Nisha woke with a start and turned off the alarm before its shrill trill could shatter the peace of the dawn. The eastern sky was already a palette of smudged mauves, pale pinks and orange. The morning star twinkled and winked tantalizingly on the horizon. The air carried just the hint of a chill. Dawn came earlier these days as the bone chilling cold of winter gradually gave way to spring. Pulling her hair into a knot, she quietly got out of bed, careful not to disturb Riya, who lay curled up, hugging her soft- toy giraffe with her thin little arms. A stray curl lay on her smooth forehead, her small face a picture of peace seen only in the deep sleep of childhood.
Nisha stepped out on to the tiny balcony and breathed in deep. This was the only time when the air felt light and airy as it was meant to be. Once the morning traffic took hold, the air seemed like everything else, dull and heavy and oppressive. Yesterday had been one of Riya’s better nights, when she had slept the whole night through, without waking up terrified and choking as she had regularly during the cold winter, when the asthma took hold.
The various specialists whom she had visited had all said the same. Something about genetic traits and an emotional trauma. She recalled Prithvi saying that he had often suffered from bronchitis as a child but had outgrown it in his teens. She could not relate much to the scientific part of it. She had never been good at any of the sciences, ‘hopeless’ as Prithvi, her husband put it, with a slight shake of his head, a sly smile on his lips, expertly ducking his head to avoid her well- aimed cushion. She also vaguely remembered the article on circadian rhythm which she had read a long time ago, at the behest of her colleague Anand, the biology teacher. Something about the lung function being at its lowest at this time of day.
She stepped towards the tiny kitchen, determined not to linger either on her balcony or in the past. Life waited for none. It went on, with little eddies and swirls, flowing at its own pace. Mornings were a whirlwind of activity, the usual rush of readying Riya and herself and getting to school, where Riya studied in class 1 and she was the music teacher. Although the Maharani Ahilyadevi Holkar High School was a private institution, the principal, the formidable Mrs. Vani Sundaram was a forward- thinking person, who cared deeply about her staff and students. It was at her insistence that a creche had been set up on the school premises for the children of the staff about ten years ago. Under Mrs. Sundaram’s expert stewardship, the school was now one of the most sought- after schools in a city famed to be the ‘educational hub’ of Maharashtra.
This foresight had stood Nisha in good stead because she could work peacefully in the knowledge that her daughter was in safe hands. The well- equipped sanatorium meant that Riya’s health was well monitored and all her medications administered carefully. With the advent of warmer days, Nisha hoped that Riya would take a turn for the better. Perhaps, she would then begin her formal training in music for the child showed an ability, humming along with her mother and carrying a tune with ease ever since she was three years old. “I hope she takes after me when it comes to mathematical ability,” Prithvi’s deep baritone had just the hint of a chuckle down the telephone. “I won’t be able to handle two temperamental musical geniuses who are useless when it comes to practical matters like accounting and simple mechanics” and he roared with laughter. She could see him now, ducking his head to avoid her imaginary cushion in the tiny room of the barracks from where he had called, on that faraway morning, while she, breathless with delight expounded on Riya’s musical abilities.
As the mother and daughter duo made their way to the school, Nisha wondered what Prithvi would think if he saw her now, weaving expertly in and out of the Pune traffic in her small Maruti Alto. As they stopped at a traffic signal, she was struck by the number of red roses on display and sale. “It’s Valensine Day today, Mamma”, Riya’s little voice piped up. “Tanvi is giving me a rose today because she is my bestest friend. Can I buy a rose Mamma? I want to give her one too!” Nisha couldn’t refuse. Riya was such a quiet prepossessed child, who hardly ever asked her mother for anything that Nisha felt a little twinge of pleasure at this childish demand. “You can buy two roses, sweetheart. One for you to give Tanvi and one from Mamma to you!” She was rewarded by a smile as warm and bright as the sunshine. When the car drove on, Riya was proudly clutching two pink rose buds wrapped in green cellophane and raffia.
