LARCENY

How do I begin my tale? The thread of this narrative has never been in my hold; someone else has written the story of my life, but I want to tell it like it is : it's the story of larceny- of being robbed of a life, that I might have lived. It needs to be told, in my voice. Perhaps this is how it begins.

I was watching my children tagging each other: two years apart, Manila, the girl, and Govardhan, the older, a boy. I suffer from a complex, that of having been a terrible mother. I have repeatedly condemned myself and called myself names. Why?

I've repeatedly lied to my children. I've kept secrets from them. The burden of lies and secrets is a heavy one. I gave myself no choice. Providence doesn't either, it would seem.

I chose which truths are better to tell, and concealed others. I did it with expertise, and with a dexterity, belying my naïveté in such matters. Yet I do believe I'm essentially an honest person.

The children chatter on in easy rhythm, and I sit back and listen to their sweet voices, as the wind carries them over.

The hill is far steeper than it appears from here. Manila is breathing hard, and I note her hurting heart, from all the chasing. Govardhan is still raiding the lower hills, away from us, but his pace slackens, as he waits for his little sister to catch up.

Manila is straining her heart, and exhausted now. She plonks herself among the tall grass of this prairie. She is invisible. I hear her breaths, as she gasps. I feel her as a sentient being. 

We have emerged after many months, to undertake a long drive into the hillside that surrounds our little town, Kondaar. This hamlet lies among the Himalayan foothills. I was born here, and was given away in marriage here. I have loved it as much as I have hated it. I can flip my heart to feel either emotion. All at once deep affection pervades me: these familiar steppes- these hills, the prairie with its tall grass, the comfort of familiarity. Once or twice a year I come here with Manila and Govardhan- my pristine children. We frolic and chase butterflies, drink endless cups of tea. We also try and forge some meaningful conversation.

"Ma, can I have some chai please," Manila has brought herself back to me, turning visible. My eyes light up. 

"Here you go!" and I pour out tea in a steel tumbler. I pour myself a glass too. Puffed up pooris with tomato chutney and potatoes smeared with seasoned yoghurt; picnic comfort foods, lie in the basket. This is the kind of food Govardhan will yearn for when gone. I hope Govardhan is drawn back again and again to his home and hearth. Manila will not go far I know- her weary heart will not permit her to leave for faraway pavilions. My heart is both heavy and jubilant. 

One child will remain close, my favourite.

Manila is quiet, vigilant and thoughtful. I observe her closely. The fragrance and colour of love in the air collide, like the butterflies that flit about. 

Govardhan remains invisible, as elusive as he is. The hills are his haunt. Even as a younger lad, he would disappear into their contours. Little Manila, an ever-ready playmate would want to tag along. Reluctant yet loving, he would take her along, on occasion. Mostly he liked to flee unseen. His yearning of the mountains was relentless. It was rare though, that he meandered away for hours on end. His need for daily meditations in the hilly nests overrode all else. When the rains were ferocious and unrelenting, a restlessness would seize him. He would tremble with impatience. He is a wild one, our Govardhan.

Manila, my little one, was special. The day Bhuvan, my husband and father of the two, returned home after disappearing for over two years, he carried Manila in his arms. She was his daughter, and Govardhan's half-sister. I asked no questions, as he handed over this precious child. He wanted my forgiveness. I gave it, as I received the baby in my arms, embracing her instantly. The heart blossomed as I gazed upon an angel's face. The pact was sealed.