Raw Smoke
The cooker's piercing whistle saved me from my mother's wrath. She was irritated with the persistent, curious questions I asked about my young class teacher, Mrs. Rani Khare who taught science and stayed in the same building.
Popular and very attractive, all the senior guys at school wanted to know a lot of details about her. When they quizzed me about Mrs Khare, I felt big and important. Many a time I walked with her to school, helping her with charts and exercise books which she brought home for correction. She was also an outdoors person and was always arranging activities like nature walks, village visits and donation drives. Above all she was bubbly and cheerful and made every session in class a memorable experience.
I heard the other teachers describe the ninth and tenth classes as full of 'hooligans' and 'uncontrollable hulks'. They were like 'gentle lambs' Miss Murthy said, within my hearing, as she asked an embarrassed Mrs. Khare, 'How do you do it, Rani?'
One day Khare madam gave me three library books to give to the man Mr. Ranade, who stayed in the small asbestos covered shed, behind our building. Mrs. Khare had singled me out in front of all the other boys to do her bidding. I was thrilled to bits.
Ranade moved around in a wheel chair. He always wore full sleeved shirts, only exposing the scarred palm of his right hand. There was a blanket across his thighs hanging down to touch his feet. I would try to catch a glimpse of him in the morning or evening, wondering why my teacher was so interested in him. Some days I saw him struggling through the grassy verge working the wheel and pedal across the street. He kept to himself and had no visitors; but when night came, I could see the shadow of his outline in the wheel chair on his door step; the red eyes of the cigarette end glowing, sending up smoke rings keep its upward vigil.
One Friday evening walking back with Mrs. Khare, my hands full of exercise books and Sameer, hanging on to the charts and vying for her attention, our chatter was cut short when she asked, "What are your plans for the scout's week.”
Both of us gaped at her in surprise, at the sudden change of topic. Sameer was cracking one of the moron jokes which he had as usual, heard from his elder brother, thinking he was smart and acting much older than his twelve years. ”Nothing, Ma'am,” I said mildly wondering what 'good works' she was going to propose for the week end. Some times she let us help her to make cloth dolls to sell and donate the proceeds to the orphanage.
Sameer perked up and said, “I planned to help my neighbor’s kid with her English. She goes to a Marathi School.”
“Why don't you come tomorrow with Dhiren and help me? I have a job for you,” she said her eyes twinkling as she added, “Bring your other friends too. There is a gift at the end of it. Tomorrow after noon we will clear the grass and weeds from the front of Mr. Ranade's room.”
A strange tightening sensation stiffened my limbs. The enthusiasm drained away. Little question marks hooked my mind, but something stopped me from opening my mouth.
Sameer blithely asked her, "Who is Mr. Ranade? What is wrong with him, Ma'am?” She asked gently, "He is a very disabled man? He works in a Telephone booth in the market and stays in the house behind our building.”
That evening I noticed his room was in darkness.
No red eyes glowed in the graying dusk. Curiosity ate me. Where had Ranade disappeared? Was he with Mrs. Khare? How would he climb up the stairs? Who helped him to cook and change his clothes? My mind boggled at the situations I conjured up. Why was Mrs. Khare doing it? I have never seen them talk or visit each other.
Mother was glad, when I told her about Mrs. Khare's plans for the week end. "Good! You will do something useful and it will keep you occupied,” she said rushing after my baby brother who had managed to crawl away into the kitchen, and knock down the tins with a clattering sound. I felt my mother's mind was half the time somewhere else and she never really listened to the things I said.
After dinner I heard mother talking about my teacher in low tones to father, “Poor lady! Her husband was working for a foreign shipping line. He is reported missing for the last four years.” Father never spoke much. His replies were only grunts that echoed from behind the newspaper or the balance sheets he brought home. Mother danced around him or my brother like a mosquito occasionally darting in my direction.
