on dreams and betrayals

“Mummy, Mummy, please make bhajiyea today. Please, please.”

“No, on Sunday. I’ve already made chapattis today.”

“No, Mummy, no. Make today. Please, please.” (she counted on her fingers) “One, two, three, four, five. Five. Make five. Please, Mummy. Make five. Please.”

Mummy sighed. “I’ll see if I have time.”

“Mummy, make six. Make six. Please, make six.”

“No. You said five.”

“No, Mummy, no. Make six. Please, please, please.”

Mummy smirked. “Ok.”

She left the kitchen and climbed the divan. It was blistering hot outside. She held her hand out of the window. No rain drop fell on it. She looked up at the sky. There were no clouds also.

She was sitting on the doorstep on the terrace. With one hand she was dipping bhajiyea in tomato ketchup and eating them, and with the other she was drawing something on a drawing book. Then it started raining. She held out her bhajiya and a rain drop fell on it. She ate it, and by her face she could tell that she really liked it. She ate rest of the bhajiyea dipped in the rain drops only.

When she woke up this morning, she felt this was just a dream she had seen during the night. But now she realized that it wasn’t just a dream. It had really happened, in some old, very old time. So old that even the fairies and castles and princes were not born then. It was only she. But that didn’t seem possible because six months back Mummy had put just five candles on her cake, and had told her that she had become just five years old. But then Mummy might have lied to her. Her inner feeling had always told her that she was more than just five years old.

She saw Papa sitting on the sofa, reading newspaper. She climbed down the divan and up into his lap. She rested her head against his chest and fastened her hands around his neck.

“Papa, Papa, will it rain today?”

“I don’t know. Let’s see.”

“Papa, what do those people say who come to know from before.”

“Which people?”

“You only were saying it yesterday that some people in the newspapers come to know from before if it will rain tomorrow and then they tell all other people.”

“Oh, yes, yes, I said—”

“So Papa, can we ask those people if it will rain today?”

“Yes, we can. Let me see—” Papa turned the page, and then spoke, “Yes, those people say there are chances of rain—”

“No, Papa, not chances. Tell me hundred percent sure.”

“I can’t be hundred percent sure—”

“But Papa just now you said those people come to know from before if it will rain.”

“Yes, but they are not hundred percent sure.”

She moved her head away from his chest and searched his face. Then she slowly climbed down his lap and back up the divan.

Mummy said, “What happened, love? You look so sad.”

She turned her head and saw Mummy’s solemn, concerned face staring at her from the kitchen door. She turned back her head and held out her hand. No rain drop fell on it.

She had a lot of homework pending, so she brought her copy and started doing her homework on the divan. But after writing five lines she got tired and closed her copy. She laid her head on the cushions and looked at the rainless sky.

When she saw Doctor Uncle coming up the staircase, she hid in the laundry basket and closed the lid. She could hear Mummy walking about the house, calling out her name. Then Mummy opened the lid and they found themselves staring at each other for a minute. She slowly averted Mummy’s eyes and veiled herself with some clothes.

“Love,” Mummy said, “come out. Please.”

Mummy removed the clothes and held out her hands.

She started crying. “No, Mummy, no. He will hurt me. I won’t come.”

When Mummy picked her up, she cried and clawed Mummy’s back. Mummy had hardly walked a few steps before she put her down and said, “Stop crying, love. You know how much it hurts me when you cry?”

“No, Mummy, no, it does not hurt you. You don’t feel anything. When he hurts me then also you don’t feel anything because you never stop him.”

“No, my love, this time he will not do anything. I’ve told him. I promise. Don’t you trust me?”

Whenever Mummy called her ‘my love’ she felt a deep sense of intimacy and belonging. “‘Love’ is for you and your Papa,” Mummy had told her one day, “but ‘my love’ is reserved only and only for you, my love.”

She wiped her tears and said, “Promise?”

“Promise.”

Mummy picked her up and went inside the room.

“How is our little Simran today?” Doctor Uncle asked. “Did she have any problems during the week?”

She searched his face for a moment, and then rested her head against Mummy’s bosom.

Mummy said, “After you went, things were fine for two days. On the third day’s morning her eyes again started itching terribly. And same the next day. It was very hard for her.”

Doctor Uncle said, “Ok now, lie down. Good girl.”

