Once again, the sun shines resplendently over the city center park. It has just rained last night, the skies unable to contain their anguish over the unfairly hot summer days. We walk down the muddy lane, hand in hand, careful not to trip over our undone laces. We are too old to take the effort to bend down and tie them , but too young to give up and stop by on one of the benches laid out around the circumference of the park. You are humming to your favorite tune yet again - ' 'til death do us apart' - how I love to listen to your sweet voice wrapped around that tune. As the birds chirp to their early morning songs, the dew falls drop by drop from the wavering leaves and the winds whoosh their way around the trees , it seems as if nature has organized an orchestra to further romanticize your singing. It is beautiful, this morning, and as we realize we can walk no more and stop in our tracks and turn our heads until our eyes meet, I realize my whole life has boiled down to this one moment - your eyes tell me how much you love me and the way you hold my hand tells me you'd be there for me whenever I'd fall. As the sun plays hide and seek inside your eyes, we share a quiet kiss, although our lips never touch.
The quiet breeze from the sea makes the hot day somewhat bearable. At this time of the year, Bombay is usually soaked in knee-deep rains, but it is different this year, the rain-gods apparently not too happy with the way the entire city is turning into a concrete jungle. We are relaxing in the 'Jhoola' in the little garden we have nurtured at the back of our house. I guess this has been the best gift Ram has given us. You are busy with your knitting needles and balls of coloured wool, weaving a sweater for the apple of our eyes. Daksh is 9 now and I keep telling you he might not be too happy to wear a sweater knitted by his grandmother - he's been used to the Monte Carlos and Raymonds that Tisha keeps pampering him with. But you keep reiterating that nothing can win against the 'love' you interwove between those knits!! I can't possibly take you up on that! My memories go back to the time when we had taken Daksh to the planetarium in Hyderabad. His American accent would keep you in constant splits , and the innocence with which he'd ask a thousand questions would win me over. We'd spend our nights discussing how intelligent our grandson was and what all we'd like him to grow up to be! I'd settle for no less than an Investment Banker, while you'd be persistent on a Classical Vocalist!! Little did we know that he'd grow up to be a respected Astrophysicist. Guess that visit to the planetarium had a real impact on his impressionable mind!
It is a tense day for us. Our only daughter is about to deliver her first child. As we sit in the hospital with our hearts pregnant with a mute fear, the nurse comes out of the operating room, a concerned look on her face. You look at me, your eyes heavy from having had no sleep at all. I know they are searching for an assurance, a quiet, firm look that can calm you down. I am unsure myself, having prayed all night at the little worship-place near the entrance of the hospital, cajoling Him to take care of our princess. But one look at you and I know I have to be the stronger one.
And then we see the most beautiful sight ever. The doctor who was operating on our daughter appears behind the nurse, in his arms, wrapped in layers of soft clothing, our bundle of joy. I can see two tiny feet popping out of one end, a mop of unruly hair on a tiny head out of the other and can hear a high-pitched sound of incessant crying emanating from those little lips. As the doctor hands over the tiny tot into your trembling hands, I see little braids of anxiety trickling down your forehead. It is only when the doctor tells us that the baby and the mother are both fine, do your lips begin to take the shape of a small smile. As you cuddle the tiny guy in your arms and kiss him endlessly on his chubby cheek, our happiness knows no bounds as we cry and cry till our eyes are dry. Tears of pure joy , they are.
California is snow-bound. It is that time of the year again when the cold winds blow across the streets, soft snow trickles down the leaves of trees and people are dressed in layers and layers of warm clothing. As we sit in our apartment watching T.V. , enjoying a quiet family dinner with Tisha and Ram, the street-singers down the alley are playing 'Hotel Kalifornia' on their saxophones and guitars. Tisha , looking beautiful in a soft yellow evening gown that Ram had gifted her just last week, comes out of the kitchen , barely holding on to the serving dish full of your favorite food - Moong dal khichdi. It has been 3 years since they had married in a quiet ceremony in Kochi, and here we are , miles away from our home, living a life in an alien country, unprepared for a life full of unknowns. And yet, it feels so right. I remember the night when the phone call came. Your eyes had welled up with tears when Tisha asked you and me to join her and Ram in the States. We had not seen her for over a year and I knew how much you were looking forward to this. We had been lucky to find Ram for our pretty daughter. He had been the perfect husband so far, taking care of her with the same genuine warmth that we had. And now, as Ram and Tisha discreetly hold hands under the dining table, unable to contain their chuckles over this act of forbidden love in front of their elders, we manage a chuckle ourselves - little do they know that under the table, my feet are gently brushing against yours.
