The garden was overgrown now (writing prompt)

The garden was overgrown now and hid the cottage completely. The unpruned Bougenvillia had spread and a  web of thorny stems, leaves and flowers had grown all over the gate and the boundary wall. I could see dirty green moss sticking out of the grill and there was a rusted iron handle staring at me.

"Is this the Red and Blue cottage you told us about", asked my nine year old daughter, Ananya.

"Oh mom you were so lucky! You grew up in a house surrounded by a jungle", screamed, Ajit, my 6-year-old son, running towards the old gate.

My husband, Ajay, and I had settled in San Francisco ten years ago and our visit to India had brought us to this old house in the outskirts of Shimla. It was true that I had grown up in this red and blue house, where my father, a writer had written most of his award winning books, and mom had worked in the local school to keep herself busy.

My parents had moved into the cottage when I was a couple of years old. My younger sister was born in  this very cottage. My earliest memories are of mom sitting in the bright sunshine in the open verandah and me on the swing hung from an old tree near the boundary wall.

 My Red and Blue house had been a delightful place. Clean wooden flooring with rugs from the local market spread all over, an old but functional fireplace in the living room and the warm, large kitchen with Maya, our maid, always eager to shoo me out. Of course, I never went away without a few cookies in my hands.

A wooden creaking staircase took us to the three bedrooms on the first floor of the cottage. I remember the branches of a tree peeping through my window. Mom always found it difficult to shut that widow because the branch had grown many more branches, and pushing them back to shut the window was quite an effort for her. The window sill was my favorite spot. I loved the tree and envied the squirrels dancing on their toes and birds chirping away happily.

I often imagined wild things in the night. One night I dreamt I had climbed out of the window and a bird with large green and pink wings had carried me into the hills with full moon keeping us company. I woke up that morning to Maya's banging on my bedroom door disappointed that my journey had been cut shot. The whole day I had been cranky and upset till night came and with the darkness some more exciting dreams.       

Some of the stories I tell Ananya and Ajit are the ones I had dreamt as an eight-year-old and were so lovely that I never forgot them. 

In school, I was a day boarder, but children came to study from all over the country and they stayed in the school hostel. I had plenty of friends who stayed there. Often I felt sad going back home and leaving them behind to their exciting lives in the dormitory. However, my devious mind found innovative ways to contribute from behind the scene. Once I left a Christmas gift for the warden on the doorsteps of the hostel. It was a beautifully wrapped shoe box with a semi conscious frog inside. We had dissected the same frog in the Zoology lab in the morning. The whole hostel was in splits but only a few had been let into my secret plan.

I was a born leader but not really a bossy type. My friends were proud of my risk taking ability and depended on me for advice. I had this wonderful story telling talent. I managed to make every situation hilarious and sound real. Often I forgot the original plot after weaving so much imaginary stuff around it. I plotted with my friends all through my years in School. We did get into trouble with our school teachers and get punished on various occasions. However, most of it was harmless mischief done to get over our day to day class-room boredom.

I so very much wanted to be a boarder like my friends that I wished hard that my parents would move to some other city. My parents stayed put and it was I who moved over to Delhi to study Economics after finishing school. All my friends had left for different places and the cottage was not much fun anymore.      

Coming back to the red and blue cottage with my children Ananya and Ajit had brought a flood of memories. My mother had moved in with my sister in Singapore, after we lost our dad. She visited me often but never spoke about our life in Shimla.

I think she felt a deep pain when my dad died suddenly of a heart-attack and she could not get him to the hospital in time. For miles and miles around the cottage there was no medical facility available. Both being in good health had somehow assumed they would never fall sick.

Standing outside the now rusted cottage, I felt an urge to break open the past and enter my forgotten childhood again. Ajit and Ananya had never seen their grandparents home. 

A couple of months later, I had a surprise for my sister. I sent her a mail with pictures of our freshly painted and renovated childhood home. I had spent all the money my mother had left us both to get the job done. Luckily I  had traced an old friend of my father who lived in the city. His son was an interior designer who had recently converted an old heritage property into a five-star hotel in Shimla. He was now interested in working for himself and we thought he would be the right person for renovating the cottage for us.

I had given him only one instruction, "Let the soul of the cottage live".

