Between the Sky and Earth by Swetha Amit
Photo by Ben Mack for Pexels
How could Murty forget that fateful day? Sarla's incessant coughing. Her hand on her chest. Those splats of blood. That gasping. That gesture of calling out to him. Then those tender brown eyes closed forever as she took her last breath. He remembered cradling her in his arms, weeping until he depleted every drop of water from his body. Her face was peaceful at last. Devoid of all that pain and suffering she had endured in the past few months.
He begged her to move to the city. Better treatments, better facilities, he'd said. She hadn't listened. The obstinate and stubborn person she was. She had reservations about the city. Corrupt and polluted, she'd remark. There was nothing the crisp mountain air couldn't cure. And the money? She refused to become a burden on her only son and his family of wife and three daughters. He remembered how Ravi pleaded. But Sarla felt her move would only disrupt the lives of her granddaughters and daughter-in-law. And hospitals scared her ever since she'd heard about her friend's son losing his life after a surgeon had operated on the wrong side during an appendix operation. He and Sarla led healthy lives until then. Except for the occasional cough or cold. There was nothing that couldn't be set right with Sarla's magic potion. Tulsi leaves that were grown in their garden. She'd mix it with hot water. A formula that never failed either of them until those last few months.
Murty moped for days at his home in the village, giving rise to unkempt hair, beard that turned white, and cheeks that eventually turned hollow. How could Sarla leave him so soon? Only sixty. At least another few years to live.
Outside his humble home, everything remained the same. The lush green valley nestled between the Western Ghats, the caves, temples, the tiny houses amidst the gigantic slopes. Just two hours from the city. During the rainy season, the water would cascade down the rocks. He reminisced about their simple life. The morning prayers, offering flowers to the idols of several deities, the aroma of her cooking, the breakfast of Poha, batata wada and lasoon chutney, teaching kids at the English medium school, watering the plants in the evening, discussing his day with Sarla, dinner and a night of peaceful sleep. On weekends they'd tend to their garden. All that seemed like a distant dream now.
There were times he sensed Sarla in his home. The sudden noise after a spoon fell from the shelf. Or a steel drinking water cup would roll on the floor. He'd hear the creaking sound of the window, making him sit up and stare into the darkness. There were times he'd see a slinking shadow shaped in the form of a woman. Was it his imagination? Was it real? He couldn't tell.
The leaves in his garden drooped, and the flowers withered. It now resembled a graveyard. He considered taking up Ravi's offer to move to the city. But what would he do there? How would he adapt? And then it happened. Ravi's sudden visit was followed by commanding Murty to pack all his belongings. He felt like an infant when Ravi dragged him towards the car. Murty watched his home become a dissipated slab of stone as he made his way to the city.
Next to Ravi's spacious apartment in the Southern part of the city was a garden. Twelve acres of land. When Ravi mentioned this, Murty dismissed it initially. Surely there cannot be a better garden than the one he and Sarla tended to? He discovered later that this twelve-acre paradise was a world in itself. Despite being located opposite a bus depot, the sound of nature was enough to drown the noisy decibels of the running bus and the incessant honking by the drivers. Murty often found solace in this nature's abode whenever he strangely felt claustrophobic in his son's spacious apartment.
It took him a couple of weeks to adapt to his new environment. Ravi and his family were kind enough to convert their study room into a cosy bedroom. Often, he longed for a conversation like he'd have with Sarla. While Ravi's family invited him to join them at mealtimes, the discussion at the dining table was more of small talk, about the weather, one's day at work or school. Ravi's daughters were awkward at first and gradually grew comfortable in his presence. However, he was unable to elicit anything beyond a polite customary greeting. While Ravi and his wife Seema did their best to engage him and make him feel at home, Murty couldn't erase those memories of his home in the countryside. The images of the lush green hills, waterfalls, and Sarla's laughter haunted him. He'd wake up with sweaty palms in the stillness of the night.
It's no wonder why he found solace in nature's abode next to Ravi's apartment. The humming sound of the cuckoos and sparrows would greet him. The cool sea breeze ruffled the large leaves of the coconut trees and the blossoming flowers. The crows cawed. The squirrels darted up the trees, chasing one another. The cats walked in a manner unfazed by the presence of the dogs, Moti and Sweety. Murty's eyes shone as he stumbled upon the little hills in the garden that appeared like a green carpet of waves. Morning walks became a routine where he'd pluck hibiscus flowers for his ritual to the deities. He'd observed his surroundings quietly and soon became familiar with the sounds of human chatter interspersed with the call of the cuckoos.
