A memory through an Attic

So there used to be an attic in our old house, enclosed just above the roof of our passageway. As a child I was thoroughly fascinated by it, maybe since it was out of reach and also because it was deemed as forbidden territory by my mum.  I would often sit and wonder about all the interesting booty and the exciting paraphernalia that would be stored in there.

Then came along one fine Sunday morning when my Dad announced that he was going to get down to cleaning the attic with my help. My brother, I guess was not around then as he must have been busy playing cricket outside and in the bargain knocking off a few window panes, displaying his mischievous bent.

The announcement was followed by a minor disagreement between Dad and my Mum, whether it was safe to thrust me inside the attic as God only knew what ancient aliens from the insect fraternity resided in there ready to pounce. But my Dad being Dad had already sensed the excitement that was tipping at my feet and went ahead declaring with an air of finality that the decision had been taken and I would be entering the infamous attic. My Mum just like the way usually most mothers were in those days resigned to the fact that it was pointless arguing and succumbed to the choice made. Swiftly, within minutes she produced a broom and a mop lest my Dad decided to change his mind. A tall stool was dragged from the balcony or maybe it was borrowed from one of the neighbors, I am not so sure of that. All of this led to much excitement in my head that I was willing to break into a small jig with the intent of discovering the contents inside the attic.

As far as I was concerned it felt like getting ready for some dare-devilry feat and my enthusiasm knew no bounds. 

Watching my steps, I carefully climbed the stool with Dad right behind me. Once I reached on top, he gave me a slight push and I landed inside. An onslaught of a strong musty smell hit my nostril which rendered a coughing bout. The attic had a low ceiling and I could barely manage to sit up without my head touching the roof. The pitch darkness around me felt as if I was part of a dark cave. It was exhilarating and scary at the same time. Suddenly, a light shone from behind, and I turned around to see Dad holding a torch. At the corners, I noticed the cobwebs stirring slowly. Big and small gunny bags tied together with a rope were lying scattered across. Then began the meandering task of passing the various sundry items stored inside the attic to my Dad which was further handed over to my Mum who was waiting at the landing below; a sack full of books, copper vessels of different sizes and shapes, a bent wooden stool all made their way down. Owing to the attic’s low ceiling, Dad had to crouch really low, once he entered inside. The small space was then dusted and mopped clean. At the far end of the attic I noticed a tiny enclosure which led to a small window opening that allowed a ray of light to filter inside. I discovered that the latch had come off making the window rattle due to the wind. I decided to shut it once and for all when my eyes fell on a mother pigeon who was nesting on her eggs. Seeing me, caused a tiny flutter and she began shifting uncomfortably. Both of us turned out to be unexpected visitors for each other in a domain which we claimed as our own. I left the window open and came back without mentioning to Dad what I had just witnessed.

Maybe Dad would have shooed the pigeon away or maybe the eggs would have got dismantled or just like the way I left the whole scene undisturbed, Dad would have done the same and moved away, I wouldn't have known.

So finally we both managed to come down and the netted door of the attic was firmly shut behind. I looked at it longingly knowing that my next visit to the attic was not going to happen in a very long time. I won't say the place was left sparkling clean, as the paint from the shallow walls was crumbling at a few places and the attic still carried a damp musty smell, but the contents were rightly stored back in their respective places and the cobwebs and creepy crawlies were dusted off clean.

Those few hours inside the attic that day along with my Dad, still carries some charming memories in my head. For a moment then, I had a tantalizing thought as what fun it would be to sometimes sneak inside the attic and lie on a makeshift bed looking outside from that tiny window with the pigeon and her eggs resting beside me. My parents along with my brother would have searched for me high and low, questioning each and every one about my whereabouts while all along I would be hunched up in my own private den, a place I would have liked to call a home away from home. But good sense prevailed in me, that certain thoughts were best left only for the imagination, because if I had dared mention it to my Mum then, she would have done some hundred back-flips in her head on listening to my vague plans and at the end of it I would have received a good dressing down.

So this was the attic story and tomorrow incidentally as the day shall dawn nice and bright I shall be remembering my Dad even more thinking about all the happy memories he and I once shared, because it will exactly be a decade since he passed away leaving a gaping hole behind.

He was a gentle and kind soul, who would mean no harm to anyone but at the same time would turn the world upside down just so he could bring a smile to my face.

My Dad was not an ordinary man. For me he was simply extraordinary.

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P.S. The above handiwork is created by my beloved cat Sasha while I was away for the briefest of moments. I gave her a questioning look which was returned with a cool stare from her end, the golden flecks of her eyes changing into different shades of brown. 

In retrospect, I think she has read my mind and has poured her own comforting thoughts on this page which I have left as it is without erasing. And although my Dad and my cat have never met before, I am sure they would have got along famously well while touching each other's lives. 

Shoe Life

“In my shoebox lives a tiny little fairy; every now and then she sprinkles shimmering dust over my pair of shoes, so that they never cease to grow old, at nights she scrubs and cleans their soles, blowing soothing charms into their hollows to ward off the evil spirits away; which makes them always look gleaming new just like the ones proudly displayed at the shop windows. Now, my feet have grown tired and old and they refuse to walk a distance further but the moment I set my eyes on these very shoes they tend to beckon me from a mile away, teasing me like an old lover. And as we lock our gaze with me moving ahead, a smile curls at the corners of my mouth as I slip my feet into these enchanting shoes. Mesmerized, I am rekindled with a new hope and fervor as I get ready to step out and face the world all over again.”