With the grass around cottage gone so are the cobwebs in my mind that had tormented me for so many years. I had always felt awful that we were so far away when my dad died, leaving my mother to deal with it alone.  I feel I have begun to live again. Whenever, I visit the cottage  I can feel the warmth and presence of my parents there.                

Even in San Francisco I dream about the red and blue cottage. The tree peeping through the window and the squirrels and birds dancing on the branches.  In fact, my story telling ability has matured and has become more real. Only my audience is different. Earlier it was my school mates and now it is Ananya, Ajit and little Suhani, my sister's daughter whenever she visits us.

Every  year, both me and my sister spend a month in the cottage, reliving our childhood with our children. I do not know how long we will be able to manage these vacations but till the time we can we want to make the most of it.

letter in the alley

 

Prompt: Waiting to catch the bus you see a young boy look both ways before entering an alley. When you follow him into the alley, he has disappeared. Instead, there is a note lying on the pavement. What does it say and how do you react?

I picked up the note wondering where the boy in red-check shirt had disappeared all of a sudden. It was  a narrow, badly lit alley and to read the note I had to go under a street light.

The night was windy and I clutched the piece of paper scared I might lose it. The note read, "I have run away from 'Uddhar', the orphanage I was sent to after my parents died. The warden is a bad man and wants to catch me so that I do not go to the police for help. My name is Ramesh. Please save me."

The handwriting was of a ten year-old child. I wondered what I should do. Should I go to the police and ask for their help in tracing the boy or come back later in the morning and look for him myself.

I decided on the latter. Next day I was back with my friend Usha, who worked in urban slums and with street children. We decided to move around pretending to be conducting a general survey. In our khadi kurtas and jholas and with cameras hanging over our shoulders, we looked the typical volunteers from an NGO. The next move was to get all the children out of their homes on some pretext.

"We are making a film on children and want all the children to participate. Each child will get a gift for attending the session", announced Usha, to the women near the hand pump. There were several children around helping their mothers and they ran excitedly towards Usha. In a couple of hours we had fifty children auditioning for various roles. As the cameras kept rolling, we waited for that one boy  whom we had come to rescue.

Both Usha and I grew worried by late afternoon. Had we taken too much into our hands. We were not sure whether going to the police would have been a better option. Just when we were about to wind up for the day, we heard a voice, "Will you audition me"?

From behind the tea-stall a small head appeared, "Is it going to be like the Slum dog millionaire?" he asked. "Of course, it could be something similar," replied Usha, happy to be the next Mira Nair.

I knew instinctively that the head belonged to Ramesh, the boy who had written the note. He had been there right in front of us, hiding, watching us work with the children throughout the day, taking his time to trust us. He came forward slowly, and looked into my eyes and smiled. His face looked  innocent but the bruises on his neck, hands, feet revealed the torture he had experienced. Usha, looked at me and whispered, "Should we now go the police?"

For some unknown reason I could not reply. "Let me take him home for now. He needs to take a bath, eat food and sleep comfortably. We can decide tomorrow." I heard myself say after a few minutes.

 Being a single forty-year-old woman I had been chasing adoption agencies to adopt a child for the last six months. Here was Ramesh, a child who needed a home, a mother and love. Was it  destined that I find Ramesh and take him home away from the cruel, and unsafe world into which he had been thrown after his parents died? Usha, guessed my thoughts from my expression. "Let me take a picture of you both together."

 The next morning there was a post from Usha. She had sent a picture, she had clicked the day before, with a message that read, "Letter in the alley has finally reached its right destination." In the frame were a smiling Ramesh and me looking like a family already.        

First snowfall

Prompt: It was the first snowfall of the year.

Much to our delight, the weather throughout the week had been sunny and bright. The first snowfall of the year, as predicted by the weatherman, seemed nowhere in sight.

So when my daughter, Sonali, called up to tell us that she was driving home over the weekend I saw no reason to dissuade her. The three hour drive from college to our house was something she had got used to doing over the last couple of years.

"There is no chance of a snow storm at least this weekend," I had told her jokingly on the phone.