My ears were straining hard to hear what she was murmuring, “He went offshore at Manila and never came back. Terrible! Isn't it? She doesn't even know if he is dead or alive…“ My imagination was working overtime. Strange feelings fractured the evening hours and like seedlings thoughts I could not understand, made me restless.
Her faint fragrance of sandal wood blurred into the smell of tobacco and greasy oils plastered on Ranade's unkempt head. The first fears of awareness like evanescent snakes opening out their hood; they swirled like mists and assumed the shape of Mr. Ranade. I felt the nameless pain and anger tremble up my hands and legs. Her young face with their delicate features and bubbling laughter seem to be smothered by the blackness of his presence burning inch by inch in his cigarette fire. Suddenly hot and bewildered, I called for my mother in sudden panic.
"You have not slept till now, Dhiren!” she admonished. ”Have you been reading ghost stories?” She was so normal and solid I sighed and went to sleep haunted by strange dreams.
Saturday afternoon was hard and back breaking work as we cut the grass and weeds in our building complex. Mrs. Khare wore a pink kurta and old jeans, looking small and girlish, joking and encouraging as other tenants joined us, giving up their siesta. I peered into Mr.Ranade's room. He was not around to appreciate the effort we all put into make the path clear for him. I imagined her sad and pining like a Hindi film heroine for her husband. It did not fit her image at all.
She was so alive and restless, always occupied with some activity. At school the senior guys referred to her as a "pocket Venus"; Teachers called her "Mrs. Charity” and felt jealous of her. In the evening we returned to her place and she gave each of us a beautifully illustrated atlas. She served chilled "lassi” (sweet yogurt) and fried 'pakodas.' After Sameer left she told me to slip a letter under Mr. Ranade's room.
For the first time I was reluctant to carry out her request. Sensing my reluctance her eyes were pleading and vulnerable. An irritation was welling up inside. I didn't like him and with half understood feelings I tried to figure her out and failed. Yet confused I silently took it and did what she wanted. Whenever I met him after that, his unsmiling face and slow moving wheel-chair disturbed me. I tried to blink him away like a bad dream.
The tenants played tennis on the newly sprouted lawn in front of our building complex Mrs. Khare sometimes joined us. Agile and quick, she left us breathless. At such times the physical image of Mr. Ranade would flash in my mind and I would freeze in my steps, a slow spread of pain webbing me. One day he met me on the road as I tried to avoid him.
"Hey, come here, boy!” his rough voice made me stop. I wanted to run away. Yet, I couldn't do it. She may not like it. May be he wanted some help, I wondered, and went to him.
"You know, I won't bite. Why do you run away when you see me?” he said gruffly.
"I know you write stories. Mrs. Khare says you are talented. Why don't you lend me some to read?” He smiled trying to be friendly. "My God!” could not believe it. She had told him about my writing. All those feelings and words that tumbled and confused me, inside my head wanting to be let out!
My parents never brought me story books or comics even for my birthdays. Mrs. Khare gave me old blank dairies and note books to scribble in. Her house was like a treasure chest of books from which I could borrow any time. If the earth had opened up I would have been happy to disappear. I felt terrible about my secret–My parents did not know about my 'stories' and jottings; now it was known to 'him'. I felt angry and betrayed. Only Mrs. Khare seems to understand when I first showed them to her.
She only smiled and said 'Good; keep writing.' She gave me books to read. My parents thought it was a waste of money when ever I asked them for story books. Mother frowned on comics and magazines and any form of reading matter other than school books as a waste of time. At home mother thought I was a little crazy, either dreaming too much or getting restless for no reason.
I stared at him, as I waited for him to finish his conversation. I felt Madam Khare would not like me to be rude to him. I wondered why he could not be more handsome and dashing like a prince in a fairy tale.
