VIBGYOR

by Keerthana Jayaraj

  I ran outside, almost colliding with Goldy at the door. Her colour had brightened a little, although her voice was frantic and shaking. “Ker…Ker…” She panted, grabbing me by the shoulder. “Fir……”

  “What?”

  “Kerosene.” She said. “She went down to the kitchen and…”

  A scream left me before I had the chance to stop it. In the one second I stood still, I had horrible visions of suicide and the whole house blowing up.

  “What do we do?” Goldy flung her hands about wildly as she spoke, her feet dancing about my path. I do not claim I knew exactly what to do. What I did know was I was supposed to be doing something, not standing about defeated by fear.

  “What do we do?” I pushed aside the yellow and flew…flew till the stairs and took a huge jump down. As air gushed from below, I forced myself not to look at the cement floor rushing towards me. A clean landing and another round of flight towards the kitchen.

  “Shiva? Shiva?”

  I called out, my eyes scanning all the four corners. “Shiva??”

  It was perfectly clear that Shiva wasn’t there. I held on to a kitchen counter, a gasping for breath. Fire…Smoke…Ruins……

  “SHIVAAAAA!!!!! WHAT!!!!!!” A very human yell called me out to the front yard. I heard the crackling of the fire before I reached the front door. I broke into a run and flew down the steps towards the fireball.

  “Shiva…” The frightened woman was standing a few feet away, shielding her eyes with her hand. At the other side of the flames stood Shiva, embers shining in her eyes. Sweat rained down her forehead and lingered on her eyelashes.

  “Don’t worry Mom.” She laughed, tilting her head to the right. “I’’m just disposing off a few things.”

  “Shiva…” The fire roared and rose higher. I tried to make out the things being burnt. A diary was there, several clothes, makeup kit, show pieces of some sort and the unfortunate photo. Flames leaned dangerously towards the nearby trees…

  “HELP!!!!!”

  Shiva’s mother screamed as the flames licked at a jasmine plant. A delicate white flower white blistered and fell off in seconds. “Help!!!!!”

  “Move over, Devi!”

  It was Raghunath and he was holding a garden hose. It spit out water over the raging flames, reducing their burning intensity to a dull grey. The man may be an inconsiderate jerk but his presence of mind was admirable.

  “How useless can you be!” He snapped as the poor woman started to lean on his shoulder. “It would have taken you five seconds to fetch the hose and…” he clenched his teeth and made his way inside.

  Devi followed after a long glance at Shiva who was staring at the ashes. A silent prayer escaped her pleading eyes into the dark night. Goldy peeked nervously through the front door.

  “What happened?”

  “Why don’t you come over here and see?”

  Goldy came outside apprehensively. She stared fearfully into the ashes and said. “Did she actually burn…”

  I nodded.

  Shiva looked up gazing absently at the faint moon, hiding under the clouds. Then she strode inside too. A few embers, still hot, glinted in the ashes.

  “Poor girl…” Goldy murmured. A few hours later all the lights in the house went off except the one in the dining room. Devi, looking over a hundred years old, sat alone, her eyes following the progress of the second hand of the wall clock, hugging herself with her hands. A book lay open on the table. Every now and then she would turn a page only to go back to staring at the clock.

  “Devi???” A voice called out from the nearby room.

  “I’m reading…”

  She answered mechanically.

  A grunt and then silence. The woman sighed before turning over another page, her eyes fixed on the second hand of the clock.

  Tick… Tick… Tick… I just wandered around with an agitated Goldy on my tail. She was saying something about everything being so odd and sad. I didn’t bother to listen. Yellows love sunshine and rainbows. The sky turns grey and they’re lost.

  Ono O’ clock struck when Devi finally decided to get up from her chair. Her eyelids were drooping so low that it was a wonder she could see at all. I presumed she was just going to return to her room but I was wrong.

  She stood framed in the doorway of Shiva’s room. The dining room light cast an unearthly aura on her wrinkled face. Confusion and worry leaked out of her tired eyelids.

  She walked on, slowly, deliberately, her fingers shaking with each step. Her legs groaned as she took her seat at the edge of Shiva’s bed.

