For Ayesha

On Basant Panchami eve
The Devi would arrive at my home:
Kohl lined eyes, sari the colour of Hawaiian seas,
Chrome painted veena in her hands.
“You can put your text books at the altar,”
I’d tell you girls, all four of you:
Anamika, Cynthia, Lipika
And you, Ayesha;
Reminding you to be on time
For the next day’s Puja.

Whether you placed your books at the altar
Or not
I don’t remember;
But at Pushpanjali the next day
With orange marigold petals clutched in your hands.
You stood with the rest of us.
You took Prasad
Palms joined together;
Then sat alongside us
On that cracked concrete bench
Ringed with scratchy puttus shrubs,
Eating prasad from saal leaf bowls-
Picking from amongst that mish-mash
Of fruits, dates and battassa
The prized russet ber;
Twirling it around on your tongue
Savouring its sweet tanginess.

Come Eid, the four of us would gather,
A gaggle of twelve year olds
And troop into your home,
(Schooled by Lipika, the wisest:
“The greeting is Eid Mubarak!”)

Inside, there would be Eid hugs
From you, your Mom and your sis-
Hugs fragrant with henna, rose water
and I think, ittar;
And of course, pretty glass bowls
Filled to the brim
With Sevai Kheer!

Hesitating to ask for another helping
I’d scrape at the last atomic drops,
My steel spoon making unladylike noises
Till your smiling Mom
Piled our greedy bowls again.

Then one night
Our town caught fire.
A raging inferno spilling over to the next day
And the next.....
Smoking tyres, burning shops, curfewed streets
Grim soldiers on towering trucks
Army copters whirring above
-And nervous whispers doing the rounds
Of whole families
Slashed with swords!

Two days I remained indoors
Confined by the curfew
And my twelve year old fears.
My parents talked of dead families-
Of arson, rape and lynching;
The words new to me-
Their meaning though hazy,
Menacing even in their unfamiliarity.

On the third day
My Mom found me
Busily stepping outside, umbrella in hand.
“Where are you going?”
“To Ayesha’s place.”
“Don’t go,” She said quietly
“It’s not a good time.”
But she had not reckoned with my pre-teen obstinancy.

I walked out, disobeying,
Into that empty sun-scorched afternoon.
I reached your home, Ayesha
To find a great grey padlock
Dangling on your door.
“She’s left with the family,”
Informed your churlish neighbour
Through a miserly crack in her door
“To somewhere safe!”

I walked back
Kicking pebbles along the deserted streets,
Not very sure
Whether I should be relieved
That you had left to ‘somewhere safe’:
Our neighbourhood was very peaceful, I had thought.

Back home, Mom stood at the doorway, anxious.
“They’ve left.” I informed
Squeezing past her inside.
“What was the need to go searching for her
In the middle of the afternoon, 
And that too on a day like this, may I ask?”
Mom’s voice a mixture of annoyance, exasperation
And curiosity.

I did not answer my Mom that day.
I was only twelve
I could not explain to her
How in that world gone suddenly mad
I had had to reach out-
Reach out to you Ayesha.
How could I not, Ayesha-
For you’d tasted my Devi’s Prasad
And I, your Eid’s Sevai Kheer!

And if our world burns again, Ayesha
Billowing black tyre smoke and acrid hate-
Be it a sun-scorched noon
Or a storm slashed dusk,
I’d still step out,
Reaching for you.
As you would too!
And if they question why
We’ll tell them then:

"I've tasted her Devi’s Prasad!"

"And I, her Eid’s Sevai Kheer!"