Ranade's face was scarred and grooved around his cheeks and forehead; his hooded eyes made him look like a villain from the movies. But when he sighed and shook his head, his thick hair flopped on his fore head and made him look like an actor dressed up for a film role. When he smiled slowly, his face was transformed, as his white teeth flashed and the pouches under his eyes crinkled in laughter; for a moment I felt I liked him, but my feelings were too mercurial to be held and changed to the uneasy dislike, when I thought of him with Mrs. Khare.
Thoughts made me panic, and I sprang away as if demons were chasing me, even as I heard his fading voice fluttering in the air. I felt he could read my mind.
One day I was standing alone on the lawn and imagining myself to be the cricketer, Sachin Tendulkar and fooling around with my cricket bat. Hearing the creaking sound, I turned to see Mr. Ranade rolling, straining and pushing the old rusted wheel chair towards me. I tensed and stared at him warily turning the bat in my hand.
"Hello. How are you? Please don't run away, child,'' he said gently; His eyes suddenly grew dull and hard as he stared fixedly at the bat in my hand.
“I used to play a long time ago. I was a good bowler…”His voice grew heavy with emotion and terrible memories.
“Play while you can, you don't know what will happen tomorrow,'' I felt desperate. His presence always cast a shadow and the air seems to grow still whenever he was around.
I wanted to get away from him and his brooding presence, as his left hand came out from under the coverlet. It was an artificial metal contraption with a claw like projection. I felt a cry tremble up my parched throat. "A left hand bowler….a good one… before the accident.”
I leapt away leaving the bat, unable to face the man. After that staring at my hands and legs I would feel frozen and suffocated. I felt my head would burst with my thoughts. Mrs. Khare would ask me, "Why do you look so puzzled at me? '' You are very quiet… Why are you not going out to play, Dhiren?’’.
“Where is Sameer?” Mother would gently probe at my changed behavior.
"Take your brother for a stroll…Go to Mrs. Aggarwal's house and watch the new movie. “
It was mother who was trying to push me out. My constant visits to Mrs. Khare's residence for the books ceased and she inquired if I was sick. I was caught between a sadness and longing I could not explain.
How I missed her endless rambling stories and idle chatter; the books in her cupboard that opened up the mysterious and enchanting world of my imagination! Like an obsession, I kept looking for Mr. Ranade and came to link my evenings with his burning cigarette-end. The glowing would be doused when he saw the lights go off in her room.
Why was he always waiting for her? What was her relationship with him? I wanted to ask her yet something held me back. I tried to think of Mrs. Khare and Mr. Ranade in love. My mind seemed to shrivel and curl with dread and revulsion.
No! I almost cried in pain, not him. The disabled image hurt so much that I stared at myself in the mirror imagining my body without limbs. Shaken I felt my safe, secure world cracking and crumbling. Black fear and despair would make me sweat and I would lie down for hours pretending to be asleep.
“Why don't we take Dhiren to a doctor? The child in not his usual self.” Mother's voice was full of concern.
“Leave him alone. He is growing up. Remember he was unhappy to change his school when we shifted here; now he must be unhappy about something else. He will get over it,” father said.
"I hope so…' she said disappearing in to the kitchen.
"He does not even talk about his teacher or school. Normally I had to tell him to keep quiet all the time''…she shook her head as she went back to her baking. Next day sure enough, mother gave me a tin of biscuits to give Mrs. Khare.
Next Sunday, when I went up, the room was locked. The sense of loss was acute.
Where had she gone away? That day the cigarette did not burn in the darkness. For a week I kept a vigil checking for their presence.
"That horrible Miss. Murthy drones us to sleep. Where has Khare Madam disappeared? I wonder,'' Sameer said;
I couldn't answer their query feeling funny and let down. After a week on Sunday afternoon, I went upstairs again to check if she was in. The door was not locked. It was strange to find it open. I forgot to knock in my eagerness. I pushed it open and to my surprise heard voices from the bedroom. Moving closer my heart thundering wildly, I called out. No one answered me. Pushing open the bedroom door I was petrified by the sight I saw.
