight, where they had been the source and spotlight of all the fun in the evening, as they regaled the gathering with Deepak’s childhood memories. How different it was then- and how different things were now…

As I looked at the tall ashok trees swaying gently in the mild evening breeze, catching the drowning sun’s last rays, I thought of our large mansion in Lucknow, abandoned since Amma and Babuji’s death. There was a grove of trees in the backyard- guava, mango, tamarind and the prettiest of all- gulmohar, with its flaming orange flowers. In fact, I used to like those flowers so much that I would often keep a bunch of them in a glass vase in our bedroom- later, Deepak had bought me a zardozi encrusted sari, the exact colour of those gulmohar flowers, and I had packed in carefully in soft tissue, treasuring it as an heirloom I would share with my bahu…

I remembered the days when Arjun was a toddler- the way he had said ‘Papa’ first, making Deepak the proudest father in the world, and how he had even called up Sunder Chacha in Canada to tell him of the feat. My other friends in the bank were already grannies twice or thrice over, and I loved going to their houses sometimes on the weekends, but now that they were still working, I felt like I was intruding into their space- the one day they spent with their families. Sadly, even the weekend lunch invitations had become fewer. I longed for a grandchild- someone whom I could spoil completely and play with, but Indrani had laughed if off when I had brought up the subject last year- “I’m too young, Mummy-ji,” she had informed me and proceeded to ruffle Arjun’s hair while he was engrossed in his laptop- though she was already twenty five then. I wanted to tell her that I had Arjun when I was two years younger than her, despite having an active career. But then, of course, times have changed.

I saw clumps of bright flowers growing in the small park, which accentuated the starkness of the grey building landscape around them. Here and there, people, dressed in colourful clothes dotted the park, breaking the monotony of the green hues. My eyes wandered from person to person, trying to guess their story, their life. And that was when I noticed the flyer on the grass beneath my feet. It was a plain white square sheet of paper, with something printed in black ink. Through the fading sunlight, I read    

SEVAKASHRAM

NGO for rehabilitating illiterate women

If you are an educated citizen of Mumbai and would like to contribute to society by spending time with these illiterate yet strong women who have only seen dark times, then contact us at 022- 2630 5555.  

It was simple and effective. Just a phone number.

And then I realized I was alone no more.

I got up from the bench with a new motivation. As I tucked the flyer securely in my handbag, I looked forward to the evening and dinner.

(September 26, 2009)