On the day of her Shradh, everything is normal. The maids come and go, people go to work, children go to school, the trains and the buses struggle to run on time; the sun rises, it will rise to its highest position at noon, and then disappear, letting the moon take over. It is just another day in Ambernath. The crow caws in the front yard like every other day, hopping around, looking for food along with his usual companions: the sparrows, the squirrels, and the mynahs. There are two of them today, which means, for some, that today is a lucky day. At least for the one who sees the pair. I remember, in school, during the day of, say, an exam, seeing a pair of mynahs used to be a boost of positive energy. “Yes! My paper will go well today”, we would say, joining the index finger and the middle finger together and kissing them twice. Perhaps, people would call that a superstition- a child’s superstition.

Today, however, the crow’s presence in the yard is vital. He symbolises her soul, her visit to her home on the day of her death.

But she is not dead yet. She has woken up early in the morning, after a night of broken sleep. Sleep, for her, is like the early hours of dawn: the dull, grey, yet comforting freshness which lasts only for a few moments. She will take a long bath, like every other day, change into a crisp cotton sari,-which will turn soft and warm like her body, towards the end of the day- oil and comb her salt and pepper hair into a long, thin plait; apply Ponds talcum powder to her face and neck, apply a red bindi, and settle for a cup of sugarless tea. Today, however, I’m not there to witness her early morning ritual. Having witnessed it countless times before, I ignore it like the rising sun, like the everyday trip of the milkman, like the coming and going of maidservants.

I’m preparing hastily to go for an audition in Andheri with my mother. It is my sister who stays with her today. She has an unnatural glow on her face as they spend the lazy day of March 22 at home, sipping tea, watching television, dozing off in the midst of the lingering fragrance of tea, and the sounds from the television set. I remember spending such lazy afternoons with her, me in my red frock and two plaits, groaning under the burden of homework; and she, quiet in one of her soft, pale saris, and in her loneliness. I remember her telling me stories about her children-my uncles and aunts; about the death of her nephews and her nieces, and about her dead husband.

When I get back home, exhausted, I see the unnatural glow on her face, but I don’t stop and wonder about it. I have other worries: tomorrow’s homework, yesterday’s test- a child’s worries. I sit to study, and she calls me playfully, “Teju Kumar!” But I spite her. She disappears as quickly as she had come, not letting me see her fading smile, her disappointment, her loneliness- an adult’s loneliness.

It is her night of transition. She asks me to put on some powder on her back to soothe the sudden heat of March. Beads of sweat roll down her back even as I sprinkle the white powder on her back, and spread it gingerly, carefully avoiding the drops of sweat. Soon after, she cries out my name and I rush to her. She squeezes my hand tightly, unable to let go. It is her last cry for help, her last attempt to reach out.

Now, when I look back, I see only her loneliness. An adult’s consciousness as opposed to an adolescent’s indifference. Now, when I look back, it was my night of transition as well. Her journey was triggered by death; mine, by loss.

She finally comes and takes a bite of the rice on the banana leaf, ending my father’s anxious wait on the steps. Every year, she faithfully answers to the chanting of hymns by the pot-bellied gurujis, and to my father’s pleas, “ye re raja..ye aata ( “Come here, my little prince).”  She comes around every year as a memory, refusing, in my mind, to complete the circle of life.


Tejaswini  is a student of literature and loves to read and write.  Herwork has recently appeared in Reading Hour and in Emerge Literary Journal.