message in a bottle (02.2003 - 09.2008)

She knew it was morning but did not want to acknowledge it; she wanted to lie still and keep her eyes closed, unaware of all that surrounded her. But she could not escape his presence. She could feel him on the other side of the bed even though she ensured her body did not touch his. The way the mattress dipped under the pressure of his body, his rhythmic breathing – everything way too familiar. She tried to close her mind to all of this but gave up after a few moments. She rolled out of the bed, avoided glancing at the handsome sleeping figure that could make her heart skip a beat even after six years of marriage.

Outside was brilliant. She pulled her coat closer and feeling snug, she started walking towards the river. She stepped on dry leaves on purpose. The crackling sound of dry leaves was almost on top her feel-good list, just after the smell of soil after it rained. She wondered if she could get a cup of coffee somewhere here but then almost laughed at her own thought. She glanced up at the trees surrounding the path. Leaves had given way to pink flowers. She could see the blue sky through the pinkness. She took a deep breath and inhaled the freshness that surrounded her. It was amazing how none of these things got noticed last night. Maybe last night was just meant for noticing the ugly things. It must have been that kind of evening.

 
“Madam, you be falling ill,” said a little voice. She looked up and saw a surprised face of a little boy with big eyes staring at her feet. They were almost blue. She could have been sitting here for hours for all she knew. She had slipped off her shoes and dipped her feet in the chilly water of the river. She had wanted to feel numb and at that time, it had seemed like a good idea. The boy was still standing there; a cowbell in one hand and a dried branch in the other. He was wearing a red-colored checked jacket and a funny green cap. She pulled her feet out of the water, just for his sake. “Wipe ‘em,” he said and began to walk away.

 
“One mocha, please,” she tried to smile at the waitress but was not sure if she managed to curl her lips upwards. She sat alone at a roadside café, on a little white table meant for two. It was way past noon and she knew she should order some food with the coffee but had a feeling that eating anything would make her sick. She checked her bag for the passport and then counted the cash in her wallet. It would not be enough to buy a ticket back home. The coffee arrived and as she moved her hand to pick up the cup she caught the sight of the sun shining on the big solitaire on her ring finger. This time she truly smiled. She would sell the rock to buy her tickets back to India. Serves the adulterous bastard right!

It was gorgeous. The gold strings interwoven with the peach silken threads; there were patterns in green on one side and heavy gold border at the bottom. One of the most magnificent sari she had ever seen. “It is Kanjivaram,” she was told. Her eyes gleamed with joy mixed with astonishment as she ran her fingers softly over the silk. “It is beautiful!” she whispered, with extra emphasis on beauty. “You can wear it for today’s function if you like.” She looked up surprise apparent on her face. “Are you sure?” she stammered, “It must be very expensive.” She could see the owners face swell with pride, “Of course, it is. Aishwarya Rai wore a similar thing on her wedding. What do you think!”

She draped the borrowed sari that evening after she had donned her best jewelry. It was not easy. Given her limited experience with wearing this particular attire, and the extra heavy material of this specific sari, she took almost twenty minutes to get it on. It was kind of shabbily draped when she stepped out of the house and into the car. But by the time she stepped out of the car and into the function, the shabbiness was replaced by utter chaos. The pallu length had multiplied during the 15 minute car journey. The skirts of the sari had come lose, and as she balanced herself on her high heels, which were mandatory given the length of the sari, she had to be careful at every step else she would trip and fall.

There were people everywhere - urging her to taste some chaat or share some ice-cream. Tempted to try the delicious snacks, she tucked her sari up, and walked to the stalls. She got herself a plate full of snack with yogurt and sauce, and had just dug in with gusto when she felt a soft tap on her shoulder. She turned around to see this uncle from Saharn Pur; graying and wrinkled – he could be anywhere between 80 to 95 years of age. Hunched over the walking stick, he stood there, smiling at her. She liked him, yes. She bent over to touch his feet as a sign of respect and just then his little granddaughter came running. She wanted a bite of the snack too and tugged at the golden-peach Kanjivaram pallu.

