Some Writing Work and Work in Progress

Precious Possessions

This piece is written for "Invalid Item"  :

Meera had no regrets that she was dying of bone cancer. She had spent her life quite well, doing things that she loved and with not many "unfinished tasks". She was 68. A thin frail body was all that remained of her in these last few days of her life. That, and a bucket full of memories: memories of a lifetime full of taking risks, adventures, journeys to all the four corners of the country, marriage to the most wonderful man and bringing up two darling daughters till they left to find their own place under the sun.

A bucket, you say? Yes, a bucket indeed! She was a roadside tramp, who lived under a foot overbridge and slept on a public bench in the Mahatma Gandhi garden.

She emptied the bucket on one of her tattered saris, and out rolled some of the treasures that she had stocked up for just such a day.

She picked up an anklet first. Tears came to her eyes as she recalled the ugly ankles of her mother. Her earliest memories were of her childhood, spent with a near-faceless mother, who sometimes beat her, sometimes scolded her, but always loved her. A mother who begged at movie theaters, public parks, railways and sometimes house to house: who sometimes skipped her own meal to feed her daughter; a mother who was disshevelled, dirty and downright ugly, but whose heart was full with love for her daughter; who cried when she, her daughter got even slightly hurt; who fought for her turf with street smart goons with all the strength of a waif and all the courage of a lioness. Her mother had found the anklet in some trash somewhere and had worn it from then until one day when she had died of consumption (tuberculosis).

Something else shone in the moonlight. She bent to see what it was. A silver-plated rattle! Her older daughter Shalaka had once owned it. Meera had received it from a generous lady in whose home she worked as a maid at the time Shalaka was born. "It's for your child" the lady had said, and Meera had fallen to the lady's feet out of gratitude. Shalaka played with it right from birth up to the age of 8 months. By then, she had completely broken it: the beads within had fallen out and the rattle no longer rattled.

And yet, when Chanda was born, Meera had handed the rattle in her hand as well. She had filled it with a few legume seeds and sealed the cracks with some adhesive and a strip of old cloth: the rattle had worked fine for almost a month and a half; then it just gave up and "died".

Meera looked at the rattle, or what was left of it and smiled as she remembered the happy faces of her daughters.

She put down the rattle and looked around for her husband's wrist watch. Dilip married her when she was only 17. There was no formal solemnisation as such; they lived in adjoining huts, fell in love with each other and one fine day, Dilip moved in into Meera's hut and began sleeping with her. She liked his easy-going manner and a devil-may-care attitude. With him, they had begged on inter-city trains. They sang songs to earn their livelihood. As their family increased, their daughters too joined them in amusing the weary travellers. While the parents sang, Shalaka beat on a small hand-held drum, and Chanda danced innocently till the travellers began laughing at the child's antics.

They spent nearly seven happy years in this way. Earning about 30-40 rupees everyday, eating a hearty railway station meal together. The children grew up, as children always do, on scraps of food, hand-me-down clothes and toys and lots of love.

Dilip found the wrist watch on one of the seats after the passengers had left and kept it for himself. It was a simple, functional wind-up watch with a grey dial and small dashes to represent the numbers. He looked at it all the time, since they had to synchronise their coming and going in and out of stations with the arrival and departure of specific trains!

Dilip lost his life when he tried to cross the tracks in front of an oncoming train. Meera, Shalaka and Chanda screamed and screamed as they witnessed Dilip being cut into two.

Meera sat morosely for a while as she recalled the horrific accident. Finally, she got up and rummaged in the articles lying before her for the thing that she needed most to see: it was a photograph, frayed and discoloured with time, of her entire family, taken at the Kumbh Mela in Allahabad way back in 1992. In this photograph, Meera stood with her left arm wrapped around Shalaka, while Dilip had his left arm around her and held the 2-year old Chanda on his right arm. They all smiled except Chanda, who was dozing soundly on her father's shoulder.

The photograph brought a smile once again to Meera's lips. She put all the beautiful objects next to her on her bed and lay down back to sleep.

She died clutching these objects the same night.

- ##Dr.Taher##



** Image ID #797287 Unavailable **

Check out:

"Medical Matters: Pediatrics and Other" 
"Invalid Item" 
"Trying" 

I do not suffer from insanity. I positively enjoy every moment living it!


- ##Dr.Taher##



** Image ID #797287 Unavailable **

Check out:

"Medical Matters: Pediatrics and Other" 
"Invalid Item" 
"Trying" 

I do not suffer from insanity. I positively enjoy every moment living it!