There were different kinds of people. Gopu, the effervescent watchman with a toothy grin and a bushy black moustache, always greeted him. Murty would respond with a cursory nod. He admired a group of youngsters training under their fitness instructor, whose name he later learned was Rama. He'd watch their drills which would make him break into a sweat. Other people would jog or walk and wear headphones, their heads bobbing slightly and lost in the world of music. Some chose to run alone while others walked briskly in pairs. A few meditated in one corner where the waves kissed the shores. A group of people gathered around a circle and laughed loudly. They'd often beckon him to join them, but he'd merely shake his head and continue his walk. He couldn't get himself to laugh. Not yet. Not with the pain that ripped him apart every time he thought about his beloved Sarla. His reluctance and reticence bothered them only for a minute before the air reverberated with their guffawing. Maybe someday he'd join them, and they never stopped trying.
One day, his youngest nine-year-old granddaughter Simran entered his room in tears, holding a copy of Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland. Murty was reading in his room as he usually did to fill the void in his life.
"Why are they so mean, Dadaji?"
Murty's heart stopped a beat. Simran's tone contained a certain familiarity found between two close people.
"What happened, Simran?"
"Radhika and Pooja never include me in their conversations."
Murty sighed and remembered how he'd seen the two adolescent sisters giggle and whisper between one another. He'd also seen Simran trying to include herself in their dynamics.
"They threw a book towards me, saying it would keep me busy and called me a bore."
Ah, a reader, Murty thought. At the same time, his heart ached for the little girl.
"What kind of books do you like to read?"
"Comics, fables, classics."
"Have you read the story of the Hart and the Hunter?
"Yes."
"What did you learn from that story?"
Simran thought for a moment.
"Hmm…that we should learn to accept ourselves?"
"Correct. Our weaknesses can also be our strengths. What we hate about ourselves can also turn out to be our advantage."
"But nobody likes me."
"Why do you say that?
"The other children aren't like my two friends at school. They are always playing games involving speedy runs."
Murty noticed Simran's brown eyes on her round face. They had a certain sparkle that reminded him of Sarla. That same eagerness and intelligence. Simran was definitely curious like Lewis Carroll's character, Alice. She seemed far more poised, mature and different for her age. As a teacher, he immediately noticed a good student, and a brilliant one would never escape his attention.
"Have you talked to your parents about this?"
Simran shook her head.
"They are always busy."
The pain in her voice pierced Murty's heart. For the first time in the two months since he moved there and since Sarla's demise, he found himself awakened by a new sense of purpose. He wanted to instill Simran with some confidence and talk to her parents. He asked her if she'd like to join him on his morning walks. She nodded in excitement and said she'd come on weekends and every day once her winter vacations began.
Murty saw Simran's eyes widening at the sights around her. He saw how she'd grin at Gopu, watched her tug the aerial taproots of the banyan tree that dropped from the trunks, heard her squeal in delight at the cuckoo's call. He watched in amusement as her hands stretched to catch the elusive butterflies, which flitted past her as glorious hues of color. He saw her looking at the mangoes dangling from the trees and how the sight of the flaming red trumpet petals of the hibiscus flowers brought a smile to her face. He keenly watched as she touched the petals gingerly and asked several questions.
"Why do you pluck these flowers, Dadaji?"
"To offer it to Lord Ganesha. These are his favorite flowers and are offered for prosperity and destroying enemies."
"If I offer him a flower, will he destroy my enemies?"
Murty raised his eyebrows. "Who are your enemies?"
"Radhika, Pooja, and all those kids in my building," the hurt, anger, and anguish evident in her voice.
"They are not necessarily your enemies, Simran. And the kids also don't hate you. You are just different from them."
"Is it because I am not thin like them?"
"Not at all. What gave you that idea?"
"Why do people keep calling me chubby cheeks and say I don't look like my sisters?"
"Who said that?"
"Mama's sister who came the other day."
Murty made a mental note to talk to Ravi and Seema sometime and make them realize how Simran's confidence was dented. They needed to understand and appreciate her, he thought.
Ever since that conversation about Lord Ganesha in the garden, Murty noticed how Simran began to actively participate in the morning prayers. She offered flowers to Ganesha. Murty was impressed with Simran's keen observational qualities when she asked him an innocuous question.
"Why is Ganesha's tusk broken?"
Murty explained how Ganesha broke his tusk to use it as a pen while he was transcribing the Mahabharata without any interruption.
Simran cocked her head to one side. "I've read some parts of the story in comics."
"It's a long story. If you want a detailed story from the beginning, you should read the actual book by C. Rajagopalachari. It is the English retelling of the epic."
"Can you tell me the story from the beginning, please?"
"Of course."