My black frightening images became concrete. Brute reality stared at me. The propped up body in the chair looked like a hacked trunk with no legs. Only the stump of a left arm protruded and the legs were not there! The naked shoulders and chest were powerfully made; it was terribly disturbing to see him holding Mrs. Khare's slim fingers in his right scarred hand and his dark, swarthy face close to her. Her slender figure in the house coat was covered with her long black hair. Hurt and shocked I only knew, I stood screaming. Strange sounds coming from my throat making them come apart in startled disbelief. I could not stop crying.
She came towards me and gently shook me. Her voice was very soft. I could only tremble and register their words as if from another world.
Mr. Ranade's face was twisted and bitter, "See, what I told you earlier. See his reaction; think how our child would react to me… to me… I can't bear it"
As his head slumped into the crook of his right arm and the limbless body shuddered in agony of pain saying, "Rani…. It’s too much…. I can't …."
Mrs. Khare cried out taking him in her arms, "You are a whole man…. I love you as you are.”
Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she held him close. Looking at me leaning against the door she said slowly, "He…. he… is only a child… why do you take his reaction so seriously…."
It was a strange sight that was carved into my memory.
"Dhiren, close the door and leave us, son…..” She was like a mother comforting her child. Hate, envy and many other emotions strangled me. I felt that life would never be the same again. An unseen hand had ripped away a part of my childhood and rawness of a strange sun was burning through the hole.
Nirmala Pillai has published two books of poems in English, and a number of poems and short stories in various magazines like PEN, The Asian Age, Indian Literature, Bare Root Review from Minnesota University, Poetry Can, UK [Poetry Southwest], Kritya, The Telegraph, The Little Magazine, Cha (an Asian literary journal from Hong Kong), etc. One of her short stories was shortlisted for the South Asian Award by The Little Magazine published from Delhi. She also paints. She has held painting exhibitions in Mumbai, Delhi, Chennai, and Cochin.
The cooker's piercing whistle saved me from my mother's wrath. She was irritated with the persistent, curious questions I asked about my young class teacher, Mrs. Rani Khare who taught science and stayed in the same building.
Popular and very attractive, all the senior guys at school wanted to know a lot of details about her. When they quizzed me about Mrs Khare, I felt big and important. Many a time I walked with her to school, helping her with charts and exercise books which she brought home for correction. She was also an outdoors person and was always arranging activities like nature walks, village visits and donation drives. Above all she was bubbly and cheerful and made every session in class a memorable experience.
I heard the other teachers describe the ninth and tenth classes as full of 'hooligans' and 'uncontrollable hulks'. They were like 'gentle lambs' Miss Murthy said, within my hearing, as she asked an embarrassed Mrs. Khare, 'How do you do it, Rani?'
One day Khare madam gave me three library books to give to the man Mr. Ranade, who stayed in the small asbestos covered shed, behind our building. Mrs. Khare had singled me out in front of all the other boys to do her bidding. I was thrilled to bits.
Ranade moved around in a wheel chair. He always wore full sleeved shirts, only exposing the scarred palm of his right hand. There was a blanket across his thighs hanging down to touch his feet. I would try to catch a glimpse of him in the morning or evening, wondering why my teacher was so interested in him. Some days I saw him struggling through the grassy verge working the wheel and pedal across the street. He kept to himself and had no visitors; but when night came, I could see the shadow of his outline in the wheel chair on his door step; the red eyes of the cigarette end glowing, sending up smoke rings keep its upward vigil.
One Friday evening walking back with Mrs. Khare, my hands full of exercise books and Sameer, hanging on to the charts and vying for her attention, our chatter was cut short when she asked, "What are your plans for the scout's week.”
