Mist in the hills | Sarpreet Kaur

There are two constants in my life right now; a throbbing pain in my joints that cracks, clips, clops and makes many other quaint noises and the second one is my housekeeper; Sangeeta who chatters, cribs, whispers and shrieks to fill the other half of my life.

I also have a daughter who is married and lives far far away in US. Apart from these, I am an 82-year-old woman who lives alone. I guess that is the price you pay when you have a long life. Most of the people of my age have already reached the gates of heaven and here I am to experience the world that exists without them. It’s tough, but honestly not bad. We humans can fill any void that comes along the way. That is how much we cling to life even when the destination; death is assured.

I thought when I get old I will think more about death, but as my days are nearing the end, I think more about life and living. I fill my days sitting on my porch and looking towards my majestic neighbours; the Himalayas. The peaks are blanketed with icy sheets, the rhododendrons; stark red flowers proudly dot the ethereal green leaves and there is a hushed lullaby coming far away hinting at a cascading waterfall. At this age, I am able to climb down the three stairs that lead to my garden, I am able to smell the sweet roses, touch the soft bright petals of sunflowers and play with deeply lobed chrysanthemums. In summer, the cool breeze gently wafts on my porch and in winter, the blankets tousled on the couch keep me warm enough. I often close my eyes and feel a plethora of gratefulness wash over me.

It has not been always like this. I was fascinated by the avant-garde in my youthful days, I was an acrid-tongued person in middle age and I was a doting bordering overprotective mother in later years.

I espied with my peripheral vision that Sangeeta was frantically walking towards me. Some days she trots absent-mindedly because her son has gotten into the wrong company, other days she fumes while washing clothes beating the poor clothes way too hard because her mother-in-law said something sentimentally squalid. What is it today? I thought

“Madam letter ayea hai. Postman kehta purane ghar mein chala gya tha.”

Holding the letter, I saw my name written on the white envelope and my heart skipped a beat. Then it started beating frantically, too frantically.

“Madam, Are you okay?”

“Yes. Yes. Tum Jao”

How can I still remember his handwriting? How can I still remember the way he used to write my name? How can my mind still remember him when I don’t even remember what I had for breakfast today? He always used to draw an immaculately curved S and would let the other words just flow out of his fingers. The name ‘Shamli’ stared back at me. Yes, that’s me. Shamli.

I kept the letter aside along with it the blanket of gratefulness that I was just clutching tight and thought

“What if ?”

“What if my sister wouldn’t have died of cancer?”

“What if I have never met Arjun ?”

“What if I were more brave ?”

And then my mind on the wings of ‘what if’ flew decades back…..

A long long time ago, I was sitting beside a hospital bed in the Oncology ward, my sister’s hand weakly clutching my fingers

“Please take care of Riya. Now you are her mother.”

she said pointing towards her 2-year-old daughter playing with a chocolate wrapper oblivious to her surroundings. Cancer came out of nowhere and in just a month took my sister away from us. She was the fun one and I was the silent one in our family. When she died the silence became too loud; deafening. Everyone was dealing with grief in their own way. I started working more than required, Mohit; her ever-so-dependable husband started drinking more than he could deal with, my mother started crying over everything and my father started hiding behind doors more than usual. But time is a great healer and life always finds a way to live. So did ours. All humans are selfish. No matter who goes, they will always be able to adjust, adapt and fill the void somehow. That’s the rule of life. This selfishness is the only thing that keeps life going. The grief started taking a backseat and a few fleeting joys sometimes knocked. Though the abyss of her absence will never fill but life clung to small joys and kept the thought of death at bay. And then there was that one hope. One hope; that my whole family except me was clinging on to. After a few months of her death, the talks started. First, the talks were done in hushed tones but then they kept on getting louder and louder

“Shamli should get married to Mohit.”

“He is a doctor. He is a good man. He is rich.”

“Riya will also get a mother.”

Now what I am going to say is going to sound selfish. It is selfish. But that doesn’t mean it’s not true. Everyone was trying to do the right thing. Right by family. Right by society. Right by a child. But no one thought about me? Me as an individual? What about me? Only me? Why was it my duty to fill others void? I felt ashamed thinking this way. I felt wrong, shameless, selfish, and mean at one time and at other times I felt angry at those who made these definitions; these moral rules. What is selfish? What is shame? Why to feel? When to feel? When a mother bird leaves her chicks behind and flies to other lands, does she feel guilty? When a lioness mates with many lions for the survival of her cubs? Does she feel ashamed? , When a female spider devours her mate after procreation does she feel selfish? Then why should I? Selfishness is the truest law of nature. Then why can’t I be selfish?

