The Heart Break...

                                  (This one won me the Gold Batom at Blog-A-Ton!!! )

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 39; the thirty-ninth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is "Break"

He sprang out of bed with the first beep of the alarm. Excitement flush on his face, like that of a new bride on her wedding day, he scurried about his chores. He gelled and parted his hair and combed it neatly, putting a stray strand of hair into place. Donning his favourite shirt and a spray of perfume on it, he was raring to go. She would be waiting and he couldn’t afford to make her wait.

He mounted his bike as if it were a horse and as he rode he felt the cool breeze kiss his face. He wished she would one day kiss him like that! He felt his heart race as he got down from his bike and walked towards the office. She looked down at him from the glass window on the first floor and he thought he saw her smiling. He smiled back at her.

He was early as usual and except the cleaning lady there was no one around. He would have ample time to spend with her before the other staff came in. He hopped up the steps, two at a time and walked up behind her. She was still looking out of the window with her back to him.

‘Hi sweetie, good morning’ he whispered into her ear, turning her around to face him.

She seemed to be smiling at him, like always. She was wearing a blue satin sleeveless full length gown that made her look so alluring!

‘See what I have brought for you today,’ he said as he opened a cardboard box and showed her a pink chiffon saree. ‘This is my favorite colour, sweetie, and look at the silver lace on the border; you’ll look more beautiful than ever when you wear this’ he winked. He unfolded the saree and laid it out on the table for her to see.

 ‘Why won’t you say anything, don’t you like it?’ he asked, and then he saw her shy smile and knew she had liked it as much as he did. So what if she couldn't speak, didn't he always understand the language of her eyes? ‘Let me help you wear it,’ he said. He drew the curtains on the window and switched on the lights. Then he slid the blue satin dress off her shoulders, his eyes tightly shut, ‘ I'm not looking, sweetie, at least not till you tell me to’ he smiled naughtily.

 He knew she did not know how to wrap a saree around herself so he’d have to do that himself too. She watched in awe letting him expertly wrap the beautiful pink saree around her slender waist. When he was done, he looked at her, mighty pleased with himself. She looked like a dream!

He pulled open the curtains and stood there for some time, holding her hand, watching the world walk by on the streets below. Suddenly there was a lot of commotion and people were running helter-skelter on the roads.

‘Wait right here, I’ll just go check what’s happening’ he told her. But no sooner had he said that, he felt the ground beneath his legs shake and rumble. And before he realized what was going on, he saw the glass window crack and break into a thousand pieces. To his utter horror and shock, he saw her fall out of the window several feet down to the ground even before he could hold onto her. Like a madman, he flew down the fight of steps, out of the office building and into the street below.

She lay among the shards of glass her neck apparently broken by the fall. He gathered her in his arms weeping like a child oblivious to the crowd gathered in the street, oblivious to the quake that still continued to shake the earth, oblivious to everything around him but her. She had been the only one who had loved him unconditionally, unmindful of the warts on his face, unmindful of his crooked teeth and unmindful of his bulbous nose.

Even as he wept, he saw his colleagues standing around him exchanging animated glances, trying to suppress their smile. Teary eyed, he picked up a stone and threw it at the office signboard that read ‘NAVRATNA SAREES’. He couldn't bear to work here any more  With her not around, it didn't make sense to come back to this place.  He picked up another stone aiming at his colleagues, but let that drop as they ran away from him.

She may have just been a mannequin to others, but to him she had been the love of his life.  And like those broken pieces of glass, his heart too had broken into a thousand pieces.

                                                     ****************************

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A victory?

Phat…

 The back of his hands made a clean sweep of her face and she felt her head hit the adjacent wall before she fell down limp on the floor. Warm blood trickled down her forehead where it had kissed the wall. She bit her lips trying not to scream, swallowing her pride with the pain. She tried to grab the legs of the chair in an attempt to get up, but he pushed away her source of support, kicking her abdomen with the tip of his shoe. He felt a sense of pride like a footballer who had just landed the ball in the net, surpassing the goalie. He kicked her few more times, his shoe landing on a different goal each time, till she could bear no more and let out a howl; an ear piercing scream that threatened to curdle his blood.

The scream kind of terrified him because he left soon after, leaving her alone in the room. She lay on the ground but she needed to get up quick. A wave of nausea had begun to sweep over her and she felt the muscles of her stomach loosen and transfer its contents to her mouth. Unable to get up, she puked on the ground. The blood in the vomit scared her and the putrid smell made her nauseous again. Gathering herself, she trawled to the washroom, and slowly tried to stand up holding the wash basin for support.

The face in the mirror seemed to ridicule her. A neat reddish-blue bulge had formed on her forehead, the blood had clot after having trailed down her ear. She splashed water over her face and the icy water felt like tonic on her wounds. Her lower lip looked like it had been bitten by a bug, red and swollen. She stared at the face in mirror.

