Mishti looked at the house. The old house. It did not look big at all.
The mango tree with its thick trunk, low branches, she had loved to climb, seemed to beckon her. The canopy of dark green leaves interspersed with the delicate,tender, light green and rust coloured ones boasted a generous harvest from the abundant inflorescence. The balcony under it seemed old, though. A recliner still stood there, in the corner. Dusty and tatty. Was it the same one?
She felt the sleeping dragon in her belly stir.
She turned to look at her sister, who was watching her with love, her eyes misted. Gingerly they stepped around tufts of wild weeds, growing with gay abandon as if released from some cage.
The garden used to be humongous… now it seemed so small… could easily fit in one’s palm, she thought.
Laughter gurgled here. Kids’ laughter. Their childish prattle echoed… still echoed.
She peeped into the room leading from the balcony. The bed. The big double bed, occupied most of the room. It seemed huge. Enough for all her siblings and even mom. They would often play there in the afternoons. When her mom would retire to her room for her siesta. Grandfather would assure her, he would keep an eye on the brood. Trusting the patriarch, she would gratefully vanish into her space, before she began her back breaking chores for the evening.
When did it start?
She could not recall.
How did it start?
With generous attention.
Lots of patting on the head, face, and back.
In a jiffy she was transported.
The frilly cotton frocks, her mother dressed her in, her soft, long, wavy hair, in a pony tail. A cheerful child, she often broke up into smiles, that made her eyes twinkle. Even strangers stopped to stare and comment.
The old man started a game of hide and seek, one afternoon. She remembered the delight in not being found out. Squealing, she had emerged from under the bed. Next time she again hid in her favourite place. But this time he was there too.
The afternoons were never the same again.
The lurking threats of harm to her mother and sister.
The pain, the tears.
Didi was there. She saw the old man hunched over her squirming and flailing sister. Her earth shattering shout – “Ma!” ripped the house that day.
A brood of bulbuls chirruped noisily before bursting into flight. Pushing off the half-dressed, old man, Ma had hugged Mishti tight. She kept shedding copious tears till father arrived that evening.
They packed their bags and left, late at night. Father was angry and sad. Red in the face, he had shouted for a long time.
Now, as she walked from room to room, she felt the heaviness ease a little. The dead could not harm her. Memories realigned to the present. She could hear her therapist, from deep within. The sleeping dragon was rearing its ugly head, as it tried to wake up from slumber.
“I am with you! No one can harm you – ever!” said her sister as she put her arm around her, holding Mishti in a comfortable warm hug.
The dragon settled down and buried itself deep. It could no longer harm her.
“If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here Didi. I wouldn’t be a successful author.” She hugged her sister with all her love from the bottom of her heart.
By Anamika Kundu
Anamika Kundu is an author, poet, and editor of several short story collections. She has been an English Teacher with a passion for stories, travel and sports.
