Quiet Screams to the Quiet Healer

By Nilanjana Haldar

A CHILD DISCOVERS THE SECRET OF USING HER UNACKNOWLEDGED PAIN TO HAUL YOUTHS FROM THEIR AGONY OF WITNESSING DOMESTIC VIOLENCE AT HOME. BUT THAT JOURNEY IS LOADED WITH MYSTERY!

Domestic Abuse.....Magic…..Supernatural….Romance……Mysterious encounters….the book has it all!

Being raised in a home of domestic abuse, Sanjana frequently escapes from her home until she is forced to part from her childhood friend and the city where she was born. Right before she leaves, she makes a strange discovery in her hometown—a couple of bandit-looking men confuse her imagination in the middle of an abandoned stadium. Besides, leaving the city completely erased off her mind how a rain-water streaked letter she had picked outside the town library once, back in her old city, had a massive significance in the series of mysterious encounters and visions which she would come to pass by in her college years. The mysteries intensify right around the time she is close to launching her secret plan to provide support to youths who are forced to watch domestic abuse at home.

No matter how much meaning she tried placing on the mysterious encounters, each of them pointed towards one particular word—Tragedy!

What will she find out?

Will the families she will reach out to push her away or seek her help?

Read the book and find out!

 

"I applaud Nilanjana for having the courage to branch out and showcase her work in her debut e-book.It was such a journey as a reader because it highlights the silence of abuse. The societal acceptance of forced marriages through beatings. The blue light signifying freedom, liberation, rebellion from the cocoon, and most importantly choice for salvation."--Donna Hines, NPD & DV Advocate & Volunteer, Motivational Speaker

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nilanjana Haldar
• Release date: Apr 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9789353918330

Book preview

PRAISE FOR NILANJANA HALDAR'S 'QUIET SCREAMS TO THE QUIET HEALER'

Haldar creates realistic tension in her plot and character development that offers us a glimpse of the problems with children witnessing domestic violence and how it devalues and dehumanizes those in Indian society. A riveting read, Quiet Screams to the Quiet Healer will break your heart and fill it again with hope and possibility.

Jeannie Ewing, author of From Grief to Grace: The Journey from Tragedy to Triumph.

This story shows that the beauty of being a child is sometimes inseparable from the pain of childhood. Even as the writer as citizen offers us a traumatic cautionary tale, the writer as artist shows the fatal glue that keeps pain and beauty twinned together.

Saikat Majumdar, author of The Firebird and The Scent of God.

Nilanjana Haldar

Quiet Screams to the Quiet Healer

Copyright © 2019 by Nilanjana Haldar

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Illustrations Copyright © 2019 by Nilanjana Haldar

Cover Design Copyright © 2019 by Didi Wahyudi

All rights reserved.

The following story is a fiction story overlapping genuine problems from real lives of different people the author has come by. While the incidents are real, the characters, places and the situations are all fictional and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by Nilanjana Haldar

11 J.K. Dutta Sarani,

1st Bylane,

Ramkrishna Road,

Ashrampara, Siliguri,

West Bengal, India.

Pincode-734001

ISBN: 978-93-5391-833-0

If you are interested in the author’s work, visit and subscribe at her website www.nilanjanahaldar.com

Contents

Praise

Title page

Copyright page

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Part 1

Half A Letter

Childhood

Home and Staying Away

Awakenings

Fun and Terror in a Day

Could She Ask Him?

Mystery on the Forest Road

Rumors and Rewards

Unheard Stories and Revelations

Another Silent Victim

Father’s Story

One Listless Afternoon

Birthday Bash

Grandpa’s Story: The Truth Behind It All

What Sanjana Didn’t Know

Picnic

Pact Underneath the Stars

Christmas Party and Sisterhood Ambush

Untold Goodbye

Sighting on a Railway Station

Part 2

Pigeons in Another City

An Accident and A Friend

Failed Confrontation

A New Friend Brings Sanjana Home

Cousin Shakes the Night

Models, Ferris Wheels, Starry Skies, and Kriti’s Message

Ill-Fated Cousin

New Memories Fade and Solutions Arise

Five Stories

Blue Light

Dancer Boy’s Regret

Part 3

Others Like Her

Kriti’s Email

Turmoil and Emerging Friends

The Hideout

Meanwhile in Mumbai

The Meeting at the Ashram

New Discoveries

Doubted and Accepted all in a Day

Others’ Hidden Stories

Far Away in Another City

Emergency Duty and a Talk with Vivek

Ward Problem and a Light

What is Mummy Really Up To?

