To a layperson, she is a black silhouette against the orange-blue sky…
She sits still… So still that she could be in a painting…
She continues dreaming… The dreamer that she is!
She jerks herself out of her reverie and looks the other way… She could well be a thinker, for she knows that a change of direction usually helps…
She preens herself… Each and every plume… Patiently. Therapeutically.
Like a vain princess, now she looks up with the hope that the chaotic, lesser birds on a nearby tree will notice her…
Far from success, she contemplates some more… The strategist in her comes to the fore.
She tweets… She chirps... She sings… Her slender neck and tail feathers gently sway to and fro in harmony… Pity, the performer finds no audience…
She flaps her wings rhythmically… Then abruptly, making sharp, raucous calls, she starts fluttering them frantically… An attention-seeking drama queen!
Impatience and desperation grow… She chooses to be left alone… But she is not really the loner others think her to be.
Riled, she sits still again… Impersonating a stoic sculpture.
A moment of quiet thought and she instinctively knows she has got what she wanted… Even if not from the ones she tried to appeal to…
Someone has indeed been watching her all along…
She cheeps a gracious thanks, much like a ballerina’s dainty curtsey…
But is that enough? That is not all she wanted... Is it ever enough?...
With newfound confidence, she looks towards the so-called lesser birds on the nearby tree…
Once again, she calls out to them to gain their fellowship…
She is a wannabe conformist… An aspiring prude on a never-ending path of desire…
Looking out of my room’s window and observing people, vehicles, animals, and birds is one of my favourite pastimes. One fine morning, as I was practising this very ritual, I happened to notice a woman in a pink saree, standing right below my building. She didn’t have any slippers on. Walking barefoot on the road? Strange, I thought. But what I saw next completely stumped me. She was holding a sharp knife in one hand. She wasn’t carrying anything else—just a sharp, kitchen knife!
She looked around cautiously, as if to ensure that no one was watching her. But I was! And she sensed it and looked up at me suddenly. She glared continuously at me for what seemed to be an eternity. Without moving her gaze, she started tapping the open palm of her other hand with the knife. Tap! Tap! Tap! Tap!... Recognising this to be a scene out of many a suspense thrillers, my mind raced through all possibilities: Did she know me? Did I have a fight with her…in some BEST bus? Maybe she was standing next to our car, and my dad had shooed her away? Maybe she was back for revenge? Maybe she isn’t in her right senses and now that she has seen me, she thinks I am her long-lost enemy?
She walked around the building, constantly looking at me, like she was planning to reach up to my window and slay me any moment now. I was quite freaked out, but I stood rooted near my window. Slowly, she walked away from my building. Phew! I was relieved as I saw her disappear behind some trees near the adjacent building. It was just my imagination, I calmed myself and continued looking at random things on the street with a light smile on my lips.
But my expression soon changed. She was back. Once again, below my building, staring directly at me. The knife was still in her hand. She walked around my building compound for some more time. This time, she surveyed each and every window of my house. By then, I was pretty petrified. I thought of ways to protect myself: If I just ask her what her problem is, will she go away? Should I call my folks so that she’d know I wasn’t alone in this universe? Should I just alert the shopkeepers on the ground floor of my building and get the situation under control? Should I just scream for help? (No, walking away from the window didn’t occur to me.)
But before I could even think of acting upon any of these brilliant ideas, she abruptly raised the knife into the air and brought it down menacingly at lightning speed. Swish! Swish! Slash! I cringed... In a few milliseconds, it was all over!
She had got what she had wanted—a branch from the hibiscus plant that grew in my building compound. She looked at me one last time, and walked away coolly. Of course, I still stood there in a daze, feeling rather silly.
Tikku (as I call my 8-year-old little neighbour) was very concerned about me not having a job at that moment. “When will you get admission in a new office?” she asked. Admission? Actually! “Soon…” I replied vaguely, more for self-assurance than anything else. She guessed that, I guess. She rolled her eyes animatedly: “What kind of a job are you looking for?” This one, I knew the answer to. “Writing job,” I said confidently. But now, she looked doubtful. “Writing job?... Writing job??...”, she asked me twice so as to make sure I knew what I was talking about. Or maybe she expected me to change my response; but I just smiled, and nodded in the affirmative.
She sat down beside me and thought deeply. Finally… “My dad has contacts of a lot of writers. I will talk to him,” she told me comfortingly. Wow! She knows words like ‘contacts’?... WOW! She also knows people need contacts to get a job. Chiefly, writers! Hmm, but that doesn’t stop me from cross-questioning her: “How can your dad know writers? He’s not even from that field.” She can’t believe I am sceptical. “Arre, some of his friends’ and colleagues’ wives are writers,” she says emphatically. I definitely cannot refuse her help now. So what if she is just eight, and the youngest person to help me scout for a job!
