Aquamarine Flamingos
- Pushkar Gunjan
- Pushkar Gunjan
Umbrellas were an obsession for Meghna. Sunset yellow, sunrise
orange, flaming claret, rich burgundy, smoked crimson, cherry blossom,
strawberry pink, azure, polka dots, prints of fruits, animals and flowers and
many more filled her closet - an umbrella for all weathers and all moods.
She had tried to find the name of such a manic obsession but couldn't. Perhaps it was too peculiar to have precedence. It gave her a sense of security. Nobody had ever seen her stepping out without an umbrella.
"Carry your lunch Meghna and I want to see you home before it gets dark" – Mrs. Juneja hollered from behind.
"Ok Ma" – She picked up her white umbrella sprawled on it was a queer looking aquamarine flamingo. She rushed out to the bus stop to be just in time for the University special and luckily found a seat. She opened her book as usual. Her fingertip bookmarked 'Competitive advantage of nations' as she lost herself outside the window.
The children from the streets were running about in a frenzy outstretching their arms to test if they could fly. Some of them ran along with the old bicycle tyre they rolled with small branch that had fallen from the trees.
Meghna often wondered what got them that frenzied happiness. Young boys of the neighborhood whizzed past, drunk with the same excitement and frenzy as those street children.
Small leaves and petals from the Gulmohar trees flirted with the multi coloured bougainvillea flowers as they fell like confetti. They rolled and pirouetted in the air and on the roads sometimes as a wave and sometimes as a whirlpool.
"It looks so surreal as if the Gods have a wedding in the heavens."- Meghna thought and smiled to herself. Suddenly she recognized a pall of gloom looming menacingly over this feeling of happiness. It had always been so.
She remembered that cold November evening. She had come back early from Shivani's place for a movie that was planned for the evening. The phone rang and Mrs Juneja all chirpy in her new suit, a touch of vermillion, a brush of lipstick and a spray of cologne rushed to answer it.
"Must be him" – She thought.
"Yes?" – She said with a charming smile which was the perhaps the last time Meghna saw her smile. All her smiles in later years were too feeble to win the status of a smile. The week and year that followed were too heartrending to recall.
The foundation of their life was shaken. Night after nights she heard Mrs Juneja muffling her sobs in the pillow and struggle desperately to get gasps of air. Meghna lay restless all those years by her side never knowing how to grapple with the enormity of the tragedy.
The relatives commiserated for a while but life kept them busy and even their sympathy became too typed to embalm. Meghna detested it, knowing full well that most of them not even remotely understood their misery. Even their show of love came more as a pittance than genuine heartfelt love.
On those visits even after years of that mishap, the relatives knowingly reminded them of it. Meghna found this outrageous. She even snapped at them several times for making her mother relive the hell. Mrs Juneja saw her fighting haplessly with the destiny that they had not written. The society ensured that being a widow and fatherless was certainly not a pleasant scenario.
The will to console people who are tattered from that pedestal of strength was monstrous. Writ clearly on their faces was the satisfaction of doing something noble. Eventually they receded into their own lives. Even tragedies have a shelf life.
All that was left of it were those persistent dark circles under the eyes of Mrs Juneja and Meghna who lived it all like a silent desolate grey movie. The only exceptions were her umbrellas.
More out of habit than in reality Meghna had created walls around her, and Mrs Juneja's concern fortified it. Life was all too restrained until she got a note that afternoon while she poured over Yeats' critique in the library. Scrawled in beautiful cursive hand it read –
"The moving finger writes and having writ moves on. Nor all your piety nor all your wit can make it cancel half line; nor can all you tears wash a word of it – Omar Khayyam.
Come out it is just too amazing out here."
She came out and knew it was Anirvan. She came out of the library and peered down from the balcony, her hair lashing out against her face. It indeed was Anirvan! The tumult of the weather outside caught her within too. Her cheeks flamed like burning coal; her heart throbbed as she looked all around to see if someone had seen all this.
"Nobody. God!" – She sighed.
"What is this" – She spoke in a hushed tone.
"Come down!" – He shouted back.
Scared and hesitant she went down. He gestured her to the back seat of his mobike and hypnotized she followed it. From afternoon till evening they drove on the highway, got wet in the drizzle, stopped at a roadside 'dhaba' to have aaloo parantha's, the scalding skin of which melted the butter in no time.
On her way back Meghna outstretched her arms as she had seen the children do in the morning and knew what gave them that frenzied happiness. The cool rain laden winds hit her face and she breathed it all in to fill in the void of those desolate years.
It was getting dark and Mrs Juneja was standing out on the verandah, visibly concerned.
Anirvan greeted her with a nod of head and held out open Meghna's umbrella. In that one meeting of an eye she saw all the colours of all her umbrellas. Sunset yellow, sunrise orange, flaming claret, rich burgundy, smoked crimson, cherry blossom, strawberry pink
"It won't be necessary anymore." – She whispered and smiled to herself.