What Happened to Kriti?

The Hideout Meeting

A Much-Awaited Break

The Strange Blog

Vivek Makes a Move

A Plan is Hatched

The Quiet Cry for Help

The Emptiness

The Discourse of Pretense

What Happened to the Sardarji?

When an Ordinary Day Changes

A Life So Different

In the City of Nawanshahr

Lodhi Colony in the Dark and the Shower of Answers

Mrs. Navina’s Reply

Free Smiles in the End

About the author

I dedicate this book to the person who witnessed constant suffering as a child. It’s not yours to bear, remember!

Acknowledgements

I thank my dear parents, Dr. Nibedita Haldar and Dr. Nihar Ranjan Haldar, for their love and for helping me acquire my stay in Delhi where I had the peace and tranquility to write and also the lovely moments I could spend with them whenever they came and visited me.

I express my heartfelt thanks to the people who helped make this journey possible. Firstly, my friends Abhishek Sarkar, Gargi Day, Avinash Negi, Rabindranath Chowdhury and Nirupam Muhuri who have helped me whenever I needed them, supported me through adversity, and constantly cheered me on. 

I thank Hannah Warren for editing my book so flawlessly, Didi Wahyudi for designing the excellent book cover, and Ivica Jandrijevic’s mind-blowing redesigning of my cover design. I also thank Irina Klimashova and Ivica Jandrijevic for beautifully designing my book layout.

Additionally, I would like to thank Mrs. Raveen Pandey who has not only been a constant well-wisher but also someone who applauded every effort I made. I am blessed to have had you in my journey.

I thank Anurima Chanda for guiding me through the publishing process and related requirements.

I am tremendously happy for my friends from the tribe in Mindvalley Community—Francesca Coronin, Sophie La, Gerard Hill, Trent Thomason, Dao Lam, Jijgee Munkhdelger, Sarah Avedikian, Helen O’Hara, Steve Thompson, Cynthia A Schaub, Fanoula Filsos, Natalie Quinn, Wioleta Wydrych, James Ryan, Chamali Smith, and Quynh Giao Tonnu—who not only supported every written piece of mine but also helped me grow as a person; climb out of every painful situation that I experienced; learn about freedom, gratitude, forgiveness, and the truth about life; and, most importantly, push me forth in this pathway and transform this bustling desire into a reality.

I would love to thank Debashree Roy, Sudip Bhowal, Arkya Saha, who, though they were unaware of my book, helped me through times when nothing was in my favour and it was hard to keep a hold on my creativity. I thank you for your support and love.

I am extremely grateful to a bunch of friends who always supported everything I wrote. While even they were unaware of my book, their support and detailed feedback for other writings of mine encouraged me to continue writing my book. These friends are Swarnika Pal, Abhinav Nair, Debashmita Dutta, Karan Malhotra, and Sukanya Das.

Prologue

Are there really only happy children?

There are those who are well-fed and express themselves unrestrained and return to the safety of a happy home. They come in a lot of shades because our lives are all different but every shade is a variation of the happy—the beloved obedient, the troublesome, the intelligent and the stupid, the smart and the dull. They are all loved.

And there are those children who are poorly fed, mud-smeared, and sauntering in the streets, their needs never noticed. Yet these children are joyous of the delights in the empty fields or the waterhole. That’s the source of their happiness. But, well, regarding the unfed, God be with them!

There is another kind. The beaten. This is brutal for they are born to be beaten and clipped off their natural selves, inquisitive and queer. No questions can be asked. No mistakes can be made. No failures can be had. God be with them, too!

