Raindrops
Myra opened the wrinkled white paper that she hid in her favorite pair of blue jeans- the one that she always wore when she went to meet Akbar in Hauz Khas for the last eight months. She had begun to feel closer to him ever since he had agreed to meet her father. Her father, Abdullah, was a kind and aging man, happy with his night shift duty of a guard at Sujata Housing in Sanjay Colony. The salary being meager, he accepted the support of his children to make ends meet. Hamid, twelve, the son from his second marriage, worked at a tea stall, overlooking the Green Park Free Church. Hamid regaled his customers, who were mostly joggers, with old Hindi songs and pulled off Kishore Kumar hits with commendable ease for a boy of his age. Myra, on the other hand, worked at a roadside dhaba near Jama Masjid. Among many of her daily customers, she looked forward to a Bengali couple in their forties. The wife would ask how she was doing, if she wanted to study further, and they never took the change back. A little extra money meant a lot to her. She carefully kept her tips aside to give a small portion to Akbar who was a struggling government job aspirant.
No matter how many times she read that letter, a few lines still gave her goosebumps: “Had I not met you, dear Myra, I would have never known what I had been looking for. Just your presence is enough to keep me going and striving harder to achieve. I pray to Allah every day that he may give you the strength to be by me when time stands against us, which, we both know, will be sooner or later. Once I clear the interview, I shall meet your father.” As she read those words ‘I shall meet your father’, slowly, word by word, she felt an insurmountable joy bottle up at her throat. After a moment of silent enjoyment, she told herself to calm down and sat down on the floor of their one-room house. Yes, most of the day was spent building castles in the air, while always wearing a gentle smile on her face, serving parantha and chhole or veg thali at the dhaba. She would paint a picture of a family with Akbar, a vision that pushed her through a bad day with rough customers and daily hassles at home. She used to go to school when Abdullah worked in a leather factory. After the factory shut down five years ago, Abdullah, like many others, was laid off and Myra found a job at the dhaba soon after. She used to love reading about the Mughals and India’s struggle for independence and would picture herself fighting with a long, shiny sword and a shield. How she was fascinated by the queen of Jhansi and her fervor! She would often implore, “Abba, would you buy me an armor and shield like the one Rani Lakshmibai had when she went to the war?” Abba would nod gently and quip, “All in due time, beti.”
It was then that Hamid, her brother, was called to Delhi from their village in Kishanganj, Bihar, to help with the family income. Hamid had started living with them in their one-room house in a slum in South Delhi since the age of seven. He too, hoped to go to school someday, like the other boys in the locality. It was predominantly a Hindu community but people were rather nonchalant, unlike their neighbors in Kishanganj. City life robs your energy to bother your neighbor about whether you cook beef or where you read the namaz. And that was a blessing for the Abdullahs. Away from their mothers, the two children had made peace with the little space while busy growing up with their father amidst the cacophony and orderly chaos of urban life.
***
It was Holi and the children’s park was crowded with children of all ages, who were busy spraying colored water from their tube-pichkaris. It was a holiday for both Myra and Hamid so Abdullah did not turn down their pleas to go and buy colors on their own. While they were mixing the powders in water, Mridul and Ashish, two twelve-year-old neighbors came running towards them and asked enthusiastically,
“Hamid bhai, why don’t you join us in the garden behind the Church?”
Abdullah was sitting right in front of the door. He looked at Hamid’s meek eyes, who was eager to join the boys; being a father, he felt slightly apprehensive as most of the children came from Hindu families. Nevertheless, he reminded them to play safely and be back in a couple of hours. Hamid’s face lit up so bright that it could lighten up the whole neighborhood at night. It was only on rare occasions like these that he could socialize with kids his age, otherwise, days were mostly spent catering to grandfathers and breathless joggers in his tea-stall. Myra, on the other hand, thought of taking a chance to meet Akbar. She told Hamid she would be joining him in the park in a short while, and she ran to the nearest telephone booth. Meanwhile, Hamid rushed with his friends in his light blue kurta, the same dress he had worn on the last day of Ramzan last year.
“Hello, Akbar! Can you meet me in ten minutes in Green Garden — — -and Happy Holi! I will be there with Hamid and his friends for two hours.”
“Myra, would love to, but I don’t feel quite well. I have an unusual tightness in my chest and I..uh..I feel so weak.”
“Did you see the doctor, Akbar? You sound so tired. What do I do? Give me a call on my mobile… Abba would be sleeping.”
“Don’t worry…yes I will visit a doctor today evening after the crowds die down. Please do not worry, I will be fine. It’s probably like a heat stroke. I’ll be f..fine…let me rest. I …huh..feel..sleepy.”
