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Ranveer had always been a difficult child.1
Constantly throwing tantrums and sometimes valuable objects too-I'm not in dire straits, but I cannot replace a thousand rupee vase on a daily basis-Refusing to eat his food, to interact with people other than his close family and friends, being rude to the servants and back answering me. We lived in my husband's ancestral mansion, and had everything needed to live a comfortable life, though my husband's colleagues were now Commanders and led better lives than they did in those wartime days. At first I felt so grateful when neighbours dropped by for support after my husband's death. But soon I started hating it, because it was obvious they were doing it out of pity. I wasn't ungrateful, but the excessive sympathy but a big burden on me. I always felt compelled to repay them, and when they refused, it made matters even worse. My husband always joked that I was too obsessive-compulsive. But then, the era of jokes was another world altogether.2
They say children often imitate what the elders around them do. Maybe sensing my frustration, Ranveer became agitated too. He was born just after my husband died fighting off his own countrymen. No, he wasn't a traitor. He was an immigrant-from the enemy nation. 3
To make matters more clear, from where should I start? Four years old and new in the quaint town where I still live currently. My father had been transferred from the eastern border to the western one. I hated moving from place to place. Then the war started. It was so long and drawn out, that it ended two decades later-right on the day my husband received a fatal bullet to his heart. His name was also Ranveer. Ranveer Ahmed, the bravest man I'd ever known, my neighbour and best friend. He was six at the time I arrived-and while he was a Muslim, I was a Hindu. The Ahmeds had hoped to find solace from their war-torn countryside in the town. But it was full of bigots. They hated him. But I fell in love with him.4
Now little Ranveer is standing in front of me, while I watch the television. He is watching how the soldiers are posted, talking to the reporters, and yet, once or twice their heads twitch, not out of worry, but out of alertness. Tears well up in my eyes. My husband told me that when death has to come it comes. I wonder whether those soldier's families are living with the same solace.5
Ranveer knows that if he wants me to stop crying, he should throw a tantrum. That is his body's psychological defense mechanism against my pain. He's too little to share it. Negative emotions are unknown to little children. But at some time, they absorb it. I didn't want Ranveer to become like that. So I quickly confirmed to his demands for noodles, and soon we both were seated at the dining table. Ranveer stared at me with his blue eyes, odd for someone of our nationality. It was obviously genetic. Maybe destiny's cruel way of consoling me. I felt uncomfortable under his gaze. And finally, he asked the question I had been dreading from the day I delivered him, wretched and crying in the army hospital.6
"Where has my Papa gone?"7
I looked at him, and then pulling him gently by his chubby arms, I opened the door to a room I hadn't opened since the day I became a widow. I had shifted into the guest room, to avoid the odd feeling that my husband's presence was there. I opened the cupboard, which contained all my colorful dresses and saris. But I wasn't concerned about them. I thought white suited my mood. And removing a box, took out some bracelets. I took a deep breath and began,8
"Your Papa, ever since the day we became friends, gave me a bracelet. He gave me one for my first birthday in the town, one for my graduation from high school, one for the time I went abroad to study, one for the time we married, and one before your birth. So, your Papa was waiting here all along."9
"Don't be silly Mama!" he chided. "Everyone in school told me that he went to Heaven."10
"Oh yes he did," I said, trying not to let my eyes be covered with a film of moisture again. "But you see, he left these to you. You know why? God resides within every human's heart. Your Papa is staying with God, so obviously you are your Papa..and I am simply giving you what belongs to you."11
He gave me a strange look. Then finally he said, "Oh Papa got transferred to heaven. That means he must have been an extra-special soldier. I'll go tell all my friends." And with a beam of satisfaction, he ran out. I sighed. For now it was okay..but as his friends grew up, they would ask more questions, and so would he. I looked at the bracelets. It was my time now. When Ranveer came back, I slipped the last white bracelet my husband had been saving for our marriage anniversary. 12
"Whenever you meet someone you truly love, give this bracelet to them."13
With widened, innocent eyes he slipped the bracelet on his wrist and gaped at it as it shined in the sunlight streaming in through the windows. As his face became illuminated, I saw a haunting image of my husband smiling at me. 14
