Slow destruction-theirs.

‘Bi-carbonate soda’ she had said, ‘cuts the grit off marble’. This was her ritual. Always. The marble was a semi circle wedged into a make shift wall. Letters, Christmas cards, birthday cards, outstanding bills, found themselves tucked under a solid globe shaped vase that speckled prisms of blue reminding us it came from Poland. Today’s […]

‘Bi-carbonate soda’ she had said, ‘cuts the grit off marble’.

This was her ritual. Always.

The marble was a semi circle wedged into a make shift wall. Letters, Christmas cards, birthday cards, outstanding bills, found themselves tucked under a solid globe shaped vase that speckled prisms of blue reminding us it came from Poland.

Today’s vase was different. Mud-earth, round in belly and at its mouth a coiled red pashmina to keep it snugly closed. Cool in summer. Warm in winter. Soft to touch. His that was; and now hers. Precious to both.

**

It stood alone. Self approved of this new choice, not forgiving nor forgetting what had been, is, and will ever be.

We understood time and left the unspoken to reason what was apparent. As he, her lover, stroked this new shape and felt its warm belly straight from the furnace. A faint warmth exhaled as he touched his check to its roundness. A whiff of cinders wafted past his nostrils as we understood it was time for the priests to take charge.

This was not what should have been – sitting on a console table, waiting for the right time to release her past perfects. Waiting to release her into the waters in its majestic expanse. They called her The Ganges. But he was adamant. Not again. Never! Into the arms of Varuna, Neptune or any other who ruled oceans and their underwater world. Never! He insisted.

And, every night, he’d stroke that bulbous belly that waited unknowingly, mutter a few words, recite the day’s events, clasp its mouth round his wide opened palms and say goodnight – A strange exchange of tenderness hurt and at night when he cried it seemed that his tears dropped sadness into the belly of that urn. His was a magical realm.. Watch him we did. Question we needed to and asked, ‘When will you deliver her to the Gods?’

Time took to its heels. He grew bent and much like that urn, he too stood waiting to be released. Then one day, he looked into his small mirror and saw another. Standing behind was a face unknown. Too drawn to recognise. Too weary to ask or turn, he shut his eyes. The face remained, smiled, and the evening breeze swept it away. But he, in his sudden awareness, lifted the smells of many wonderful nights and many occasions when sandalwood and jasmine overlapped her hair, her arms, herself.

Then, one day, he smiled a radiant answer that showed tobacco stained incisors between spongy pink gums and gaps that once held strong molars far behind. He had decided. He moved in small steps as he picked up the urn and placed it on the back of his Morris Minor.

He shifted gears in the most delicate fashion driving at a ceremonial slow pace.

‘Avoid potholes, avoid bumps, but keep your eyes on the pedestrian crossing’ we chorused.

A farewell from home was explicit. This was final. This was a declaration.

The signboard read, “Any age welcome! No taxes charged! We assure a good night’s rest!”

We followed new currents, new astigmatic sights, new smells, new silence were lined to attention on shelves. Some grey, some with patina, some earthen with ribbons tied as farewells, others undressed in their only glory of being just another receptacle.

He placed her beside the others and began his daily routine. Names, date of birth, date of death, place of death, cause of death. And did something more: The height of each urn. He was good at measurements. Having been a carpenter. He liked this drill-his invitation to new entries.

Enveloped, we followed whiffs of chrysanthemums; stale roses that smelt a mix of apple-vinegar and somewhere in the far distant the fragrance of freshly lit frankincense.

Nostrils became sharper as routine visits became frequent. A guilt perhaps- a means to forget our privileged selves. After all, we lived in well ventilated homes unlike these who welcomed us waiting in walled closed vessels and felt maybe none the wiser or better when a flower was kept by their side.

‘Isn’t it time you put her into a vault?’ we asked as we stopped and placed another common garland by its side. Lines of garlands, wreaths, bouquets in a medley of pungent fragrances dispersed into vaults. Some preferred wreaths. But when he stopped at the red clothed urn he once again stroked its belly and whispered his special message deaf to our advice. Genteelness comes in different ways just as destructions erode all reasoning.

This time the waters are calm within waves of flecked orange and blue .The sun blinks its many orbs. The waves move gradual, then shift its rhythm into a jostle like gallops. She enjoys the ride. She waves. She’s on a surfboat of sun struck waves. She then understands it’s a different rhythm and begins to yell. She knows. It comes lashing and sucking. A turbulent dance prevails and when she gasps his name, there are none to hear. The waves push and sweeps and leaps and strikes her. Then, it whips its most poisonous venom – a lash stings and sucks. She is swooped.

No new beginning now. Not another end.

She powdered, crumbled grey, ashen to stay. Always, within its closed earthen walled home; no longer warm. Happy to be inside that bellied vase. Sometimes, pleasantly pleased to receive a garland but most of all delighted to hear him speak and relieved to meet him with her many faces.

Home stay or not, this now is hers.

Now his.

Only theirs to understand.

Just theirs.

No taxes to pay!

It stands….

Minakshi.Lakshmanan