‘Ash’ was the name Ashlesha went by these days. Perhaps it was her idea of a joke, considering that a long plume of smoke trailed her wherever she went. And that was not all. In addition to the smoke, there was also the trail of finely speckled grey ash falling from the cigarette which inevitably dangled from her lips. Luckily, it was only tobacco, not marijuana or ‘hash.’ It was her latest rebellion after her mother had prevailed and she had joined the J.J School of Applied Art, instead of the Osmania University Hyderabad for her Bachelor’s degree in photography as she would have much preferred. Not that it mattered anymore. Mom had journeyed into the hereafter exactly two months ago.
Everyone had been surprised (shocked, though they would rather join Mom in heaven than admit it) about how quickly she had accepted her mother’s loss in a tragic hiking accident. A sudden sweep of snow and Sharvani Shastri had been buried on the treacherous slopes of the Himalayas which she loved so well. Retrieving the body along with four others who had perished too, had taken a week. A week which teetered between hope and helplessness. During which the desperate desire for a miracle was mangled by harsh reality.
It was just her and Dad now. Dad, who tried to bury himself in his work and when that failed, in whisky. Running one of the biggest handicrafts stores in a tony Mumbai pin code was not easy, but he had managed well, thanks to an uncanny ability to sniff out what would sell. Mom had occasionally helped on the marketing front, a difficult balancing act, especially when Ashlesha had been younger. When she looked back on her childhood, it was largely a bright canvas. The dark undercurrent which lay beneath like a shrouded whirlpool in deceptively calm waters, not obvious until you were sucked under. It had been the late eighties and diagnoses of ‘dyslexia’ and ‘children with special needs’ were not just difficult to make, but even more difficult to manage without lasting damage to the child in question. She was that child.
Described as a ‘slow learner,’ most teachers had thought her to be a trouble maker who was purposely disruptive. Most of them agreed that there was nothing wrong with her, which a good beating could not cure. And she would have suffered for it too, had it not been for Mom. Mom refused to believe that Ashlesha caused trouble on purpose. She was always on the lookout for new things to keep her daughter not just engaged but more importantly, happy. That Ashlesha had had to repeat class eight and nine and studied with children who were two years her junior had no effect whatsoever on the way Mom treated her. There was no scolding, no recrimination, and no constant crease of worry to mar Mom’s smooth forehead. “You strengthen your foundations if you repeat the class,” said Mom. Not just said it for lip service, but meant it too, Ashlesha knew, in that unfathomable way that children know when they are being lied to by adults.
Mom engaged her in all sorts of activities. She knew that Ashlesha hated to have her routine disrupted. Mom folded her clothes just the way she liked, always kept her shoes in the same spot on the rack and cut her sandwiches just so. No one was allowed to sit on the chaise lounge because it was what Mom called ‘Ashu’s Spot.’ Mom had hidden her worries well, until one fine day when Ashlesha had discovered a skill for photography. Coming across Dad’s camera lying on the drawing room coffee table, she had tinkered with it, recalling his actions, and had shot off an entire roll in six happy hours, wandering from room to room in their sprawling sea-front duplex, mesmerized by the way light and shadow played hide and seek with each other. Mom had got the roll developed and the rest as they said was history.
A medical certificate and a writer had finally helped her clear her class ten and twelve boards. With better research and diagnostic means finally becoming available, her condition now had a name: ‘dyslexia.’ Her disabilities were luckily limited to poor spelling, messy writing, and a distinct lack of fluency. The low self esteem and extremely limited social skills were a natural consequence of the low-grade bullying which she had faced in school where she had been named ‘Ash the Ass’ by a few vindictive classmates. Childhood apparently was not a limiting factor for cruelty.
All this had also led to the development of a stubborn streak. Thwarting Ashlesha was not something easily done. And never without dire consequences. Mom had known it and yet, her fear for her beloved daughter’s safety had won, making her overrule Ashlesha’s wish to study in Hyderabad. She had been withdrawn for months after that. Yes, being able to pursue only what she enjoyed had made a lot of difference, but try as she might, she had been unable to remove the vestiges and visions of Hyderabad from her soul. And then had come the smoking. Beginning insidiously after a particularly difficult ‘orientation’ lecture where she insisted on interacting with all her peers leaving her frazzled and nervy. Rana, a friendly class mate had noticed her agitation and offered her a puff of the cigarette he had been holding and as the nicotine spread through her veins after she had almost coughed up her lungs, there had been no looking back.
The combination of art and addiction had kept her in an unfeeling if not happy trance and after the initial deep depression, she seemed to have made a remarkable peace with Mom’s unexpected passing. If she stayed away from home for longer and longer hours, there was no one at home to notice because Dad stayed at the store for longer and longer hours too. Not having played an active role in his daughter’s upbringing for years, it was difficult to begin now. Thus, two familiar strangers shared the same living space, each a prisoner of their thoughts.
To Be Continued