Delhi, India.
Covering her crown of silvers with her off-white towel, she applied pressure with her thin fingers, shaking the towel repeatedly, resulting in the bouncing of her silver strands and the coating of pearls of water on the dusty carpet below her wet soles.
Slipping them into her old rubber slippers, they quacked on kissing the cold granite tiles. Standing in front of the full length mirror, she gingerly peeled away an ordinary black bindi, situating it right at the center of her folded forehead. Hair still secured in the old, trusted towel, she made her way to the living room.
Fingers touching the switches, which with a click brought the blinding light and a gust of air into the room, she shifted to the radio placed in the corner and pressed the 'on' button carefully, adjusting its settings. At once, the house flooded with melodies of the everyday bhajans, bringing the lonely house to life.
Clasping the door handle, first she unbolted the latch below the handle and then the one above it. Unfastening the door chain and the other two security locks, at last she was able to open the door.
Picking up the newspaper and two packets of Mother Dairy from the doormat, hands occupied, she gave the door a kick, which shut with a bang, making the pigeons gathered in the lawn next door, fly away. Far away.
Carelessly placing the newspaper on the table, she placed the milk packets in the freezer, arranging them in some order, only known to her. She headed to the kitchen, but at once, turned back and made her way to the fridge. Picking up the bread packet, Amul butter and few pieces of ginger from the side racks of the fridge, she walked to the kitchen, placing the load on the counter.
Lighting up the burner, she set the water to boil, while her experienced fingers expertly peeled away the ginger's skin, letting it lie naked next to the blunt knife. Within seconds, chopping it into numerous tiny bits, she threw them into the simmering water, waiting for another ten minutes.
With her ginger tea in hand, she walked out of the kitchen and settled on the nearest chair, lifting the paper to aware herself about the happenings around the world. Instantly, slamming her hand against her forehead, she walked to the drawer near the sofa, and opening the case, got hold of her spectacles. Forgetfulness, a sign of aging, they say.
Squashing the gold rimmed glasses against her nose, she read the headlines.
"INDIA WON BY 3 RUNS; THRILLING FINISH BY NEIL!"
The headlines not something of her interest, she moved to the obituary column. Skimming her fingers through the list, she thanked all the deities. She was too old to feel sympathetic for a strangers loss, only bothering to be happy that she ain't grieving for one of hers.
Suddenly, the landline rang.
Checking the time on the clock behind her, she mused on the thought, 'who was to call her, a sixty seven year old lady, at eight in the morning?'
Picking up the phone, she slowly let out a feeble and soft, "Hello".
"Ma?"
Placing a hand on her chest and heaving a breath, she thanked her deities once again, for not letting the caller be a thief or worse, a serial killer.
"So now you remember you have a mother?"
"Ma, its not like that!"
"Really? Then what, do you need money or something else?"
"Ma, I'm not in college anymore! And that was once, for exam registration!"
'Exam registration', she mimicked, knowing perfectly well how that money was spent on taking out his girlfriend on a date, a detail which her son had shared with his father, whom she had interrogated thoroughly, to extract the information.
Not choosing to spit that valuable information out, they talked about other things, his job, her well-being, his kids, her health and other general matters.
"So, when are you coming to India?"
"Ma, uh, I work in a private firm. I won't get a leave anytime soon. Also, the kids and their sch—"
"Stop making excuses! I know its because of her you don't come here anymore!"
Stating her point, she slammed the phone before her son could come defending his wife, Keerti. Irked, she mumbled under her breath.
"Joru ka gulaam!"
["Tied to wife's strings!"]
Mood ruined, she walked back to the kitchen, gathering the untouched bread and butter packets and kept them back to their place in the fridge, appetite lost. Deciding to cheer herself up, she headed to the door, to gossip with her neighbor, Nirmala.
Just when she had reached the door, she turned.
Supriya Arora, glared at the portrait of her husband, smiling back at her.
"I had told you, that Keerti girl was an awful choice. But you insisted on that alliance. And now look. Look! My Hemant left me for her."
Frustrated, she growled at her husband, Kedar Arora.
"Quit smiling! How can you still smile?!"
Saying so, she slammed the door and the keys hanging to it, fell down with a jingle.