Shoes of all kinds have always held my fascination. Plain ballerina ones, flat open sandals, closed shoes with a tiny portion of the toes peeping out, strappy wedges or even the rustic Kolhapuri chappals; a special trademark originating from the southern district of Maharashtra. But having said that, how many of us have actually ever paid attention to the way any of these shoes sound? It’s truly an interesting observation as at times it can throw some great insights to the kind of person one really is.

In my mind when you hear the arrival of a person, with his feet stomping heavily on the ground it bears the mark of a headstrong personality with maybe a mean temper lurking in the background. Or the feet that sound like the creaking of old wooden boards gives a notion of someone who is bone tired after a hard day at work and is staggering up the rickety stairs, dying to grab hold of a pint of beer or two before collapsing on his unruly bed. Then there are those sounds of the feet which one is unable to hear but can sense the presence of a stranger lurking in the shadows or some alert ears may catch a slight swoosh, causing alarm bells to ring as the mind smells fear around the corner. I, for sure shall not trust such silent feet which moves around stealthily, sneaking on you unexpectedly.

Then again, I reminisce of times when I was a little girl prancing around, wearing 3 inches high stilettoes left by some innate cousin who had come over to attend a wedding in the family. Holding my printed frock a few inches above my knees I would gingerly slip into those dainty heels and look down at my feet with rapt wonder. Standing tall, in front of the mirror a false gusto would overtake me as I imagined stepping out of the house in my high heels towering over all the little boys and girls of my age. Standing tall made me believe in my innocent dream of reaching out to the moon and stars and bringing them down to the earth. Standing tall that summer evening, I felt that I could conquer one and all. Silly thoughts, but till date, I get the same nostalgic feeling when I hear the sound of high heels merrily clicking around me. 

But the sound of feet that is closest to my heart and which I shall not trade for any other sound is the one that emerges from the bare feet. Picture a one year old toddler tottering towards you with open arms, his feet unsteady as they go thump thump but his eyes all lit up and shining as he takes his initial baby steps and moves forward, creating music with every step that he takes. Or when you dribble your feet in water and hear the sound of waves that rapidly come lapping up the sand from the feet; run wild on the wet grass on a rainy day and plish plosh plish plosh  the earth will throw fantastic sounds from below, watch a group of boys playing Kabaddi and see their feet getting entangled and landing in the murky brown mud, their backs glistening from the harsh rays of the sun, but pure joy is seen on their faces as they play the game of spirit on their bare feet.

Moving ahead, I hear the crunch of my own shoes as it treads softly while making contact with the wet soil. I lift one foot and stare at the ground where the sole has dug deep and has left a perfect arch in the soil below. I keep moving, leaving a trail of thought behind that what happens one day when we all succumb to ashes? Will the journey of our feet end along with us or will a faint trace of our memory continue to linger in people’s minds as the years go by? 

Maybe then these very feet will prove to be impressionable as they would have left behind fine traces of their imprints in some tiny corner of the earth marking their presence and continuing to remain immortal forever. 

Life within four boundaries!

It is one of those cold sultry nights when sleep has evaded me. The night is completely still with the occasional rustle of leaves heard. Sometimes the silence can bring forth the faintest of sounds to come alive. And then it is at that precise moment, I hear footsteps. Not that one could avoid hearing it but when someone is tiptoeing on the bare ground the crunching of few dried leaves have given away the footstep sounds.

From what I could make out, there could be two or three of them or perhaps four, I am not sure. I tighten my red Hijab around my head and stealthily make my way towards the lone window. The need of the hour demands extreme awakening of senses. I slowly bend down on all fours and inch my body towards the window so as to not let the outline of my frame be seen through the opaque glass. The sudden gush of wind has somehow loosened the window latch. As I lift my head slightly up, I see scores of fireflies throwing a sliver of light on the ground and at the same time I notice some hooded men coming out of the bushes and making their way towards the door. Fear has completely engulfed me and I can feel beads of perspiration trickling down my spine in the chilly weather. The hoot of the owl cuts thru the eerie silence and I know it's just a matter of time before they all come pounding at the door to get me. Minutes pass with no movement heard.

Just then, a glimmer of hope evades my senses, as my hand rests on the box of nails carelessly left behind by the carpenter when he had come last week to fix the broken leg of my bed. There’s a manic grin plastered on my face as I feverishly empty the nails near the doorway. I am quite impressed by my handiwork, but still, if there were exact words to describe the extent of my fear, I would say it felt like a serpent tightening its grip around me, which left me gasping for breath with every passing minute. I prepare myself for the worst and wait near the door to fight the lone battle. The loud pounding rattles my nerves and shakes me out of my reverie.

The voice behind the door says "Aapa! Khanna rakh diya hai! Kha lena." The routine customary lunch is served as a plate is shoved below the door. For the past two decades now, I have begun to realize that there is an imaginary world I have built around myself. There is a psychedelic spray of colors that surrounds my emotions; sometimes it is the gushing red of my hijab that brings in memories of me as a blushing bride of eighteen with intricate henna designs adorning my hands. On other days the solitary yellow bulb in my room reminds me of the corn fields in my village with their ripened corn cobs bearing a striking resemblance to the dull pearl necklace gifted by my Abbu during my nikkah and as the midnight blue of the night surrounds the sky it unfolds dark thoughts of lost battles resulting in two miscarriages, a barren womb, the husband marrying a second time announcing mental apathy of my mind, disowning me and finally shifting me to a mental asylum. 

In medical jargon doctors describe my state as schizophrenic. Mind playing mind games all the time; like a pendulum swinging between illusion and reality. The banging of the door awakens me from my slumber one more time. 

It could be the lady coming to pick up the plate or is it the hooded men coming to attack me again?

I tighten my hijab once again and head towards the door.