It seemed as if aquamarine flamingos on her umbrella blushed and flapped their wings.
She had tried to find the name of such a manic obsession but couldn't. Perhaps it was too peculiar to have precedence. It gave her a sense of security. Nobody had ever seen her stepping out without an umbrella.
"Carry your lunch Meghna and I want to see you home before it gets dark" – Mrs. Juneja hollered from behind.
"Ok Ma" – She picked up her white umbrella sprawled on it was a queer looking aquamarine flamingo. She rushed out to the bus stop to be just in time for the University special and luckily found a seat. She opened her book as usual. Her fingertip bookmarked 'Competitive advantage of nations' as she lost herself outside the window.
The children from the streets were running about in a frenzy outstretching their arms to test if they could fly. Some of them ran along with the old bicycle tyre they rolled with small branch that had fallen from the trees.
Meghna often wondered what got them that frenzied happiness. Young boys of the neighborhood whizzed past, drunk with the same excitement and frenzy as those street children.
Small leaves and petals from the Gulmohar trees flirted with the multi coloured bougainvillea flowers as they fell like confetti. They rolled and pirouetted in the air and on the roads sometimes as a wave and sometimes as a whirlpool.
"It looks so surreal as if the Gods have a wedding in the heavens."- Meghna thought and smiled to herself. Suddenly she recognized a pall of gloom looming menacingly over this feeling of happiness. It had always been so.
She remembered that cold November evening. She had come back early from Shivani's place for a movie that was planned for the evening. The phone rang and Mrs Juneja all chirpy in her new suit, a touch of vermillion, a brush of lipstick and a spray of cologne rushed to answer it.
"Must be him" – She thought.
"Yes?" – She said with a charming smile which was the perhaps the last time Meghna saw her smile. All her smiles in later years were too feeble to win the status of a smile. The week and year that followed were too heartrending to recall.
The foundation of their life was shaken. Night after nights she heard Mrs Juneja muffling her sobs in the pillow and struggle desperately to get gasps of air. Meghna lay restless all those years by her side never knowing how to grapple with the enormity of the tragedy.
The relatives commiserated for a while but life kept them busy and even their sympathy became too typed to embalm. Meghna detested it, knowing full well that most of them not even remotely understood their misery. Even their show of love came more as a pittance than genuine heartfelt love.
On those visits even after years of that mishap, the relatives knowingly reminded them of it. Meghna found this outrageous. She even snapped at them several times for making her mother relive the hell. Mrs Juneja saw her fighting haplessly with the destiny that they had not written. The society ensured that being a widow and fatherless was certainly not a pleasant scenario.
The will to console people who are tattered from that pedestal of strength was monstrous. Writ clearly on their faces was the satisfaction of doing something noble. Eventually they receded into their own lives. Even tragedies have a shelf life.
All that was left of it were those persistent dark circles under the eyes of Mrs Juneja and Meghna who lived it all like a silent desolate grey movie. The only exceptions were her umbrellas.
More out of habit than in reality Meghna had created walls around her, and Mrs Juneja's concern fortified it. Life was all too restrained until she got a note that afternoon while she poured over Yeats' critique in the library. Scrawled in beautiful cursive hand it read –
"The moving finger writes and having writ moves on. Nor all your piety nor all your wit can make it cancel half line; nor can all you tears wash a word of it – Omar Khayyam.
Come out it is just too amazing out here."
She came out and knew it was Anirvan. She came out of the library and peered down from the balcony, her hair lashing out against her face. It indeed was Anirvan! The tumult of the weather outside caught her within too. Her cheeks flamed like burning coal; her heart throbbed as she looked all around to see if someone had seen all this.
"Nobody. God!" – She sighed.
"What is this" – She spoke in a hushed tone.
"Come down!" – He shouted back.
Scared and hesitant she went down. He gestured her to the back seat of his mobike and hypnotized she followed it. From afternoon till evening they drove on the highway, got wet in the drizzle, stopped at a roadside 'dhaba' to have aaloo parantha's, the scalding skin of which melted the butter in no time.
On her way back Meghna outstretched her arms as she had seen the children do in the morning and knew what gave them that frenzied happiness. The cool rain laden winds hit her face and she breathed it all in to fill in the void of those desolate years.
It was getting dark and Mrs Juneja was standing out on the verandah, visibly concerned.
Anirvan greeted her with a nod of head and held out open Meghna's umbrella. In that one meeting of an eye she saw all the colours of all her umbrellas. Sunset yellow, sunrise orange, flaming claret, rich burgundy, smoked crimson, cherry blossom, strawberry pink
"It won't be necessary anymore." – She whispered and smiled to herself.
It seemed as if aquamarine flamingos on her umbrella blushed and flapped their wings.
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