Both of us gaped at her in surprise, at the sudden change of topic. Sameer was cracking one of the moron jokes which he had as usual, heard from his elder brother, thinking he was smart and acting much older than his twelve years. ”Nothing, Ma'am,” I said mildly wondering what 'good works' she was going to propose for the week end. Some times she let us help her to make cloth dolls to sell and donate the proceeds to the orphanage.
Sameer perked up and said, “I planned to help my neighbor’s kid with her English. She goes to a Marathi School.”
“Why don't you come tomorrow with Dhiren and help me? I have a job for you,” she said her eyes twinkling as she added, “Bring your other friends too. There is a gift at the end of it. Tomorrow after noon we will clear the grass and weeds from the front of Mr. Ranade's room.”
A strange tightening sensation stiffened my limbs. The enthusiasm drained away. Little question marks hooked my mind, but something stopped me from opening my mouth.
Sameer blithely asked her, "Who is Mr. Ranade? What is wrong with him, Ma'am?” She asked gently, "He is a very disabled man? He works in a Telephone booth in the market and stays in the house behind our building.”
That evening I noticed his room was in darkness.
No red eyes glowed in the graying dusk. Curiosity ate me. Where had Ranade disappeared? Was he with Mrs. Khare? How would he climb up the stairs? Who helped him to cook and change his clothes? My mind boggled at the situations I conjured up. Why was Mrs. Khare doing it? I have never seen them talk or visit each other.
Mother was glad, when I told her about Mrs. Khare's plans for the week end. "Good! You will do something useful and it will keep you occupied,” she said rushing after my baby brother who had managed to crawl away into the kitchen, and knock down the tins with a clattering sound. I felt my mother's mind was half the time somewhere else and she never really listened to the things I said.
After dinner I heard mother talking about my teacher in low tones to father, “Poor lady! Her husband was working for a foreign shipping line. He is reported missing for the last four years.” Father never spoke much. His replies were only grunts that echoed from behind the newspaper or the balance sheets he brought home. Mother danced around him or my brother like a mosquito occasionally darting in my direction.
My ears were straining hard to hear what she was murmuring, “He went offshore at Manila and never came back. Terrible! Isn't it? She doesn't even know if he is dead or alive…“ My imagination was working overtime. Strange feelings fractured the evening hours and like seedlings thoughts I could not understand, made me restless.
Her faint fragrance of sandal wood blurred into the smell of tobacco and greasy oils plastered on Ranade's unkempt head. The first fears of awareness like evanescent snakes opening out their hood; they swirled like mists and assumed the shape of Mr. Ranade. I felt the nameless pain and anger tremble up my hands and legs. Her young face with their delicate features and bubbling laughter seem to be smothered by the blackness of his presence burning inch by inch in his cigarette fire. Suddenly hot and bewildered, I called for my mother in sudden panic.
"You have not slept till now, Dhiren!” she admonished. ”Have you been reading ghost stories?” She was so normal and solid I sighed and went to sleep haunted by strange dreams.
Saturday afternoon was hard and back breaking work as we cut the grass and weeds in our building complex. Mrs. Khare wore a pink kurta and old jeans, looking small and girlish, joking and encouraging as other tenants joined us, giving up their siesta. I peered into Mr.Ranade's room. He was not around to appreciate the effort we all put into make the path clear for him. I imagined her sad and pining like a Hindi film heroine for her husband. It did not fit her image at all.
She was so alive and restless, always occupied with some activity. At school the senior guys referred to her as a "pocket Venus"; Teachers called her "Mrs. Charity” and felt jealous of her. In the evening we returned to her place and she gave each of us a beautifully illustrated atlas. She served chilled "lassi” (sweet yogurt) and fried 'pakodas.' After Sameer left she told me to slip a letter under Mr. Ranade's room.
For the first time I was reluctant to carry out her request. Sensing my reluctance her eyes were pleading and vulnerable. An irritation was welling up inside. I didn't like him and with half understood feelings I tried to figure her out and failed. Yet confused I silently took it and did what she wanted. Whenever I met him after that, his unsmiling face and slow moving wheel-chair disturbed me. I tried to blink him away like a bad dream.
