Memories

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His lips quivered and tears streamed down his wrinkled cheeks as he held the yellowing piece of paper close to his heart. The fondest of memories with the love of his life, his better half, flashed in his mind forcing a ghost of a smile to take shape on his face. He read once again the note she had given him on one of their marriage anniversaries many years ago.

 “I may forget days and nights, the world and beyond but I promise I’ll never forget you; you will be in my thoughts and dreams forever” it said.

He walked up to her and stroked her hair as she stared at him, her thoughts muddled and memories faded, unable to recognise him or his love. 

This piece of Five Sentence Fiction was written for the prompt Memories at LillieMcFerrin.com

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Vacant

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Anita stole one last glance at the beautiful cottage that had been her home for the past seven years. Her gaze lingered on the French windows that opened into a small patch of velvety grass adorned by brightly coloured bougainvillea bushes with mangled branches. She had spent so many days enjoying togetherness and long conversations with her husband over cups of tea and freshly baked cake in that very place. That was many months ago, before he played a game of hide and seek with her, vanishing into a secret hideout away from this world, never to return.

She would miss the ivory coloured walls that were a collage of glimpses of their life together. She remembered how the wooden floor boards squeaked with joy at their footsteps, the cool breeze that carried with it the scent of the coral jasmines and the cool stretch of white marble on the kitchen counter where he always sat to give her company while she cooked.

These had been symbols of joy until a few years ago, but strangely turned into painful reminders of the emptiness in her life. What had been their home for many years was just a house now, waiting for new inhabitants. She drove away to a new life in a new place, hoping to get away from haunting memories. Another family would move in soon and the house would no longer be vacant. She realized with a pang of sorrow that it would not be the same of her heart.





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Nostalgia

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After spending fifteen years in the Gulf, we returned to our native village in Kerala. The naalukettu looked exactly the same, though the surroundings were now dotted with new buildings and houses. I walked over to the swing that hung from the Gulmohur tree. It was wet from the early morning showers.

I sat clutching the sturdy coir ropes enjoying the gentle swing back and forth. The bright red flowers let go of the cool drops of rain they held. They awakened within me a feeling of nostalgia, a sudden longing for my past that now seemed  to be so perfect. It was as if each drop wanted to remind me of a story long forgotten. Under my feet lay a thousand red petals of the Gulmohur on a carpet of green grass.

It was many years ago on a similar morning that I met Madhavan. He used to walk past our house every day wearing a crisp white mundu and checked shirt. An occasional glance gave way to smiles and soon we started meeting at the nearby temple, spending endless hours under the sacred Peepal tree. Life seemed so perfect, with Madhavan as the hero of my love story.

I was jolted back to reality when he waved from the other side of the brick wall. “How have you been?” he queried with a smile.

“Fine.”

There was an awkward silence before I headed into the house saying “It is going to rain.”

How could I face him, having given in like a coward to the pressure from my family to marry a rich man working in the Middle East? I drifted back in time to sweet memories untainted by the bitterness of my marriage.

Naalukettu - Traditional house in Kerala

Mundu - A garment worn by people in south India

Gulmohur - A flowering tree

Peepal - Sacred fig tree




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Grief

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The morning sun was hidden behind grey clouds and the wind brought with it soft sprays of the morning rain. It was getting cold and the inmates of We Care hospital slowly made their way inside after having spent an hour in the beautiful garden with Janet, the social worker. She came thrice a week to hold hands, listen and speak to them. They could say anything to her. She would listen patiently without judgement, sometimes responding with a few lines of poetry or a mere nod of the head or engaging them in a fun activity. That seemed to be enough for the patients who had been admitted there to recover from the shock of bereavement.

Once the group session was over she had a few individual sessions. Janet walked to the cafeteria where Maya waited every day to share her pain, the tragic demise of her husband. As she listened, offering her thoughts occasionally, Janet was taken back to the days when she herself had been stricken with grief when her son, barely five, had left her to be lonely forever. They had been playing at the beach when he spotted a shiny object in the water and ran after it, never to return again.

Janet was devastated and had withdrawn into a shell. She was an emotional wreck for several months until her friend, a psychologist at We Care had suggested she come in regularly to meet others who were also battling the pain of loss of a loved one. She had come a long way from there, learning to cope and simultaneously lending a hand to other grievers. She was glad she had someone to steer her through troubled times and so was determined to do the same to others too.

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The Memory Box

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Tucked away within the powdery dust

of layered thoughts recent and crusted,

lies a memory box with secrets locked

by a promise ancient yet trusted.

A whiff of its dark air deeply perfumed

by a cherished childhood complete,

takes me back to days bygone

through objects that seem obsolete.

Its hesitant creak upon my touch

sends forth ripples of innocent laughter

from carefree days lived to the brim

with no worry of what came after.

I caress its contents treasured-

feathers dyed, leaves dried,

letters inked, stones that winked,

coiled cones bequeathed by the tide.

Cradled deep within my memory box

is a handful of special red seeds

and brown ones with silken white tufts

wedged between luck-bringing weeds.

The broken red of bangles, bright

as the untouched bits of a heart forsaken

Faded petals, dry and brittle

once crimson with the love I’d taken.

Inside my little memory box

that mirrors a life of perfection

I seek refuge on rainy days

to see a sunny smile on my reflection.