Myra couldn’t calm down, but she went to the park to join her brother, with a heavy heart. The park looked delightful, as kids, and adults played with colors, hugged and sang and danced to DJ music. It was a bright lovely morning. Hamid was immersed in the moment, while boys came and splashed blue and yellow colors on him. Nobody asked who he was. Today, he was just another boy, who was having fun like the rest. He wasn’t selling tea, or counting coins, or washing the teapot. Myra had a few Muslim friends but none of them had come to the park. She sat in a corner and watched her brother run around merrily, sing and shout at the top of his voice. She briefly missed her mother, but then her thoughts hovered back to Akbar and she could not help but feel restless. However, Abba had instructed her to keep an eye on Hamid. After three hours of goofing around, Hamid came to her sister and started sharing how many friends he had made that day. Akash, Neel, Mridul and Ashish were warm and had asked him to join their gully cricket matches every Sunday afternoon. While they walked back home, Hamid couldn’t stop rambling how excited he was for Sunday to arrive.
“Abba won’t say no, will he? I will work an hour extra the rest of the days…but can you request him too, if he refuses?” Hamid pleaded in his broken voice. But Myra was distracted, and she gave a half-nod while thinking of Akbar.
Later in the evening, it started raining and Myra called Akbar to check on him.
“The doctor asked me to get tested for COVID-19. He didn’t explain m..much but asked me to avoid any human contact for the next fourteen days.” Akbar spoke slowly, gasping for breath. He didn’t say much… and Myra now silently stood in the rain. Rain, that flowed incessantly, helplessly and anxiously, squeezing the whole of her heart. At night, she again took out the wrinkled paper and skimmed through the words, although she had memorized the whole letter by now. A silent tear trickled down her right eye and dropped on the paper which blotted not only a few words but also the promises along with them. Everything she was dreaming of all these months began to seem distant and lonely, like the moon who was desperately awaiting the monsoon so that she could escape the blistering heat and go into a slumber.
***
As more COVID cases steadily rose in the country within two weeks of Holi, the Prime Minister went ahead to announce a nationwide lockdown that would essentially bring India to a screeching halt. Also, it meant that Myra, Hamid and Abdullah would be asked to stay away from their work as long as the lockdown order stayed. Hence, they had no other choice but head for home. In Bihar. All trains and flights had already been suspended due to fear of contact spreading. Meanwhile, there was no way to reach Akbar, as he had been sent off to a mass quarantine facility in Gurgaon, which did not allow phones or personal belongings. The last time they spoke was two days after Holi. Dispirited, Myra cooked their dinner and planned what all to take with them back home, on their three-wheeler van. They were leaving early next morning. Every arrangement was so abrupt that she had no time to contemplate about her future with Akbar at this point. She hoped the facility gave him food and took proper care of him.
Her train of thought was interrupted when she heard Abba’s voice.
“Hamid beta, please leave your bat here, we would be coming back soon.” Abdullah told him when they started loading the van with the most essential items, like food, water, and a few clothes and essential utensils.
“But Abba, we won’t get such a good bat in our village, please let me carry this. I want to play cricket as long as we stay there.” Hamid pleaded helplessly as it felt extremely painful to part with his newfound friend.
“But no one would be allowed to play outside, beta. It is a very serious situation now. Everyone has to stay inside their home. You can’t play there, beta.”
Eventually, Hamid was convinced that he would have to wait to return to this home and this was just a temporary shift. Little did he know then that Fate, in the guise of the novel coronavirus had other plans for not only him, but all of them, just like millions of other migrant workers who were desperately and frantically looking for a way to reach home, in a country which didn’t have buses, trains or auto-rickshaws to aid their travel. Going home had never seemed like an ordeal, but this time, both Myra and Hamid felt anxious whether they would be able to return to their normal lives in Delhi anytime soon.
Next morning, they woke up before the sun did. Abdullah locked the door and prayed, murmuring words that only his Allah could hear. Then he got up to ride the van. They had a long journey ahead and so each of them was to take turns every five-six hours. At 5 a.m. they started with a hope to reach Varanasi by ten at night. Dressed in white kurta-pyjama, Abdullah told his children,
“Be prepared for a few tiring hours ahead. If all goes well, we should be able to spend the night in Varanasi and then tomorrow early morning, finish the rest half of the journey.” There was a drizzle, as light as feathers, for a few minutes. He looked up to see whether there were clouds.
Myra wore a khaki orange salwar kameez and dabbed kohl on her lower eyelids and covered her head with a shiny red dupatta. Hamid dressed up in a white half-sleeved vest and grey half pants. He insisted on dressing up this way as he felt sweaty in his full-covered kurta. With a heavy heart and sleepy eyes, and a nominal Rs. 2000, they started their journey to cover 1500 k.m. and reach home.