  “Shiva…” It was more of a wail than a wakeup call. Too soft to be heard. Her trembling hands stroked her daughter’s hair. A single drop of tear fell onto the tip of Shiva’s carefully tied up hair.

  “Mom?”

  Shiva grunted, hugging her pillow. Devi did not reply. Her lips merely quivered before releasing a tear-choked sob.

  Shiva turned over, leaving her pillow. The woman held her hand gently and gave it a squeeze. “Stay with me.”

  She said, just before leaving the room.

  I stayed even after she left, taking her seat on the side of the bed. Goldy sat beside me, looking so somber and grave that her brightness was non-existent. “You still haven’t explained what you are going to do.”

  “You’ll know when I know.” I said.

  CHAPTER 9

  A few birds alerted me of the arrival of dawn. I looked out of Shivani’s window to see a deep red sky. Now, I know the sunrise is supposed to be a delightful phenomena and everything but to my horrified eyes it was a blood soaked battlefield. The pink clouds looked like chopped off arms and legs. The mild morning wind stank of blood and broken hearts.

  “Hey Shakti!”

  Goldy. Just the kind of voice I would love to wish me a Good Morning. The brightness and chirpiness was there in the exactly the right amount.

  “Good Morning.” I said, turning my back to the disturbing vision. Blankets were kicked back on the empty bed. A few fallen hairs stuck to the pillows swung around in the overpowering wind of the ceiling fan.

  “Where’s Shiva, Goldy?” I had seen her get up at 4:00 and go out. But she hadn’t returned to the room since. I could have gone out, yes, but I felt rather tired to move. There’s definitely a limit to human soap-opera I could take.

  “She’s…Well…She’’s spread out a whole bunch of papers in the dining room and…” “And?”

  “She’s writing.”

  Writing? I must have looked comically confused for Goldy burst into laughter. Not that it took much to get Goldy to laugh.

  “She’s not an illiterate, is she? Were you lying when you told me she attended high school?”

  “Idiot!” I couldn’t help laughing. “People don’’t…” My voice trailed away as a torn piece of a paper flew through the door.

  I walked outside to see Shiva just as Goldy described. Immersed in a huge bunch of papers – lots typed, a few blank. Goldy read through a few and remarked. “She’s good.”

  No way I’m taking a yellow at her word. Rose coloured glasses tend to see a silver lining in every cloud. I took the liberty of skimming through a few paragraphs of the lining in every cloud. I took the liberty of skimming through a few paragraphs of the nearest sheet. As I expected it wasn’t as great as Goldy described but it wasn’’t bad either. Melodramatic, blow-up prose(hate that), sentiments sprinkled to taste(but not to my taste)…But it was good. Perhaps with a mentor, it would blossom further and become something great. The papers were scented with an intoxicating passion. Shiny optimism popped through the letters. It didn’’t match the girl sitting at the head of the table, fanatical glee dancing in her eyes as she scribbled furiously with her pen.

  “She’s not typing…” I didn’t need Goldy’s hint to go over and see what she was doing. It seemed that Shiva had abandoned her first attempt. A new ‘Chapter 1’’ was scribbled in prussian blue ink.

  Chapter 1 She opened her eyes to darkness, bleedi
ng from the shattered remains of her dreams. All was lost. The light and warmth of her life had slowly seeped away, leaving behind an aching hollow of disappointment. A pus filled wound reeking of decay and blood. Blood…She repeated to herself as she reached for the light switch. How nice would it be to see him bleed for a change! How absolutely wonderful it would be to hear him beg…To see him helpless and in pain. She imagined herself picking up the heavy torch…Imagined running towards him as he came in through that door…Pictured his surprise as the torch crashed on his head…The coppery smell of blood and the final cry of pain. The cry…Her imagination(particularly morbid at the moment) painted it as terrified, pleading and pathetic all the same. Not a surprise of course. Someone, her grandmother maybe, had told her ones that the ‘meanies’ who bullied at school had no spine. None at all.