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Hospitality

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My balcony overlooks a small hut built (illegally) on an empty plot of land by a family of migrant labourers from north Karnataka. A couple lives there with their five year old son. The man works as a construction labourer and the woman works in a few houses as a maid. Their son, a really naughty brat picks up fights with stray dogs and roams around in dirty clothes, has dirty brown hair, a leaky nose and dirty nails. They grow their own vegetables in the plot of land, pilfer water and electricity from neighbouring houses and sneak out of their house before sunrise to squat by the roadside to flush out their bowels.

We have been neighbours for the past 4 years but hardly spoke to each other until recently, there being no common language for communication and my urban conditioning raising suspicions about them being thieves or worse, frequenting my house asking for favours. But soon, the lady of the house started giving me an occasional nod and smile and so gradually I started returning them too.

As I had feared, the little boy, comforted by the presumption that his mother and I had become “friends”, frequented my house every day. He was barely three and knew neither his mother tongue nor English; a blank canvas where I could freely paint. I taught him some songs and rhymes that he seemed to enjoy, numbers, names of things and so on. He would wait for me to return from work and just barge into my house, unrestricted by the codes of conduct that I was bound by right from my childhood.

Last year, much to my surprise, his mother told me that she had enrolled him in the local school (by then we had begun conversing in short sentences, thanks to my improving Kannada). I was really happy to see him in clean clothes, well groomed, eagerly walking to school. He came home every day and told me what all he had learnt. I could see the unmistakable glint of pride in his parents’ faces when he recited “1 to 100” or “One, two, buckle my shoe”. One day, with a liberal dose of cajoling and persuasion from the boy, I accepted his invitation to their home. They were celebrating Durga Puja and wanted to do so with their son’s “first teacher”.

I was totally flattered by the love and respect I got from the entire family. Since there was enough space for only two adults to be in the house simultaneously, the boy’s mother called me in, spread out a clean mat and served hot rice, lentils and tasty sweets that she had painstakingly made with the limited facilities (a crude grinding stone and a firewood stove was all she had) while the extended family waited outside, by the road. I cannot describe in words what I felt that day, for it was a cocktail of humility, embarrassment, gratitude, happiness, sadness and surprise.

It did not end there. They had arranged clean drinking water just for me and the lady of the house gifted me with an extra helping of fruits, sweets and snacks to take home for my husband and mother. I was deeply moved by their hospitality and generosity. They could hardly afford to feed their son with fruits and sweets but felt it necessary to treat me well. I drowned in a surge of emotions. This incident was so touching; it will remain in my memory forever.

I learnt a great lesson in hospitality and reciprocated the love by sharing sweets and gifts during Diwali. I realized that to be blessed with plenty and then share the extras is one thing, but to share one’s meal when the next meal itself is doubtful is another, that requires a really kind heart. 

                                                       

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Celebrating love

Red roses, love notes and an occasional kiss and hug. Gifts of handmade cards, paintings and sketches, candies and toffees. Very often, to add a traditional touch, fragrant jasmine flowers to embellish my black curls. No they were not from my boyfriend (who is now my husband). They were all from the children I taught. It was literally like celebrating Valentine’s Day every day! Given with a lavish dose of love and affection, it was really difficult to say “no” to the eager kids who would peep into the office room early in the morning, waiting for their favourite teachers.

I was one of the earliest to reach school. An extreme obsession about punctuality that sometimes infringed upon insanity. As I walked down the way to school many children, babies to teens would join me and soon we would be a chattering mob marching through the school gates. Children would run up to me and give me flowers they enthusiastically plucked that morning. Roses (from their parents’ flower laden carts), Bottle brushes (a flower true to its name), Jasmine, Hibiscus, Marigold and what not! Some insisted that I wear it on my head immediately. The slightest hesitation on my part would have serious repercussions. No, not sulking and crying. The flower would be snatched and forcefully thrust into my locks. I had no right to protest. Just for this time of the day, they were the teachers and I, a meek student. I did not even want to picture myself with roses, jasmines, leaves happily perched on my head.

So after all the pampering, I headed to my class looking (and smelling) like a puja room or wedding hall if you like it. But the kids thought I was beautiful. The more flowers I had, the better I looked. Throughout the day- during break time or a free hour, children would check the back of my head to see if I had dared to take away the flowers given with tonnes of love. At these times I often remembered my mother, aunts and grandmother and the struggle they had to go through to make us cousins (the girls’ gang) wear some flowers on our heads during festive occasions. I hated the fragrance of jasmines or rather its stench. Over the course of the day they turned brown and presented a pathetic sight. Yuck! How I hated flowers in my hair. How proud I felt when my mother let out an exasperated “do whatever you want” when I refused to accept flowers. And now these kids had absolute control over me. They had the “childlike innocence” advantage.

 Some days I would take them off my hair and put it in my bag. Imagine walking around in jeans with a floral helmet! I didn’t have the heart to throw them.  I would often wonder what to do with them. At the end of the academic year, I had a box full of dried flowers. A potpourri of the children’s feelings for me. Something I can keep revisiting when life seems boring or difficult. Opening the box unleashes the scent of sweet memories in which I can drift along, feeling loved. I don’t need Valentine’s Day.