Feeds

    The loud clamour from across the road brought me rushing to the kitchen. The vehicles seemed to have halted abruptly, a car having rammed another from behind. Amidst the confusion and din of commuters, I spotted the accident’s cause.   There she stood, lost in her own world, oblivious to everything around. She refused to budge as people tried pulling her away. Finally, some urchins whom she seemed to know, brought her to the pavement. It was a while before the traffic resumed normally. “How I hate this apartment bang opposite a huge intersection, with beggars, vendors and now a nutcase too.” I grumbled.    She appeared regularly with the kids who begged at the signal. Tall, with dishevelled hair and loud unfitting clothes, she was easy to spot. She would listlessly loiter on the footpath and when the signal turned red, someone would reach out to her from their vehicle and place some currency in her hands. She once entered our society compound and I was quick to raise an alarm, instructing the watchman to shoo her away instantly. One of those days, as I stood at the window enjoying the cloudy skies and lighter traffic, I noticed some hooded figures close to the signal lights. In the flash of a second, they pelted the signal with rocks and bricks. The post bent down, the lights shattered and the vandals took to their heels, one of them rushed towards my side of the road. Fortunately, some pedestrians nabbed him before the traffic police took charge. I rushed downstairs, the miscreants had created a huge chaos on the road. The hood off his face, he looked familiar, he was the youngest urchin to stroll around the junction. “Do you know what you have done?” The cop slapped the kid. “Let them suffer, drive blindly and bang each other, for what they did to her.” The boy sobbed.   “That deranged girl who accompanied you?” I enquired. “Yes. She was like a sister to us, very innocent. Her parents are dead and some men near our shanty would try to grope her. So we brought her here with us. But the rich men in cars are worse. They often fondle our girls inappropriately. Other girls can take care of themselves, but her? Yesterday I went to buy food and someone lured her into his car and drove away.” He uttered between moans. “If it isn’t safe, why do you flood the signals?” The cops demanded. “How do we live? The other day, she entered some building for water, but they sent her packing. She was just thirsty.” As the cops took him away, I wondered if he, poor and illiterate, was way better than me. I prided myself to be educated and emancipated, but like many, had turned my back to her. A little concern from my side could have saved her, but I had let my social status blind me. How was I, any different from those devils who had shamed her.     

She scurried around, supervising the festoons, painting the Rangolis. The saris arrived, I watched her in awe as she sorted the bunch, tending to individual preferences. “Green for your aunt, red for your cousin, I’ve kept your favourite bright shades away.” She winked, as she picked an off- white one for herself. “Sit here Ma.” I pulled her close. “Baba’s long gone, you’ve tended to all my needs, kept everyone happy. It’s my wedding, and I won’t let your life be colourless anymore.” She turned misty-eyed as I replaced the white drape with her beloved blue sari, Baba’s last gift.

I run my fingers on the marble, cool in the gentle morning sun. Just like her, her bright eyes, her blithe laughter, her pure heart... I fish out those pink envelopes the center has mailed. I settle with her on the dewy grass, and read every single one of those unnamed letters. Odes of love and gratitude, from happy strangers she would never meet. I picture their smiles, I’m so proud. Of my daughter, an organ donor, gifting lives to many. I place their appreciation at her grave, she’s still alive, in their souls. I beam between tears of joy.