In a shade not so different from the beaten is Sanjana’s story. This shade isn’t noticed either. But if you visited her home, your observations would be limited. Because you, an outsider, would be exempted from all the malice, temporarily swept underneath the rug. You would see happy smiling faces. But after you leave, she would have to witness it all. She saw it, the horror. Every single day.

So she returns home daily to a stage play of torture. While her friends desire home, she desires to be away. It’s her salvation. But how can a child be away from home? They are dependent, aren’t they? So she really is chained. She simply cannot refuse. It’s a forced experience. You have to witness it or leave home. She never considered leaving home. If she left, she would die anyway. So the choices are to stay at home and survey the delights of barbarity, or to leave home, starve, and die. She never even considered the latter. Quite like the habitually beaten children, you will agree.

But she grew, and she will show it to you. She will show how even such pain can be used to heal. And to flatten your doubts further, you will see how strong some relations can really be.

Her story is based on a collection of incidents from people’s real lives.

Part 1

Chapter one

Half A Letter

Dearest Franny,

It’s been a year since that fantastic day I told you about.

There was sand, a lot of sand. Besides, there was foam. A lot of foam all over the place. And I cast my bag by my side and was lying over it, my back, abdomen, heels and my bag dipping into the sand, making divots. I remember Kriti’s exact words. We did it! It’s for real, Sanju, shrieked Kriti. «I remember picturing this day—the breeze, the sand—long back in the library once, exactly as I feel it now. Really! It’s like a dream come true!"

I was at the beach, and the expanse beyond the waves glistened in the sun. We hired bicycles, and we rode through the wavy line where the wave foam merged with the shore. With the rhythmic sounds of the spokes of the bicycle chains across the sandy beach and only foams for traffic lines, a strange melancholy pervaded me.

After riding a certain distance, I let Kriti ride on and reflected. A long expanse of the sandy sea beach lay ahead of me, and I stared at it and felt the wind rush into my lungs, filling every corner of my body and rising to my head. I released myself to the wind.

Cries of hate, sounds of whipping, and silent sniffles of pain—all the sounds that were consistently staged in the life I had passed by—now reduced to a faint echo!

I ignored it. It never was my story. But one becomes a part of the things they witness every day.

Still, is there a beautiful name for sadness? Despite the thrill, I feel myself shake. Is it real or, maybe, just a memory of me shuddering behind shut doors back in the days?

Then the muffled wails that floated towards me in the middle of the beach probably weren’t real. Only a memory. But they sounded genuine, and that memory feels real to this day. I think the wind wanted me to cast them away.

We wore the violet-blue Christmas tree t-shirts that Aunty Navina bought for both of us, and we left our hair untied and flying in the wind.

Upon our arrival at Goa, we headed out to the sea, yelling out years of pent-up desires and dreams, facing the foams of the Arabian, gibbering nonsense. Forming crisscrossed motions along the long stretches of the beach, we rode far and wide, leaving behind evanescent rubber trails, washed by laps of the Arabian Sea at intervals.

‘‘I feel drunk with joy. I’ve rarely felt this way before,’’ I said, poking my nose through the breeze, flinging back my black curls. I remember a sharp detail. It was the sound of a lady spilling a glass of coconut water. It had slipped off her hands and overturned, the juice running over the man underneath the umbrella. I had been fingering flowery patterns over the wet sand when I noticed this happen and I chose not to look, fearing a quarrel would ensue.

I was wrong.

The next thing I heard was laughter. The man came forward and hugged the woman, saying, Don’t worry, dear. I will get it washed later. Guys, this is my beautiful wife, the most important person of my life.

I hadn’t seen anything like that my whole life. So I was surprised.

When is your flight to Nepal tomorrow, Sanju? Kriti called out to me at one point only two feet away from the shore and inches away from the almost-transparent jellyfish, flaunting a bright display of its entail.

I responded, A week away, girl. The name is Opus Radiotherapy Institute of Health Care, by the way. Some of the paperwork at Safdarjung Hospital is yet to be completed. But I was looking forward to meeting you before I went away.

