*The Accidental Santa*
“I want jalebis. How many do I get for this?” A little girl stretched her palm towards me revealing a shiny five rupee coin. I smiled at her, accepted the coin and gave her two steaming hot jalebis. She looked at the small leafy plate dejectedly. “Please give me my money back, we are three siblings and there are only two here.”
It was a cold, dark night and the light from my sweet shop illuminated the entire street. My shop bustled with activity. The aroma of freshly prepared sweets and soft baked cakes attracted hundreds of customers to my small shop. Christmas had always been one of the best business days of the year for me. It meant a new saree for my wife, a new toy for my son and a new tennis racket for my daughter. Every Christmas night after they had dozed off, Santa kept their neatly packed gifts on the dining table.
But today as I sat, struggling to cater to every customer who entered the shop, I felt a stinging sense of loneliness. I wished I could go back home, sit by the fire place, kiss my wife, tell my kids a new story, and relish lamb chops as the street got covered in snow.
“My coin.” The little girl stretched out her hand.
I collected my thoughts and looked at her.
''Uncle, take this back. Give me back my coin.”
She kept the small paper plate on the counter. I gave her coin back. Clutching it carefully like a precious gift, she began inspecting other sweets. She stared at the sweets with her big, round eyes and looked at me angrily when I gave a bigger packet to another customer in exchange for his note.
“Uncle, I want that packet not this small plate. Here, take this money.”
“Little one, his note was bigger than yours. That is why I gave him the bigger packet.” I tried reasoning with her.
“It’s not fair. Why did you give him the bigger packet and not me?” She looked at me sadly. “I promised my younger brothers that I would get them lots of jalebis. You have so many. You could have given me more. Now they will be so dejected.”
I looked at her crestfallen face and it reminded me of my kids. Each time my son wanted a toy from the big shop and I said, ‘Daddy doesn’t have that much money. Why don’t you take the smaller toy instead?’ It reminded me of my daughter who refused to speak to me because I couldn’t afford the ballet dress she wanted. Something about the little girl told me that I would go home today, richer, not by a crisp note but by a bright smile.
“They will not be, I promise.” I said shaking my head.
I got up; picked up a big box, and loaded it with every type of sweet I had in the shop. I also took out a small ginger cake, tied it to the box with a ribbon and handed it over to her. Probably a little too big for her tiny hands, she held it carefully. I kept the small paper plate on the top of her box and gave her back her coin.
“But uncle…” She tried to return me the coin.
“No little girl, you keep it.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much Santa.” She smiled revealing her broken teeth. “I’ll tell my brothers I met Santa today and this is what he gave me.”
I laughed. “What else are you going to tell them? Santa is a mean old fellow who will lose all his hair by next Christmas?”
“No. I am going to tell them Santa doesn’t always wear a red suit or have white flowing beard. He sometimes sits in a sweet shop at the end of the street.”
Death- 26/11
“You know, I have seen death. I have seen it up close and personal. Death can be cold and ruthless. I remember how it touched me and took away everything I had with it. It left me pale, and quivering. My hands were stiff, my legs refused to move and my mind stopped working. The day was 26th November, 2008, my daughter’s ninth birthday. I had decided to treat my family in the Taj Mahal Palace, Mumbai. My little daughter was looking lovely in a pink frilled frock. My wife was wearing the same white shirt I had gifted her on her birthday. Maa had put on her red bindi. She only did that on days when she was very happy. Baba as usual had his white Kurta and jeans on.
While we were enjoying our Ratatouille, my daughter’s favourite dish, we heard something like a bomb explode. And then the loud explosion sounds wouldn’t stop. It started getting louder. My daughter got up and hugged me. I think she was scared. I told her not to be scared. Her daddy strongest would forever protect her.
