Short Story Family – FLOWERS
Photo Credit: www.cepolina.com
It was in November of 1995 when we shifted to our new house in the foothills of Nilachal Pahar, a year after our marriage. Deuta, my father -in-law, had helped us finding the right place embedded in nature as we were expecting our first little bundle of joy soon. The house was not very big and nestled in the cosy embrace of a huge eucalyptus tree. There was a small patch of land in the front of the house which soon became a blossoming garden. As my little one prepared on its way out to see the world inside my wife’s womb, I was busy planting seeds and saplings of pink roses, the multicolored jharberas and of course, the fresh marigolds.
The little one arrived in January amidst blossoming roses and the shy marigolds. My mother and mother-in-law both were head over heels over their only grandchild. Soon enough, tiny hand woven sweaters warmed her as our little Laxmi shifted from one lap to another, smothered with love and kisses. The beautiful jharberas wafted heavenly scents in our room lullabying her to sleep every evening.
And in the mists of time, our little Laxmi grew up to be a conservative and sensitive little girl of four. Before going to office, We used to go out for morning walks across the small meandering paths of the hill; the freshness of the trees mesmerizing both of us into silence as we moved through them. The only sound would be of the small fallen down twigs, that broke under my shoes. The aura would be broken by the distant bell of the Kamakhya Temple, crowning the Nilachal Hills, and little Laxmi would look up at me, awake from the trance and smile.
On our way, we would then meet Hari Kaku. Hari Kaku, complete with his greying hair, was the local potter and his home made pots adorned my garden. His adopted grand-daughter, six year old Durga, would be waiting for little Laxmi every morning with bated breath. While my Laxmi was so shy, so silent – Durga was always bubbling with excitement; I would always sit awhile with Hari Kaku and discuss politics over a cup of tea, while the two little girls had their own fun. Durga would call me Deuta too, mimicking my little Laxmi’s tender voice as I shooed them away amongst their peals of laughter. While my little Laxmi’s eyes had a tinge of orange brown, little Durga had big round black ones. Their cackles and pranks delighted the mountains, for I thought I could hear hidden songs of the birds amongst the surrounding trees.
***
On that fateful day in the winter of the year 1999, the pink roses were blossoming their hearts out. Me and Laxmi -still continued our daily routine of morning walks. The mountain dew had made the tiny brown paths slightly slippery. The leaves whispered nothing that day – there was something amiss. We walked slowly anticipating the mountain to break this silence, to speak the untold. Little Laxmi seemed uncomfortable too. As Hari Kaku’s small hut came into view, I realized that I hadn’t heard the bell toll that day for the first time in the last four years. Meanwhile, we were in for a surprise. Hari kaku was wrapped in a new shawl and was wearing a new shoe that day. He announced that he wanted to go on a morning walk too – so all four of us treaded along – the brief sadness of the mountain forgotten in Durga’s constant ramblings and Laxmi’s sweet obedience.
As we walked past the main road, there was a sudden roar. A huge vehicle appeared from nowhere in front of us – like the demon incarnate – it sped towards us at immeasurable speed. I shrieked and tried to push Laxmi out of the way; The car hit Laxmi and then hit me directly on my legs. In those last moments, I could feel Laxmi’s tender hands slipping away from mine even though we tried to hold each other strong. Before I lost consciousness, I saw my little bundle of joy for the last time, her brilliant yellow colored frock stained with her innocent blood. There was a scream from Durga and then there was darkness.
***
My wife struggled fiercely with fate. Torn with the loss of our soul, yet she didn’t let death cheat her of me. After fifteen months of semi coma, after losing both my legs – here I was. Doused in memories, I wished I could understand why God did this to us. All the flowers in the garden had withered away, no amount of watering would wake them up. I watched the spot where my little Laxmi’s favourite marigolds once grew – that was where she lay now. At peace from this cruel world.
Hari Kaku did not survive the crash. Durga was still struggling for her life – or so they told me.
My wife has the Goddess residing within her it seems. Tirelessly, everyday she would buy flowers and put some in the flower vase in front of me. She knew what the flowers meant to me, she thought that maybe it would someday take away the pain of my parched heart. My parents and in-laws both reside with us now. They all have tried their best to console me. They have, in fact, tried their best to make me cry – but I can’t. I cannot shed a single tear – I had to settle this with God Himself.
My eyes had gone sore, reliving that fateful day everyday, searching for answers where there weren’t any, waiting for that peal of laughter, that sweet little voice -but there was this silence. This overpowering silence of the hill which had warned us that fateful morning was now inside me. A void was created, so big a void that it could never be filled again. Tons of what-ifs gored me every day and the nightmare would flow – diminishing me, slowly and stealthily. I spoke only to my wife, the epitome of tranquility and strength. Every night she would try to lullaby me to sleep, massaging my head – her soft fingers passing through the tendrils on my forehead – and I would soon pretend to be sleep. And she would remain awake, watching the crown of the Nilachal Hill from afar, caressed by the silent breeze with only her salty tears for company. On some nights, I would hold her hands and she would then break down completely in my arms. And then, she would slowly fall asleep as I remained awake – holding her close in my arms, her head nestling perfectly on my shoulder, between my arm and neck.
***
Today, the morning has freshness that it hasn’t seen for over a year. My mind was in turmoil – What is it that suddenly changed? The hills had broken their silence it seems – The birds are chirping, I push my wheel chair on to the verandah – I could see my wife coming in slowly through the gate and holding her hand – is that her?
“Deuta!” – oh! her voice! – In a jiffy, Durga came rushing to me now. My hands trembled – Durga had struggled for her life in ICU for more than a year. She didn’t wait for me to reply and wrapped her arms around me. And it was at that precise moment, I made my peace with God – and wept and cried and howled.
Inside both my mother and mother-in-law had started singing naam prasanga. I held Durga close, and my wife wrapped her arms around both of us; and amidst the sobs and the whispers of love, I heard the distant tingling of the bell in Kamakhya Temple.
***
Over the years now, Durga has grown up into a smart lady. She takes care of the garden too, where I read newspapers in the morning.
And the place where our little Laxmi lay now blossoms with her favourite marigolds.
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