Skip to main content

A Love Story

"Didi(sister)? Will you please pick me up?
"Why?"
"My mum and dad's pictures are stuck on the door of that cupboard. I can't reach out to them with my small hands.."
"Uh..huh?"
I was perplexed.
"Didi, I want to see my parents..."
"But little one, how will you SEE them?"
"You know Didi, Jesus Christ took my eyes, But he gave me the power to see with my touch and feel with my imaginations."she paused..."Out beyond the reach of sighted ones, there's a world so bleak and black, I belong there."
It was a summer afternoon. There was a flush of anticipation as i trailed behind my friend through the creaking main gate of the orphanage.
Inside, I found 36 little bundle of happiness.
As the days went by, some of the kids started calling me 'Ma'. You'd never believe, this little syllable swerved like hurricanes of ecstasy through me.
I was a mother.
Gradually without my little ones, I couldn't survive a day,
Well,neither could they...
"Ma, where were you yesterday? Why didn't you come?" Mamata comes limping, to me.
"I'm sorry, Mamata. I had a test at college"
"Couldn't you ask your teacher to leave you? You don't love me, maa?"
"I do..."
She runs to put her arms around my legs
"Yesterday, Minu Ma (one of the care takers) slapped me." She shows the red welts on her cheeks. Her ignorant tears crawling down to my palms. "She called me 'harami'..." She lifts her head to me... "Ma? Am I a Harami (bastard)?"
Often the caretakers took a break from rebuking and thrashing the children to talk to me. It was from them that I came to know that Mamata was abandoned by her mother when she was just two, because she had congenital defect in her legs. The lady never came back. Like her, most of these kids were uncoveted gifts of God to their parents ... They were, an unapologetic mistake...
"Didi,do you know how my mother looks like?" Quibbles Shubham
Krish can't speak. So when he misses his mom, he hugs me and cries.
"Maa? Will you bring the nail polish you're wearing for me?" chirps Shalini
"And I want books.. Lots of books" says Mariya...
"Aunty aunty, please feed me"
I could see the craving for a family in their eyes... A craving that grew out of deprivation. Their despair and innocence pierced deep through me... It's scary how  love grew in me, again,  unashamedly.
The bunch of kids that ran madly towards me with open arms and squeals of laughter as I set foot into that dilapidated building...
That's how my damaged soul found it's way to paradise.
This was my love story...

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

'Shree'-rendipity

Most people that I have met in life have found my name intriguing, enigmatic or colloquially what you call a 'jaw-breaker'. Therefore, much to my dissent, my name got conveniently shortened to 'Shreya' or 'Shrey'. It irked me majorly because 'Shreya' is also a different name within the Bengali culture. It felt like an imposition of a person or personality that I were not. Over a period of time overstimulation forced me to accept the fait accompli until, a friend started using the word 'Shree' to address me affectionately. Intuitively, effortlessly and organically I felt like my personality fell in perfect symphony with being called 'Shree', so much so that, subconsciously, I also had started to address myself as 'Shree' soon afterwards. Needless to say, the shift in cultural paradigm as I immigrated from India to USA was vast and diverse. Surprisingly however, it made me cling on desperately to the vestiges of my roots and identi...

Inferno

It's only now that I realise, Decades of mourning will cease no cries. Love and disaster sewn in one, The eternal inferno I was destined to burn. Damaged was I, maybe a little more now Revived regrets into piles, and how! Like dead petunias on the sea afloat, Like blandness of a solitary piano note, I fell apart from the world to endure, The burden of a soul, impure.

Born in a man's world

'Reclaim the night'- As I sit in my cluttered desk in a chilly lab eight thousand miles away from the city, the people and the culture I call my own, thousands of Bengali women are out on the streets of Kolkata protesting for the rape and murder of a resident doctor at RG Kar hospital.  How do I feel? Claustrophobic. My eyes are welling up, with every bite sized news that I see my friends posting on the social media. A good advice would be to just shut off that source of stimulation and regain the calm. But you know what the problem is? I have always felt terrible like this whenever there is a crime against women, even in the movies. So much so that, it has become like a version of me that surfaces at adverse circumstances like these. It is so emotionally daunting, that I cannot even explain in words. But why are we so fragile and exploitable as women? Why is the world unfair to us? Do we deserve to be just secondary to the world whereas, if you really think about it, we are th...