The Rusted Legacy Of Autumn

There was a chill in the air, signalling the onset of autumn. The rustle of fallen leaves, stirred by the gusts of wind that blew through the park, a serenading call to its brothers still clinging to the branches, beckoning them to let go. The floor a thick carpet in varying shades of rust and burnt umber, a sharp contrast to the cerulean sky. The world seemed steeped in some thick amber liquid, as the sun’s rays dappled the leaves and set the ground aflame. It was a magnificent sight, and one could see the occasional tourist, a camera slung around their necks, gazing in amazement at a world so foreign to their eyes, attempting to eternalise this glorious display by Nature through their amateur photography.

An unsuspecting traveller, having strayed further from his group than usual, happened upon a haggard, old soul seated on a park bench. His torn, shabby clothes, all colour lost to the thick layer of dust and grime, along with his unkempt, unruly hair were enough to make one’s heart sore with conflicting emotions of disgust and compassion. The sorry sight of the miserable character pulled at this tourist’s heartstrings, whereby in a fit of overwhelming sympathy he decided to part with his half-finished roll, his hunger pangs instead satisfied by the joy of a good deed.

Parshuram grabbed the roll with eager hands. While the tourist expected a smile of gratitude in return for his kindness, he was instead greeted by a scowling visage, already halfway through the leftovers. Parshuram, brushing the crumbs off his  tattered clothes, ruminated at the sorrowful condition of the world today. ‘Look at him, walking away with a skip in his step and a smile on his lips. The good deed for the day is done. His heart leapt at the chance as soon as he saw me, I could see it in his eyes. Oh! The pitiful glances they give me, those privileged sons of millionaires, born in luxury and bred with care. They will die surrounded by loved ones, dressed in all their finery. What a waste! What a waste of wealth. Compassion and sympathy are the two greatest lies this world teaches its young. “You must learn to share, and be kind to those who possess less than you.” What utter filth! They traipse about, bestowing gifts and good deeds to make their wretched hearts joyous at the prospect of making another’s day. Well, have they done a hard day’s work in their life? But surely no, born with silver spoons in their mouths and mothers racing behind them, ensuring their precious skin does not get burnt under the harsh rays of the afternoon sun or, god forbid, they cut their knees or scrape their elbows while making a nuisance of themselves…

These are the kinds of people who believe they are the sons of power and a kind word here or a contemptuous smile there will make their hearts brim with the ecstasy of scorning the unfortunate. These are the hearts that soar like birds, reaching the zenith of happiness and pleasure at pawning off a discarded roll on a poor soul like me. That man, intoxicated with the satisfaction his compassion brings him, had surely not parted with the roll for mere sympathy. In all probability, he saw me before he saw a garbage can!’

Parshuram, spiteful of people and the morals they claimed to possess, growled in frustration and anger. ‘Look at that woman, the embodiment of elegance and beauty. That pearl-white dress, the string of emeralds round her pale neck, what a farce! People see a vision of splendour seated opposite a deprived old man like myself and wonder at the paradox that is our society. I.. I instead see the invisible stains of crimson on her dress, the marks symbolising the condescension and contempt she breeds in her heart, masked by a facade of exquisite empathy. She is probably waiting for her wet nurse and child to finish their game of hide-and-seek so they could return to their mansion for a sumptuous meal, their liveried servants silently waiting upon their masters.’

Pritha noticed the old man staring at her, the gnarled fingers of fear clutching her heart as she observed the wrinkled visage glower and grimace from across the park. ‘What does he see? Does he see the pain I carry with me, each and everyday? Would he stare at me if he could perceive the miserable condition I find myself in today? Has he ever felt the throbbing pain of losing a child, that has transformed me into a walking corpse, devoid of all feeling except regret and sorrow? I see no joy, I see no pleasure. How can I, when every tendril in my body can only experience distress? When my veins no longer carry the life-giving blood, but instead flow with misery and pain.

It took a single night for the life I once knew and loved, to come crashing around me, splintering and flinging shards of broken beauty far and wide. I have attempted to harden my heart, make it coarse so as not to feel… not to experience the darkness that threatens to descend upon me. I have tried, tried and failed to pick up the infinite pieces and stitch them together again… but the thread seems unable to hold the flood of tormenting pain that reduces my handiwork to a mess of tears, every single time. The stitches come undone… and I start again. Oh, but how long can I go on like this? How do I learn to be happy again, when the only source of joy has been snatched from me by the demonic hands of fate? “Stand strong against the ill tidings of destiny, all will be well again.” Would her husband have uttered these meaningless words if he had felt the tormenting embrace of Death as she did? The merciless fingers that crushed every drop of the happy elixir from her heart, to the extent that it lay now, a shriveled mass, beating feebly, barely keeping her alive. This world had become her tomb, and she a spectre of her former self. The sepulchral tones of darkness seemed to filter all the beauty and splendour from the Earth, replacing it with an unending deluge of grief.

