FADED PETALS (On Hold)

2

3rd January 2016.
New Delhi
India

Sidharth stood near the gas stove, watching it intently while he waited for the tea to boil. The tea was still calm.
His eyes moved towards a box of tea leaves situated on the extreme corner of the kitchen. It was gifted by his dad on his last birthday knowing Sidharth's fondness for it. But Sidharth hadn't touched it since. It was quite an expensive gift that his father had ordered from Mexico, containing the rich tea leaves from its special corners.
"What if he knew that for me tea means only spiced Indian tea?", thought Sidharth moving his hands in his hair.

"Your hair strands will fall in the tea, how many times will I have to tell you to get rid of this habit?"He could hear his jhilmil's voice in the background as his hands left his hair in a reflex.

The saucer pan was filled with white milk and the specks of crushed tea leaves floated on it. There were only a few heavy leaves that had made it to the bottom while all the lighter ones stayed glued above successfully covering the milk. It is what actually happens with a community, a small group of people spread and contribute towards the hunch defining them. Who could guess that there are only two tablespoons of tea leaves in about a quarter litre of milk?
And then when we strain the mixture trying to separate the  tea leaves from the community of milk, what we get is brown coloured tea. The notion still remains and stereotypes hang in the air.

"Haan papa", Sidharth picked up the phone which had been rattling from a while.

"I have heard Irshad is bringing a newbie in this sector", he could feel his father's smirk.

"What Irshad is doing is not our business. We should be concerned about what we have to do"

"It's politics beta. Unless and until you poke your nose in other people's matter, there is no progress. And that is what oppositions are for. Now when you are going to be the face of our party I don't expect such scatty behaviour from you", his voice was turned into only business with no nonsense tone.

"No, dad you can trust me."

"Good. Be on time for the meeting, it's time people get ready for the Sidharth Rathore."

Sidharth Rathore, the only son of Shekhawat Rathore was going to represent his party in the upcoming elections. It was finally time to ace the platform which had been served to him on a platter the day he was born.

The people said that he was an imprint of his father, physically as well as mentally. They believed that he had the potential to turn into a powerful leader. While Sidharth kept wondering, did he want to turn out like his father?

When Sidharth was ten his father took him to an assembly hall. It was large and empty with chairs scattered all over and a large platform in the centre. The curtains unwashed and faint streaks of light were entering from the side windows. While a small pigeon flapped its wings near the window, Sidharth heard his father speak.

"A debate competition will be held next month over here and I want you to stand upright on that stage and receive the prize" He pointed towards the bare rostrum.
"By hook or by crook." He added slowly.

The debate was on the topic "corruption and success go hand in hand". Sidharth spoke for the topic bagging the prize of the best speaker. His father was the chief guest of the function and while Sidharth waited for him to pat his back and shower him with praises, he completed all the formalities and took his leave.

Sidharth had grown up bagging prizes. He participated in contests all around the world in anticipation that one day his father would enter his room and pat his back, being proud of his son's achievement. That day did come.

"Dad, I want to join your party"

Sidharth wanted to say more but was cut off mid-sentence as his father embraced him for the first time in his 26 years of existence.

Sidharth stared at the tea which had become restless now. The tea leaves were fluctuating like pendulums while the milk had started its colour transformation. The constant sound of burbling was mixed in the faint aroma of cinnamons, cloves and cardamom.

He lived in a flat situated on the outskirts of the territory, away from his father's house. He was successful in fleeing away from the urban chaos but the Delhi pollution had silently followed him, not even leaving this secluded corner.

His childhood was spent in a house which was mere brick and cement filled with people who didn't care.

His mother was an old lady. She and his father had an arranged marriage or it can probably be called a deal bonded with properties and papers. Sarita Rathore was double the age of Shekhawat, their relationship was hustled with misunderstanding and compatibility issues. After 2 years of their marriage, Sidharth was born amidst many medical complications that left Sarita bedridden for life.

Though Sarita was not the kind of person who will lull him to sleep and tell him bedtime stories, she would often shower him with affection and that was enough for the poor kid unaware of the love that existed.

In that bland house, his only solace had been his jhilmil.

Promise me that you will never flicker away from my life?

Until you turn me down.

He was now turning impatient waiting for his tea to boil so that he could enjoy today's beautiful sunset in solitude. The sky seemed beautiful today, with orange and yellow shades popping from behind the setting sun.

The crackling sound of his doorbell brought him back to the real world. He looked back at the tea once which was far from the rim still fluctuating inside and went towards the door.

"Bhai I saw jhilmil on terminal 3. She's in India", spoke Adith in a go as soon as the door opened.

Sidharth stood rooted at the place trying to grasp what he just heard when suddenly there was a loud spilling sound in addition to loud burbles making Sidharth rush to the kitchen to see half of the tea splattered on the stove.

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05/02/2021