30X30:Stay

A dream is dying in flat number 57B. Wails are breaking out from its walls and seeping into the corridors of wretched, old Shyam Niwas. Nobody runs for help. Hands stir pans, pots slip from nimble fingers and the aroma of a spicy mango curry fills the air. Life goes on, like nothing has happened, and no one can hear. And, little Mahua from flat number 57B continues to break out into painful, agonizing sobs.

Moments earlier, Mahua was found entwined with a pair of skinny legs and chequered shirt – bright, bare and busy. Her angry father pulled her across the mosaic, dragging her into the kitchen of flat number 57B. Her mother followed, only to bang the door shut.

Silly Mahua, they say. Silly, lustful Mahua. Running after a miserly man, of no standing. Dancing about a clerk from Pushpanjali Associates. Holding on to a dream so wretched, her father would rather die. Words seep into one ear, then travel to another, and then another. Hollowing out so quickly, the walls of miserable Shyam Niwas.

I am tempted to remind them of our own standing. We are all born out of middle-class mosaic, bred within banal blue walls and destined to marry ordinary men from ordinary worlds. It is foolish to seek beyond our standing. Why then must Mahua be reduced to Shyam Niwas mockery? Perhaps, it is her tangled flesh, and his youthful cockiness.

They started out with such sweet love. Manav and Mahua. Little teenagers that found each other across swings and around mountains of dried green grass. Young lovers with upturned smiles, and gawky scrawlings in college notebooks. Forever sweethearts, with no fear, and delicate hearts.

Delicate hearts twisted and moulded by the vagaries of time, and lust, and deceit. Into a mass of naked hunger and fearful fervour. Caught unaware, upon the steps of old Shyam Niwas, fifty-three steps from flat number 57B.

Mahua’s sobs echo well past dinner and after-dinner banter. Her cries fill the musty night air. Drowning out the noise of stray dogs, blaring cars, and the squabble in 52C. Her dreariness fills my heart with grief. Reminding me briefly of his lingering touch, his hoarse, divine voice. Lost quickly to time, and other such demons.

As I cradle her sorrow, and allow it to mingle with mine...I think perhaps, it is wise not to let love through the doors of Shyam Niwas. Its old, crumbling walls are built not for love, nor happiness. But harbour only hurt, and hatred. Even as I hear Mahua quieten, even as her father’s voice disappears into the night, I do not break my resolve.

Why make love stay in venomous Shyam Niwas?

[30X30 is a series of 30 unrelated posts in 30 days by Gayatri Makhijani and Anuj Gosalia. One post everyday, for the next 30 days. Follow the string here ]