She continues…“I know for sure that dad’s best friend’s wife needs someone… In her office, she needs a security!” Imaginary knock on my head! I see my alter ego come out of me, point at me and laugh aloud, and go back inside. I collect myself. “Security??” I yell at her. She hits her head in despair, like she’s dealing with the dumbest person on earth. “Not security, Nallu Didi… Securutary!” she shoots back. “Secretary, Tikku, Secretary!” I correct her. “Yeah, that only,” she clarifies impatiently. Not wanting to break her little heart, I tell her politely that I cannot take up that job. She looks at me flabbergasted.
I try to reason with her. “How can I be a secretary, Tikku?... I write stories!” She gives me the ‘How ignorant are you?’ look. And with the kind of conviction that only she is capable of, she states, “Nallu Didi, I’m sure secretaries do write stories sometime or the other!” (Gulp!) That deep truth she had spoken knowingly or unknowingly told me once again that I have a lot to learn.
It couldn’t have been mere coincidence that I was born on her birthday. It couldn’t have been just a game of numbers that our birthdays almost mirrored each other’s. Little would she have expected a gift in the form of me on her 54th birthday. Or maybe she did. For it was meant to be – meant to be the beginning of the connection we were to share. And ever since, both of us have always taken great pride in sharing the same birthday. That was just one way of showing our affection for the other.
As a kid, my happiest days were those when I’d return from school and find her waiting for me with the door open. Having her around made me feel so contented; lying on her lap made me feel so loved, so lucky.
She never called me ‘Nalini’. Why? Well, because I was special to her and she had every right to give me a pet name. She taught me Tamil, but maintained that it was important to build my vocabulary and speak grammatically correct English—an equally important language (which she spoke impeccably). I could say, she groomed the writer in me… (Many a times have I wished that she’d be alive to read my best piece of writing)… She taught me the prayers that I say unfailingly even today. She cooked my favourite dishes when I went to stay with her(she didn’t live with us). She made sure I ate enough and on time. She was very particular that I wear fresh, new clothes even at home. She liked it if I wore a piece of jewellery. She wanted me to learn and pursue Carnatic music – something she was very passionate about.
Of course, she pampered me. My temper tantrums almost always were answered with the ‘I don’t really like what you are doing or saying, but I’ll keep quiet’ look in her eyes. I remember everything: the way she’d drape her saree; the loving tone with which she’d say, “Yes, child?” to me; her honest smile; her twinkly eyes; her gentle touch; her soft hands; her struggle for perfection (she too was a Virgo, after all!); her unconditional love for me; everything.
I had decided that my first blog had to be about something important! Rather, someone very important. And it had to be her! To make my first blog distinctive, I sat back to think of all that we had spoken about, all that we had shared... Blankness. Shutting my eyes, I thought hard… More blankness.... Memory lapses, I concluded. It had to be memory lapses! Disturbed that I couldn’t remember, I forced myself to do the only thing that could give me the answer—think more!... A black void. Why could I not remember what all she and I had spoken about? By now, the answer stared me in the face…and I kept dismissing it: “No way”, I said to it! But denial does not change a truth; it never has!
Slowly, I faced the painful, bizarre moment of acceptance of that truth. She and I had shared a rapport, a connection that many envy till date. We had great regard, admiration, and affection for each other. We were always there for each other. We were the apple of the other’s eye, the happiness of the other’s life. And yet?!... She had never told me about her childhood days, the world during her time, the pranks she played (if any). For some reason, I couldn’t even remember her telling me any stories—something most children would boast about. We had never had discussions about education, important events, socio-political affairs, work, family, people, nothing. We had never spoken to each other about our passions, our dreams, our aspirations, our ideas, our thoughts, our viewpoints, our lives, nothing!
Having accepted this truth, one question occupied every cell in my brain: Did we really know each other?... Suddenly, the feeling that I didn’t know her at all gripped me. Not knowing someone you’ve known closely and loved deeply for more than two decades of your life is a shattering realisation.
There’s so much we could have told each other. Why didn’t we? Maybe because we knew inherently that we didn’t need to converse to communicate with each other. We didn’t need words to bind us and to keep us connected. A bond so strange and so strong had to be exceptional. My paati (i.e. my grandmother) and I had let it be exactly that!
