I
cradled her in my arms as she slept. The tiniest of fingers wrapped around
mine. I couldn’t sleep. What if I missed this tomorrow morning? And as she
began to smile in her sleep, dark circles began to form around my eyes. A
candle burnt on the table, threatening to end before its turn. Overworked
candles. I always felt a little pity for them. Thankless jobs.
Can
one daydream at night? I have often wondered. As a few familiar books began to
collect mites on the shelf, I thought of our first day together. ‘Our’ day. It
was special. There was no else after classes. We were watching the clouds
shape-shift. “It is going to rain,” you had said. I didn’t have an umbrella,
and hadn’t cared.
That
was, what, 20 years ago?
Adhuna
was sleeping on the floor. Her old bones would give up at night, as she would
writhe in her sleep, often fighting bad dreams. I would watch her too. Why did
she work here? I hardly paid her anything.
For
three years, Adhuna took care of me, and now her. She came to me like a discarded
orphan, well into her fifties, asking for a job. I needed someone to just be at
home when I came back every evening.
For
three years she worked without complaining. My little flat looked like a home
within a week of her employment. After many years, I didn’t have to eat dinner
silently.
Diva
by day, broken by night – month after month, I had fought the craving to end
it, the charade I was playing without a break. Adhuna would wash my clothes and
iron them carefully. She would oil my hair once a week and shampoo it as I sat
on a stool with water and tears pouring down my almost naked body.
Adhuna.
Adhuna became Adhuna ma.
I
had named her Adhuna as well; the original was not going to live for too long.
I needed something to remember her by.
I
had saved money for Adhuna; money I had sworn to never touch.
Six
months before the little one came, Adhuna went to her village, to meet her
brother and sister-in-law. I had handed over ten thousand rupees to her, money
that I had saved for her, and told her to buy them something. She came back
with the money, shoved them into my hands and never spoke of them again.
It
was 4am. An unnatural force was dragging down my eyelids. I fell asleep.
When
I woke, it was already 10am. Adhuna had cooked my breakfast, packed my lunch,
fed the baby, bathed it and was sitting on the little balcony reading out the
newspaper to a five-month old. I never asked where Adhuna learnt English. I
felt she would be embarrassed if I did.
It
was my tenth year at the newspaper. Things had changed. From a sensible set of
pages, the paper had turned into something that fed the population only with
what they wanted. There were no opinions, no stands taken anymore. My day began
and ended exactly the same way – with a sigh.
The
morning of my so-called ‘anniversary’ at the job, Adhuna brought out my
favourite tunic. “Wear this today. You look very nice in it,” she laid it out
on the bed. Lining my dark eyes with some kohl, I tied my hair back. I didn’t
really know how I looked anymore. I had stopped looking years ago.
“Didi,
I have cleaned the breast pump,” Adhuna said, handing over the silly
contraption.
It
was a long day at work. There was an office party at the Press Club that went
on till 1am. After literally forcing a news editor to drop me back home, I
walked up the stairs of the dilapidated building. A decade. I have seen other
decades. A decade of marriage. A decade of romance. A decade of friendships.
Nothing quite stays.
Even
if you tie it to your soul with a magic link, things have a way of slipping out
of your life. There is no ‘forever’.
A
tall glass of cold water brought me back to my senses. Stop complaining, I
said, you have more than what you deserve and much more than some others.
Everything that functions in your life is a miracle.
Switching
on the light in the bedroom, thanking that there was no power outage, I washed
my face, my feet and changed clothes.
Where
is he?
Does
he know what day is today?
Is
he thinking of me today? At least today?
An
Ernest Hemingway lay next to me. I had read it five times already, and had
started it all over again.
Tomorrow
might be the same but it will be a different day.
“What
do you think Adhuna? Will I get a raise this quarter?”
There was no answer. Even the baby didn’t stir. Even the lingering shadows of a dead
adopted mother and a baby had disappeared.
Yes,
tomorrow will be a different day. But it will be the same.
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