Between the first glimpse of the sunrise, the sight of morning dew on the leaves, and the sound of birds chirping, Murty began his storytelling sessions with Simran. There were times when they'd sit on those benches facing the sea. The gurgling sound of water and the gentle breeze was soothing to their ears. There were moments of silence as they gazed at the sheet of blue in front of them. Sometimes Simran would ask Murty about Sarla and whether he missed her. Murty would nod tearfully and change the subject. Once during their walk, he noticed the dogs, Moti and Sweety, come up to them. Their eyes exuded warmth, and they wagged their tails. Simran told him how she loved them licking her hand. He watched her stroke the cats while they'd purr in delight. Seeing her giggle at the sight of the group of older people laughing brought a smile to his face. She'd marvel at the fitness enthusiasts, walkers, joggers and ruefully tell Murty how she could never be like them. One day, while they were walking towards the garden, a bus turned from the depot, and the driver almost lost control. Simran screamed. Murty pulled her on the pavement just in time while the sound of the screeching breaks echoed in the street. The driver apologized while Murty glared at him. That incident shook Simran as she clutched his hand, sobbing.
"Dadaji. I am scared."
"Don't worry. Nothing will happen to you as long as I am here," Murty patted her head.
And just like that, days went by. The garden remained as fresh as a newly wedded bride. There was something different that Murty would discover every day. Simran's companionship made him a lot more amicable to the familiar folk in the garden. He'd nod and wave, pleasant in his demeanor as opposed to his standoffish self a few months ago. During Simran's absence on weekdays, he'd spend time writing in his journal or reading books. He often reminisced all those times when he'd address students, answer their questions and assign homework. Occasionally he'd hear the sound of television with the evening news streaming or Seema reprimanding the girls about their meals or assignments. Simran would come and sit in his room and finish her homework. She'd told him how her birthday was coming up just at the onset of spring. Murty knew the perfect present for her. Before that, he decided to talk to Ravi and Seema that weekend.
On Sunday evening, Ravi and Seema were in a heated debate about the accounts for the month. Murty hesitatingly walked up to them. They looked up in surprise and offered him a seat.
"Everything alright, Papaji?"
Murty twisted his fingers and fumbled with his hands.
"Uh, it's about Simran."
"What's wrong with Simran?" Seema tossed her head.
"Nothing. Simran is an intelligent child. Very well read for her age."
Seema sighed. "If only she'd get a little more fresh air."
"She does when she comes for walks with me."
Ravi and Seema looked at one another. Ravi cleared his throat.
"Papaji, we just wish she mixed a little more with kids of her age."
Murty frowned. "Just look at her wonderful grades. Maybe she doesn't relate to other kids."
"She's too timid. Maybe mingling with other children would…" Ravi began.
Murty took a deep breath. "Perhaps they aren't very nice to her?"
"She's too sensitive."
"Have you tried talking to her?"
The sound of the television blared louder. Seema arranged the papers while Ravi tapped on the table with his pen.
"Papaji, we only want the best for Simran. Look at Radhika and Pooja and…"
"All our fingers are not alike, are they?"
Ravi hung his head while Seema pursed her lips.
Murty looked around to see if Simran had come out of her room and then turned to her parents.
"Mark my words. Simran will make you proud if you let her be."
"This world isn't very kind to introverts."
"That's not true…"
"You wouldn't know Papaji…"
Murty got up and sat down. He inhaled sharply and raised his hand. Then he got up and walked away silently. The sound of hushed whispers, shuffling papers, and Ravi calling out his name fell on deaf ears. Murty felt he overstepped his boundaries. After all, he had only been a school teacher. What did Murty know of the ways of the world? He made his way out, watched the streaks of orange in the sky and birds flying back to their nests. He walked towards the bookstore down the street. It was Simran's birthday the next day, and he wanted to give it to her first thing in the morning. He found what he was looking for. On the yellow cover of the book was a picture of Lord Krishna counseling Arjuna, the Pandava, on a chariot. Inside was a handwritten note that read: Life may pose several struggles. If we continue doing our duty and follow our hearts, the efforts will bear fruit. You are destined for bigger things and will reach great heights. Never let others' inability to accept you come in the way of your dreams. Happy birthday dear Simran. The shopkeeper gift-wrapped a copy of The Mahabharata with pink paper. Murty placed it inside a bag and carried it with him.
He decided to spend some time in the garden before facing Ravi and Seema. It began to suddenly drizzle. The street lights were dim, and it was getting very dark. He was just a few steps away from the apartment complex. His head was still muddled with all that transpired between him, Ravi, and Seema. He paused for a moment, feeling the trickle of the raindrop on his hands and instantly flooded with a gush of those memories; the monsoons, Sarla's hot ginger tea, watching the mist cloud their home. Tears rolled down his face. Sarla would have comforted him and handled Ravi and Seema tactfully. Perhaps, he might not have come here and met Simran had Sarla still been alive. He couldn't save Sarla, but he was determined to rescue Simran from falling into the clutches of parental pressure. He was so subsumed in his thoughts that he didn't see it coming. Not the horn, not that blind turn by the rash driver. It was too late to step on the pavement. His vision blurred. The packet in his hand flew in the air. Faint images of tattered pages in the air. And then everything went dark. The pages settled on his chest.