  She withdrew her hand from the light switch just as his silhouette appeared at the door. Her hand tightened on the torch. A speck of light reflected off the sharp blade in his hand and pierced her pupils. What part of her body did he intent to cut off? Half her hair was gone…Her hands were almost fully covered in burn marks….There didn’t seem to be much left for him to do…really…

  Ignoring the pains that taunted her from various parts of the body, she sat up. The coldness of the torch burned her skin but she held on to it. His laugh, entered through her left ear and left through the right. Nothing scared her anymore.

  The caged bird was ready to strike back. I don’t know precisely what I felt at the moment. Repulsion? Yes…At the goriness, the hinted violence…Admiration? Yes…… the way she built an atmosphere with a few words… the candid tone discussing murder…the unnamed protagonist ready to strike. It was ghoulishly impressive.

  Goldy, ever the bundle of curiosity had, of course, followed me. Her shiny head was bent over the paper, one hand placed tenderly in the centre. She raced through it bent over the paper, one hand placed tenderly in the centre. She raced through it VIBGYOR rather quickly and turned towards me.

  “This isn’t good, is it?”

  “That depends.”

  Goldy looked confused.

  “If you’re referring to the quality of her prose, it is pretty good. No great. But good. Miles better that the other stuff I read. If you are talking about Shiva…” I kept my glance on Shiva as I spoke. The maniacal glint went out of her eyes the moment the pen left the paper. A smile, a mild one yes, but still a smile, appeared on her lips as her eyes scanned through what she had written.

  “A name…” she whispered. “A name…”

  She brought down the pen on the table. There was a clang as the glass cried out in pain. “The name…” she said again.

  “Shiva?”

  Her mother was up. She looked the same tired old soul. One caged bird who didn’t want to escape. In fact, the idea of escape and being alone would probably scare her into a coma.

  “I’m writing!” Shiva snapped, scratching her head with the pen. “A name… Ah!” Her eyes lit up. “Got it.”

  She scribbled somewhere on the page. “It will do. I’ll think of something better later.” Instinctively, I peeked at what she had written.

  Broken chains

  Shiva’s mother was still as a statue, her face white, her hands held together as if in prayer. Trembling lips opened and closed but no voice came. “Mom! I want my typewriter.”

  The woman started. She stared at her daughter disbelievingly.

  Shiva went on, oblivious to everything except her dear pieces of paper.

  “The one that Grandpa gifted …The one Dad’s using now. It’s mine and I want it back.” “But dear…You…”

  “I need it. And yes…I’m writing again.”

  “Dad wouldn’t…”

  “Couldn’t care less.”

  Shiva stood up, stretching her hands. Whistling a little tune, she went to her room.

  Her mother lingered for a little while longer. She gathered up the paper swiftly and put them away in a neat pile. Shiva’s recent work she left well alone. I wondered why she didn’t try and read what her daughter had written. But then, perhaps that was for the better. I don’’t think she would have relished in her daughter’s choice of words. Nor would have she approved of all the less-than-peaceful imagery. Obviously a woman not designed for disturbing dramas. A tailor made soap opera viewer.

  It was after she left for her usual station in the kitchen that Shiva returned from her room. She was carrying a leather diary. It was coated in a layer of dust, partially rubbed off by Shiva’s long fingers. Hmmm…Another writer’’s tool?

  Shiva…a writer? I have to admit I was trying to wrap my head around that one. Frankly, she lacked the guts, the sheer brilliant strokes of imagination and passion that I believe writers cherish.

  As though she read my thoughts, Goldy remarked.

  “She must have been quite a remarkable girl once.”

  Once…The wistful way Goldy said that particular word struck me. Once…Yes… Once….I recalled the scent of passion. What happened? What killed the fire of imagination that once blazed inside her? What changed her so much? The obvious answer came to me in a flash.

  She got married. Funny…This kind of thing makes me glad that we spirits don’t have this kind of nonsense. I mean…I wouldn’t be happy to be tied off eternally to another person. Ok…Perhaps a nice person would not be too bad. But someone like Shiva’s dad, who treats me like a slave….I wouldn’t take that for a second. No slave adores or loves their master.

