Strawberry Swing..........

“Congratulations. Here’s your Daughter”, the doc said, meaning it.

She was ecstatic. She was tired. He was relieved, happy. He was also going to be poorer. He welcomed a baby and a White Ambassador car he brought in the morning, both, on the same day. The year was 1966.

They were a family, a new happy family. The daughter opened her eyes to the world, sleeping, sucking, crying and sleeping some more.

“She’s soooooooo cute no?”, the mother ranted all day to visitors.

The Ambassador drove the family around. It was another addition to the family, albeit a costlier, less precious one.

She started to grow up. Nursery. School. Tears. Teachers. Pencils. Books. Homework. Life happened to her.

The Ambassador grew up. Washing. Servicing. Maintenance. Painting. Pride. Life happened to it. The year was 1975.

The mirror became her best friend. She began seeing beauty in her reflection, finding faults where there weren’t any, trying the jewellery in the dresser drawer. She was a woman in making. The mirror knew that. She didn’t.

Soon boys happened. There was Pampering, gifts, conversations, winks, stolen kisses. She stopped baby talking and started girl talking. Her physical form changed. She liked it and for a few years, boys and body was all she discussed with her girlfriends. She was 19.

By then it was 1985. The Ambassador wasn’t cool enough for her. She preferred the Fiat, Kapil Dev, Sean Connery, Cliff Richards, ABBA, Levis, L’Oreal, Lords, Skirts and lot more other things that only she knew of.

The Ambassador was getting old, with the repairs, continuous breaking down, dents caused by harmless accidents and Bombay roads.

She was a very efficient as a steno. She was a Career woman. Ofcourse in the year 1995, Stenography was a ‘Career’.

“When are you getting married? You’re 29. You want to stay with us throughout your life?”, her mom nagged her daily after she returned from work.

“Later Mama, If I go, who’s going to take care of you two?”

She was a sincere human, emotion filled and a gift.

On the side, she was also waiting for her boyfriend of 3 years, to get secure in his Professional life.

He did, 4 years later and almost immediately married a woman of his parent’s choice. An arranged marriage. An arrangement that dis-arranged the strings her sensitive heart.

She worked, for her parents. Got promoted to be a manager of some sort. Life happened to her. Her marriage was fixed 8 months later. She was 34, successful, unsatisfied and unfulfilled.

1 year into her marriage. She woke up one morning. She found her husband dead beside her. Heart Attack. Gone.

She returned back to her parent’s. Her dad drove her weary soul back in the weary Ambassador. Work went on. Life went on. She proclaimed she had the Bombay Spirit. I just thought she had Human Spirit.

Years passed. She was made General Manager at her firm. She was intelligent. But more importantly she was wise. What followed was a bigger house in which she and her parents could live comfortably. She cared, being the beautiful human that she was. She had Comfort, without actual peace of mind, Success without an actual feeling of fulfilment.

She was bathing, when she discovered a cyst on her left breast, one evening. She was diagnosed with breast cancer 1 month later. Advanced stage. The year is 2008.

She was reluctant to fight yet another battle. Her Bombay Spirit was withering. She didn’t show it. It showed.

She lay on the bed, flanked by books, an Ipod Nano, A laptop and her beautiful smile when she passed away. Life stopped happening to her.

“My Deepest Sympathies. Here’s your Daughter”, the doc said, meaning it, as he handed her to her mother.

The Ambassador stopped working completely, a month later. It was sold off. It was as old as her. It had travelled a full circle. It didn’t fetch much money. “3500 rupees for this scrap”, as the buyer put it. It was worthless. They drove to all their family holidays in it and it was worthless, a forgotten asset. She was forgotten 2 weeks after she died. “Fatima who?”, as a neighbour put it.

Her life laid no significance in the absence of her. That’s just how life is, isn’t it? People continue waking up to take a Churchgate Fast in the morning, drinking a cutting chai on the road, watching Big Boss in the night, sleeping for a few hours, living their life. It’s called being human, nowadays.

“What is happiness to you?”, I asked her, 3 years ago.

“Eating Strawberries, swinging on a swing”, she answered.

If only life were a Strawberry Swing.