The rain drenched patch of street behind Roma's window was full of people. It was a dull September morning and you could smell the wet earth if you paid close enough attention, but the noise from the crowd was quite distracting, at the moment.
Roma got out of bed and quietly tip-toed across the mosaic tiled floor to get a better look.
There was Mr. Mukherjee, the middle-aged recluse, being led away by two pot-bellied constables.
There was also a sliver of something covered by a white sheet, being carried away on an obtrusive stretcher into the ambulance that was adding to the maddening cacophony.
Her Dida stirred on the other side of the bed.
"Khuki, tumi uthe gecho?" ( Little one, are you awake?)
Roma went to her Dida's outstretched hand and clasped it. She traced the lines on her palm to make known her presence. Dida was blind since Roma was a baby and Roma was turning fourteen tomorrow. She couldn't wait for her party.
On the way to her special school at the end of Park Street, Roma couldn't help but think about Mr. Mukherjee and how he had always been kind to her. Giving her orange ice-lollies on hot May afternoons. He never said anything except "Nao, eta nao." (Take, take this) and now the people said he was crazy because his sister, Neelam had died in July and he had locked up her body in the tiny bedroom, refusing to part with her. They had been twins.
Roma longed for a twin, or a sibling of some kind. Specially on rainy afternoons in Kolkata, when you could tell that the sun is just there, somewhere behind the dull grey clouds, but it was always out of sight, somehow. Roma would see the brightest spot in the sky and that would give away the sun's hidden spot. She could even see the bright white light, if she squinted enough, her face turned up to the rainclouds, the wind playing carelessly with her thick, wavy hair.
Her birthday party would definitely be a grand one, with sweet rice being made by her favourite aunt Rita, who was coming down from Darjeeling for her birthday, with her five year old cousin, Pintu.
But, someone was coming now. Someone was screaming. Someone was dragging her by her hair and...
Roma could never have a twin, because she was an orphan now. Her parents died when they sold her to her 'Dida' who is actually her employer, and who is far from kind or blind. Roma never did go to a special school, but spent her days cleaning the house of the old lady, she fondly called 'Dida' in her daydreams. She was mute because like hundreds of children who work in the city, she will never have a voice.
Mr Mukherjee's case is quite real though.
The world is a myriad of madness and sorrow and sometimes it can get very tiring for young, soft souls. But the mind is a brilliant place, changing reality, merging facts, erasing hardships, to create a little warm bubble where you feel safe. On an insignificant rainy afternoon in Kolkata, anything is possible.
Roma got out of bed and quietly tip-toed across the mosaic tiled floor to get a better look.
There was Mr. Mukherjee, the middle-aged recluse, being led away by two pot-bellied constables.
There was also a sliver of something covered by a white sheet, being carried away on an obtrusive stretcher into the ambulance that was adding to the maddening cacophony.
Her Dida stirred on the other side of the bed.
"Khuki, tumi uthe gecho?" ( Little one, are you awake?)
Roma went to her Dida's outstretched hand and clasped it. She traced the lines on her palm to make known her presence. Dida was blind since Roma was a baby and Roma was turning fourteen tomorrow. She couldn't wait for her party.
On the way to her special school at the end of Park Street, Roma couldn't help but think about Mr. Mukherjee and how he had always been kind to her. Giving her orange ice-lollies on hot May afternoons. He never said anything except "Nao, eta nao." (Take, take this) and now the people said he was crazy because his sister, Neelam had died in July and he had locked up her body in the tiny bedroom, refusing to part with her. They had been twins.
Roma longed for a twin, or a sibling of some kind. Specially on rainy afternoons in Kolkata, when you could tell that the sun is just there, somewhere behind the dull grey clouds, but it was always out of sight, somehow. Roma would see the brightest spot in the sky and that would give away the sun's hidden spot. She could even see the bright white light, if she squinted enough, her face turned up to the rainclouds, the wind playing carelessly with her thick, wavy hair.
Her birthday party would definitely be a grand one, with sweet rice being made by her favourite aunt Rita, who was coming down from Darjeeling for her birthday, with her five year old cousin, Pintu.
But, someone was coming now. Someone was screaming. Someone was dragging her by her hair and...
Roma could never have a twin, because she was an orphan now. Her parents died when they sold her to her 'Dida' who is actually her employer, and who is far from kind or blind. Roma never did go to a special school, but spent her days cleaning the house of the old lady, she fondly called 'Dida' in her daydreams. She was mute because like hundreds of children who work in the city, she will never have a voice.
Mr Mukherjee's case is quite real though.
The world is a myriad of madness and sorrow and sometimes it can get very tiring for young, soft souls. But the mind is a brilliant place, changing reality, merging facts, erasing hardships, to create a little warm bubble where you feel safe. On an insignificant rainy afternoon in Kolkata, anything is possible.