Constantly throwing tantrums and sometimes valuable objects too-I'm not in dire straits, but I cannot replace a thousand rupee vase on a daily basis-Refusing to eat his food, to interact with people other than his close family and friends, being rude to the servants and back answering me. We lived in my husband's ancestral mansion, and had everything needed to live a comfortable life, though my husband's colleagues were now Commanders and led better lives than they did in those wartime days. At first I felt so grateful when neighbours dropped by for support after my husband's death. But soon I started hating it, because it was obvious they were doing it out of pity. I wasn't ungrateful, but the excessive sympathy but a big burden on me. I always felt compelled to repay them, and when they refused, it made matters even worse. My husband always joked that I was too obsessive-compulsive. But then, the era of jokes was another world altogether.2
They say children often imitate what the elders around them do. Maybe sensing my frustration, Ranveer became agitated too. He was born just after my husband died fighting off his own countrymen. No, he wasn't a traitor. He was an immigrant-from the enemy nation. 3
To make matters more clear, from where should I start? Four years old and new in the quaint town where I still live currently. My father had been transferred from the eastern border to the western one. I hated moving from place to place. Then the war started. It was so long and drawn out, that it ended two decades later-right on the day my husband received a fatal bullet to his heart. His name was also Ranveer. Ranveer Ahmed, the bravest man I'd ever known, my neighbour and best friend. He was six at the time I arrived-and while he was a Muslim, I was a Hindu. The Ahmeds had hoped to find solace from their war-torn countryside in the town. But it was full of bigots. They hated him. But I fell in love with him.4
Now little Ranveer is standing in front of me, while I watch the television. He is watching how the soldiers are posted, talking to the reporters, and yet, once or twice their heads twitch, not out of worry, but out of alertness. Tears well up in my eyes. My husband told me that when death has to come it comes. I wonder whether those soldier's families are living with the same solace.5
Ranveer knows that if he wants me to stop crying, he should throw a tantrum. That is his body's psychological defense mechanism against my pain. He's too little to share it. Negative emotions are unknown to little children. But at some time, they absorb it. I didn't want Ranveer to become like that. So I quickly confirmed to his demands for noodles, and soon we both were seated at the dining table. Ranveer stared at me with his blue eyes, odd for someone of our nationality. It was obviously genetic. Maybe destiny's cruel way of consoling me. I felt uncomfortable under his gaze. And finally, he asked the question I had been dreading from the day I delivered him, wretched and crying in the army hospital.6
"Where has my Papa gone?"7
I looked at him, and then pulling him gently by his chubby arms, I opened the door to a room I hadn't opened since the day I became a widow. I had shifted into the guest room, to avoid the odd feeling that my husband's presence was there. I opened the cupboard, which contained all my colorful dresses and saris. But I wasn't concerned about them. I thought white suited my mood. And removing a box, took out some bracelets. I took a deep breath and began,8
"Your Papa, ever since the day we became friends, gave me a bracelet. He gave me one for my first birthday in the town, one for my graduation from high school, one for the time I went abroad to study, one for the time we married, and one before your birth. So, your Papa was waiting here all along."9
"Don't be silly Mama!" he chided. "Everyone in school told me that he went to Heaven."10
"Oh yes he did," I said, trying not to let my eyes be covered with a film of moisture again. "But you see, he left these to you. You know why? God resides within every human's heart. Your Papa is staying with God, so obviously you are your Papa..and I am simply giving you what belongs to you."11
He gave me a strange look. Then finally he said, "Oh Papa got transferred to heaven. That means he must have been an extra-special soldier. I'll go tell all my friends." And with a beam of satisfaction, he ran out. I sighed. For now it was okay..but as his friends grew up, they would ask more questions, and so would he. I looked at the bracelets. It was my time now. When Ranveer came back, I slipped the last white bracelet my husband had been saving for our marriage anniversary. 12
"Whenever you meet someone you truly love, give this bracelet to them."13
With widened, innocent eyes he slipped the bracelet on his wrist and gaped at it as it shined in the sunlight streaming in through the windows. As his face became illuminated, I saw a haunting image of my husband smiling at me. 14
Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi 2
Mannat Har Khushi Paane Ki
