“Aai, aai,” said 6 year old Rohit, “I want very sweet kheer with lots of sugar in it.” He sat on the cool, black granite of the kitchen platform in Mrs. Joshi’s fourth floor one room apartment box in Borivali, swinging his little dangling legs excitedly.
The old Hindi song Rim Zim Gire Sawaan played on the Philips transistor radio in the background, interrupted by bouts of static as a fine mist blew in through the mesh screened window. It was July. The rains in Mumbai were well in their yearly fury, leaving an amoeba-like damp stain upon the faded yellow paint. Mrs. Joshi smiled and ruffled his curly hair, humming along with the radio. She marvelled at the excitement in his eyes. “His father’s eyes,” she thought fondly, turning her attention back to the kheer simmering gently upon the stove, filling the apartment with a warm sweet aroma. She added a few more raisins.
“When you grow up and get a wife, will you still remember your mother’s kheer?” she teased.
He made a face and stuck his tongue out at her.
***
Rohit called Mrs. Joshi at five to six in the evening, five minutes before leaving office to see if she needed anything bought from the market. She said no. He climbed down the damp stairs, nodding to the ancient watchman who sat at the entrance in a cloud of bidi smoke, and waited. Going upstairs again to get his umbrella would mean missing the regular 6.14 PM fast local train home. Rohit held his bag over his head and stepped out into the rain towards Bandra railway station across the road, dodging the unclothed beggar children and the honking of the taxi cabs.
He made his way up the crowded foot over bridge picking at his shirt stuck to his back as the wind intensified and blew a spray in. A couple of crows flew in close over his head, trying to escape the rain. He shuddered. From the bridge he could barely see the train approaching, shrouded in the rain. A scratchy female voice on the PA system announced his train on platform No. 3 and another on platform No. 1. “Nine minutes late, right on time, as usual!” Rohit mused as he made his way down the slippery metal stairs, took his place near the first class carriage markings on the platform and bought the evening newspaper with pocket change. “When will it ever stop raining?” he grumbled. The vendor ignored him from under his plastic canopy. The train rolled in with a blast of the air horns, slowing to a halt, brakes squealing. Passengers disembarked and boarded. It was rush hour. Rohit squeezed in, making his way towards the middle of the compartment where he was greeted in the usual boisterous manner by his everyday co – travellers, now ‘train friends’ – a concept unique to the city of Mumbai. A quarrel erupted at the doors, and died as soon as the train started to roll out of the platform. Rohit updated his friends about his day and banter followed.
Mrs. Joshi unfurled her umbrella as she made her way to the local grocer to buy raisins for the kheer to be made tomorrow, the annual birthday special desert in the Joshi household. Neighbours would drop in uninvited for a taste of her kheer. A gust of wind swept the rain on to her face. She wiped it with the edge of her saree, turning her face away. The sky grew dark. She wondered whether Rohit had remembered his umbrella.
Mrs. Joshi worried for Rohit. It was 9 PM and he hadn’t returned home yet.
“How many times I told him to come home straight from work, not hang out with his friends at the bar. It is not the weekend.” She fumed, furiously rolling out the rotis. “It’s raining since morning.”
She went out and rang the neighbour’s doorbell.
“Sharma ji,” she said, “has Sunil returned from work? Rohit still hasn’t come. Are the trains running late?”
“Not yet,” replied Mr. Sharma. “Yes, there is some news about trains being held up for some reason.”
They grumbled about the state of the Western railway in the monsoons and then went back to their housework.
Finally, Sunil returned home at 11 PM.
It was in the news. A series of coordinated bomb blasts. Seven blasts within a span of 11 minutes – all on the Western railway line of Mumbai, all in first class compartments. All during the evening rush hour. One of them in the 6.14PM from Bandra running late by nine minutes – Tuesday, 11th July 2006. 209 declared dead. 700 injured.
Mrs. Joshi stared at the T.V. The neighbours poured in. She stared at the T.V till the morning, then she stepped out in the rain. The rain washed her face. The searing heat inside dried her tears.
“Aai, aai,” said 6 year old Rohit, “I want very sweet kheer with lots of sugar in it.” He sat on the cool, black granite of the kitchen platform in Mrs. Joshi’s fourth floor one room apartment box in Borivali, swinging his little dangling legs excitedly.
The old Hindi song Rim Zim Gire Sawaan played on the Philips transistor radio in the background, interrupted by bouts of static as a fine mist blew in through the mesh screened window. It was July. The rains in Mumbai were well in their yearly fury, leaving an amoeba-like damp stain upon the faded yellow paint. Mrs. Joshi smiled and ruffled his curly hair, humming along with the radio. She marvelled at the excitement in his eyes. “His father’s eyes,” she thought fondly, turning her attention back to the kheer simmering gently upon the stove, filling the apartment with a warm sweet aroma. She added a few more raisins.
Rohit smiled through his photograph, placed upon his usual perch in the kitchen platform.
Mrs. Joshi makes kheer everyday, say the neighbours.
Mrs. Joshi doesn’t cry anymore.