She could see a young girl, the parting of her hair smeared with deep red vermilion  Her gold and red veil that had covered her head during the wedding rituals lay on the ground. A fresh cut adorned her lips from which warm blood oozed out and her cheeks looked flushed and red; not with the shyness of a new bride but with the imprints of a palm that had just landed heavily on her cheeks. She had been too shocked to react and too young and new to complain.

And today she stood here again, before this very mirror, and as on that day and every other day after that. And all she was doing was washing her face off the blood, like she always did. No wonder the face in the mirror seemed to ridicule her. Why hadn't she stopped it right then? Why hadn't she stopped it after that? Why had she silently borne his abuse through the years? Why had she been in denial?

She remembered the first time it happened. A new bride, she had coyly brought him a glass of hot milk that her mother-in-law had given her. The milk had apparently been hot and he had lost his temper when it burned his tongue. That was the first time he hit her, not even bothered that she had just stepped into his life. She had felt that she deserved it. How could she be so careless? He had been apologetic soon after and she had been more than happy letting him lust after her.

The silliest of reasons had been enough to turn him into a monster. But she had never accepted that it was actually abuse. Maybe he was just drunk, maybe he’d had a hard time at work, maybe he didn’t mean what he did, maybe some patience and love would change him. She could accept any explanation but this. And again, didn't he always come back to her at night?

Surprisingly, no one had ever asked her about her visible wounds and her mother-in-law had told her in hushed tones about how men will be men and how she has been patiently tolerating her husband since she had been married. Having children will change all that she had assured. Nothing did change after two children and she had been plain lucky not to lose her children during the nine months, when she carried them in her womb.

The face in the mirror seemed to ridicule her. She looked away and let tears flood her eyes.

Her closest friend had tried to counsel her, telling her to put an end to the abuse, and it had taken a lot of time to come out the emotions that her mind seemed to be caught in and accept that what was being done to her had to be stopped. As much as she would have liked to take her friend’s advice, she felt trapped financially. What would she do if he were to disinherit her and her children? She was dependent on him for everything. How would she survive alone?

She stumbled out of the washroom to the kitchen for a glass of water. Her eyes were blurry with tears and she did not notice her children walk in. The terrified look on their faces said it all. They were growing up and what happened to their mother had terrified them. They held her hand and wept unable to convey what their little hearts felt. She could feel them trembling with fear.

What years of abuse and months of counseling could not do, the look on her children’s faces seemed to achieve. What example was she setting for them, she asked herself? Her son would eventually learn that it is his right to abuse women and her daughter would learn that it was OK to be abused. She couldn't let that happen. They needed to know that a woman has to be respected, and if she is abused, then she would not tolerate it. If as a mother, she couldn't teach them that, no book on earth ever could.

She heard her husband calling out her name, demanding a cup of tea, as if nothing had happened. She put the kettle on boil and poured out the tea in a cup. As he stretched out his hand to pick up the cup, she snatched it and splashed the contents across his face. ‘Did it pain? Are you hurt?’ She asked, as he screamed in agony, trying to grab her arm. ‘Know that it pains when you hurt me, don’t ever dare to do it again’ she said as she led her children away even as he hurled expletives at her. She wished she had done that with the first glass of hot milk she had brought him as a bride. Better late than never, she thought as she saw her children let out a feeble smile. Though in pain, she walked up straight, shoulders pulled back, as if she had just come back from battle. 

She didn't know what this action of hers would lead to, but it was a day of victory for her, however small that might be. 

A victory over her own fears.

A miracle...

We had been planning a visit to Tirumala and Tirupati Devastanams (TTD) for my son’s “mundan” ceremony. Hubby dearest decide to drive to Tirumala instead of taking the bus or train. It had been raining all the way, but the ride had been lovely. Once we hit Chittor, the roads were fabulous and we had enjoyed the ride amidst loud family chatter. It was almost 8pm when we reached the foothills and we debated whether we should drive up or stay in Tirupati for the night. Hubby dearest insisted on driving up right then, so that we could get in line for darshan early in the morning. Since our parents seem to concur, we began our ascent in the heavy downpour.

He drove slowly, maneuvering every bend and curve expertly. It was quite dark and surprisingly the road seemed to be clear of the umpteen number of TTD service buses that keep plying every few minutes. We just had our vehicle headlights for assistance. We must have climbed about half way up, when we heard loud honking behind us. We could see a couple of TTD buses behind us and assumed they wanted us to give way. Hubby slowed, moving to one side, and letting the buses pass. The honking continued and we wondered what they were trying to signal. Hubby braked to a stop and got down to see if anything was wrong with the car. To our surprise, instead of coming behind us, the buses went up another curve, leaving us behind.

We realized we were on the wrong path. We had to go up the curve and we had driven straight ahead. Maybe that is why they were honking, we reasoned. Imagine our horror when we realized that the path we were on, ended abruptly 50 mts ahead of our car and there were some branches kept to block the road. And horror of horrors the “path” would have led to a free fall  several thousand feet down the hill!! That was what the buses had been trying to signal!

