Little Book Of Red Lies | Shubman Gill ✓

6. An ache that persists

Theme song - Main Jahan Rahoon

It was believed that Mumbai did not sleep. And most people would testify to this belief. More so, they would always lead one to this place when asked which was the most bustling and pulsating part of Mumbai. A part where people had to anticipate the positions of a train compartment so as to catch hold of a handle and get in as swiftly as they could. A part whose residents could not afford to let even the lifeline of Mumbai come to a halt before they boarded it - Dadar.

And Kavya experienced the liveliness of Dadar once again that morning. She remembers the last time she had decided to impulsively board a train and visit her old home, a home where her childhood was spent. Where her father had befriended an assertive boy with his love for tennis caps and wristbands named Sachin. A place that had transformed itself in the eight years she had been away.

Yet every time Kavya returned to it, it was homecoming in its truest sense because it felt as if her parents' spirits lingered in these lanes.

And if she paid close attention, she could feel her mother buying the usual 2 litres of Amul milk from the Tejpal Dairy, with her father waiting patiently for her on his Bajaj Chetak.

Taking the scent of Dadar in, Kavya walked, submitting herself to the fragrances of the Dadar Phool Market.

It was absurd how her mood changed from intense gloom to deeply serene, as the flowers came into view. There were marigolds in their shades of orange and yellow, roses in as many hues as one could imagine, petunias, chrysanthemums but Kavya walked straight towards the section that sold lotuses. Her favourite. Her mother was named Kamaldeep because her Biji believed in the significance of the flower as suggested by the Gurus.

She wanted her little girl to rise from the swamps of Kalyug and open herself to accept the light of the creator. And Kamaldeep grew to be a woman with unwavering faith in the creator.

Sniffing the Lotus' scent, Kavya brought it close to her heart, overwhelmed with an ache. She walked with a painstakingly steady gait, trying to subdue the storm within her but she failed. Letting the reigns of her consciousness, loose she allowed a thought to form.

I miss you, Mumma. I miss you, Papa. So much.

I wish you were here today. Everything I do seems incomplete because you're not here to witness it. Sometimes I feel like quitting my internship. Because what use is any money I earn since I can never spend it on you? On some days I slip away from parties and celebrations because I wonder what am I celebrating? My life? A life without you both?

And on other days I try drowning myself in the thrill that comes from knowing who's who in the room and dancing with everyone until my feet hurt. But everything is a temporary distraction.

Nothing will ever make up for your absence. No, I'm not unhappy, Mumma. I'm perfectly fine, Papa, she thinks looking at the cloudy sky with cracks in it.

But I can't help wondering how different things would have been had you both not died in that awful, awful accident. I don't know why I am crying. Because I am not sad. I am sorry. Sorry for not living my life with your zeal Papa and your faith Mumma. I haven't visited a Gurudwara in these 8 years. I can't Mumma. I can't have visuals of you telling me and Rahul that Waheguru looks over everyone.

I wish I could have the faith you did. Perhaps it would have saved me from breakdowns like these. I am not you, Mumma.

I do remember to be grateful to Sachin Kaka and Anjali Kaku. And Papa, you'll be proud to know that I am paying back the money he spent for my education, bit by bit. I have managed to pay back fees from 8th to 10th standard. One day I will pay the college fees as well. Maybe that day I would experience peace.

Whatever that is.