Come Into My Parlor...

Bodies lay strewn as far as the eye could see. Some were behind light curtains, some had been placed in a sitting position. Some of them had white faces, some were green, some the colour of earth. All of them were clad in white.  My five year old recoiled, buried her head in my thigh, and clung on to the rest of the limb for dear life.
"Mama..! " she muttered, " There are no sleeping beauties here only ghosts ! Co..Co.. Come on lets get out. " She tugged at the afore mentioned limb as hard as she could, trying to get us to leave.
I started to shush her up, trying to explain the whole concept of a parlor to her. Titters rose from all around us, the 'dead ' bodies having come to life at her words. Added to that must have been the sight of myself, trying to balance on one leg, the other flailing in the air even as the tot refused to relinquish it.

Teetering and shouting at her, the inevitable happened. I lost my balance ending up clutching at a chair to avoid falling. Unfortunately the chair had a body.. errr.. lady  in it. Lulled no doubt by the soothing hands of her masseuse, she had dropped off to sleep. The next thing she knew she had been whirled around a couple of times, make that six. The combined shrieks of the lady, myself, the kid, and the rest of the ladies who had been in serene repose up until then, had a passing police man burst in. To which the shrieks grew louder, as the half clad ladies rose as one, sheets clutched to chest.

My first instinct had been to grab the kid and flee, but struck by conscience and horror, mostly the latter, i stood rooted to the spot, the kid clutched possessively to my chest.
 After profuse apologies, and half baked stuttered explanations on my part, some normalcy was restored. The good humored among the ladies, were convulsed with laughter, the morose, indignant ones muttered darkly, glaring at my kid whose face was buried somewhere deep among an unmentionable part of my anatomy.

"Ai there, Anna ! See what madam wants," the command came from the tall lady, surrounded by minions. The owner of the parlor, she had had her work disrupted, but had been gracious enough to not chase us out forthwith. A hay stack, or rather a hair stack on the floor rocked. From behind it a young girl arose hurriedly. Apparently, she had sought refuge behind the stack when the policeman had barged in. A peremptory "Anna !" had her hurriedly say," Ya madam, what do you want done ? "

I emerged from the parlor with a brand new hairstyle, my joey, still clutching my pouch in a death grip.

"What happened, " exclaimed the hubby when he saw us. "I thought you had gone to have the baby"s hair cut.." Sinking down onto the sofa, I muttered, "It's a long story.." 

'Hairy' Tales.

"Poor thing, " The lady standing beside me whispered, "She has no mum,"
Shocked I looked first at the girl, then at the bengali lady,who had spoken to me.
"What ?!" I exclaimed, "But I just saw her mother yesterday. Whatever happened to her ?"
"Oh ."She muttered apologetically. "Nothing, Nothing. I just assumed... You see her hair is not oiled, and just a loose pony tail, so i assumed.."
My bemused glare had her scuttling away from me, still muttering about irresponsible,socialite, lazy mothers who had no time to oil their kids hair even in school.

What is it with Indian moms and oiled hair I wondered . My thoughts went back to my own childhood. Ever since i could remember, my hair had been oiled and plaited into two neat plaits. Both us sisters had waist length hair. For the first fifteen years of life, at least, that hair had always,but always, been oiled and plaited. It didn't help that our neighbours were Sardars. Leave alone the women, on Sundays when the men washed their hair, one had to look twice to make out girl from boy !
 After a head wash in the mornings, ma would sit us down and by evening, the two inevitable plaits were firmly in place. We knew no other hairstyle. We must have all looked like clones in school, Short girl, tall girl, fat girl, thin girl, fair girl or dark, Hindu or Muslim or any other ! Except for the Chinese girls, we all wore oiled plaits. As for the Chinese, they had such beautiful sleek straight hair, never a single hair was out of place, so it looked oiled. Anyway, they were Chinese were they not, Even if their five generations had lived in India !

I don't believe I have ever seen a Bengali girl without oil in her hair, and I lived in Kolkata for the first twenty years of life. Occasionally, they would, of course, go entirely bald, believing that the hair would grow back stronger. There was this girl in class, when I was in junior college, who was the top scorer. Short and nondescript, owly glasses perched on a small nose, but with the ability to work hard and long. Her hair was the only vanity she indulged herself in, Long and straight, and always, what else ? Oiled. One day, we got our mid term results. Of course, she had top scored again, but only in maths and science ! In English, someone had scored better than her. The next day, I breezed into class, of course Sushmita, the nerd, was already present. The "Hi..!" I had begun to shout out, died in mid word as I beheld her head, sedately covered with a scarf, tied neatly under the chin.

"Sushmita ! What happened, " I cried out. She looked up, benevolent smile in place, "Shaved my head, " she answered mildly, as if it was the most normal thing to do and why was I so shocked. But shocked was not the word for what I felt. Touching my plaits possessively, I was apalled.  Never, not ever, would I ever do that. To my vain teenage self it was the ultimate desecration. But it set me thinking. Why was I not making the most of my hair ? Why did I have to oil it everyday ? So when mum asked me to sit down to oil my hair the next time, I balked a little. Looking intently at her face, I stuttered, "Ma, i dont want to oil it..." Seeing the horrified look, quickly changing it to.."For one day. Please. " Ma's expression was so bemused, bordering on the comical, that before she had the time to think, I was gone. Thus far and no further. The next day, the plaits were oiled and happy again. Truth be told, so was I. My head was much cooler that way .