  Shiva wrote of the remainder of the morning, occasionally skimming through the pages of the diary. For the first time, I saw her enjoying herself. She smiled, repeated dialogues to herself and even hummed some songs. She paid no attention to breakfast and was content to scribble rapidly while her parents ate. Her mother looked apprehensively at her from time to time but her father…Apparently he found his fried eggs and bread more fascinating than his daughter.

  After the plates were cleared away, Shiva’s Dad rose to face his daughter. I’m not a fanciful person by any means but for a moment I imagined another explosion and throwing about of angry words. Goldy must have thought me mad(standing squarely between father and daughter hands outstretched, ready to reach out to either one in case something unfortunate happened) but she hadn’t yet gotten a true taste of life in this house.

  “Your mother told me that you are writing again.” His voice was dry and curt. The immediate picture that rose to my mind? A woman cutting tomatoes remarking casually that they are quite right for a particular dish. But then…even that statement would have carried more emotion than this.

  Shiva’s reply was equally short (though not exactly sweet). A grunt…which could have been a yes or a ‘Go away. You’re disturbing me.’

  “You can have the type writer. I was just borrowing it till the printer comes back from repairs.” He was gone. Shiva looked up. There was a happy smile on her face. She raced upstairs and when she came down she was cradling the typewriter in her hands like a little child.

  She carefully set it down on the desk in her room. Placing one sheet neatly in it, she sat down, her eyes dreamy. Then slowly, she started to type.

  Thanks Dad…

  Just that. She pulled the sheet out and crumpled it. In another second the paper bounced on the floor and landed in the living room. Now that she got started, I expected Shiva to spend the whole day getting reacquainted with her hobby. Imagine my surprise when she was all set to go out after lunch. Her mother was (no surprises there) worried that her daughter skipped both breakfast and lunch and ambushed Shivani just as she made her way out of the front door.

  “Shiva…Where…”

  She was flustered..yes….but the faint emotion that danced in her eyes was fear. “I’m going out for a walk. I’ll grab something to eat on the way.”

  Shiva wasn’t rude but there was something about her narrowed eyes and lips that drooped into a frown that suggested nothing-absolutely nothing-was going to alter her plans.

 
“Where…I mean…”

  Poor old thing. She was positively withering in Shiva’s gaze. I gave the girl a gentle push to steer her out of the door. No. Pathetic as the woman was, I wasn’t going to let anybody hurt her.

  Even before I saw the rusted gates swinging lazily on their hinges, creaking and groaning, I had an inkling that Shiva was headed to the park. There was something cemetery-like about the place…A dark but appealing aura very like the one that called flies to fire. I don’t know if I’m being fanciful but it was much more apparent this second time around. The falling leaves…The wilting flowers…And the crows. A huge battalion of them swimming in the reeking, repelling garbage.

  Shiva took her place beneath a tree, leaning on its moldy trunk, her eyes staring dreamily into a distance. The sky was a clear blue, remarkably free of clouds. The thick plastic file in her hands rustled in the wind.

  “This is definitely a small world.” I recognized the cheerful voice even before Shiva turned around. It was Dan, his plump face full of smiles, at the tail of Jacob’s wheelchair. Jacob himself looked serene, his ears perked up in intense concentration.

  “Jacob…It’s Shivani.”

  He whispered to his friend.

  “Fancy seeing you here again.” Jacob said slowly.

  Shiva smiled and greeted the two men.

  “I’m not here to brood.” She said sheepishly.

  “That much is obvious.”

  Jacob said mischievously. Poor Dan looked endearingly befuddled.

  “It is?”

  “I heard papers.” said Jacob matter-of-factly. “Could have been a diary…Could have been letters from you ex-husband…” he paused smiling. “But your voice said otherwise.”

  “Any guesses on what’s in my hand?” “It’s too thick to be just a sheet of paper and I could hear a file too, so it’s actually a bunch of papers. Thick, A4 probably. My guess is you’re a writer. Odd place to be looking for an inspiration though.”

  Shiva laughed.

  “Ok…Not bad.”

  “Oh! I’m not done yet.” Jacob said. “You’re here to discard something. I’ll wager it’s an old manuscript…something you’ve worked on before you got married. The inspiration of that one must have come from here. So…You decided the birth place might as well as become a cemetery.”