Blue bottles

Manira?

Present ma’am.

Milina?

Yes ma’am.

Naseera?

Naseera?

That was when I felt it. When there was no answering shout back. My gut exploded with fear and I knew. I just did.

Ma’am? My voice quavered, as I struggled to keep it steady. Ma’am? Teacher?

Yes, Saleema? An irritated question that dampened my plans. But I had to be brave.

Can I go to the bathroom?

Saleema, you must say may. May I be excused?

I repeated obediently. With the special emphasis on the ‘may’. My heart beat like a lamb’s about to die.

I walked out of class, slowly. Once out, I ran. My black burqha flapped behind me. My mother used to say it made me look like the devil.

I ran, my chest tight with agony and fear. I finally slipped outside of school and sped to Ram bhaiyya’s shop.

One phone call, huh?

I pushed an old two rupee note towards him.

He pushed back two gleaming coins.

No ischool today?

No, I breathed out.

I dialed her number as quickly as I could. But I couldn’t see too well because of the tears.

It rang. It rang. It rang.

The receiver grew slippery. And my nose dripped.

Kaun? A gruff, angry brown voice.

Ji uncle? Naseera hai? Ghar pe? A timid pink voice, sniffy and scared.

Kaun? The voice growing crimsoner.

Uncle, Saleema. Ischool friend.

Naseera chal chuki hai. Woh is ghar ki nahin hain. She gone, beta. Don’t phone aainda se.

Slam!

By now, my sobs grew harder. And Ram bhaiyya looked on curiously. They’d found out.

They must have.

And now she was gone. Probably burnt. Probably cut up. But dead.

All for a man.

And his love.

And his religion that was different from hers.

It was honour that was more important than life. It was honour that a daughter had to uphold.

And it was honour that finally killed her.

I sat there, weeping into my burqha.

For him. For her. For me.

And for my brothers who would kill me someday too, when they found out.

About me.

Many thanks to Arjun Sharma for responding to my desperate request for templates… Grazie! But it turns out I’m challanged by HTML by a battle that can’t be won by me…

So I’m sticking to the blogspot templates…

And second thanks to Priya…

For reuniting me with my bloggy…

It feels like a kumbmela moment.

I know. Clichéd. Everyone has a birthday post up. But I forwent (?) my post for my last birthday so this time I felt (read breezy not desperate) like putting one (ermz… two?) up.

I don’t feel any different. That’s probably because I’m not 20 yet. Let’s not be potty about that, shall we? But, I feel nothing. No regret for leaving my turbulent teens behind and no excitement that I have reached the big Two Oh.

Zilch.

I’m just mildly worried about the bill that’s gonna be drawn up because I’m treating approximately 20 (there comes the number again) people. Numerals are going to change somewhere. Profiles and CVs editing.

Malaveeka Chakravarthy. Female. Cancerian. Student. Not a morning person. Twenty.

Every birthday, I think. I wonder. I fear.

How awful is this one going to be?

For someone that hates birthdays and birthday clowns (scary bas*****), I’m turning twenty awfully soon. Like I confessed to someone, I’m scared that I’ll soon be dropping my children off to school in my night things… all of us strapped in our seats and me screaming, warning, swearing at the rear view mirror.

After all 25 is just 5 years away.

And 29… You do the math.

I only hope on the fine Monday (can it be any more omen-ised?) morning, I don’t need a wad of tissues and a sickness bag. I can handle the rest, I s’pose.

After all, I will be Twenty.

‘Pan, who and what art thou?’ [Hook] cried huskily.
‘I’m youth, I’m joy,’ Peter answered at a venture, ‘I’m a little bird that has broken out of the egg.’

Waah!!

6 days to go…

Misty rain cutting through the heavy air, running in silver streams down an asphalt road. The road was slick with moisture, its greyness accentuated. The roadside plants gleamed jewel green. Two people ran down the road, laughing in the rain.

A yellow slicker and a red jacket streaked the hillside, breathless with laughter and the heavy air. A lone black umbrella followed loyally, turning circles around its circumference, half floating the air.

The red jacket reached first. The hood was pushed back violently and a grinning face screamed a raucous victory. The yellow slicker walked the last few steps, a smile breaking out of the petulant pout.

“Another race?”

“You’re on.”

A spot was decided and the two stood, ready to sprint. The umbrella lay quiet, watching the duo.

“One, Two, Three, GO!”

Slap, slap went the rain against the flying bodies.

The lavender flowers looked on as they raced by.

The rain grew stronger.

The breaths grew shallower.

“Done!”, screamed a voice. Raspy breaths dominated the next minute.

Heave. Heave. Puff.

Two very wet and tired people trudged back, each having won one race. Their ‘jeans’, heavy with rain and mud, stuck to their bodies uncomfortably.

They picked up the umbrella and walked back up.

Those, definitely were the days.

Trepidation and excitement clamour somewhere in my gut as I tiptoe in a room filled with babies. Sleeping, laughing, gurgling beautiful babies.

It is so hard to pick one.

But one catches my eye. He looks up at me, his eyes blank. Fragrant brown skin and liquid eyes. I can feel a little catch in my heart. He holds out a hand that I stoke with my finger. As my finger gets curled up in a tiny fist, and two pairs of eyes look into each other… a decision is made.

I pick him up, awkwardly holding his head. He snuggles into my neck and drools against it. I smile, knowing.

Knowing that it’s hard to pick one.

And knowing I wasn’t the one picking