I don’t really remember what happened but the next thing I saw was the most terrifying sight ever. My daughter was lying on the floor bloodied and gasping for breath. My wife’s body showed no movement. My parents were lying side by side with blood spattered food on their faces. There were shattered pieces of glass and food all around. I lifted my head only to find that the entire hotel was burning. Everyone was either dead or on the verge of collapsing. I wanted to vomit.
My eyes were full of tears. I had lost my family in a matter of seconds. I got up to examine my daughter, her breathing had slowed down. She could give up any moment. Suddenly, I heard an expletive and a masked gunman shot me. Screaming with excruciating pain, I fell down. The gunman fired twice or thrice.
I would have given up, had it not been for my daughter. I acted dead for three to four minutes. When the gunman moved from there, I wanted to take my daughter and run. I felt the bullets in my legs. I couldn’t walk. I tried crawling. I somehow crawled up to my daughter who died in my arms.
I was distraught. I wanted to kill the gunman who had killed my family. I wanted to cry. Death was so close to me. I had almost given up. Nobody in the hotel was moving. Everybody was dead. The painful silence was broken by a child’s cry. The child was bloodied, but it was alive. I dragged myself up to the baby. I knew I had to save it.
I heard the gunmen again. I faked dead again and put my hand over the baby’s mouth. I just hoped it wouldn’t cry. I shoved the baby inside the heap of dead bodies. The gunmen came and examined the bodies. They laughed and left. I acted quickly. I took the baby out, held it and dragged myself out of the shattered window.
I don’t remember what happened after that. I think I collapsed. Somebody rushed us to the hospital. I didn’t want to live. Death had taken everything away; my little daughter, my wife, my parents, everything. But I wanted the little baby to live. The authorities told me that the baby had lost her parents. If no one claimed the baby within a week, I could keep her.
My encounter with death had left me devastated. I would never be able to come out of this trauma. I cried for days. I had no hope left. I just wanted to die. One day, an officer came to my house. He had the baby I had saved. He asked me if I wanted to adopt her legally. Holding the child in my hands, I cried like a little baby.
I named her Siddhi after my own daughter. She had lost her parents and her grandparents in the attack. Giving her milk, I sat down next to her. She crawled up to sit on my lap and held my index finger. I don’t know how I’d live, but I had to live. I got up so that I could buy fresh clothes for my little baby. Death had taken everything away from me, but life had given me one more chance."
Darkness- My New Friend
“You know John, I am scared of the light. I am scared of everything that is white. I am scared of the bright sunlight. I am scared of the dazzling Christmas bulbs. Spring scares me. I don’t like anything which shines. I am scared of everything which is beautiful. I am scared of everything which makes me happy.
Why should anyone be fond of the light? It’s the dark which brings me peace. Once upon a time, I was afraid of the dark. Power-cuts terrified me. I never watched horror movies. But now, all I like is the dark.
I was only twenty when I eloped with your father. I loved him dearly. It was a beautiful, bright day when I wanted to tell him that I was pregnant with you. I was going to tell him that we are going to have a baby. But do you know John how he reacted? He asked me to drop the baby. He asked me to abort you. And that was something I refused to do.
Your father left us because he was scared of what everybody would say. I was a twenty year old unwed pregnant woman. I went to my parents but they were enraged. They asked me to never see them again. Their ego was important to them than their daughter I guess.
Scarred by rejections by the people who I loved the most, I came back to the house your father and I shared. I did not have the courage to face anyone. I locked myself inside the house. The nights gave me relief. I cried myself to sleep.
It was then, I found a friend in the darkness. I made friends with silence whose noise was deafening. I fell in love with my shadow because it promised to follow me everywhere. I fell in love with the empty streets and vacant parks. The mornings were scary. They would remind me of the scars on my soul.
But John, since you have come into my life, I like opening the windows and letting a bit of sunlight creep in. I am trying to get used to you waking up giggling at three in the night. I am trying to open up to the beautiful yet intimidating sight of people having fun in the park. I am learning to fall in love with myself again. I am trying to smile. I have applied for a job. Happiness still scares me, but I’ll smile so that you smile back at me. I lost everything in life, but I’m glad they left. They left so that you could live. And when you live, I live too."