Then, Kriti shared something with me that made me very happy: Grandpa will be meeting her today, Sanju. His cold was bad. But now that he has recovered, he is heading for her home today.

My ears pricked and I smiled in wonder. Oh My God! I can’t express how beautiful a thing this is! This is happening! We made it happen!

Then, should I expect a better tomorrow? Find out in my next letter.

That’s it. Good night, Franny. Lots of Love, Sanjana

* * *

She had it all expressed to Franny. But she had lied, fundamentally lying to her diary. Some riddles hadn’t changed. They remained quite the same and continue to be so to this day, persistently creating pain.

She finished writing and drew the blanket over her. Her thoughts soon clouded her sleep: I still don’t understand Moral Science because every time I do, I am proven wrong. I wonder if they even teach them in school anymore. As for mom and dad, at least they believe me now. But, despite everything, they still don’t understand each other. Why then did I have to study this subject? Why are we taught things in schools that aren’t even true?

Chapter two

Childhood

A long-drawn argument was coming to a conclusion as the seventh bus pulled into the school, casting welcome relief onto the face of every girl who was a witness to the squabbling. Swagata was annoyed because she couldn’t have her book back, the one she had lent to Kriti, who seemed to be absent that day. Sanjana wanted Swagata to let it go, which she stated loudly and clearly. As the bus screeched to an understated halt, the other girls applauded the final reconciliation.

Their resentments were gone before they left the bus, but Swagata was drawn by a sudden and sadistic desire to restate her point in the topic. But I really need the book back, Sanju. What do I tell ma’am today? I will be scolded!

As they got off the bus, Sanjana placed an arm around her friend and said, Nothing will happen. I promise. I will cook something up to help you through and dismiss the tension should it arise. Trust me.

Sanjana knew what could have possibly gone wrong with Kriti, yet she wasn’t entirely sure. I wonder if she’s okay, Sanjana thought. Something is really going wrong in her life. It could be worse than I thought!

Sanjana’s thought was interrupted by the ringing of the morning bell. Everybody in their respective positions stood frozen in their spots. The first school bell required everybody on campus to remain still for ten seconds, which was followed by the second bell, allowing movement again as students gathered for the morning prayers. After that, everybody returned to their classes.

This is a tiresome fourth time in two months that you have come late to school. May I know the reason for it? Swati ma’am snapped at Kriti as she plodded in, rain dripping off her overalls underneath a crumpled, discolored and shabby raincoat. Kriti squeezed rainwater from her eyes and hair in bunches. Clearly, the storm had caught her off guard.

The local bus was late, ma’am. I’m very sorry. This is the last time. Please forgive me.

And what if I’m to assume you are adopting a bold new routine, dearie? Mrs. Swati’s sarcasm silenced every whisper around until the pelting raindrops from the edge of the window panels became audible. Kriti had her reasons for being late, Sanjana knew. Sanjana glanced at her guilt-stricken, little brown eyes with a questioning look.

Sorry, ma’am. Actually, I had to go and collect Dad’s pills. And, the reason why I couldn’t collect the pills a day before was…

That’s it! Mrs. Swati interrupted. No more excuses. I wonder why you are tasked with such a job, more so during class hours. Your mom doesn’t have a maid? Kindly tell her I would like a word with her, said Mrs. Swati. Her voice softened as Kriti began coughing.

Confronting a daily, preset reproach was starting to, as Sanjana observed, befall Kriti’s routine. Kriti neither feared it nor took it to heart anymore. She saw beyond it. It was as if her mind was elsewhere, and she realized she had to keep moving on. Clinging on to that very same apologetic look, she collapsed into her seat, accepting her teacher’s lack of understanding and her classmates’ blank gazes.

The girls spent two, long hours in English class and were glad to follow it with a break. Thrilled with renewed yearnings for the break time, the little girls surged from the building in their dainty, green uniforms.

The park guard keeper, much like any other day, eyed them as they pranced and ran for the park swings, and he wailed, There they come! The cherubs!

