Days

Bhajan

29th February 1992,

I prefer night over day. When the world went mute, I can finally let my thoughts scream.

But tonight is not like other nights. Instead of falling into silence, the world is waking up in excitement.

On the days like this, when I am already running behind the deadlines, the people of my colony plan to have Krishna Bhajan. Their noise has turned my thoughts deaf. The nights are for my wry, not for some hymn.

But on second thought, they all sing quite energetically and joyfully. The joy I once had. The joy I will never have.

Filled with frustration and curiosity, I peaked through the window. The crowd was small but had people of every age group. Most of them were sitting and clapping. Their claps were unsynched, yet melancholy. Some of them were dancing. The dance looked more like they have stepped out of the driving seat of their body and had given it to the Krishna. They had no idea what they were doing, but whatever they were doing, they enjoy doing it.

Few of the women had spread the edge of their saree, their eyes were watery, and they continuously look at the photo of Krishna. I never understood what this gesture means. Does it mean that they are asking for something? Or is it mean they are giving everything?

Envious of how carefree and happy they look, I shut the window and fell on my bed.

After a minute, I stood up with determination, washed my face, locked the door, and went downstairs.

"If you cannot stop them, enjoy with them," I said to myself.

--–*---*---*---

Everyone here was in a state of trance. They were either too friendly or too occupied, but they welcomed me unhesitantly.

I sat near an old lady, who greeted me with a warm smile. Her hands still clapping, her mouth still humming.

Although I have been listening to the hymns since childhood, I never cared to remember. So I sat there, choiring only with repeating chorus.

After one or two hymns, the one who was singing suddenly switched to,

Tu kitni achhi hai, tu kitni bholi hai,

Pyari pyari hai, O Ma!

How nice you are, how naive you are,

Sweet love, oh Mother!

Freshwater filled my eyes. My heart turned to slime and sulked. The song aroused the emotion I have been trying to hide since childhood. The emotion that how shallow my life is.

When I was 2 years old, my mother died of breast cancer. All my life I have been trying to remember at least one moment with her. All my life has been a failure.

My father was young at that time, even after pressure from his family, he refused to marry again. If he wanted, he could have easily delegated me to his or his in-law's family, but he took full responsibility.

My father was not the kind of father one could write much about in the "My father is a superhero" essay. But I will never forget the freedom he gave me. I turned out to be the way I am just because of that freedom. And I will also never forgive him for the negligence. My father was always too preoccupied to focus on me.

My father was a diabetic. One day, when he was on one of his trips, he went unconscious and fell on railway tracks. Whether the people were too slow or the train was too fast, I would never know.

So I turned out to be a child with no living memory of mother and no loving memory of father.

Maybe that is why I bonded so quickly with Virendra. Although we were different, we both had one thing in common – The longing to be loved.

Virendra was from a joint family. He had many people who loved him, but no one who loved him. He agreed that his situation is not as bad as mine. I agreed that everyone deserves someone who loves them to the fullest.

The other friends I had were smarter and have similar interests. But what I liked about Virendra was how hard he always tries to understand me and help me. And how his silly jokes will always make me laugh. He was different from everyone else until he was not.

The day I saw him slap his wife, I realized he is like all other husbands. He is like my husband.

Ashok and I were what people call college sweet-hearts. I never realized when my sweet-heart turned stone-hearted. Every time he beats me, it would be because of a bad day at work. And I would wait for a good day at work. Eventually, it did come, when I turned pregnant. Oh, they were the best of the days.

But after the miscarriage, it was as much of the beating as it was torturing. It wasn't hard enough to break my bones. But it completely shattered my hopes.

Somehow, I managed to gather some courage, took divorced, and moved to Mumbai. I chose Mumbai because I thought it would help me with my writing career, but my writing career ended before beginning. Even my thoughts have lost their essence. Whatever I think is pointless, senseless, tasteless. As a kid, I don't have any readers, but I was still a writer. At least I enjoyed what I write. Now, neither I have readers nor I am a writer. I am just another ignored magazine columnist. When I started this journey all I wanted was to fly. But now, all I feel is like falling and hitting the ground as soon as possible.

-–*---*---*---

Tears rushed through my eyes and I couldn't do anything to stop it, nor did I want to.

The old lady stood up slowly, her right hand on her right thigh, slowly pushing her body upwards.

"Let's dance," she said to me. I was not sure whether I wanted to or not like I am most of the time nowadays. So I stay on the floor, staring at her through the blur tears have created.

"Joh yaha naachte hai, unhe sansar main aur kahi nachne ki zarurat nahi padti," she contnued. She pulled me gently and I was already on my feet.

For some reason, I believed what she said: Those who dance here, don't have to dance anywhere in the world.

I tried to copy her step as perfectly as I can. And after some time, I too had stepped out of the driver's seat and had let Him take over.

Through all the noise, and clapping, and singing a voice echoed in my ears. It was short but clear– With you, I live. Without you, everything is posthumous.

It has been so long, but now I finally know what I should do.