Cut to circa 2015 and my daughter the rebel. Up until the time she was in school, she was perpetually in two. Plaits i mean. That lasted as long as teenage hit. Then the hair started becoming shorter and shorter, until the day, we had a what-the-hell impulse where she got up from the parlor chair, her hair cut shorter than the average boy ! A fallacy that since most boys prefer to grow their hair when they rebel !

So we live. A happy daughter and a defensive mother. Since the fateful day when we left most of her hair in the parlour, she and I have become the cynosure of most eyes. The old looking accusingly at me, while the younger lot open their eyes wide and go "Oh, your mother let you do THAT ! " envy writ large on their faces.

The day might just come when i join her, more out of necessity than rebellion. The only thing holding me back is my mother. I'm sure she will tear her hair out in despair, so i would rather not split hairs and keep mine. !

This Her Childhood.

The surgery had drained her. She lay in a an alien world, within an alien body. The only sensation was of pain. Pain that was all consuming, that seemed to be devouring her. In a haze of medication and alternating between consciousness and blackouts, she wondered how she had ever got there. Who had trapped her, more vital, how on earth would she escape. She opened her mouth to scream.

But the screams were already resounding in the room and penetrating her consciousness. Then she saw her. The tiny five year old being wheeled in to her twin sharing room. Strapped to her hand was an I V. From somewhere behind her back emerged coils of tubing leading down to drains, affixed to the tubes. The paraphenalia emerging from her body seemed to be larger- and heavier- than her body even.

Pinky, or Kuku, as her parents called her was born prematurely in the thirty second week of pregnancy. Her young parents, for whom she was the second daughter, their elder child was a normal healthy ten year old, doted on her.She was a tiny ethereal little thing, and there was such little hope that she would survive even. "Kachre ke dibbey main phek do," was the brutal opinion of the head nurse, which the mother overheard . As if to prove her wrong, she lived and kept living until a pediatrician, a relative, was able to call a neo natal specialist who gave her the vital injections needed to get her lungs to work.

But there her battles did not end. Nor did her ability to survive each and every crisis that came her way. Each time the doctors gave up on her, like a baby Phoenix, she rose from the ashes. If it was her eyes that needed attention one year, it was her liver the next, and her kidneys the next. The last time had been her gravest challenge yet. She kept getting fevers, which were eventually diagnosed as a reflux of urine back into the kidneys because of a blocked ureter. This needed a minor operation for which she now had been admitted.

Selfishly, when i learnt that a baby had been admitted into the other half of my daughters room, i was alarmed. How would there be the peace and quiet, she needed to recuperate if their was a wailing or naughty kid in an adjoining bed. Should there not be a paediatric ward in the hospital i questioned.

The vagaries of misfortune and ill health throw together the most random of people in life. That has been my experience in the multiple times i have been to hospital as a companion for various family members. Also people who are nervous and scared for their loved ones, bored too i guess, with the endless hours of waiting in shared rooms where nothing, from ablutions to conversations on finance remain confidential, take to strangers readily. Kindred souls in suffering, tho strangers otherwise, they pour out their fears, in fact their entire life stories to each other, the anonymity acting as a catharsis.

So when the child's grandma, with total disregard for privacy, peered into our section of the room, i turned into a cold, discouraging alien, who answered all her queries about my child in a cold off hand fashion. I also requested her to maintain silence, to keep the child quiet as my daughter needed rest.

She nodded sympathetically, and for the rest of the day, there was total silence, hushed whispers were all we heard.  Some part of my mind registered that even the child was whispering only. Which Five year old is so good, i thought to myself. After one more day of model behaviour, i was defeated. Curiosity getting the better of me, i stepped into their side of the ward. Their she lay. a small fragile thing clad in hospital robes. A small face with the most brightest of eyes. Light brown hair, framing a delicate profile. A small toy in her hand had her engrossed. I tried talking to her, she hid behind her mum, answering in small whispers.

The next day, the child was wheeled in for surgery. When she was brought back, it was imperative that she be kept lying on her side, so we tiptoed around our respective spaces, hoping the sedation would last for a few hours. By evening tho she started to come around and that was when the screams started. Sedated again, she slept, getting up occasionally and repeatedly asking for water. Her vigilant grandma and mother took it in turns to keep her distracted. Amazing child that she was. she heard them out then would keep quiet dozing off again. On asking i was told, that she had been to hospitals so many times that she was used to it all !

