Forced together

That day my mother was lazing in her favourite corner with a telugu magazine. I had just returned from college when out of the blue; water started seeping into the house. It had happened many times before. So we simply climbed onto our beds to avoid the water. As we were stuck, all we could do was stare out the window.
In a matter of few minutes, the flood had risen to knee length. Hence, we lost hope of the rain subsiding, and went upstairs to Asha aunty’s house. There we saw our other ground floor neighbours: the Roy family, the Shetty family and Shankaran family. The other members of the building had also come to console. This was the first time I saw all the residents of Harikripa come together in one tiny hall. Asha aunty was very pleased as she could play the host.
After a few hours Mr. Manjerekar suggested that we should bring our Television sets upstairs. So Uncle John’s son Verghese and I volunteered. We burst out laughing as we pulled out the 21” TV from my semi-flooded flat. It is yet to be known how it worked for a year without repair. By the end of the evening we, a total of 15 people including Asha auntys family, were the only ones left.
For the next two days the ground floor residents of Harikripa building had become homeless. We made the best of what food and water was left. As there was little water, each family would share one plate. With so many people under one roof, we kept each other entertained and tried not to get on any ones nerves. No one could complain about the stink as it could have been him/her.. We were cut from the outside world and tried to listen to the radio on our phones.
Ironically we were cramped up in a 650 square feet flat for 48 hours with those we couldn’t tolerate for more than 48 seconds.

‘A home away from home.’

It is a two storied building with small rooms. Once a bungalow, its owner converted it to small rooms to rent it out. No one apart from the owner knows its name. It has eight rooms with common toilet and bathroom. Four steps lead you to the first room. It has a blue door with ‘Joshi’ etched on it. This is a compact room owned by Kaku (meaning aunty in Marathi). It is the biggest room in the building. It looks like a pathway to another room. If you are taller than five feet you have to bend little to keep yourself from getting hurt.
As soon as you enter, you will see two grey cupboards on the left. Next to the cupboard is a rusted red colour refrigerator with a BPL 20” television set on top of it. On the opposite side there is one cot for the ever flowing guest. This is where the hall ends. Take another step ahead and you are in the kitchen. One compulsory item in the kitchen is a steel basket with white onions, a must with every dish served in Kaku’s house. On the left there is a long black platform which ends with a sink.
When Kaku’s son Sanjay got married, they added a loft. Once in the loft, you cannot stand. It had just two beds and a night stand with a night lamp. A ladder, leading to the loft, was fixed between the refrigerator and the platform. I used to stand on the 4th step and watch Kaku cook. I would often mimic her and would dream of one day doing the cooking like her. On the opposite side there is a shelf. The shelf contains photographs, groceries, books and sometimes linen. The shelf always had a bug of chocolates that we would steal in Kaku’s absence.
During festivals, the black floor of the tiny kitchen would temporarily take the colour white. Big steel boxes full of different kind of ‘laddos’ would be stacked neatly under the shelf. Kaku would sit with her big aluminium boxes and huge plates to make sweets. If we were lucky we could assist her in making the sweet even if it meant only handing her a spoon.
A white door leads to the backyard (if one may call it so). On the left there is a small green tiled patch with attached taps. I call it an open-air washroom for washing clothes and bathing little kids. To go to Aunty Mary’s home (another small room), one will have to walk through Kaku’s house and go via the open-air washroom. This was also our stage for various dances. Often in the afternoon when the tiles were dry we would sit there and play games. If you step take a right and walk around the large shoe-flower trees you will come back to the front which was where we played cricket and badminton.
Though the room was small, there was always room for more people. In the entire room, my favourite spot was the white ladder. Here, I spent five years of my childhood. The image of the room has been etched into my brain. Even today when I close my eyes I can see the room in its full form. It has been six years since I last visited the place. Now Kaku has moved out and some strangers have occupied it. Today thought the door says a different name, for me it will always be my childhood cresh belonging to Alka Joshi- Kaku.

MOVING ON

As a young child, I never understood why my parents separated. I do not remember how and when I was informed about the divorce. Today I have vague memories of my father. When the divorce was taking place we moved to my grand-parents home. I know this for a fact but don’t remember it myself. I was only five years old then and my sister was three years old. As my mother was a working woman, we were put in a crèche. My father would come to meet us weekly. My sister and I would wait anxiously for that day. I would learn the poems taught in school and practice dance steps to show him. At times, he would take us along with him to buy dresses or chocolates for us.

I remember the look of annoyance mixed with anger on my mothers face when we showed her the gifts. She would often grumble to herself. I would think that I had done something wrong. So I would sit with my homework and do it quickly to gain her approval. My mother tried her best to keep us in the unknown but I slowly began to understand.

My sister and I were the topic of discussion for the crèche women. Though I was too young to understand what they spoke, I would understand a few words here and there like ‘poor thing where will she go with her two kids’ or the man doesn’t look so devious what must have gone wrong with the marriage.
Then one day it so happened that my father stayed a bit longer.

Usually he would leave at sharp four p.m. My sister was showing him her drawing book. A woman at the door interrupted us. That woman was my mother. She had returned from work to pick us up. For a moment, the entire scene froze like a scene from an Indian film. My father made an abrupt move and picked his bag and left. The crèche women stared at my mother move aside as my father passed by. Their eyes did not meet. The crèche is just a five minutes walk from my home. The entire way home, my mother did not speak a word. When we reached home, my mother went to the phone to call my aunt. I remember my grandfather taking us out to the garden.

I was six years old then. My mother sat me down to tell me that I was the elder sister and that I need to understand what was going on. Finally, she told me but it somehow did not affect me. I went back to playing games as usual.
Till date it has not affected me, that is my notion. Now that I am far away from my mother, I feel like I have to face my fears. Earlier I would suppress my doubts because I did not want to upset my mother. But today 24 hours away from home, I feel I can finally seek answers to my questions. I begin with googling my father’s name.