“Is marrying Mohit the right thing to do?”

“Will I be able to love the child who I did not make?”

The thunderstorms and torrents of thoughts were at their peak. I wanted to fly but was chained to some unknown morals and values. I wanted to be brave but was scared of hurting my family. I wanted to do the right thing but was too much in love with my freedom. So I threw my gut, and my instinct out of the window and followed set rules. Don’t judge me. Isn’t that what we all do? Have you never seen a girl letting off the idea of love and clutching to the one who provided better financial security? Haven’t you ever seen a boy selling the thoughts of compatibility and being okay with a girl who is a better fit for his family rather than him? Haven’t you let go of a wild dream just to have a secure job? Haven’t you ever done something just because you are supposed to do things according to some unknown rules made by unknown people at unknown times? We are all pimps here. Some trade love for security, and some trade companionship for family. Most of us trade the heart for the mind. And that is evolution. With each passing day our minds are adapting; better or for worse and this adaptability only leads us to so-coveted human rule over the so-called world. But if humans are so superior why do I feel jealous of the bird that dives into the valley and soars high as if taunting the sun, why do I resent the cow leisurely fanning herself without worrying about the next meal, why do I long to be like a swan who goes where the water current takes her. My mind was constantly working. Tirade after Tirade was hitting the shores of my mind and heart. My mother brought me to reality

“Shamli tell beta. What have you decided?”

If I don’t agree I will be a failure. I will be mean. I will be the one who only loves herself. And If I agree I will be the second wife, I will be a stepmother, I will always be the second choice.

“I will take care of Riya Maa. I will marry Mohit.”

It was a simple ceremony. A few fast-paced mantras slipped Pandit ji’s experienced murmurs, we took seven rounds around the fire initiating the process of a union- husband and wife and we sealed the deal with a black beaded string around my neck and startling red powder in my hair parting. The next day I was sitting in my sister’s home, rocking her chair and sipping from her teacup.

Eventually, Mohit curbed his drinking habit and we became amiable partners. We slept in separate rooms but raised Riya together. I had lots of doubts about this arrangement but one thing I got sure about in the initial days was my love for Riya. I knew by then that I would never fall short of my love for her. It was a maasi’s love. I will never be able to replace her mother nor did I intend to. I will be her friend, her guide, a trustworthy ear, a brave pat and a shoulder to lean on.

Life was going. Normal. Routine. Life as you call it you know. Months went by, and I still felt like an outsider but my mind stabilized in that monotony of life. And then he came and bought with him torrential rains.

It was the onset of monsoon and he came out of nowhere like those unpredictable clouds. Who is he? Why am I looking at him again and again? My heart fluttered every time our eyes met. My knees got weak every time he smiled. I was at the top of the world when he passed that chit to me

“Meet me near the waterfall at 5:00 pm. And if I read the signs wrong I respectfully apologize and am ashamed. And if not then I am the happiest man in the world.”

His name was Arjun. He was a postdoc candidate who came to our institute to attend some 6-month research work. He came from down south hundreds of kilometres away. He had a typical charm. He was unusually polite and enviably bold. It started as friendship and rapidly turned into something more.

“I am married.”

This was the first thing I blurted that evening near the waterfall.

“I know and I don’t care.”

he said with a smile and butterflies fluttered in my stomach. Days that followed, I started noticing the intrepid birds, haughty hills, serene wilderness and majestic waterfalls; all hand in hand with Arjun. We never met out in the open. Sometimes we hushed alongside the gurgling canal and walked in shadowed spots. We stole kisses in the wilderness and along those prickly and itchy grass, our love blossomed. Our love was always shrouded by the fact that I was a married woman. But that was the last thing on our minds at that time. He loved writing my name on my palm with his long finger, then erasing it with his other finger and then rewriting it again. This would go on forever.

“You look happy”

Mohit said while having breakfast one day. After 3 years of marriage, we smiled but we never laughed together. We talked but we never shared. We liked but we never loved. We were together but still miles apart. But that day my mind was happily pre-occupied. That day I thought about how pretty I looked, how beautiful my hands felt when he took them in his palm, I sat more confident and nowadays even the food tasted better. Is this what happiness is? Is this what being someone’s first choice is?

Arjun and I kept on going. I was head over heels for him. He treated me with respect. He took care of my small and big likes. He was the wind beneath my wings. He saw me. Only me. Not a helper. Not a second choice. Not a replaced mother. Not a replaced wife. Just me. A person with no tag. It was the world where it was only me and him. I loved the time, just sitting with no judgements, responsibilities or duties to be fulfilled. I was just there, my mind was just there, we were just there, in that moment. Happy. Alive. Then it was his time to go

“Come with me Shamli. We will have a good life there. We will always be happy. Leave everything aside. Just come with me. You know I love you.”

