As I Write This Letter...

6. A Grain of Shifting Sand

Swara was not enchanted, nor charmed. 

She was not even pleased and made no pretense to the contrary. Her fingers moved in a furious frenzy as she checked the fallen seedlings and placed them on the rickety table, which she had righted by herself, refusing Sanskaar's offer to help. She now gathered and scraped the mulch into the bag, all the while muttering under her breath. The few glances that she spared towards Sanskaar were heated and fiery and her mutterings grew in distinct volume whenever he  caught her eye.

Sanskaar not only had a penchant for planning, he was also a man of prudence. When Swara glared at him, and offered no response to his greeting, he took a step back; he was not going to take chances with her, not when she seemed furious enough to kill. And though he could not grasp what she was muttering; the words sounded to be Latin, or maybe they could be Greek, he could make out she was cursing him. He did hear a few of the words, 'Selaginella...,  kraussiana , which he filed away for later reference. It could be interesting to learn what exactly she was cursing him as, though the need of the hour was to retreat.

However, though he could beat a retreat, he was not going to run away. Noting that his dirty hands would give him a perfect reason to walk away, he looked around to see if there was a tap where he could get the dirt off him, while he reassessed the situation. Sighting the object of his need a little distance away, he walked across to the garden tap, though he did not turn it on immediately. He was aware that garden taps rarely behaved with discipline, often they tended to squirt when they had to flow and dripped when they had to spray; he had no desire to add wetness to the dirt on his clothes. He moved a little to the side, and slowly twisted the tap head, hoping that the water would be more inclined to flow rather than burst out.

He was in luck, there was a small steady drip and he washed his hands first. Then he took out his handkerchief (it was indeed white and did have his initials monogrammed, courtesy his mother, who was an excellent embroider), soaked it in water and tried to clean the mud off his shirt, without much success. The dampness only spread the grime further and made it a uniform muck; he gave up with a resigned sigh, the shirt would have to be delegated to the dustbin if he could not launder it clean.

It was then that he heard the faint whir of a motor and turned around to see what it was, only to come face to face with a gun bearing, wheel chair propelling and fuming elderly woman, who would have to be Swara's grandmother. He stood still, even in the faint dusk light, he could make out resemblance to Swara, mostly in the way they both glared at him, though the presence of the military rifle in her hands would make her to be a trifle more dangerous than Swara. Moreover, since the wheelchair occupied the entire width the the cobbled walkway, trying to run away, even if it was an option, was impossible.

The setting sun was a lazy witness to the face off between Sanskaar and Mrs Shobha Bose, each rooted to their spot, wondering what the other would do and hoping that they would not have to make the first move. After a few minutes of unblinking stares, Dida gripped the rifle harder and that movement attracted Sanskaar's attention to the firearm. He could just make it out and he gave a soft smile, it was a familiar one, the INSAS assault rifle; he had spent days with a similar one, owned by his Dadaji. And with that knowledge came another realisation, as he noticed the way Swara's grandmother gripped the barrel and a smile lit up his face.

Ignoring the murderous look on her face and the tightening of her fingers over the rifle, he walked the few steps to her wheelchair and clasping his hands over hers, bent to whisper in her ears. He did not wait for her reply, instead he balanced a foot in the damp flower bed beside the walkway, hoping he had not stepped on any invisible seedlings and stepped out behind the wheelchair. He resisted looking towards Swara, sparing neither of them a backward glance as he walked along the winding paths in the gathering darkness, grateful that the garden pathway lights were switched on, it made it easier to find his way out.