Sanjana and Kriti sat huddled together outside the park, their heads low as they spoke quietly.

Shifting her gaze from the ecstatic park guard to Sanjana, Kriti spoke in a mellow voice, Ma’am has called me to her room for five minutes during lunch break. I’ll meet you later. You go!

No really! Tell me, buddy, what is it! You and punctuality are like butter and bread. Are you all right? Like to share what’s on your mind? Sanjana poked Kriti, urging her friend to talk to her.

Uncle Lal had the packet of pills ready, Kriti said, her voice low. I simply had to go and collect it. He wasn’t available last night and will be going on leave tonight, so this morning was my only time to go and collect the pills from him. I kept knocking at his door, but he didn’t open it until half an hour later. As for Mom, you know, she has to be home for Dad. Kriti puffed out her chest defensively. There! I said it! she said, her voice raising.

What about the other days? Sanjana asked.

I’ll tell you later. But first, I’ve got to meet ma’am. Wish me luck! I think she’ll understand. Kriti stood and began walking towards the school buildings.

Would you like me to keep aside some of the sandwiches for you? Sanjana cried out to her.

Kriti ran back to her friend. Oh yeah! Let me grab a bite before I go. She took a mouthful of the sandwich and left, yelling behind her, Mmm! It’s delicious. Leave one for me, girly.

* * *

Come in, Kriti, Mrs. Swati said, noticing little Kriti peeping from behind the curtains with that familiar apprehensive look in her eyes.

Have you had your lunch?

Not fully.

All right. I won’t take long. Sit in the next room, I’ll be there in a minute. As she stepped towards the opposite door, Kriti looked around and saw the other teachers sit there, eating their lunches. She felt a little uneasy with all the eyes bobbing up at her from behind their tiffins.

All right, ma’am, she said and walked over to the next room.

Kriti walked further into the teacher’s quarters. It was afternoon, and a sheen of sunlight was tearing in through the small gap between the curtains, lighting up the white tulips in the lemon-colored wallpapers. Around the room were pictures of Mrs. Swati’s family, tracing her lineage through generations of women.

Kriti saw Mrs. Swati’s shiny bag hanging from the well-furnished rosewood chair-back. As her gaze raised, she noticed the back wall of the little cubicle decked with a colorful, diverse display of old photographs of trophies won, batch-parties of fond days in the past, the first attempt at the basketball game and hockey, family picnics, and so on. The sunlight had swerved in through the gaps and curved over glass surfaces coming to lie over a standing photo-frame that stood on a glass-topped wooden table, adding to the cheer in the room.

Kriti’s eyes twinkled in joy, happy at having steered past the morning gloom. She felt hopeful in a whole new way until Mrs. Swati stepped in and said, Take a seat.

A shiver shot down her back.

Mrs. Swati sat beside her and said, Kriti, you seem to be in a bit of a crunch these days. I haven’t been keeping an eye on your whereabouts. However, your late entries are over the top lately, girl! Now, instead of being the meek little girl who has grown used to insults, talk to me. What’s the problem? Mrs. Swati’s voice breathed her general confusion, concern, and sarcasm.

Kriti, the straightforward kind as always, said, Ever since Dad fell ill, it’s been quite an ordeal for us to repay the whole of the mortgage. He’s jobless now and fully bedridden. My family needs to pay off the loan for the house, but we never imagined a crash of this magnitude could occur. But, I’m sure things will find their way back, and everything will be like the way it was before. I won’t complain. I take after my dad…

Mrs. Swati fell silent. She wasn’t interrupting anymore or insulting Kriti. Sensing the slightest hint of Kriti’s predicament, she retained her patience.

Kriti felt the need to explain further. Well, my dad hasn’t been keeping well lately. He has been having brain and kidney problems. His medicine is expensive. A kind, little distant relative of ours did offer us a bit of his income to help us buy the medication. But I think we’ll soon be able to handle it on our own since Mom has started tutoring and I’ve begun helping her out, as well. I can tutor to the first- through fourth-graders while she covers the older ones.