All the love filled in our one bedroom apartment in the heart of Bombay was not enough for her. We'd known from the beginning that Tisha had a rebellious streak inside her. But for this, we aren't quite prepared. A curt 'No' from you had been reason enough for her to start packing. Her choice of a Bengali man as a possible suitor had irked you no ends, and the entire night had been spent in verbal duels with our dear princess. 'Princess Tisha', we called her lovingly till the age of 15. And now at 23, just out of college and barely into her first job, Tisha is already on her way to moving away from us. Forever. I knew you'd always wanted her to get married to someone we knew, someone from our extended family and friends circle, so that she wouldn't be away from us, even after marriage. And this was the last thing you'd expected. I'd tried to calm you down, tried to instill some rationale in you but you didn't relent. And now, our only daughter is ready to pack, and leave. After a entire year of deliberation and reasoning, you'd finally agree and I knew, in all the later years, you thanked me from the bottom of your heart for convincing you to let our princess marry Ram.
'And for her consistent performance in studies, her enthusiastic participation in all extra-curricular activities, her pro-activeness in handling the issues of her peers and the dignified manner of her conduct, the Best Outgoing Student Award is presented to Tisha Nair'! . The entire auditorium stands up and claps whole-heartedly as our princess walks up to the podium to collect her award. Seated in the 10th row from the stage, I can see you crinkling your eyes to catch a clear glimpse of her. I remember having scolded you a number of times at having forgotten your spectacles on occasions when they were most needed, but I knew you'd never listen!! Dressed in a sparkling white uniform, a red tie crisply knotted at her collar, her thick hair neatly made into two long braids, Tisha looks every bit the student who deserves the award. I remember the nights you'd come home exhausted from work, and yet put in extra hours to teach Tisha - things they taught at school , and things they didn't - and I suddenly felt a touch of gratitude towards you for having imparted such good values in our daughter. Later on, I thanked my stars for having married you , for the wonderful wife you were and for the wonderful mother you'd turned out to be.
The wedding is a traditional Maharashtrian one. Your parents had insisted that we do it that way. My parents hadn't given up either. A Malayalee-style wedding would soon follow. As the pundit holds on to his nerves in the blazing heat of the sacred flame, and recites the mantras one-by-one, I hold your hand tightly as you follow me around for the saat pheras. As I look around , I can see your parents and mine, their faces bursting with happiness, ready to give us their blessings. I feel your fingers curl around mine - in just a few seconds, we'd be entwined in a relationship of a lifetime. My mind races back to the days in college when I'd courted you and wooed you with flowers and cards and candle light dinners. Rashmi - the name and persona I'd fallen in love with. Later on , as years would go by , I'd wonder if life would ever have been the same, had one of my friends not got you along with him on my 21st birthday.
The candles are about to be burnt out in the mild breeze that is circulating the room. Twenty-one of them. I sit back, a bit unsettled, but manage to relax myself with the technique I'd taught myself over the years. The room is full of people, waiting for me to blow them out, so that the celebrations could begin and they could binge on cake and coke. My own mind is lost in the events that occurred at 1:10 am last night. Like each year, as I was deep in sleep and my mind was owned by the subconscious, a series of memories had flashed inside my head - the sweet memories of tomorrow. Slices of my life, which hadn't yet occurred - events that my life would eventually pass through. It was on my 4th birthday at 1:10 am that I became aware of this extraordinary gift I was born with. I was completely disturbed by this at first, but over the years, as my maturity and understanding grew, I learnt to tackle this unique vision I had with utmost grace. I learnt not be ruffled by the bad ones, I learnt to remember and savour the good ones.
Now, as I am about to blow the candles and cut the cake, I am simply happy that at the age of 82, I'd still be able to walk through beautiful parks, have a faithful hand to hold and still be able to feel the love.
All except one of the twenty-one candles have gone out. As the stubborn flame flickers about, I can see an angelic face slowly reveal itself through it. Finally ,as one more whoosh from me blows it out, a pair of beautiful almond-shaped eyes connect with mine.
Seeing the unhidden interest on my face, one of my friends shouts out across the room, "Hey Ashwin , that's Rashmi!".
I smile and quietly thank Him for the gift. Before me, stands the woman who'd share my entire life with me , and the sweet memories of my tomorrow.
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