When they alighted in the school car park, Nisha checked her daughter’s bag. “Do you have your tiffin? And your inhaler? What about the art kit?” “Relax Mamma! I packed the kit yesterday. And I neeeverrrrrrrrrr go anywhere without my insaler, you know that!”. Nisha smiled at the way she deliberately mispronounced words sometimes. “There are Preeti Miss and Julie Miss!” Riya pointed to two teachers making their way into the school. “Preeti Miss is my drawing Miss”, she added importantly, conveniently forgetting that her mother shared the staff room with Preeti Miss and was good friends with her. “Look at her bouquet of roses Mamma! Why don’t you have one?” Nisha looked away for a moment. “I don’t need one, darling. I have the best little flower angel in the world. She is called Riya!”. But Riya had already picked one pink rose from its cellophane wrapping. “This is for you Mamma! Maybe Papa didn’t find the time to send you some. Flowers take time to reach!” Nisha was momentarily rendered speechless at this blend of innocence and sagacity in her daughter. She held her close and breathed in the smell of innocence. “Run along now! You will be late. And don’t you want to give Tanvi her rose?” She watched as her daughter dashed away and was soon lost in the melee.
On slow leaden steps Nisha made her way to the music room. This was a yearly saga. Valentine’s Day caught her unawares every time. Prithvi was a great prankster and had sent her unusual things every year. A potted fern, a bouquet of sunflowers, some braid which had come undone from his uniform, a ticket for a Kaushiki Chakraborty concert and a framed photograph of himself. She gave herself a mental shake. There was no time to brood. She had a lesson to prepare. 7 D would be filing in for their lesson. She planned to teach them ‘Ai watan ai watan humko teri kasam’ today. It would be a befitting finale for the annual music fest which the school put up on the day the results were announced. Lavanya, a gifted child was part of the class. Nisha made a mental note to meet her mother at the next Parent-Teacher meeting. Lavanya had a very unusual voice and would benefit from special training. She hoped her mother would agree.
Outside the music room, a stunned Madhu stood in the shadows, the pass in her hand to meet her daughter’s music teacher falling to the floor in a flutter. Though the class resounded to forty voices lifted in song, Madhu was far away, in a different time and place. As the music died away, several kids crowded around Nisha Miss. “Miss, how many roses did you get today?” “Did your husband give you a big bouquet like my dad gave Mom?” “Miss, are you going out for dinner today?” Madhu was taken aback at what she thought was their impertinence. “These kids!”, she thought to herself. “How can they ask their teacher such questions! They really are too big for their boots!”. Nisha smiled at the students. In this day and age, with the internet at their fingertips, students had a forthright way about them and such questions did not faze her. She merely smiled enigmatically and gently chided them with “Get along to your next class or there will be a complaint from your math teacher. And then who knows? Our rehearsals may be curtailed!”
As the students went on their boisterous way, Madhu stepped into an alcove to avoid being seen by her daughter. When Nisha and Riya returned home in the evening, Mrs. Karve, their neighbor stood guard over a huge bouquet of roses in all colors of the rainbow which stood proudly on the doorstep. “I was waiting to make sure no one took your flowers away. Someone left them just as I returned from the market”, she said by way of explanation. “Look Mamma, Papa sent the flowers after all!” Riya jumped up and down with excitement. “I knew all along that Papa’s posting was not so far away that he wouldn’t send flowers. You told me he would always look upon us didn’t you?”. As Nisha peered along the lane, she could spot no one. The person who had delivered the flowers was long gone.
Hidden behind the tinted glasses of her car parked on the other side of the lane four houses away, Madhu watched with satisfaction. Life had finally come full circle. Nisha Singh Shekhawat’s face was emblazoned on her soul the day she saw her on television, receiving the Mahavir Chakra awarded posthumously to Captain Prithvi Singh Shekhawat for saving eight civilians from a terrorist attack in Gulmarg, the tears running down her face, for she and her husband had been two of them. Flowers she knew were inadequate. In fact, everything was inadequate. For how did one repay the debt of life?
She saw Nisha unfold the attached card, in which was written, “But for the sacrifices of people like you, we would never be able to celebrate with our loved ones. You always rose to the challenge. It’s time we rose in gratitude too. It was signed “the people of India” and carried more than a hundred signatures.
Nisha imagined Prithvi smiling. He had pulled off his biggest prank yet and managed to send her flowers from where none could be sent.