Oh, how happy they look! That mother and child over there. That could have been me, and my son would have been the center of attention as he played in the sand, making heads turn as the sweet music of his laughter would reach their ears, forcing a smile to caress their worn faces. He would have been a success in life, with love and kisses showered on him by every person he encountered. He would have been the most charming angel, and I… I would have been the happiest mother. That woman has it all, though she  might not realise it. How I wish I could be like her… be her.’

Nandita sat on the grass, the early morning dew still glistening like minute crystals, flickering, sparkling as they caught the ocher beams. The air was heavy with the earthy scent of purity- a mixture of sweet roses that flowered nearby, crushed grass and petrichor. She gazed abstractly as her son knelt on the ground, an unwary insect having caught his attention. Her brows knitted together, she smiled as she watched him dance and skip in his fervent chase of invisible butterflies. He tripped, he fell, he brushed himself off and ran after the flitting phantoms in hot pursuit, once again. ‘I wish I could be like him. I wish I could pick myself up and dust myself off and continue travelling the path destined for me to the very end. I was tough once, though the forces of divine power have chipped away at my strength, reducing it to a mere pile of rubble. How do I find myself in the debris and build myself up again?’

Her son ran up to her, the sudden impulses of a three-year old urging him to shower his mother with vigorous affection. Nandita held her son in a tight embrace, a certain irritation bubbling inside her. The once longed for attention from her son had been disturbed by the swirling eddies of a broken heart, so much so that now he wasn’t the apple of her eye, but a mere remnant of the sour relationship with her unfaithful husband. She muttered into the soft, raven-black hair that attempted to suffocate her. “I had such dreams for you. I saw you seated on a throne of power and success. You would have had it all… but your father went and submerged your future under tepid waters of immorality. How am I supposed to provide you, my son, with the education you deserve? How am I supposed to clothe you and feed you on the salary of a saleswoman in a tiny, decrepit shop where no one ever ventures beyond the first shelf of useless goods? How, oh how am I to give you the life you are worthy of with no money and no hope?”

“Why is that woman staring at me… at us? Who does she think she is? Sitting there, I can see the aura of privilege and luxury emanating from her. She refuses to avert her gaze! How insolent these young girls are… believing they own the world. Your father has left us and gone to just such a woman. Oh! that old fool, tricked by the facade of beauty, and forcing his family to walk the plank on his behalf. Here we lie, in the abyss of dissolution, whereas he enjoys worldly pleasures with his new wife.”

Nandita’s thoughts flitted from one instance to another, spinning a web of intricate pain and misery. Suddenly, her roving eyes fell upon a man walking through the park, about to exit the gate into the world beyond. “That’s Mr. Joshi!” she exclaimed. ‘What is he doing here? Surely he does not frequent this park when he can take his private plane for a sojourn into the Swiss alps or the waters of Greece? The eminent businessman, Mr. Joshi, with piles of wealth and reams of influence walking among the common, the downtrodden, the morose? Now there is a man who needs nobody. He can do anything… absolutely anything with a bank balance like his,’ Nandita mused. A sarcastic grin etched on her face, she observed the man featured in newspapers and business magazines, at a stone’s throw from her. ‘He can cater to every whim and fancy, without human emotions of worry and fear troubling the serenity and calm of his conscience. For what does a man like that have to fear? He is a man who looks truly content, in this world of hardships. And why wouldn’t he be, with the power and influence he possesses? His fine-cut expensive suit, his walking stick (crafted from mahogany and polished till it gleamed), his visage of composure that exuded a certain charm, all spoke of a stateliness that is embodied by the rich and powerful. If only I had one-tenth of the green he lines his pockets with, I could ensure my son of a future that would place him among the great minds of our country. If only…’

Mr. Joshi walked on, seemingly content in his oblivion of the venerating, and slightly avaricious eyes that followed his every move. Whispering to himself, one could scarcely see his lips move. “A beautiful day… yes… the most beautiful. The trees stand guard, against what? Who can tell… Their gnarled trunks an ode to the tempestuous winds that threatened to uproot them. No… that would not be possible… the trees shall never fall to a storm, instead they wage a constant battle to establish supremacy. But the leaves… yes the leaves do just that, falling prey to the slightest breeze, abandoning their posts. They turn a shade of pure gold and break off, almost willingly, at the call of the North Wind. Why North? Who knows.