I spent the morning baking her favorite banana cake and some spicy chicken curry for lunch. She was going to start after breakfast so I was expecting her home by lunch time. However, I had barely finished cooking that I realized, it had become dark outside, there was a sudden strong gush of wind and within minutes it started snowing.

I immediately tried to reach her on her mobile but there was no signal. Finally, I gave up after trying her several times. By now my nerves were on edge as I knew she was still an hour away from home.

Meanwhile, I noticed a car had pulled-up near our house and a young girl with a bag and umbrella stepped out of the car looking completely lost. I waved to her to come in. She looked a bit hesitant and then decided to accept my invite.

"I am Angela. I was feeling scared driving in so much snow. Thanks for letting me into your house", she said as she entered.

I realized, Angela was my daughter's age and she too was driving home for the week-end. We spent the rest of the day chatting about the college she attended and her family. In the night, while I prepared the guest room for her, I prayed to God to take care of my daughter too.  Sonali's mobile had not responded from the time the storm had started and there was no other way of contacting her.

Surprisingly, by morning it had cleared completely. Angela was packed and ready to go. She thanked me and left a note with her phone number and a picture of her family.

Angela had barely driven out when I saw Sonali drive in. I rushed out to greet her. She looked cheerful and happy as if nothing had happened during her journey. Once inside the house she excitedly told me about the family with whom she had spent the night. She recounted how her car had suddenly broken down in front of a house and the lady of the house had invited her in.

"There are still good people left in this world. She was so kind to me. In fact, her own daughter was stuck in the storm and she could not reach her on her mobile," she said.

I was about to tell her about Angela when Sonali's eyes fell on the picture Angela had left behind. "Oh you know them? This is the family I spent the night with,"  she exclaimed.

"I was about to tell you. This is Angela, the girl who spent last night with us. Strangely, she too had stopped in front our house as she was scared to drive in the snow," I heard myself say.

Sonali and I looked at each other completely dazed at the co-incidence.      

Prompt: He hadn't seen her since the day they left High School

Dinesh was sitting with his iPad in the coffee shop, trying to complete the article he had to submit in the afternoon. But despite, drinking two cups of  hot coffee, he was unable to concentrate on what he was writing. "Was it a writer's blog", he wondered.

Dinesh closed his eyes and tried to listen to the conversations around him. This was a habit he had cultivated from childhood whenever he felt lonely or tired. He had seen a group of girls walk in and from their chatter he knew they were sitting right behind him. He could not see them and nor could they see him. Best position for  eves-dropping.

"Oh you remember the guy who sat next to me in school, wasn't he a big show-off?" he heard a female voice from behind his chair. The others in the group giggled. "Wonder what happened to him?" asked another. "He belonged to the rich Jain family from Prithviraj road. Must be driving around in a BMW or Mercedes with his trophy wife," exclaimed someone in the group, sounding a bit jealous and irritated. " "Hey! don't make fun of him. There was a terrible tragedy in their family? I don't remember exact details, but it was all over the papers," interrupted a voice sympathetically.

The voice was so familiar, the same softness and sweetness, Could it be her? thought Dinesh excitedly.  After school had got over, she had joined a medical school in the South, while he had left for US for an under-grad program in computer science.

"Vandy, I remember you had a crush on him", he heard the irritated one say. "I think I did Anjali. But he belonged to such an affluent family. There was no future in such a relationship," replied the same sweet voice.

"Vandy, you lost Arpan five years back. How long are you going to grieve over him? You are still young, pretty and a good doctor. Isn't it time to find a companion?"asked the girl addressed as Anjali. The other voices agreed.

Dinesh, knew they did not remember his name, but he was boy they were talking about. He suddenly remembered his sprawling house on Prithviraj Road. It was in this house his father had shot himself dead. His father, a proud man, had never revealed to his family about the business debts that he had accumulated over the years, and was unable to repay. Fortunately, Dinesh had finished college by then. He came back to take care of his  mother, whom he sadly lost within a year of his father's death. The one sister he had, was married to a doctor in US, and she was busy with her own family. 

After settling his father's debts there was little left for him to do. He hated the corporate world that had taken away his father from him so tragically. So when a job offer came from his friend's father to write a column for his new publication, Times News. Dinesh gladly took the offer and soon got involved full time.

