Sheela woke early to the sound of
temple bells. The post-dawn kirten chants had started concurrently
with the call of the prayer from the nearby mosque. Call of thanks to the Guru rose from the
Gurudwara, Sikh temple that competed with the church bells resounding down the
street.
Sheela had lived all her 25 years
of life at the crossroads where four religions converged. Each chime, every chant, distinct calls of
well-practiced vocal chords enveloped her as she sipped tea in her comfortable abode. She never visited any of these houses of
worship, but offered thanks to each one from her childhood home. Her gratitude extended from being blessed
with a loving family of her parents, grandmother, and older sister to a
fulfilling career in a multinational investment firm.
Her day started serenely as it
crescendoed from the peaceful chants to the rushed traffic, onto assisting very
needy, high net worth customers, rising to a climax at dinner with the
family. Daily, the old recorded sound,
like a needle stuck in a spot on the gramophone, her parents and grandmother discussed
possible prospects. Occasionally, her
married sister visiting for the evening chimed in her suggestions of eligible
matches from her own sasural, in-laws
family. Sheela covered her ears and let
the music play itself out until it got tired and died down.
One evening, Sheela returned home,
kicked her heels at the doorstep and padded in barefoot. The white marble floor felt cool to her soles
and she proceeded to shed her blue suit jacket, unveiling a white silk
shirt. Hearing voices from the sitting
room, she walked into greet her family.
In there she found them entertaining guests over tea and samosas. An elderly couple sat across from her parents
while her sister sat next to a handsome young man, engrossed in
conversation. Her mother spotted Sheela
and motioned her to join them. She
padded her bare feet across the room and slipped next to her mother. Respectfully, she greeted the elders
introduced to her and flashed a smile to the young man. He smiled back as everyone in the room
watched them both closely.
Conversations resumed among the
group as Sheela sat quietly. After a few
moments of raveling and unraveling her fingers, she excused herself and left
the sitting room. As she walked down the
corridor toward her bedroom, she heard footsteps behind her. She turned and saw the young man approach her
and behind him her sister stood smiling just before she disappeared.
His hair combed off to the side,
she noticed traces of gray around the edges.
His smile seen in the tube-light of the corridor showed a few extra
lines around the corners of his mouth.
As he approached her, the scent of mangoes rose to her nostrils and grew
more intense as he came closer. She
wrinkled her nose and stood firm, her big eyes direct and to the point. He opened his mouth, but shut it before
letting any words spill out. Her stance
became firmer, her bare feet holding their ground. He looked into her eyes and without any words
heard her wish. With a half-smile and a
nod, he bid farewell and turned around to walk away.
Sheela let out a slow breath and
resumed her journey to her bedroom, to the way of her life just as she liked
it. Her thoughts intruded her and
challenged her with a hefty dose of guilt.
What she defined as happiness did not match that of her parents. Independent, successful, confident and
comfortable with her choice of a solo journey through life was a sore that was
daily visible to her family and their understanding of a way of life. They picked on that sore let it bleed and
scab over, and then pick on it some more, letting it bleed all over again. Her presence was the constant reminder of
their sore.
To Be Continued
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