“Meera”
Laughter.
“Meera”
Laughter.
Laughter.
“Krishna”
The two little grownups were sharing their most precious thing. Like any other day. Every day. The little grownups were sharing laughter. His laughter echoed in her ears. Hers in his. His name echoed in her heart. Hers in his. Krishna. Meera. Echo.
More Laughter.
The non-existing sun was orange. Grass Golden. Soil Brown. And wet. With water. Houses were being built in the soil. In the courtyard. Houses which looked like caves. His house. Her house. Their cave. In the middle of the village. Isolated. Desolated. Thirteen steps away from the pond. Eleven from the temple. Their cave was in the Haveli. Their home was in nobody’s house. Their secret little home. In the Big Haveli.
Meera looked at the walls. The cracks looked just the same. Not even an inch wider or narrower. Ten years. And still the same. Just like amma’s eyes. The old grandmother was growing older with each passing year, at least since the last fifteen years in which Meera existed in the same world with her.
But her eyes remained the same. Amma’s Big, Wide eyes. Scary eyes. Meera wondered if amma could peek through the cracks, watch them. Something shivered inside her. The hand shivered too. And there on the walls of the house a crack appeared.
Maybe houses should never be made with soil.
The big household was still asleep. Interestingly, money gave them sleep. There was no need to wake up at four in the morning now. The farms were ploughed by moneyless men. Women usually got the evening slot. Moneyless men and women. Some working for money. Others to payback trivial, unpayable, favors. Money and Favors. Wicked Pleasures. Wicked Dreams. Seth Kartar Singh smiled in his sleep. His wife was too asleep to notice the wicked smile. Poor woman. Stupid woman. Krishna’s mother.
Meera’s home was different. A little bigger than a hut, a bit smaller than a house. But, just the perfect size to pack seven, thin, mal-nourished people inside it every evening and unpack them every morning. At 4 AM. The farms had to be ploughed. To earn money and payback favors. Money and Favors. Vulgar things. Evil things.
The family noticed the evilness much before it became a reality. Much before it came into existence. Wicked smiles don’t always go unnoticed.
Somewhere under the soil, the fingers touched. Cold fingers, warm touch. No laughter. No pulling away of hands. Just smiles. Strange, beautiful smiles. Hidden smiles. Smiling eyes. Warm fingers. The two little grownups were growing up. Sixteen, they say, is a strange age to be.
Seth Kartar Singh got married when he was sixteen. Vidya was thirteen. Vidya, with her curves, perfectly shaped breasts, sharp eyes, didn’t look thirteen. Just like Kartar Singh didn’t act sixteen. Two misfits perfectly matched. Fitted together. And when on the wedding night the two strangers met for the first time, their eyes didn’t meet. For he was the husband, she a mere wife. But something did meet. The male desires met the female fantasies. And in the womb of a thirteen year old woman, Krishna was born. A single cell. Krishna in his tiniest form.
On the same night, another cell was born. Another life created. In a different womb. Here, the needs of a thirty one year old man met the needs of a twenty seven year old woman. Fantasies and desires were always a myth. Needs were the truth. Meera was the truth. The fourth girl child in the family. In a family, which needed a boy.
“What I’d not give today
to melt into the rain
and disappear away
forever”.
Krishna the poet. Meera the listener. Rain. Melting houses.
.
