Soldiering On

The last black pin pierced the tiny bun of white hair at the nape of her neck, completing the neat circle. She patted it in place with a dab of oil. And then she looked at herself. What was once a cascade black as the night had lived its life over the past 80 years. It had turned thin, turned white. Does white mean an absence of colour, or is it black which signifies a vacuum in life? She smiled, raising her chin ever so slightly so as to show the mirror the jawline, set as tight and taut as determination itself. Her hair, her companion who never cut-away from her even when so much else severed …

A trickle of sweat down the side of her face reminded her of today’s task which lay waiting to be done. To defeat the 46 degrees of heat. With creased fingers nimble as those of a tea-picker she rolled away from the comb’s teeth those stray strands which seemed to part her head every time she combed them. She rolled them into tiny white ball, no, silver … like a ball of pure silver wool.  

She called it silver, her hair, ‘as silver as the thunderous lighting in the sky, powerful, alone and brave in all that darkness’ she used to tell her granddaughter when she would play with her plait. But that was when they stayed together. Now, Simar stayed in the same city but in a different house. Bigger. Better. Where her son moved with his family when the confines of Amar Colony and even more claustrophobic memories of what was once refugees’ shelter disturbed his peace, his dream of upward mobility. The day he drove into his lane in a Maruti Esteem too big to park, bigger than anything the coiled wires or shoulder-to-shoulder clotheslines overhead had ever seen, that day he left Amar Colony behind. The car was now parked in its own garage, in a plush Delhi locality. Along with a few more signs announcing how far he had come away from all things past.

And that is where she was headed, S-13, Green Park. Always putting in an extra effort to look her best. Hair all neat, fresh clothes from the cupboard and not those partially worn ones off the hooks in the corner of her two bedroom flat. ‘Mummy ji, please use this before meeting the guests,’ her daughter-in-law had asked her once, giving her an expensive looking bottle of perfume. She was over for Simar’s birthday party and had forgotten to change her suit after rolling 50 besan laddoos at home specially for the occasion. Foolish excitement had made her board bus number 469, totally unmindful of her dusty slippers, a mismatched synthetic dupatta and patches of sweat all over the body. It was July! She had done as the daughter-in-law told her to, but had quietly left soon as Simar had cut the cake, and the guests got down to eating chocolate fondue and tiramisu.

And so, when she handed over her house key to the tenant above and boarded bus number 469 this day, she was neat and fresh. She even carried a newspaper to shield herself from the sun. After all, the doctor had given her strict orders to beat the heat. Strangely for Dr. Singh, there was a connection between her failing kidneys, the arthritis in her left knee and a developing cataract in one eye. Or maybe, he was just being caring, that handsome sardar! She smiled as she remembered how far back they went. Dr. Sukhjinder had come from Pakistan’s Punjab the same year as she and her husband. A widower now, he practised and lived alone a few houses away from hers. All efforts of his son’s to make him shift abroad went in vain. At least that was the story Dr. Singh, MBBS, liked to tell his neighbours.

The bus barely stopped for the passengers to get off. She almost fell on the hot tarmac road, but steadied herself before she could get hurt. Or her clothes dirty. In Hardeep’s house everything must be presentable. Just like the kind woman who always opened the gate to her. She was about her age, reminding her of her best friend from those days of gay abandon we call school. They would chatter at the gate itself, like excited girls, but just enough. ‘Madam will get upset if she sees me away from work for so long. I better go. Come, come inside. I’ll ring for her once you make yourself comfortable,’ and she would sit on the chair closest to the door. Closest to the door. You know, where one hangs umbrellas and caps and keys to storerooms. Things which have no use, no business no point being inside, on marble floors and under chandeliers. It was that corner in S-13 where she usually felt most comfortable. Never far from the door.

‘How are you, daadi?’ shrieked Simar when she saw her grandmother sitting uncomfortably on that chair they jokingly called "In the middle of nowhere". They hugged so tight no air could pass between them, and talked so fast an express train would hide in shame. Simar told her about that boy in class, ‘Oh and I won the tennis championship so mummy got my hair styled at fancy Madonna Salon and papa says if I do well in school we will holiday in Europe this autumn and how do I look? We’re going to the pool party at Sainik Farms …’ and she just sat there listening. Smiling and listening and enjoying the excitement in Simar’s voice, an excitement that made her feel … how should I say? Um, it makes me feel … wanted! Yes, wanted. And what is wanted is loved too, right? She loves me so much…

Hardeep’s leather soles announced his arrival. As he bent to touch his mother’s feet, she got up to caress his cheeks, as if he was a little boy, her boy, still. As if. They sat for five minutes of silence sipping lemonade, broken only by Simar’s interjections of things she wanted to share with her daadi, skipping whole words and certainly all punctuations to fit into this moment as much talk as any 8-year-old could manage. You see, time was short. The farmhouse the family had to go to for the pool party was far.

Plus, the rickshaw walla who was to transport the cooler and her daadi back to Amar Colony was already clocking his fare outside the imposing gate.

Silently, she saw her daadi get on to the tiny cart next to the cooler they no longer had any use for. Will you be okay, daadi? It’s so hot and what if the rickshaw bumps plus you have so many kilometers to go and papa, don’t you think we can drop … but before her thoughts found breath as spoken words, she was waving a good bye. She looked at Simar straight and smiled, that chin-raised-that-tight-jawline smile the mirror had seen just this morning. As if her teeth were gritted inside, proudly, determined to make her journey comfortable, and safe. She tightened the black strap carrying the kirpan and looked ahead.

Like a soldier on a mission. 

Wait till Dr. Singh learns. I must carry his favourite jalebi next time I go visit him to tell him about my new companion. My own cooler. How pleased he would be that I am taking care of myself ...always mumbling how we children of a past lost to time are our own sentinels to our selves, to take care of our selves. 

The sunlight bounced off her hair, hair which shone as silver as the thunderous lighting in the sky, powerful, alone and brave in all that darkness.

[Written for WordPress Daily Prompts : 365 Writing Prompts. The prompt for today was - Take Care - When you’re unwell, do you allow others to take care of you, or do you prefer to soldier on alone? What does it take for you to ask for help?]