The tenants played tennis on the newly sprouted lawn in front of our building complex Mrs. Khare sometimes joined us. Agile and quick, she left us breathless. At such times the physical image of Mr. Ranade would flash in my mind and I would freeze in my steps, a slow spread of pain webbing me. One day he met me on the road as I tried to avoid him.
"Hey, come here, boy!” his rough voice made me stop. I wanted to run away. Yet, I couldn't do it. She may not like it. May be he wanted some help, I wondered, and went to him.
"You know, I won't bite. Why do you run away when you see me?” he said gruffly.
"I know you write stories. Mrs. Khare says you are talented. Why don't you lend me some to read?” He smiled trying to be friendly. "My God!” could not believe it. She had told him about my writing. All those feelings and words that tumbled and confused me, inside my head wanting to be let out!
My parents never brought me story books or comics even for my birthdays. Mrs. Khare gave me old blank dairies and note books to scribble in. Her house was like a treasure chest of books from which I could borrow any time. If the earth had opened up I would have been happy to disappear. I felt terrible about my secret–My parents did not know about my 'stories' and jottings; now it was known to 'him'. I felt angry and betrayed. Only Mrs. Khare seems to understand when I first showed them to her.
She only smiled and said 'Good; keep writing.' She gave me books to read. My parents thought it was a waste of money when ever I asked them for story books. Mother frowned on comics and magazines and any form of reading matter other than school books as a waste of time. At home mother thought I was a little crazy, either dreaming too much or getting restless for no reason.
I stared at him, as I waited for him to finish his conversation. I felt Madam Khare would not like me to be rude to him. I wondered why he could not be more handsome and dashing like a prince in a fairy tale.
Ranade's face was scarred and grooved around his cheeks and forehead; his hooded eyes made him look like a villain from the movies. But when he sighed and shook his head, his thick hair flopped on his fore head and made him look like an actor dressed up for a film role. When he smiled slowly, his face was transformed, as his white teeth flashed and the pouches under his eyes crinkled in laughter; for a moment I felt I liked him, but my feelings were too mercurial to be held and changed to the uneasy dislike, when I thought of him with Mrs. Khare.
Thoughts made me panic, and I sprang away as if demons were chasing me, even as I heard his fading voice fluttering in the air. I felt he could read my mind.
One day I was standing alone on the lawn and imagining myself to be the cricketer, Sachin Tendulkar and fooling around with my cricket bat. Hearing the creaking sound, I turned to see Mr. Ranade rolling, straining and pushing the old rusted wheel chair towards me. I tensed and stared at him warily turning the bat in my hand.
"Hello. How are you? Please don't run away, child,'' he said gently; His eyes suddenly grew dull and hard as he stared fixedly at the bat in my hand.
“I used to play a long time ago. I was a good bowler…”His voice grew heavy with emotion and terrible memories.
“Play while you can, you don't know what will happen tomorrow,'' I felt desperate. His presence always cast a shadow and the air seems to grow still whenever he was around.
I wanted to get away from him and his brooding presence, as his left hand came out from under the coverlet. It was an artificial metal contraption with a claw like projection. I felt a cry tremble up my parched throat. "A left hand bowler….a good one… before the accident.”
I leapt away leaving the bat, unable to face the man. After that staring at my hands and legs I would feel frozen and suffocated. I felt my head would burst with my thoughts. Mrs. Khare would ask me, "Why do you look so puzzled at me? '' You are very quiet… Why are you not going out to play, Dhiren?’’.
“Where is Sameer?” Mother would gently probe at my changed behavior.
"Take your brother for a stroll…Go to Mrs. Aggarwal's house and watch the new movie. “
It was mother who was trying to push me out. My constant visits to Mrs. Khare's residence for the books ceased and she inquired if I was sick. I was caught between a sadness and longing I could not explain.
