The Mali

Prelude

His very first memory was of his parents making time to love.

There was very little of either time or love to be had in the Parulekar home in those days, when the factory had just been set up and Christine was forever caught in the act of fashioning a home from a house that fought valiantly against all attempts at domestication. Those early days were brushed away with tints of haste, fervor and domestic lawlessness, a portrait within which Varun unwittingly found himself a part of. But the first memory he ever had, the memory he carried with him to his grave, was of Christine and Saurav making time to love.

Late into the evening, when candles lit the house that was yet to receive municipal electricity, he awoke from his nap to see them sitting across the large hall. She had removed the jasmines from her hair. They lay beside her like discarded clothes, their scent suffusing her plaited locks. She had her knees drawn up to her, her right hand clutching at the paloo of her saree, her left leaning back for support. To Varun and his father, it was her smile that gave the candle flame its light.

"It's been four days, Ba. Do you like to see us squatting on the floors all the time, or can't the Bunt in you separate from your hard earned coin?"

Their elongated shadows stretched from beyond them to Saurav, who listened with only his heart wide open. His father looked at his mother, eyes glowing, moustache twitching. "Keep sweeping the floors like this and I'll never buy us any," he replied. "No one keeps the floors this clean until they have to sleep on them."

She chuckled, whipping her head back as she did. Varun watched as his father smiled, and saw him inch closer to her, the carpet cresting beneath them.

"I'd rather a warm home than a neat one. And this is not it, with just a woman and her seven year old babbling to each other all day. You never come home early enough to see him smile at you."

Their shadows flickered on the bare walls opposite as he reached forward, taking her hand in his.

"Time, love. Give me time. It's a small company, but it needs setting up, like the house. I will come early soon enough."

Silence fell between them, but it was not the still and unmoving silence of the night. It was the silence of a love shared and brought into the world by sweat and blood, not unlike the child lying a little way apart from them, feigning a rest he did not need. Quietly, it grew, stretching to cover the otherwise empty expanse of house between them. Their eyes bore into each other for an infinite second and then they reached out, bridging a chasm that melted away like wax around a candle wick. The carpet curled itself closer to the little hearth with a flump as their lips met. Moments later, they rose as he held her by the hand, leading her into the adjoining room, closing the door behind them.

The little seven year old stirred, his eyes wide and staring at the spot his parents had just vacated. The candle flickered on, a little more dimly now, and he used its flame to burn the images into the backs of his eyes forever. As the fire bobbed lower and lower, his eyes began falling shut, and just before the fire began lapping at the crumpled carpet, the boy embraced his dreams. It was thus that the flames of his parents' love engulfed them forever in its embrace.

That was almost two days ago. Now, there was no candle, nor family, and the factory had shut down. Varun was all that remained.