After seven hours of relentless cycling, with short water breaks, the family pulled over at a village hall to have lunch. Abdullah was famished but didn’t want to appear so in front of his children, so he ate much less than usual and divided his share between them. Myra noticed his panting and scolded him for eating so less.
“Abba, what is this, you cycle for so long and then eat so little, what’s wrong with you?”
“No beti, I am already full, maybe the heat is too hard and has reduced my appetite. Go on, finish it fast. We need to get going or we’ll fall asleep right here,” laughed father in a defensive but unsteady voice. He also tried to hide that he was sweating abnormally. The children had probably noticed but were too naïve to gauge. Within fifteen minutes they set off, and the father insisted that he would cycle as long as he could and the children could take turns later.
Hardly had they started post lunch, when Abdullah pulled the brake and the half-asleep children almost fell off the van with their belongings they had rested their heads on. He fell on the ground on the highway, as the angry afternoon Sun penetrated their skins like a vile monster.
“Abba!” The children screamed aloud in unison. They rushed to him to sprinkle water on his face. Abdullah was struggling to keep his eyes open, but managed to form a few words,
“Bete, ah… I feel exhausted and..ugh…chest..p..pain…,” pointing to the left side.
Myra grabbed his hands and briefly had an ominous thought. However, she quickly regained her better senses and started thumping his chest in a frenzy. It didn’t work, unfortunately. Hamid was petrified seeing his father in this state and all he could do was exhaust all their water bottles by splashing water on his father’s face, while his groanings fluctuated like the gushes of hot breeze, from time to time. Abdullah had sensed something during their lunch but had dismissed it in his head, so as not to scare Hamid and Myra. How peaceful they looked while gorging on the parantha-pickle hungrily!
Abdullah could see one rainy afternoon in Kishanganj, when his children, much younger, were dancing in the raindrops, and how he had joined playfully, drenching himself in their happiness.
With this transitory bliss, Abdullah breathed his last. The two clueless souls looked here and there, but all they could see were vast paddy fields and no human within sight. Stunned as they were, without exchanging a word, they lifted him up and lay him down on the van and Myra took charge of the van and asked Hamid to put Abba’s head on his lap. Hamid stared at his unresponsive father and wondered if he saw a ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Did he… really… die? He held his index finger to his nostrils to check. A tear fell on his father’s moustache, but made sure not to make a sound, because Myra didi had to cycle on. They did not exchange any word. Only both had pearls rolling down silently. Myra’s eyes had already got smudged with the kohl.
At around 11 p.m., they reached Assi Ghat in Varanasi. Myra recalled that Abdullah had wished to spend the night at the breezy banks of the Ganges.
The body had started to decay and the smell was overwhelming.
“We can’t take him any further, Hamid. Best if we lay him here. But finding a burial ground and getting any help is difficult at this hour.” Myra kept thinking aloud in despair because the exhaustion was too much to contain. Hamid obediently followed her sister because he felt he had lost his voice weeping silently all day.
They arrived at the Harishchandra Ghat, one of the famous burning ghats in Varanasi. Already four bodies were being prepared for cremation. They saw the families of the deceased standing at a distance.
Myra left Hamid with Abba, removed the dupatta from her head, tied it around her waist and asked a Pandit sitting on the ghat to put saffron teeka on her forehead. She touched his feet and said,
“Pandit ji, I am Meera, daughter of a migrant worker. We are traveling since morning and papa died today afternoon. Could you tell me how to cremate my father here?”
The Pandit looked into her eyes and her withdrawn, sullen demeanor, thought deeply and then sympathetically touched her head and pointed at a man who was in charge of the customs in a Hindu cremation. Meera went ahead and arranged for Abba’s cremation by paying a meager Rs. 50 for the service. Hamid, now Hari, put fire to his father’s mouth with a wooden log, while fighting his copious tears. The man, seeing the little boy struggle, delayed no further and asked them to move away while he arranged the wooden logs on their father’s body.
Another drizzle started, calming their sun-bruised skin and tormented souls. Myra held on to Hamid’s shoulder tightly, and spoke softly, “Look at the Moon behind the clouds, bhai. Abba was a good man, so his journey to Jannat will be a peaceful and dignified one… We had no choice…”
Moments of long silence, and our ‘Jhansi ki Rani’ being handed over invisibly, the armor and the shield from her departing father… suddenly felt a buzz in the pocket of her salwar. Her tired, bleeding palm held the mobile — “Akbar” … and it started raining profusely!
“Akbar, Abba is…” inaudible words left her lips drenched in tears, cloaked in raindrops.
“Myra, I have tested negative and am now at Green Park Free Church, with many, resting and recovering.”