She looked at Mummy. Mummy nodded. After she lied down he looked into her eyes with his torch. Then she saw him take out a small plastic bottle. “It will only take a second,” he said, trying to hold her face still. She wriggled and uttered a cry. He muttered, “One second—just one second.” She managed to break free, and sprang into Mummy’s lap. She buried her head in her sari and cried. “Mummy, did you see? He was trying to hurt me.” She raised her head and repeated, “Mummy, you saw it, didn’t you?”

“Love, it will only take a second.”

She peered into Mummy’s eyes. She saw an apology. She searched closely. Yes, it was an apology. It wasn’t love. She uttered a wail and jumped away from Mummy’s lap, as if Mummy had turned into a wraith, and fell on the bed like a wounded bird. Mummy held down her hands and tried to hold her head still, while Doctor Uncle held the vial over her eyes and pressed it lightly. She was too hurt to resist. Doctor Uncle said, “It’s over. Now, don’t open your eyes for five minutes. Good girl.”

She squirmed and cried as the liquid seeped inside and burnt her eyes. She pulled Mummy’s hair and clawed her face—she had betrayed her. Mummy didn’t resist. She muttered softly, “Don’t open your eyes, love, don’t open your eyes.”

When she woke up an hour later, Doctor Uncle was gone and Mummy was in the kitchen. She stomped into the kitchen. Mummy didn’t notice her. She opened and shut the fridge door.

Mummy said without looking at her, “Don’t drink cold water.”

She had thought that if she remained quiet, Mummy would turn back and ask her why she didn’t reply, and then she would tell Mummy that she would never ever reply to her or love her, now that she had betrayed her. But Mummy didn’t turn back and ask anything. And somehow she didn’t feel very angry towards her. She clenched her teeth and recollected Mummy’s betrayal, but she still didn’t feel as angry as she wanted to. She realized that her heart had become soft.

This always happened with her. When Mummy betrayed her, her heart became very angry. She and her angry heart promised to each other that they will never talk to Mummy or love her, not even if she cried or beat her head, and not even if she threatened to leave her. But then her angry heart contemplated for a while and after some time told her that it had become a soft heart and had changed its mind about Mummy. It told her that they were being very harsh and should start loving Mummy again. But she was reluctant. Then it tried to convince her by making her imagine how sad her life will become if Mummy stopped loving her as well. That made her worried and she felt tempted to forgive Mummy. Then her soft heart nudged her, Yes, go ahead, after which she told Mummy that she will start loving her again if she gets a toffee. Mummy, being nice, gave it.

Sometimes she and her heart completely forgot about their promise, and by the time they realized it they had loved Mummy and talked to her too much to go back. So they let the matter drop.

She contemplated for a minute and came to the conclusion that, now that her heart had become soft, it was not possible for her not to love Mummy again. So she said to her heart, I’ll leave her this time, but if Mummy betrays us again I promise we will get a new Mummy.

“My love, come here,” Mummy said softly.

She ran over and hugged Mummy’s sari.

For now, she forgave her.

“Here,” Mummy said handing her a plate. “They are six.”

She counted the bhajiyea, told Mummy she loved her and kept the plate on the dining table outside. She climbed the divan, closed her eyes and prayed to all the gods she could remember. Then she held her hand out. No rain drop fell on it. But the wind was blowing.

She felt a sudden pang of longing for that very old time when she used to sit on terrace and draw and eat bhajiyea. Her eyes didn’t itch back then, she was sure. Which also meant that Mummy never betrayed her then. She used to be so happy.

The limited memories she had were of either of that very old time, or of the time that had passed since her fourth birthday. She didn’t know what lied in between. She pressed her memory hard but still couldn’t remember anything. Then it occurred to her that she might have run out of space in her memory. But this would also mean that she might even forget Mummy and the time on terrace as the space ran out further. It distressed her.

Or perhaps she couldn’t remember the time in between because that very old time was actually a period from her previous life, not this life. And the time between her previous life and this life was a long break during which she did nothing, which was why she couldn’t remember anything. She liked it. It ruled out the previous possibility, and also meant that Mummy hadn’t lied to her when she told her that she is just five years old.

She ran to the kitchen to tell Mummy about it, but on her way she noticed something missing from her plate. There was one bhajiya less. She counted again. No, two less.

“Mummy,” she cried, “you betrayed me. There are only four in my plate.”

“No, I gave you six. You counted them yourself.”

She knew it was true.

“Then where are those two gone?”

“I don’t know. You might have eaten them and forgotten.”

