Promise

January 16, 2010, she died of cancer. She was just 22. We were friends from school, right from childhood. On that rainy night, I still remember, she told me she was sick, my face a mask of confusion. She said that she was sick of being sick and she hated God for doing this to her for no reason, and that was when I realized what she meant by that “I am sick…” And then she asked me, “Would you write?” a peculiar expression on her face, “Would you write about me… after I’m gone?” her last few words were barely audible, but I ran away without replying, because not a single word came out of my mouth, just a few sobs, and then I was quiet. I came back home and didn’t talk to her for 3 days. She cheated, I said, we were supposed to be friends forever, but she’s leaving, she’s going… she’s breaking her promise.

At last she came to my home, came upstairs to my room, said nothing but just looked at me with pleading eyes, and all I could say was, ‘you’re dying!’, and we hugged each other and cried silent tears, cried for the precious little time we had… cried for her, for me, for us, our friendship… and we cried our hearts out, and then I told her between sobs, “yes, I’ll do it…”.

Days passed on. We rarely talked about her sickness. On Saturdays she would disappear for treatments and would be back by Monday, and during weekdays neither of us mentioned the weekend. It was like an unwritten but mutually understood rule that we won’t talk about her disease and even if the topic came up, we would steer clear of that topic.

We talked a lot, in class, then on phone. We had so many things to talk about- boys, classes, career, life, music, latest trends, movies, anything and everything but cancer.

At rimes she would grow really quiet. I remember she was really upset and silent after our 10^th board exams, when we were all enthusiastic about selecting subjects for our career. I was worried about her, so I confronted her and this was the answer I got, “Even if I study really hard, it’s not like I’ll be able to do something with this life, slipping slowly out of my hands. It’s like someone is slowly sucking breath out of me…” I stayed quiet. What possibly could I have said to console her aching heart?

Later our ways parted, we both moved to different colleges. But we still kept in touch through phone, mails, letters, chats, texts etc. Now, the time we spent with each other was much lesser, but the bonding grew stronger with each passing day.

Gradually, she stopped calling, texting and we drifted apart. I got busy with my life, new friends, more funny friends who could have more fun instead of sitting quietly fearing exertion.  I got way too busy to notice that she was cutting me off from her life. I took her presence for granted, because for me she was like the constant sun, I would keep moving travelling farther and farther but when I would turn and look, she would be there, smiling, shining, my guiding light, my best friend. But one day, when I turned my sun was gone, it was all dark and I didn’t even notice because I grew so used to dark. I realized that all the new friends were unreal, fake. With masks of friendliness, and with mean a core inside.

Then one day, years later, I got a call from her father. She was sick, terribly sick and in hospital. She wanted to see me.

“I’m sorry…” I started to say as I entered the sterile hospital room. She was lying in bed, her head bald, and her long black hair gone.

“I didn’t keep in touch, I forgot you…” I tried again, but she interrupted me with, “No, I’m sorry. I was the one who drove you away. I never wanted to hurt you; I wanted you to get as unattached as u could get… I’m sorry…” Her voice sounded exhausted, strangled.

“…but I couldn’t help missing you so I asked papa to call you.”

And then she looked into my eyes and said, “I’m dying… but I don’t want to die…” and a tear slipped down the edge of her eye, “I want to live… I’m scared, I think I won’t be able to see tomorrow’s sun, but it’s cool… I don’t mind. I’ve lived enough to make new friends, to have fun, be happy, laugh, and differ between wrong and right. Even if he’s taking my life, he gave me you and my family who all love me…” and then she turned her face the other way.

“Done with your filmy dialogues?” I asked with a fake teasing smile, “Now sleep…”

And soon she drifted off to sleep thanks to the heavy sedatives she was being given; I fled the room and never went to see her again until her funeral. Call me a coward, but I didn’t have the strength to see her dying.

January 16, 2010. She died of cancer. She was just 22, yet she was old enough to understand the deep bond of friendship, old enough to accept the fact that she was dying gracefully. I never saw her whining or complaining or pointing out mistakes in anyone. She was always happy with things as they were. And today I’m keeping my promise. The promise I made to her on that rainy night when we were kids. And although she’s gone, she lives, in every story I write, every book I publish and she smiles at me and tells me that she’s proud of me.