“I saw old Autumn in the misty morn

Stand, shadowless like Silence, listening

To Silence.”

A quote by Thomas Hood emerged like a spark of hope from the dusty corners of his mind. He smiled. He would do it. There could be no day more beautiful than this and no joy greater than that of determining your own fate.

Walking out the gate of the park, Mr. Joshi threw the walking stick away. He wouldn’t need it anymore. A blur of an expensive suit and a sad smile, Mr. Joshi threw himself before the wheels of a speeding bus. A loud screech, a dull thud and the scream of a woman.

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Photography by Ananya Singh

Numb

Her finger traced the line of the windowpane as she abstractly gazed out at the street. The golden rays of a noon sun forced their way through the grimy glass, attempting to dispel the shadows in the barely furnished room. “You know Tara, they won’t understand.” Her friend, Anadya said in a matter-of-fact tone. Tara diverted her attention to the bed, where her friend lounged about in her pyjamas, her slim body half-covered by the superhero duvet thrown carelessly on the four-poster.

“I have to try,” Tara retorted, her voice low and inaudible. However, Anadya had heard her perfectly. “They are your parents. They will not understand anything you say. The entire breed of parents thrives on their children’s suffering,” Anadya continued, a spoonful of Nutella wedged between her teeth. “That’s rubbish. Parents want the best for their children. Everybody knows that.” Tara looked out the window again. “Really now, show me one instance in the past few months when they have actually thought about you, instead of their selfish selves.” Anadya’s temper was rising. “Did they give you even a single thought before deciding on the divorce? Or did they think about you when they whisked you off to your aunt’s place when your grandmother passed away, knowing full well she was the closest person to you and that you loved her the most? Did they care that you wanted to be there for her, in her last waking moments on this wretched Earth?”

An image of her Nani, dressed in her favourite blue sari popped up in Tara’s anxious mind. She remembered the scent of lavender that would pervade every inch of the atmosphere when her grandmother would walk in to a room, the bedtimes stories of princesses and smugglers that she would lovingly narrate, all the while stroking Tara’s hair. She remembered how the wrinkled visage would light up when her grand-daughter would hug her every morning at the breakfast table. The cookies and cakes she would keep ready for Tara’s arrival from school, the aroma of freshly baked goods wafting through the kitchen air. The nights, growing ever so frequently, when she would sit cloistered in the dark, tears pouring down her face after a fight with her parents. Her Nani would be there to console her, the loving words and warmth making her believe, even for the time being, that everything would be alright. She had always been there for her. The memories reignited the sense of loss and complete disarray Tara had felt upon her grandmother’s demise,  causing fresh tears to course their way down her cheeks.

“Oh, don’t start weeping again! I was only trying to make you realize that your parents have never given you a second thought in their decisions,” Anadya jumped up from under the covers, ready to console her grieving friend. “They don’t mean it! They have just been too busy. They have too much on their minds,” Tara tried dismally to convince Anadya, and to an extent herself.

She looked out the window again, her eyes glazed, staring off into the distance. She began thinking of the day she had met Anadya. It had been a week after her parents had informed her of their decision to part ways. True, Tara had expected this, what with the uncountable fights and screaming matches that had become a norm for the household. She had taken to hiding under the covers, a pillow pressed over her head, attempting in vain to drown out the loud voices that seemed to reverberate in her mind. Anadya had been standing outside the window, looking up at the house when Tara first saw her. She seemed about the same age and so Tara had gone up to speak with her. “I’m your new neighbour,” Anadya had announced. After a brief conversation where Tara realised Anadya shared the same love for books, old black and white films and photography, with the added advantage that they would be attending the same school, Tara was overwhelmed with the possibilities of having such a friend to tide through the day’s worries. With Anadya, she could escape into a world of fantasy, where wondrous adventures would take them through desolate lanes and dark alleys, their shadows dancing in the jaundiced light of the street lamps, struggling to catch up. However, a little too soon Tara stumbled upon a revelation that the similarities they shared, ended there. With a perfectly sculpted body and the most beautiful brown eyes, framed by eyelashes that curled upwards infinitely, Anadya was the complete opposite to her slightly chubby, ordinary frame. With a loud voice and a flamboyant personality, Anadya seemed to wind her way through life with not a worry nor a care. Witty and with a quick tongue, she would always have a solution to any unforeseen problem. Nothing troubled the brave-hearted Anadya, neither the evil villains that chased them in their fantasy world, nor the distant human relationships in the real one. In short, she was everything Tara longed to be.

