The Alphabetics of Our Story

Chapter Four - Drapetomania

Drapetomania (n.)- the overwhelming urge to run away

Kartik Singh was brought into this world amidst the heart of Amristar surrounded by green trees and mustard fields. The mustard fields were the ones that he had spent his daytime running through and the green trees that he had spent his afternoon under were similar to those where he had had his first kiss.

He wasn't born into a world of luxuries. A small house of one ugly green room paired with a small kitchen. A small kitchen which seemed huge when he could hear the echoes of his mother's bangles clinking against each other as she worked on his favourite Gajar Halwa.

His mother was always his shadow of kindness, of comfort, of love. She would never shout too loudly at him, never too stern. There was always the fond apparent in her strict words. And well, if Kartik fucked up big time, there was nothing a sweet innocent smile and a guilty hug couldn't fix.

She was the epitome of love for him.

And her death became the epitome of loss.

You can't really explain death to an eight-year old kid, a kid who held a firm belief that her mother would beat the sickness holding onto her cause Kartik was the only one who could hold onto her dupatta and never let her go. But he had lost that fight. The disease had yanked her dupatta out of his hands, gleaming its evil smile at him and forcefully took her away as Kartik could do nothing but watch and cry and howl in pain.

He missed her.

He missed the familiar hand that would run through his hair softly before he could even open his eyes. He missed the way she would always adjust her bindi atleast five times in the mirror. He missed how she would call for him to eat dinner when he would be too stubborn and busy playing with his friends.

But life went on and soon, she became a memory.

And that scared the shit out of Kartik cause memories could be forgotten.

So, he held onto anything he could to keep her memory alive, to keep her alive. He found one of her black and white photos, something he would carry in his wallet throughout his life. He tried to master her recipe of Gajar Ka Halwa but failed, considerably. As he went forward in life, her loss hurt less and more often than not, came forward in the most simplest of moments. He would be fondly reminded of her when he would smell the Sarso Da Saag in one of his favourite restaurants in Delhi or when he was looking at the colourful bangles in one of those stalls.

He refused to let his mother's loss be defined as one of his demons from his childhood. She was his fondest memory, after all.

His father was a different story, though.

Ramdeep Singh was a tough man. Everybody knew that. No one would make the mistake of crossing him the wrong way, the blacksmith's muscles and proud mustache paired with the angry look in his eyes was enough to scare people off.

Kartik doesn't really have a memory of him which he could define as good. Well, except for one. His father had come home one day, late from work. The familiar smell of metal and alcohol reeked of him as his mother carefully placed food in front of him, asking him about his day. As he was in the midst of telling her a gossip worthy about a customer, his eye caught onto Kartik who was looking at them from behind the door.

Then, he smiled at Kartik.

It was a rare occurrence. Before Kartik could make more of it, he was busy talking to his mother again. A happy Kartik went to sleep assuming it had been a good day at work. He also prayed to God that everyday would be a good day at work.