INNOCENCE LOST (Rewriting)

7: MINISCULE OF A WISH

Another sleepless night. Another headache, another early morning to myself. The flowers rocked back and forth, gentle rhythmic movements; they sang in a chorus-a soulful symphony. The tune of the Earth, its longing to come alive, sow seeds of beauty in brown, moist mud. I sat with my chin on my knees, hands buckling the legs together. These tenacious blossoms I saw by the roadside-determined to dance gaily, utilising every last resource from dusty pavements and polluted air, thriving on raindrops and throttling footsteps. Now, they were vibrant garlands of a pale violet in my naked front yard. The first sign of life, a face of hope. A promise of a better tomorrow in moments of extreme chaos, an assurance that even filth can find fruition.

They rebelled against adversity, chaotic energy that filled each petal. Devoid of fragrance, they bore proof that beauty is in the eyes of the beholder and if anything, flaws make you real. Budding leaves peeked from underneath, soft green resonated with life; birthed through love, nurtured with care and embraced by a mother's warmth.

In my world, the reality was a distorted dream. While I winged through the sky, soaring across seas in one, the other handicapped me into a flightless bird. Hurled to the ground, thrashed and beaten I sought solace in optimism. The results could be horrible, but wretched souls sustain amidst hopefulness. And I refused to hold back, even an inch.

Half of Kolkata still slept behind shut windows and filtered air, heavy curtains and nauseating mosquito repellents. I watched as the sun rose on the horizon-a burning vermillion hue. I perceived the might and vigour of the rays while they soaked the ground with warmth and affection of a doting parent, rising, further high until minutes multiplied to hours and the canvas lit with a bright golden halo.

It was seven-thirty. I knew Mamoni's hysterics had started already. "Where is she? Has she gone somewhere? Babin, go and find your wife, she doesn't know this place!" she would scream, rooms thudding with shrill shouts. Siddhartha would still cuddle the pillows, his first love. "Babin, don't you have any worries? Are you deaf, I'm talking to you for the past ten minutes!"

She would leave no stone unturned, looking through every nook and cranny, even under the bed perhaps, chasing me like a rat. In short everywhere but the front yard, as if my limit was within the four walls of the house.

Wasn't it what they wanted from the very beginning?

Their idea of keeping me safe, protected.

Her concern loud, so keen on leaving a presence; too good to be true. Sometimes I prayed to be wrong, it offered consolation-a kind of relief in the face of searing pain and throbbing wound.

"Oh my God, you're sitting idle here! I have been running up and down the stairs! My heart is beating now."

And who asked you to, Mamoni?

On any other occasion, I would roll my eyes, but these days were different. The more the time spent, the more I acquainted with the coldness that lurked behind an apparent warm exterior. In the city, things differed. Here people rationed intimacy, bonding and relationship. It breathed success and triumph, exhaled expectations and failure.

I treaded with soft steps, the moist soil dented under pressure. Mamoni grumbled about pending chores while I longed for my little patch of heaven-paradise on Earth. Growing up, Ma talked about someplace else-a land of good food and abundant charms. My little mind wandered away, floating on clouds where fairies and unicorns glided past, hopes and aspirations bred peace and harmony. As years rolled by, I modelled miniature heaven, right here on Earth. It acted as a defence mechanism-a never-failing friend. And now, the garden had become my escape, dawn in the dusk, rain amidst a drought. I ceased to believe in promises of a thereafter, I vowed to create it here.