New Shoes

"Yes, ladies and gentlemen, all different varieties of footwear, just for 100 rs. per pair. Trendy, comfortable, and pocket-friendly..." the salesman bragged on about his 'fabulous' shoes and how wise a decision it was to buy his shoes from the temporary road-side stand on the busy sidewalk of a city-road lit by a trillion-zillion twinkling lights marking the festive season.
Tomorrow would be the big day and people were out and about shopping for the festival. Everyone was chattering to someone and looking around in awe, walking slowly, everyone... except one, he was walking fast, really fast, head bent down, not daring to lift his eyes from the dirty sidewalk, fearing that the rich lights and festivities would make his dull day even duller.
 "yes, just hundred bucks for a pair of these white shoes..." were the words that caught his attention. He looked up at last and saw the stall, glittering with beaded lights and a small crowd gathered around it, looking curiously from shoe to shoe.
He looked at his feet clad in old, worn out slippers and with a sudden pang in his chest felt desire swell, swell until it turned into a monster, he wanted those white shoes.
He moved closer and looked again, looked at those white shoes, exquisite and delicate, white, almost emitting a sheen, that was when reality sneaked into his thoughts...
He was poor, very poor, he thought.
He had a home to pay for, even if it was just a rented room in a dingy, stinky neighborhood with narrow lanes where stray pigs and dogs roamed as if they owned the city. He had a wife and two kids to feed, all this with his meager salary... 100 rs. was a huge amount to him. He's doing fine in his slippers, he decided and giving one last look to those shoes he turned.
"Do you want these, sir?" asked the salesman as he was about to walk away. He turned, temptation tugging at his senses, "Umm..." was all that he said.
"These are unique, sir... latest fashion, last piece left... and sir, you're very lucky because you're even getting a discount on these..."
"oh good..." he said, never batting an eyelid, never moving his eyes from the object of his desire, "can't I have a close look?"
"Sure sir, there you go..." said the salesman as he handed him the shoes.
Should I buy these? Nah! It would be an extravagant expenditure for no reason...
But when he was about to return the shoes, he just couldn't let them go. It was like his hands had a mind of their own and this mind had no reasoning skills, all it knew was greed and desire. And his hands held on to those shoes greedily while his mind wanted to give them back.
And that was when he gave up and let this dangerously greedy mind take over and took out the money from his right pocket on an impulse and those shoes were his. It felt so good. His shoes. His new shoes.
He started again for his home, holding his shoes in his hands, looking more at them and less at the path he was walking on. It was just his feet accustomed to the path, that were carrying him and making him stop and then start again at right places and making him turn where there was a turn.
But the streets were crowded because of the festival and his feet were not used to walking in this thick crowd and all of a sudden he got pushed by someone, toppled and lost his balance and there went his new shoes right into a puddle full of mud.
He sat there on his knees for a long time, not saying anything, not aware of the people passing by, just looking... looking at his shoes drenched in mud. And then with sad slow movements, he picked them up and started for his home again, head bent down, pace slow, with his new shoes clutched to his chest.

If she had wings, She could fly...

I saw a little girl holding a huge hand in her tiny fingers in my mind today,
white and red polka dots on the black dress,
her tiny feet taking one step at a time,
a little afraid at first, afraid to fall.
Her father, her mentor encouraging her,
and soon chuckles of feeble laughter
reverberating through the silent park,
and then she let go of the hand, the support preventing her fall,
landing on her padded bum looking around in a confused haze.
Her father stood back and watched never making a move to help,
"Get up baby" was all he said.
She stood up once again on her tiny legs and wobbly knees,
and took a step forward, a tiny one...
just testing if she can walk on her own,
then another, then another..
A small smile breaking on her round face,
each step more sure than the previous one.
Each new step telling of her confidence on herself.
And soon she's running around the park,
feeling the exhilarating independence.
In that moment, if she had wings, she could fly...