Day turned to night. Anguished about our respective children, an uneasy silence fell as we slept, our senses alert should the children awake. Every time she would moan, her grandma would pat her down, Morning dawned and the nursing staff descended on us. The child screamed as her I V's were shifted from one hand to another. Unable to bear it, i asked her mum to lift her up and take her out of the room. Distracted, the child quietened down. That entire day, the child did whatever the parents asked her to. Gradually, they gave her water, liquids. Once, only the granny was there with her when she threw up. The cleaning staff took almost thirty minutes to come, during which the small figure sat patiently with her granny clutching on to her, seated precariously on a chair. Come evening, the physiotherapists arrived. My daughter was taken outside the room with her IV's trailing her. As she walked the corridor, a small figure emerged behind her also trailing IV's..

Returning to the room, my daughter was in acute pain. As a mother, i could feel the tears in my eyes, as she battled pain and depression.  How would she recover ? How would i get her back on her feet ? Suddenly i heard a soft little voice, singing an all too familiar song. The baby behind the curtain was crooning " We shall overcome, We shall overcome.." softly to herself ! In a flash, i tore aside the curtain, and together we sang that inspiring song, our troubles receding, our souls uplifted, our burden of pain, much the lighter.

How fair was life, how did the Gods allow such a small child to be stuck in a quagmire of hospitals and medicines. Why was her older sister leading a perfectly normal life while this little scrap of humanity laboured to survive. Day after day.. Was this her childhood, a boon  in that she was alive, or was it a cruel affliction, that robbed her of the joys, and unfettered liberties due to such small children.. ? Who is to judge ? Who is to decide ?  

The Lost World

Once upon a time there was an innocent world....


She sat benumbed on her prayer mat. The picture on the mantlepiece across looked back at her. The child in the picture was the picture of pure innocence. A small shy little boy bravely facing the cameraman. Tousled soft brown hair, sunshine angled at the lens so that the face was half illuminated, half in shadow.  How she loved the picture, how she had loved the child, as had everyone around them.

"Oi Mukhtaarey ! " resonated around the house, as she chased him across the rooms, trying to get him to finish his milk. "Oi maaaaa... Pehley dhoond to sahi mujhko.." the little boy would chortle, as his mum pretended to search for him...

The first day of school. His Abba and his mum, holding onto his little fingers, as he wrapped them tightly around theirs, refusing to let go. Where had time flown. Childhood evolved into teenage. The child who had been content to listen to bedtime stories, now preferred his laptop to his mum. She who anxiously still queried his meals, only to be told brusquely that she need not bother. He still could not sleep without hugging her tho, and she sought solace from his friends mums who reassured her that their children did just the same.

He had been her only child, and they had tried to give him the best that life had to offer. Being Muslim and young was no longer easy, in an increasingly hostile world. She knew that he spent long hours discussing the scenario abroad, the US, Australia, even France, after the Charlie Hebdo attacks. That he had made it abroad, to a university of his choice, in spite of it all, showed his dedication to his studies. How proud she was of him !

Yet. Within her heart she knew. They lived in a dangerous world. The internet had brought home all the angst and violence that prevailed in the world. How safe was he, was a question she asked herself everyday. All it would take was one zealot, one madman, one racist police officer, one shot from one gun. Everyday anxiously they waited for night and the skype, to reassure herself he was alive and well. His choice of subject did not help. Journalists were constantly at risk of life and limb.

Where was the world of her youth ? Where did the innocence go ? Questions that she asked herself often. The only rebellion then had been a stolen ice cream, a party with girlfriends on the sly. Fathers word was law. For her and her brother. Marriage was a happy arrangement. Maybe the thought that it was for keeps brought security and love. A journey she was contented to share with a good man who cherished and loved her. Of  the child she beget him. The son who grew up happy. Until the advent of the computer. That it made a recluse of him, she could forgive, that it took her away from them, opened up the vistas of wild and dangerous adventure, she never could. Yet if she was to keep up with him, she needed it. Vitally.

 Then  it happened. For the next five days there was no contact. Skype, phone calls, even e mails were not responded to. Only after she had panicked and called her cousin there, did he call her. The call came from an unknown number. An he told her that she was not to contact him. He would whenever he could. When she demanded to know why, he impatiently replied that he was busy with exams, job interviews.

So she waited. Prayer beads in hand. These days, they were never far from her hands. Her otherwise carefree husband seemed to be retreating into his own world. He came and went, silent as a shadow. They avoided looking into each others' eyes, lest the fear she felt was reflected in his too. The tenth day, he came home with a ticket in his hands. He was off to the United States. To bring him back. Joy and trepidition, her heart filled with mixed emotions, but she was relieved that he was going.

The wait became longer. Her husband no longer picked up the phone too. And still she waited.

When the door bell rang, she went to answer it. Outside stood her son, and her husband. But why the wheel chair. A thousand questions shrieking in her mind, she gathered him in her arms, going down on bent knees to embrace him, their tears mingling within her dupatta.

The society he had joined, had demanded of him that he use his expertise to make a bomb. Oversee the explosion. He refused, his mothers love and anxiety had saved him in the end.  But he had to pay a price. The next day as he crossed the street, the car came swiftly, silently. He was thrown into the bushes nearby with the impact. When he came to, he lay in hospital. The stub of his amputated leg, a grim reminder of how lucky he had been.

His father had been called by his relatives to bring him back home. Back to the innocent world of his mother's love.