He didn't hear the commotion. He didn't hear the sirens. Not the doctor who shook his head after touching his wrist. Not the yells or screams of Ravi or Seema. Not Simran's wailing. Murty looked as though he were in deep slumber, his eyes closed to the world forever.
—————
I saw sad, serious, and solemn faces when I woke up. Tears were flowing down the faces of the entire family. Even Radhika and Pooja were sad. As for Simran, her eyes were swollen. I saw myself lying there covered in a white cloth. My room remained untouched. The sight of my photograph with a garland was the last straw. I couldn't go away so soon. Not when Simran needed me. But the gift? Did Simran get it? Was it destroyed? I often replayed that scene with Ravi and Seema. Would they still treat her the same way? I visited the garden and saw the usual crowd. It was the same scene, just like every other day. Yet something felt different. Somewhere in this familiarity, some moments brought pain and remorse. I observed quietly as I always did. This time Gopu didn't greet me, neither did the laughing group beckon me. The fitness group and Rama did not smile at me. I watched Moti and Sweety heading in my direction and wagging their tails. They began to bark in a thunderous manner. A few people turned and stared.
"Moti, Sweety, you guys see me!" I instinctively bent down to stroke them as I usually did before I realized I couldn't. Gazing at them with a queer mix of melancholy and joy, I talked to them. They could hear me, understand me.
"Wonder what's with those dogs today?" a man remarked to his wife.
"Not sure. Must have spotted a cat or a squirrel."
Moti and Sweety continued to yelp and jump. Just then, Gopu came to shoo the dogs with a stick. They scuttled away in a hurry.
"No Gopu. Please, they are talking to me."
Of course, he couldn't hear me. The retreating figures of the dogs became blobs of brown and white. The garden was at the brightest until the dark skies took over. After which, it was nothing but a sheet of black with lurking shadows. I heard the owl hooting. Flapping its wings, it swooped down to catch the mice. It turned towards my direction and stared with its big eyes. A menacing glare which I couldn't decipher. Was it disturbed by my presence? Was it frightened? I couldn't tell. The garden lizard scrambled up the branches, looking up and waiting for an insect to be trapped in its elongated sticky tongue. I lingered by the hibiscus plant recollecting Simran's innocuous questions. My dear little bright-eyed Simran! Will she ever come to the garden again?
That conversation with Ravi and Seema played in my head like a broken record. It was an unfinished discussion. If I hadn't stepped out that day, I wouldn't be in this state. If only I had been more patient. Or more alert. How I wish I could get that one more chance to go back in time. To be able to wish her a happy birthday. To make Ravi and Seema understand I wasn't trying to blame them.
I felt weird being in this strange space between the sky and earth. And then I decided to visit the apartment. I wanted to see how Simran was doing and how Ravi and Seema treated her. I saw her sitting in my room with Ravi talking to her. Was she looking for me? For something?
"Dadaji was really fond of you, Simran."
"Then why did he go away?"
A tear rolled down Simran's face. Ravi sighed.
"I wish I could answer that question. I think...I think perhaps he wanted to be with Dadi."
"But...why before my birthday?"
A pained expression crossed Ravi's face.
"He could have at least said goodbye," sobbed Simran.
I put my hand out, wishing I could stroke her head. Forgive me Simran.
And then I saw it. A tattered copy of my birthday present to Simran. I wondered who had given it to her. Perhaps someone found it at the accident spot on that day? I watched Simran sift through the pages gingerly. For a minute, she stared at the book. A faint glow of surprise in her eyes. Could she read my message? Was it still there? What was she thinking?
I saw Simran turn and look in my direction with the copy of The Mahabharata clasped between her little fingers. Her brown eyes widened for a moment. Could she see me? Could she sense my presence? I looked at her wistfully as the myriad emotions engulfed me like a whirlwind. She slowly got up and walked out of the room with Ravi. Neither of them glanced behind. I didn't expect them to. Yet, a part of me wished they would. What wouldn't I do for just that little chance to say goodbye? To make amends. To especially tell Simran why I'd left abruptly. A gust of wind blew. I suddenly found myself enveloped by some invisible force outside the apartment. I was rising higher and higher until I merged with the clouds. I was finally attaining moksh and would soon be reunited with Sarla. After a while, I saw nothing but a speck of dot. That dot which was once my mortal home.
Swetha Amit
Swetha Amit is currently pursuing her MFA at University of San Francisco. As a writer, she has published her memoir titled 'A Turbulent Mind-My Journey to Ironman 70.3’, works in Gastropoda Lit Magazine, and Atticus Review, and has upcoming pieces in Amphora magazine, and Grande Dame Literary journal.