The look on hubby’s face said it all! His hands wouldn't move as he tried to switch on the ignition! He sat for some time in the driving seat, eyes closed, and not speaking a word. We understood what he might be going through. For all we knew, the whole family could have crashed down the hill in minutes had the buses not suddenly showed up. Surprisingly, the buses had halted as if waiting for us to show up, and when we did, they began their ascent again, showing us the path up the hill.

Words cannot describe how grateful we felt towards those bus drivers and to the Lord himself.

Was that a miracle? Maybe. 

Was that the lord’s way of telling us, no matter what, I will always be there to protect you? Definitely! 

The joy of theater..

Life's pleasures, they say, come in little packages! And when that little package is an opportunity to watch theater on a weekend with daddy dearest, without the little ones to distract, then that is true bliss. So when dad asked me if I would like to watch “Modit Nighale Kadimod” a Marathi play scripted by his close friend, how could I refuse?

Watching theater has always been one of my favorites, and it beats going to the cinemas by a huge margin. No PVR rushes and no distractions. No loud sounds and over the top dialogues and way over the top clothes! And more importantly, no unnecessary shopping while you are whiling away your time waiting for the previous show to get over . Or maybe the other way around!

Theater is joy. The joy of seeing the characters in flesh and blood, the joy of watching the light and sound effects guide you through the script, the joy of being able to walk up to the actors after the play is over and tell them what a great job they did, the joy of being up close, the joy of connecting with the actors and their characters in a way you could never connect with a movie actor...

The stage itself is so synonymous with life, where there are no retakes. What is done is done. You cannot just go back and redo anything. You have to rehearse well and long enough not to make a mistake on stage. How much more beautiful life would be if we could rehearse our lines in our mind well enough before it rolls out of that acidic tongue of ours!

 You just play your part and leave the stage, and then you wait in the wings till you need to take center-stage again. You don’t keep meddling with the parts that others need to play! And after the play is over you have that hot cup of tea and samosa with your team, and pat each other’s back and say goodbye with a smile. No one cries when goodbyes are exchanged! Shakespeare sure did know when he said what he did about the world being a stage!!

You will realize that actors will usually never make eye contact with one person in the audience. They are trained to be so immersed in the script that though they seem to be looking at everyone, they are actually not looking at anyone! But should that moment of eye contact happen, and then the onus is on you- to maintain that eye contact and not distract the actor in any way till he leaves your gaze!

Theater is pure, unadulterated fun, and you must experience it at least once in your lifetime, if you haven’t already. And I would say, take just one person with you; don’t go with an entourage, if you know what I mean! 

A bowl of Grapes.....!!

Hubby dearest has been on a pretty long tour, and not having spoken to him all of today has gotten on my nerves. My calls haven’t been returned and messages responded to in one word- “meeting”. 

What meeting? I fume. Meetings that go on for the entire day? Surely there must be a lunch break? So I call him at lunch hour. 

“Working lunch. Anything urgent?” he messages back.

 The day ends, the moon rises, and so does my temper. I am ready to blow my top like the proverbial pressure cooker. It’s past dinner and still no call.

I wash some grapes and put them in two bowls for my little ones after dinner and try to catch something on TV. Shortly, an ensuing sibling battle calls for my attention.

“No, only ten…” shrieks my younger one.

“Not ten… see there are more…”counters the elder one.

“Who got more grapes” seems to be the favourite fighting topic amongst siblings even today, I sigh as I get up. My sister and I have never fought more for any other thing than this all important, “who got more grapes”. Time for resolution…before the war erupts! I am pretty sure I gave them an equal number of grapes though.

“Hey, what’s up champs?” I try to calm them. “You can have more grapes if you want.”

“Mom, look at chiku, he has so many grapes in his bowl and he says he has just 10”, scoffs the elder one.

“No mom, I have only 10,” the younger one says defiantly, trying to show that to me on his little fingers, some folded, some open, not sure how many fingers make ten, and still trying to count.  And then he begins counting the grapes, “one..two..thee, foe, faiyou, thit, theven, eight, niyen, ten…” he looks at me triumphantly. “See only ten.”

“And who will count the others?” asks my elder one, hands on his hips and one eyebrow raised. He looks so cute when he does that!

So the little one starts again, “One..two…” and I burst out laughing.

“Eleven, twelve..” says my elder one helpfully.

“Thee…foe...” continues the younger one, his voice one decibel higher, annoyed that his brother should interrupt, and simultaneously nodding his head from side to side.

The elder one looks at me, and I suddenly realize I am supposed to say something.

“Who’s right?” he demands to know.

“Both of you are.” I tell him.

“How?” he wants to know.

“Chiku can count only up to ten, so you can’t blame him. Look at it from his point of view,” I say laughing and then that laughter turns into a sheepish grin as something else dawns on me.

Just then the phone rings, and I jump to grab it. It is hubby dearest, and a smile threatens to break on my lips. I allow it to.

“I’m sorry yaar…” he begins, the tiredness in his voice evident.

“Looks like you had a difficult day.”

“Don’t even ask…” he says.

I smile again.