How I missed her endless rambling stories and idle chatter; the books in her cupboard that opened up the mysterious and enchanting world of my imagination! Like an obsession, I kept looking for Mr. Ranade and came to link my evenings with his burning cigarette-end. The glowing would be doused when he saw the lights go off in her room.
Why was he always waiting for her? What was her relationship with him? I wanted to ask her yet something held me back. I tried to think of Mrs. Khare and Mr. Ranade in love. My mind seemed to shrivel and curl with dread and revulsion.
No! I almost cried in pain, not him. The disabled image hurt so much that I stared at myself in the mirror imagining my body without limbs. Shaken I felt my safe, secure world cracking and crumbling. Black fear and despair would make me sweat and I would lie down for hours pretending to be asleep.
“Why don't we take Dhiren to a doctor? The child in not his usual self.” Mother's voice was full of concern.
“Leave him alone. He is growing up. Remember he was unhappy to change his school when we shifted here; now he must be unhappy about something else. He will get over it,” father said.
"I hope so…' she said disappearing in to the kitchen.
"He does not even talk about his teacher or school. Normally I had to tell him to keep quiet all the time''…she shook her head as she went back to her baking. Next day sure enough, mother gave me a tin of biscuits to give Mrs. Khare.
Next Sunday, when I went up, the room was locked. The sense of loss was acute.
Where had she gone away? That day the cigarette did not burn in the darkness. For a week I kept a vigil checking for their presence.
"That horrible Miss. Murthy drones us to sleep. Where has Khare Madam disappeared? I wonder,'' Sameer said;
I couldn't answer their query feeling funny and let down. After a week on Sunday afternoon, I went upstairs again to check if she was in. The door was not locked. It was strange to find it open. I forgot to knock in my eagerness. I pushed it open and to my surprise heard voices from the bedroom. Moving closer my heart thundering wildly, I called out. No one answered me. Pushing open the bedroom door I was petrified by the sight I saw.
My black frightening images became concrete. Brute reality stared at me. The propped up body in the chair looked like a hacked trunk with no legs. Only the stump of a left arm protruded and the legs were not there! The naked shoulders and chest were powerfully made; it was terribly disturbing to see him holding Mrs. Khare's slim fingers in his right scarred hand and his dark, swarthy face close to her. Her slender figure in the house coat was covered with her long black hair. Hurt and shocked I only knew, I stood screaming. Strange sounds coming from my throat making them come apart in startled disbelief. I could not stop crying.
She came towards me and gently shook me. Her voice was very soft. I could only tremble and register their words as if from another world.
Mr. Ranade's face was twisted and bitter, "See, what I told you earlier. See his reaction; think how our child would react to me… to me… I can't bear it"
As his head slumped into the crook of his right arm and the limbless body shuddered in agony of pain saying, "Rani…. It’s too much…. I can't …."
Mrs. Khare cried out taking him in her arms, "You are a whole man…. I love you as you are.”
Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she held him close. Looking at me leaning against the door she said slowly, "He…. he… is only a child… why do you take his reaction so seriously…."
It was a strange sight that was carved into my memory.
"Dhiren, close the door and leave us, son…..” She was like a mother comforting her child. Hate, envy and many other emotions strangled me. I felt that life would never be the same again. An unseen hand had ripped away a part of my childhood and rawness of a strange sun was burning through the hole.
Nirmala Pillai has published two books of poems in English, and a number of poems and short stories in various magazines like PEN, The Asian Age, Indian Literature, Bare Root Review from Minnesota University, Poetry Can, UK [Poetry Southwest], Kritya, The Telegraph, The Little Magazine, Cha (an Asian literary journal from Hong Kong), etc. One of her short stories was shortlisted for the South Asian Award by The Little Magazine published from Delhi. She also paints. She has held painting exhibitions in Mumbai, Delhi, Chennai, and Cochin.