She ran out, irritated. When she counted again three were missing. Her brother was sitting before the TV, holding a bhajiya. She was sure she didn’t have such a despicable brother in her previous life. She didn’t want a fight, so she just went to her room with the plate. When she looked at the plate she felt that the leftover three bhajiyea were looking very lonely scattered around the large plate. So she thought for a minute, and then she broke them into parts and huddled them together like a joint family. Then she hid the plate behind a wall of books on her study-desk.

She was feeling sleepy. It was twelve in the night and it still hadn’t rained. Few minutes later, when she had just embarked on a sweet dream, she heard the clamor of rain on a tin shed. She ran about asking the colorful fairies if it was raining, but they said, No, it’s not raining. Then it occurred to her that it was raining in the real world. She woke up with a start. She rescued the plate from behind the book-wall, took out her drawing book and a pencil, and ran for the terrace. She had just sat on the doorstep and placed the plate and drawing book on either side when she realized that the sound was coming from fireworks, not rain. She held out her hand, just to confirm. No rain drop fell on it.

She went down.

Later in the night, when she was right in the middle of another sweet dream, she was woken up by a similar clamor. The large part of her heart said, No, it is not rain, and the small part said, No, it is rain. She looked out of her window and told the small part that it was right. The rain was lashing on the street, making it glow like black velvet.

When she switched on the light she saw black ants crawling all over her study-desk. She was fond of black ants because they were kind ants, and didn’t bite, unlike the red ants which were not kind ants, and bit all the time. But now, she mercilessly stamped the black ants with her fist. When all had escaped or were dead, she went back to her study-desk and saw that the bhajiyea in her plate were just as she had left them. She felt guilty. The ants had come for some other purpose. But she didn’t pray for their souls because she was in a hurry. She took the plate and her drawing book and ran for the terrace, leaving behind the dead bodies scattered on her study-desk, to be buried first thing in the morning.

By the time she was seated on the doorstep the rain had turned into a drizzle. There wasn’t much space, so she had to keep the plate in her lap. It was dark, so she had little idea of what she was drawing. She took a bhajiya, held it out and waited for a drop to fall on it. Her hands were trembling with excitement. Only after two minutes did a drop fell on it. She didn’t have to wait so long in her previous life, but she didn’t mind. She was waiting for this moment since long. Bhajiyea dipped in rain drops would replace pizza to become her favorite food, she was sure. She ate it.

Her lips had hardly touched it when she spat it out. She coughed and coughed, but the foul taste lingered in her mouth for a while. Then, suddenly, it struck her that the image – of herself sitting on the doorstep on terrace, drawing, smiling, eating bhajiyea dipped in rain and ketchup – was just a dream. Not something from her previous life. Just a dream. Nothing more. Since morning it was hiding behind the mask of her previous life, filling her with happiness and longing, and now it suddenly pounced before her like a wolf and threw off its mask, and said, I am just your dream, and all the longing which was filled inside her evaporated. With great effort she took another bite, in case it tasted magically good this time and undid the scary emotions she had felt just now. But she had to spit it out again.

She looked at her drawing book and saw that she had made an ugly looking cow. The bhajiyea in her plate looked cold and ugly and frightening. The rain was now a downpour, loud and belligerent, like it wanted to hurt her. She looked around and realized how lonely she was. There was darkness and a cold silence all around her, with only the plate and drawing book for company. She felt a lump in her throat. Then she felt something with a sharp beak pecking her. Leaving behind the drawing book and plate, she went downstairs, holding the railing tightly in case she fell down.

Mummy was sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, making preparations for tomorrow’s pooja. When she turned her head she saw Simran standing on the threshold, rubbing her tearful eyes with her hands.

She came running towards Mummy, and without saying anything, laid in her lap. She enveloped herself in the blanket she had brought from her room. She didn’t leave any space in the blanket, but still something with a sharp beak crept in and started pecking her. Then she realized that the thing pecking her was actually inside her body and it was that image and it was pecking her heart. She curled up. The rain had become louder, like a whiplash. There was an occasional thunder also. It made her feel like she was sitting on the bottom of a staircase and many large barrels were rolling down towards her. She shut one ear with her hand and other she pressed against Mummy’s lap. The pecking on her heart grew more painful, and after some time she felt her whole body was being pecked. She felt sleepy but she didn’t close her eyes because she was now afraid of dreams. They betrayed her.

Mummy was very worried and shocked. She kept asking what had happened to her love, and why there were big big tears in her love’s small small eyes. But her love didn’t reply. She tried to make-do the little space, and wiped her tears with Mummy’s sari, and played with a bead on it to fend off sleep and divert her mind from all the pecking that was going on.