“I know Arjun but..”

“ Just come with me. You know we have to do this. There is no other way.”

“Yes, Arjun but..”

“I will be waiting for you at the bus stand. I have booked a late-night bus.”

That night was the longest night of my life. I forgot the number of times I clutched my bag and held on to the doorknob. I have forgotten how many times I jumped out of the bed to leave.

“I will have my own life”

“I can catch the next bus too if he has left”

“What about Riya?”

“But what about me?”

“Why are you like this Shamli?”

“Just make up your mind”

And then the first ray of sun hit my room. The moment was gone. I slept on the chair accompanied by fits and bouts of silent crying. Everything was finished.

Rattling cutlery at the breakfast table and Riya’s constant giggling woke me up. I got out of my room after freshening up a bit to hide the swollen eyes and red nose and saw Mohit having his breakfast. He looked up towards me and an undecipherable expression shrouded his face; a strange sense of shock or was it relief. He saw me without blinking and then he smiled a weak smile- a genuine smile. I sat on the dining table and was about to pour some water when I realised that Mohit was standing near to me. Suddenly he sank on the floor, put his face on my lap and cried. And just kept on crying clutching my hands, face dug deep onto my lap. And at last, I joined. We cried. We cried for many things. At one time we cried for lost love, other times it was for lost happiness, few moments we cried for no reason. And right at that moment the real love story started; though it took me many many years to realise.

“Madam aapki chai”

Sangeeta bought me to the present. I took a deep breath and thought

“Did Mohit know about me and Arjun?” I don’t know.

“Was this just a coincidence?” I don’t know.

Where my love for Arjun was like a harmonised thrum of hundreds of heartbeats. The love of a fleeting moment yet feels like a lifetime. In the case of Mohit, it was a slow whirling one like wisps of smoke from joss sticks; the love that stands strong against the times and tide of life.

I sipped from my cup, rested it on the side table and ripped open the letter

Letter from Arjun

Dear Shamli,

My eyes have gotten weak but I can still clearly spot anywhere the stark red of your favourite flower; rhodendrons. My hearing has gone bad as well, but the sound of gushing water cascading through the valley is still distinct. I still remember the feathery touch of your hair, the shy giggles, my heart racing and most importantly I still remember the hurt and pain I felt that day when you didn’t show up at the bus stand. But to date, it sends a shiver down my spine thinking what would have happened if that day you would have come. When I am at the last leg of my life, I would not have my life any other way. God blessed me with love and heaps of satisfaction. I don’t know why I am writing to you. I don’t know if that old address is still yours. I don’t know if you will ever read this letter. But today when I woke up I felt a strange courage that let me put your name on a paper.

My dear Shamli, you are a dream, my dream. I will always cherish you. Thank you for not coming that day. Now that I am a father myself, I would not have been able to forgive myself for parting a child from her mother, that too second time. I would not have been able to forgive myself for making you forsake your life and your parents. But this doesn’t mean our love was not true. It was as pure as love can be. You are a dream, my dream. The one dream that I will take along even when I am no longer here.

Your Arjun

The Reply (Letter from Shamli)

Dear Arjun

I am honoured to receive your letter. You have grown to be a very wise man. You must be quite old now, but you will always be that young vibrant Arjun to me.

I am also glad that I didn’t step out. For a long time following that day, I taunted myself for being a coward. But at this juncture of life when I think about it, I can say that deed of myself was the most courageous one I did in my whole life. My thoughts were not this crystal clear always, I did question god a lot Why me? But when I think in retrospect I am grateful for having lived such a beautiful life.

Arjun, you taught me the real meaning of love, for which I have remembered you always and been grateful to have met you. I am glad we both agreed and swept with the god’s plan and found a pot of gold- contentment along the way.

I am elated to be your dream. You are the one who made my reality- this reality worthwhile. Thank you for answering my ‘what ifs’.

See you on the other side

Shamli

Sarpreet Kaur was born in vibrant Punjab and married in the Himalayan haven of Himachal Pradesh. After a two-year stint in the beautiful Andaman islands, she recently moved to God’s own country, Kerala. Her articles and short stories have previously appeared in The Hindu, New Delhi Times, Cafe Dissensus, Muse India, Kitaab, Borderless Journal and Andaman Chronicles. She aims to make the best use of her nomadic existence and capture the enigmatic tapestry of Indian culture, infinite hues of human emotions, and the pristine beauty of nature, ultimately locking them forever into the bundles of pages.