He loved the freedom he enjoyed at Times News, Delhi office. He built their development news section from the scratch and was now heading it. The job entailed long trips into the interiors of the country, to report on development issues, and many opportunities to attend international seminars and symposiums.

However, he was experiencing a strange loneliness for quite some time now. The work place seemed colorless, his one-room apartment seemed dull and even the summer break he had taken to the Caribbean had not rejuvenated him. In the last ten years, so much had happened. His best friend, Aujun Patel had decided to settled down in California. Another friend, Arvind had married his college sweet-heart and moved to Bangalore, where his parents lived, and recently his office buddy Brijesh Kumar had joined the electronic media.

The cafe where Dinesh was sitting had become quiet. He woke up from his day dreaming and realized that the group of girls, sitting behind him had already  left. He could now only hear a mother pacifying her child who was throwing a tantrum. 

Dinesh felt irritated with himself, then thought, "Oh! I  lost one chance but surely there will be many more", and pulling out his i-Pad, he went to Face Book, and searched for Dr. Vandana, Delhi. The face, he hadn't seen since they had left high school, popped up.

Looking at the pretty and smiling face on the screen, he knew she was the one he was waiting for to complete his life. He had always liked her but was too shy to tell her in school.    

Dinesh felt rejuvenated, and scolding himself for being lazy, he went back to finish his article.

The toy train

Prompt: Every morning it was the same thing for Martin Hedger. He had put on a pot of coffee and get dressed as he waited for the coffee to brew. But today, things would be different.

The toy train

Every morning it was the same thing for Martin Hedger. He had put on a pot of coffee and get dressed as he waited for the coffee to brew. But today, things would be different. His son, Kevin was visiting him after twenty years.

Kevin had left home after he lost his mother in a car crash. Martin, had been unable to hold him back. "There is nothing left for me in this house," he had told his father the night before he left for Australia to do college.

Martin had not protested as he knew he had little in common with his son. Kevin had been their only child and while Martin, a marine engineer, was always at sea, his wife Julia took care of him. The brief vacations that he took with his family were nothing to write home about. Martin seemed to be restless and bored, the sea being his first and only love.

The old man, had been skeptical when he received a cable from his son that he and his family were visiting him in a week. The house in which Kevin grew up stood neglected. Julia had been a perfect housewife but Martin after her death had been least interested in the upkeep of the house. The curtains were faded, furniture unpolished and rugs were in tatters.

Suddenly Martin felt helpless. He had no energy to do anything. The doctor had repeatedly told him to keep a check on his alcohol intake, eat at regular hours and go for walks. Martin had done nothing about it. His unshaven look made him look like a hermit.

Kevin arrived early morning with his pretty wife Jennifer, and five-year-old son, John, as he had indicated in the cable. Both father and son looked at each other confused not knowing what to say.

The disheveled state of the house had brought a frown on Kevin's face. "You knew we were coming and bringing along our son. Couldn't you get the house swept and dusted," he remarked angrily. Martin did not react immediately. "I am an old man, I just about manage my life. You have come after twenty years. It is a long time," he said softly.

Kevin saw his father's eyes brimming with tears and for a moment felt guilty. "Don't cry dad. You never wanted me here. I wrote to you several times but you were always sailing. I did not know you had retired until a month back when I met uncle Patrick, your old colleague," consoled Kevin.

Jennifer, had withdrawn quietly from the father-son duo and decided to make herself busy in the kitchen. As for John, it was an interesting house. Perfect place for a game of treasure hunt. He was sure none of his friends would find what he hid in a mess like this. He was excited as he climbed upstairs and checked-out every room.

The small room with the bunk-bed and un-painted walls was quite fascinating . The wall paper had peeled off but there were still remains of cartoon characters on the walls. Sitting in dust under the bed was a toy train. John excitedly pulled it out, pressed a few buttons, and to his surprise the train jerked into motion and made a sound like a whistle.

Martin, Kevin and Jennifer ran up on hearing the sound, fearing something had broken. Martin rubbed his eyes at the picture before his eyes. The boy kneeling beside the train was his little son Kevin.

He remembered he had got the toy train for Kevin and before they could assemble the track, he had got orders to leave with the ship. For a second his son's disappointed and sad face flashed before his eyes. Kevin never played with the toy train again and it lay abandoned in one corner of the room.