Tara, however never felt out of place with her. Though their personalities differed, Anadya had come to be a comforting factor in her life. With a telepathic sense of knowing something was wrong, which Tara attributed to the fact that they were the best of friends, she would always be there for her, whenever she needed her the most.

“Stop making excuses for your parent’s behaviour Tara! Wake up!” Anadya began shaking her friend violently, causing her hair to come undone in a messy cascade of brown about her shoulders, and bringing Tara out of her deep reverie. “They did not care when your Nani died. They did not notice when you stopped eating your meals. They did not care when they saw the scars on your arm. They will not care, no matter what you do!” Anadya’s rage escalated till her shrieking voice resonated off the bedroom walls. “Quiet! They’ll hear you!” Tara hissed. “Relax, they never hear me,” Anadya responded nonchalantly.

Was there an element of truth in Anadya’s furious rant? Did her parents not care, even a bit about their only child? True, her parents had not noticed when Tara’s appetite had reduced and she would play about with the food on her plate. That could be because they were extremely busy people, with important jobs and a great amount of workload. Her mother had noticed the first barely-healed incision on her forearm and expressed concern, but Tara had shrugged it off saying a loose tin piece had caused the cut. Maybe it was her fault for being a troublesome child. There was nothing outstanding about her that would allow her parents to make sweeping generalisations about her achievements in crowded rooms, beaming with pride. She was plain ordinary. The kind of ordinary that resulted in her going unnoticed by many, fading into the background like a wallflower. Lately, however there had been constant complaints piling in from school from attendance issues to her involvement in fist fights in the cafeteria.

Maybe it was her fault because she would never talk to her parents about anything. She couldn’t remember the last time she had had a proper conversation with them. Their constant bickering over trivial matters upset her to the extent that she would not answer them the next morning, averting her gaze and ignoring pointed questions. Her parents had tried for a while to bring her out of her misery by making conversation about things that seemed to be of no consequence to her. After a while, they seemed to have given up, believing she was at an influential age and would grow out of it, like your average teenager would.

“All they have done, is to fight constantly, ignore your presence, and make you feel worthless. They couldn’t care less if you were dead or alive, Tara. They act as if you aren’t there, with their fighting and breaking things. They think you can’t see the bruises that cover your mother’s skin the next morning, the black eye she sported for a week, during the summer holidays! They just make a show of everything is alright.” Tara began weeping hysterically. Her parents were the only family she had after her grandmother’s death, but they were too busy in their lives, where work seemed to consume them till their midnight battles began. Tara blamed herself for their problems. Maybe if she wasn’t a useless child, if she could make them happy by being good at something… anything! However, the truth was that her grades were average and she was not of the athletic breed. Her father had expressed discontentment on more than one occasion, reciting stories of his football days when he played for the State, looking over at his daughter with disgust, hiding her face behind a well-thumbed tome.

As suddenly as the weeping had begun, it came to a dry halt. Tara was overcome with a feeling of nothingness. Her heart seemed to have wrenched itself of all emotions, forcing out the last few tears in an inaudible sob. She was numb. She hated this part the most, when all feeling seemed to slip away from her, transforming her into a living, breathing mannequin. She didn’t crave happiness, but at this point she longed for some emotion… any emotion to overcome her senses and make her feel normal again.  Her eyes resumed their glassy countenance. As if in a trance, she walked to the bed. Slipping her hand under the mattress she found what she was looking for, the metal cold to the touch. She grasped the razor with firm fingers, steadied her hand and prepared herself, facing the window for the painful procedure she had been practicing ritually every night for the past week.

“I know how you feel. This is the worst,” Anadya chimed in, still seated comfortably on the bed. “You want to feel something… anything. But are you sure of what you’re doing?” Tara didn’t reply. “Well, if you’re sure. Just one more,” she sighed.

The bedroom door half ajar, her mother peeped into the room, a deep frown knitting her brows as she watched the sole inhabitant, her daughter muttering to herself.