Remembering 26/11
A decade ago, I remember I came back after playing badminton, giggling incessantly, when I froze in front of the blaring TV. Terrorists had attacked Mumbai and the ramifications feared were terrifying. My parents were somewhere frantically trying to dial up on friends, family, colleagues; their voice shaky.
In what would emerge to be one of the worst terrorist attacks on Indian soil, we silently watched the massacre unfold on TV brought to us by journalists risking their lives for the footage. I stood in shock and in awe of soldiers who were trying to get inside, leading people to safety. I sunk in pain to my seat when the images of a young army officer, Major Sandeep Unnikrishnan flashed across the screen. He had died protecting the nation.
In my heart break, in my pain, in my moments ranging from grief to anger, I also realized something. I realized that I now had so many heroes to look up to. People who stood guard and let children pass, the people who took a bullet so someone could go back home, people who escaped but escaped with wailing babies, people who didn't escape so someone else could, the soldiers who voluntarily let fire burn them.
Newspaper headlines carried numbers. So and so number of people feared dead. The numbers were mere statistics. None of them spoke about the number of hours the mother sat knitting a woolen jacket for her son who was never to come back. None of them spoke about the father who at 76 would buy fish everyday because his daughter liked it so much. That daughter who was no more. No stories of the grandma who never bought a pair of reading glasses because she was sure her grandchildren would read out the newspaper to her. The grand children who she would never see again.
26/11 changed me. It made me cynical, hopeless, toughened, but it also made me a little hopeful. I know the scars will never heal. The darkness of that night will never fade. But what's with remaking our little sunshine. Retelling our kids that there's nothing if there isn't a little hope. With the scars, with the scabs, India woke up to rebuild Mumbai, the soul intact, the heart beating loudly. And today, in a deeply divisive country, even with the pain, the resentment, the hurt, I hope India finds her soul along again. One more time.
My Single Mother
“Why didn’t you eat your tiffin, Sanju?” Maa asked me, concerned.
“Maa, I was very busy today. I had a project in hand and had to complete it by 3.”
“Then son, quit this job. My son doesn’t need a job where he can’t even have his lunch.”
“Maa, you don’t understand how the real world works. Multinational Corporations work like this.”
“Then don’t work in a Multinational Corporation.” Maa said obstinately.
“Leave that, what are you going to cook for dinner? Make stuffed bread for me.” I told my mom in an attempt to change the topic.
“Of course, I’ll make them right away. It’s not always that my son demands stuffed bread. I’ll get some mashed potates too.”
Mom and I lived together. My dad had left her to marry another woman. Mom often said that he’d left her because she was too plain-looking. I didn’t see any truth in that. I found mom pretty. All the stress had prematurely aged her but she still looked graceful. She used to wear a gold chain dad had given her years’ back, refusing to wear any other jewelry. I had grown up with hate for my dad. But for some reason, she didn’t hate him. She’d never allow me to speak ill of him.
As we had dinner, Maa spoke, “Sanju, I think you should get married. You are 28 now. You have been procrastinating since ages.”
“But.. Maa.”
“No Sanju, I am not asking you to marry a girl of my choice. You can marry any girl you want.”
“Maa, the thing is.. I don’t believe in the institution of marriage. My marriage, just like yours, will crumble like a house of cards. I am sure you regret your marriage. If only your parents had thought of educating you instead of marrying you off to my father.”
Maa looked hurt. “I don’t regret my marriage, Sanju, I don’t. I am proud of my marriage.”
“He walked out on you, maa. He left us alone when I was three. I am pushing thirty now. I don’t understand why you don’t hate him.”
“Because son, he gave me me you, the most precious gift I have ever received. Your father walking out on me didn’t kill me, but your presence in my life, helps me live.”