In the emotional encounter with his son, he had not noticed his grand-son, John. Martin smiled at the boy, knelt beside him, unmindful of the dust on the floor, and started building the track he had left unfinished. He knew this was his last chance to ensure that the track was restored, for the train to run smoothly, despite lying neglected for so many years.                

She studied her face in the mirror.

Writing prompt: She studied her face in the mirror.

Asha studied her face in the mirror. "Why did it look so different?", she wondered. She still had the same dark complexion, small black eyes and not to forget the double chin that made her neck disappear inside the collar of her shirt. But her face was shining and eyes were sparkling, and she could not help smiling in front of the mirror.

Everything had changed for her in the last couple of hours.

Asha, who was the oldest amongst the Mathur sisters, was always reminded of her plain looks by everyone around her. Mrs. Mathur, her mother, looked a wee bit uncomfortable when she had to introduce her in her fancy social circle. Asha, purposely stayed away from these gatherings allowing her younger and prettier siblings, Abha and Nisha, to hog the limelight. While her sisters would spend hours getting dressed to please their mother's friends and receive compliments from them, Asha would sneak into her father's study and pretend to be studying for her college exams.

 Mr. Mathur, was the only one in the family who did not care about Asha's dark complexion. "Even Shanti, my sister is no beauty but look at her brains. She has studied at Oxford and is now teaching there. My daughter, Asha, is brilliant like her. How can anyone  miss her intellectual spark," he apprehended his wife, whenever she cribbed about Asha's looks, and how difficult it was going to be to find her a groom.

 Asha was sitting in the lawn with a book from her favorite author when Anant arrived unannounced. He had come to drop a package which Shanti had sent from the US. With no one else in the house, Asha had no choice but to entertain the guest. The discussion started with the book she was reading to the courses he was pursuing in the US. Somewhere in-between their animated conversation the Mathur family arrived and found Asha completely engrossed, chatting with a stranger. Something they had never imagined in their wildest dreams.

Anant, had been taken by surprise. He had lived abroad most of his life. He had never expected to meet an Indian girl with so much knowledge and intellect. There was an unusual honesty in her opinion, she spoke her mind with ease and what a lovely smile she had, it made her eyes sparkle, he thought to himself. Anant seemed to be completely under her spell.

Mr Mathur was quick to notice the change in Asha too. She looked radiant. He smiled quietly to himself. While his wife fidgeted around Anant, confused seeing Asha so confident and charming in the presence of a young boy, he sent a message to Shanti, "Your mission has been accomplished". He knew Shanti had set the stage for Asha to find her groom.

   

Red beads bracelet

Another story created on one of the prompts.

I saw the box in the corner and the red beads bracelet with a little metal hook. The old woman saw the curiosity in my eyes. "Do you want it?" she asked, taking it out of the box and placing it in my hands. "The family across the road  were vacating and they left a dresser for the garage sale. I found this in one of the drawers."

For a moment I had goose bumps. Weren't those the beads I had given to Rani,  my seven-year-old playmate,  when she moved out of Delhi. She loved the red color and the smooth shining texture of the beads. She would borrow it when we enacted the little skit, "Lal Pari" and it was her turn to play the Pari.

Rani had promised to write a letter to me once a week when she left. The yellow postcards with barely legible scribbles came regularly for the first couple of months, then the frequency decreased and slowly the letters stopped completely. I continued writing but got no replies. Though I missed her terribly I was lucky to find new friends. But no one played the same games with me anymore. No one wanted to jump over the gate or walk on the pile of pipes lying in the vacant ground or enact stories made-up  in flat five minutes. "Who wants to decorate an ugly tall cactus plant on Christmas", I was told. But my argument that this is the one we have decorated for the last two years fell on deaf years.  

The red beads had brought back my childhood and my friend whom I had loved so dearly. But look at fate, she lived across the road, in the same neighbourhood, and I had never met her. Perhaps, met her but did not recognize her.

I put a hundred rupee note in the old woman's hand. "If anyone comes to claim it send that person to me. I live in the last house down this lane."

The sun was setting behind me as I walked away with the red beads bracelet in my hand and a little hope in my heart.