Chapter 13: Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara, Part 2

What if I were to die? Now. Kavita reclined on her bed, Khaled Hosseini's Kite Runner face down on her stomach.

She closed her eyes and saw Tania's image float in first. Depressed, sad, unable to concentrate on anything. She imagined a listless Pari, heart broken by her mother's betrayal.

It was a few days after the death of Kavita's mother. Pari had been four. They lay on the bed facing each other. Both of Pari's hands under her cheek, her knees drawn up to her chest. Pari insisted Kavita lie with her before Pari fell asleep.

"What happened to Naani?"

"She moved to another world."

"What world?"

She had gone on to build an elaborate world for Pari. Of cotton candy mountains and Limca rivers. Of trees, with trunks of chocolate bark and vanilla ice cream underneath. Where angels bathed Naani in rose water, fed her candies and aam papad all day and pressed her feet while she ate.

"Will you die too?"

There was such concern in her eyes. A fear that clouded her face. Kavita realized that was the question Pari most wanted to ask. The possibility of her mother ceasing to exist.

She touched Pari's nose. "Only when you are old and wrinkly and need a stick to walk."

Pari seemed satisfied with the answer. She cupped both of her mother's cheeks. "Even then I won't let you go."

Kavita opened her eyes. Picking up the phone, she made an appointment with Sanjeevani Nursing Home for the TMT the following week.

She walked over the balcony. The fifteen by fifteen feet platform was her favorite spot in the house. She had turned it into a little garden patio. There were hari champa vines on the walls, fragrant when in bloom. She had a few plants, Jade, Draceania, Song of India placed strategically to provide the green foil to the more colorful pots of gerbera, red hibiscus and petunias. A patch had been cleared for a jasmine shrub. She wanted her tiny garden to please the nose as much as the eye. The white cane chairs in the middle made it a perfect outdoor sitting area. They had had a swing set for the kids when the girls were little, but had it taken out recently. Too small for Pari now.

She wondered if her love of this balcony was symbolic of her life in some way. Of her observing the world from an elevated distance. Of her reluctance to touch the ground below and face the harsh realities of world.

In the front along the railing, there were two giant Hawaiian fanpalms at each of the ends, one slightly bigger than the other. They had grown huge; some of the fronds were more than three feet in length. Often a source of admiration for their guests. She named the bigger one, on the right, Tania and the smaller one Pari. Sameer and the girls had a great time making fun of that. She smiled at the memory.

The evening was warm. She loved this time of the day when everything slowly became indistinct before dissolving into darkness. The house was quiet. Tania was in her room and Pari at Shreya's house down the street. She sat down in her favorite chair and put her feet up on the table.

"Ammaji, can you please get me my pen and pad?" She called out from the balcony.

The pen Ammaji brought was one of Pari's, with a big translucent pig's head at its non-writing end. She banged it against the pad and red and blue lights flickered. Ammaji hadn't left after handing her the things she had asked for.

"Haan Ammaji? Koi kaam hai?" She asked without looking at her.

"Nahin, bitiya. You went to the doctor today."

Ammaji sensed her moods well. She had been with them a long time, from about the time they moved to Delhi. Diminutive and reed thin, Ammaji had shrunk even more the last few years. She had a small face; just enough for what was required there. Her sparse hair tied in a bun; she wore a black t-shirt with 'SINGLE' spelt out in bold white letters. A Tania cast off. Tania had gone through a phase of shirts with words on them and then it was quickly over. Now Ammaji wore them with panache, over trousers or salwars without a care in the world what the words meant.

"Sab theek hai. Bas, I have to exercise and watch my diet."

"Why don't you start walking in the mornings?"

Ammaji. She had an opinion on everything from why Amitabh Bachchan should quit films to why Rahul Gandhi should get married and have children.

"Haan, Ammaji. I'll start soon."

Ammaji hesitated a little, "Aur bitiya, woh TV waale baba ji says if you feed a cow two rotis and hundred grams boiled kaali daal every Tuesday."

"Ammaji"

Ammaji knew it was time to back off.

Kavita scribbled a few lines on the pad. She still wrote poetry, though not as often as she used to, but she maintained a scrap book of all her poems since she began writing.

The doorbell rang, followed by Pari's usual high-pitched greeting to Ammaji. Shreya had come to drop her off and they stood a long time in the doorway, talking. Incurable chatterboxes both of them.

"Snap chat me later," Shreya said as she left.

God. They hadn't had enough of each other?

She put the paper and the pen on the table. She would finish it later.

A Few Moments More

You knock on my door

And tell me to follow you

It's time, you say

Time to leave.

I realize

I need a few moments more

I need to see how the jasmines I planted come out in the spring

And if the amaltas flowers will be as beautiful this summer.

I need to hear my girl's laughter once more, see her smile light up the room once more

I need to take her small hand in mine and thank God once more

I need to visit countries, continents.

I need to see all this world has got to show me.

Oh there is so much I need to do!

Can't we wait a bit?

Come let's wait a bit.

A few moments more

A few years more