The Grey Lady

Her knee length maxi is frayed at the edges. One of the press buttons has come off loose and is hanging for its dear life.

 She must remember to get it fixed when she goes to the bazaar next for her weekly shopping. 

 As she gazes out of the window, the rain droplets caress her face crinkling it up further. The sky today is a thunderous grey and the black clouds look ominous in every way. If the rain continues to pour incessantly, it will prove to be a dampener to all her plans.

 Mrs. Braganza is her name. Once in a while which is not too often she feels like dressing up. She pulls out her favorite mid-length silk dress from the cupboard and places it on the bed. The dress has bright yellow tulips printed all over it, reminding her of a warm summer. She then gathers her thin silvery hair and piles it up into a tiny bulbous knot on the top of her head. In her youth she had long lustrous hair which she would roll it into a bun sideways whenever she would step out. Scratching her head, she thinks out loud.. What do they call it... A Russian knot.. No.. Was it a German knot...Hola! The word decides to ring a bell in her head. A French knot it was. Stylish and classy.. 

Mr. Braganza whom she fondly called Benji, always nodded his head in approval, whenever she would make a grand entry from her bedroom, swirling in her evening dress, her coiffured hair rolled up fashionably in a French knot. 

She rummages through her drawer and finds the only lipstick tube she has owned till date. A bright red pops out. A little daring she had thought when Benji had first gifted it to her. But he said the colour befitted her wheatish complexion well. She looked sexy he had said gazing into her fawn shaped eyes. She still remembers turning a beetroot red on hearing the compliment; the colour of her complexion matching the lipstick shade.

Her kitchen window looks out to a huge open space where the planes occasionally fly really low. She enjoys watching the planes, thinking about John, her only son settled in the States. A faint glimmer of hope weaves its way along her mind hoping to see him someday.

Once in a while she writes letters to him. She tells him about the new couple who have recently shifted in the neighborhood and for whom she had baked chocolate muffins; the cat who always waits for her when she comes home from the bazaar. Its eyes are the colour of faded autumn leaves. There are afternoons, when naughty school children would ring her doorbell and run away. But it was impossible to stay angry with them for long as she would remember her own childhood when she would indulge in such pranks.

Once in a month or maybe twice, John would ring her up as a means of casual inquiry, maybe to quell his own underlying guilt of not visiting her since the last four years. Mrs. Braganza would ask him as to why he never responds to her letters. This would be followed by a nervous laugh from John’s end saying, “Mamma, who writes letters in this day and age! It’s so old fashioned”

But Mrs. Braganza still continues to write letters to him in her steadfast handwriting. She cannot dare imagine placing a trunk call ever with the thought of the soaring bills crossing her mind. The meager pension she receives after Benji's death is just enough to manage her middle class way of living.

But John’s number is jotted on a piece of yellow paper and has been handed over to the Gomes who are her next door neighbors. Someday she would die, and then John would need to be informed.

The thought of death doesn’t really frighten her. After all it is a lonely life, and she is ready to welcome death. 

She pours herself a stiff shot of bourbon and turns on the music. In her silk dress and red lipstick she feels the power of youth again. A smile puckers up her face. The dim lights and the soothing music, calms her. She shuts her eyes; dreaming; of walking into a dense forest and being surrounded by a dozen fireflies. Her face is bathed in a warm glow. Like a halo. So peaceful…