Momentarily, the world came to a standstill. Then, she felt a slight pull, heard a faint sound that reminded her of a tearing cloth, saw the unfurling of the magnificent golden silk. Turned to stone, she stood there. Standing amidst a frolicking crowd, with strains of a popular Hindi film song in the background, she had only one thought in her mind, “Would the owner forgive for ruining the sari just like the one Aishwarya Rai wore on her wedding?”

She walked into her room and inhaled deeply. She loved this fresh early morning smell typical of her room. It was an odd mixture of the fragrance of incense sticks lit in front of Lord Krishna’s statue, the pungent smell of phenyl that the maid mixed with water to mop the floor, and the mild sweetness of the morning air that blew outside the window of her room. This happened to be the most relaxing time of the day for her. The maid had just left after finishing the daily chores, Rohit and Surbhi were both at work and kids were not due from school for another three hours. She loved spending time with the kids but one had to admit, they were quite a handful. She needed a few quiet hours by herself to maintain her saneness.

She pulled a chair close to the window overlooking the neem tree and sat down. She had found a very old issue of Women’s Era from the big trunk while hunting for her brown Kanjeevaram sari yesterday. She used to enjoy reading Women’s Era back in 80’s. In fact, she had been a regular subscriber of the magazine. Today, she flipped through the yellowing pages of this old issue and smiled fondly every time she recognized some ad from the old days. She flipped the page that bore a smiling woman and an energetic boy with a glass of Ruhafzah in their hands and then, she stopped. Her lips first tightened and then slowly curved upwards until they formed a smile but her eyes became moist. Her hand quivered as she reached out to touch the moldy photograph lying between the pages of the old magazine. She picked it up with utmost care, as if she was scared of impairing it by a sudden quick movement.

She felt a tear run down her cheek and saw it fall on her cream-colored cotton sari, missing the photograph by a centimeter. Although the photograph was black and white, she clearly remembered the colors. How long back was it taken? 42 years, no 43 years had passed since that day. She had been a chirpy young maiden of 20 that day.

Yes, it was her birthday and her parents had taken her to the photo studio to get this photograph taken. She had known that the photograph had a special purpose the minute her mother had insisted that she wore her new sari. It was chiffon sari; pale blue with tiny yellow flowers spread all over it. Her mother had also insisted that she braided her hair. Nice girls did not roam around with their hair open, mother had said. She had put a line of kohl under her eyes but had not dared to use the pink lipstick that sat on her dressing table.

The photo studio was in the local market and she had walked down to the studio with her parents and younger brother. Father had asked the photographer to take three different photos. Everyone wanted to make sure that the output was good. They all gave their two bits about how she should stand, how wide she should smile or not smile, how her head should be turned to one side until the photographer lost patience and asked everyone to leave the little room. He had assured them that he would do a good job with the photographs. And he had been right. All three photographs, taken in different poses, had come out well but the one in her hand right now had come out the best.

This was how her husband, Rohit’s papa, had first seen her. A slim shy girl, draped in blue, smiling coyly; she had not looked directly at the camera. And he had fallen in love with her. Yes, he had always claimed that it was love at first sight for him. He had said yes for the match as soon as he saw the photograph. She had seen him for the first time two months later, when he along with his parents had come to her town for the engagement ceremony. Her parents, of course, had seen his photograph before they agreed to the match. Yes, she had been a simple woman back then as well. Although it was four decades ago, people were becoming more and more open. Many of her friends had met their prospective grooms and even visited the movie halls with them before they got married; but not her. She had trusted her parent’s choice and why not? They had been proven right.

He had always been good to her. He was the one who taught her to cook Chinese and Italian food. He was the one who insisted she did her post graduation studies. He had strongly supported her decision to have only one child despite the displeasure of the family. He had always considered her opinion while making any important decision of his life. Yes, blue was her lucky color. It had got her the best husband. She glanced at the black and white photograph again. When she smiled this time, it reached her crinkly eyes.

As a kid, Cinderella used to be my favorite fairytale, besides the three little piggies of course. I even dressed up as Cinderella for a fancy dress competition once. I have read and watched various versions of the tale; some with three balls, some with birds as her friends, some with gold slippers and so on. However, today I am going to retell the tale of Cinderella – from the point of view of the youngest step-sister.

( Some girls have all the luck )