Mrs. Swati laid her blank eyes on Kriti and stayed silent for two minutes, then asked, And you are late every morning because...? She let the question fizzle, waiting for Kriti to answer.

I have to collect the medication from Mr. Lal. He has these erratic changing terms over this deal, which includes not only the charges for the medication but also the hours. He isn’t always available to simply hand over the pills. She fell silent for a while, then added, We’ll come out of that, I believe. Mum’s savings will rise soon, and we will be paying for Dad’s pills. Mr. Lal will collect on our debt to him eventually, and we should be ready.

Mrs. Swati wasn’t going to scold her. Not only did she find the young girl’s optimism unsettling, but she also seemed to be stepping into a blind side of things. That a little girl who should be asking her mother for nail polishes and pocket money could have such a fresh take on life’s challenges—more so than many adults beyond her age—was baffling.

But you can request that he give you the medicine in the evenings, can’t you? You can’t be away during morning class hours. If he isn’t willing to, you should tell your mom. She’ll have to find a solution. It’s affecting your studies, girl. Your marks in your mid-term exams are all over the place. She was speaking softly now. Swati ma’am was pausing at intervals as she spoke. She knew there was no easy solution to Kriti’s problem. Finding no real answer, she ended the conversation by telling Kriti to ask her mom to meet her in two days.

* * *

How’d it go? Sanjana asked Kriti after she returned for lunch break in the park.

The usual, except that ma’am was way calmer than the morning, Kriti said, giggling. Unusual for ma’am, seriously.

Sanjana smiled and proudly hugged her buddy’s arms. Here, she said, releasing her friend. I saved some of the sandwiches for you to eat.

Hungrily munching away at the bread, Kriti walked back towards classes. Lunch break was over.

This wasn’t the normal, everyday story for Kriti. Lately, she had begun falling off-track. Besides missing the school bus and needing to finish her early morning additive chores that had piled up her daily routine during last two months, she had to confront a regular brawl of her father’s coughs and occasional vomiting, as well. His kidneys were failing him.

* * *

St. George’s School, located in the slowly growing city of Jalpaiguri, was a convent school, named after Rev. George Foster, the solemn priest amongst Catholics who had traveled to India before Independence. A kind person, he fell in love with the people in the town and launched the school for girls, intending to uplift their status in society. He also set up the Abby Ashram for disabled children across the street and made donations to the railway community.

Growing up together in the swings, over the see-saws, cemented slides, and finely-dotted berries that lay strewn at the shaded park corner, the two girls, Kriti and Sanjana, were fast friends who were more inseparable with every year. From children to teenagers, they were always with each other as they grew out of their children’s clothes and into their eight-grader uniforms.

Sanjana’s father, Mr. Sushil Lochan, was a medical representative and married to Mrs. Shefali, a Philosophy Professor at Ananda Chandra College. His job was lucrative, to say the least, and their house was big with a lot of colors inside and outside. Despite their mechanical and high-arched lifestyle, Sanjana wasn’t a lot of things she was expected to be.

In other words, Sanjana wasn’t unimaginative like her parents. She had genuine feelings. She saw things—the colors, the drops, the streams, the rays, the fragrance, and their intangible intermingling. She saw them all. And, she questioned everything. People were often annoyed with her consistent stream of questioning, but she questioned on. She was a smart, jovial, young lass with dazzles of wonder in her eyes, inherently nudged forth by her strong-willed intuition. In little ways, but with certainty, she always did the unthinkable. Sanjana’s dad told her that her great grandfather, whom Sanjana never met, foresaw things and effortlessly formed ideas in his mind that were viewed as eccentric. Overtime, he always managed to follow his ideas through to the end. Trapped within the links of her great grandfather, Sanjana never desired the familiar.

Kriti was alike, desiring the outlandish more often than not. She was like a skillful leader, full of self-confidence and willpower. Her mind was ever open to new ideas—ideas that she may have accidentally stumbled upon at a roadside bus-stand, out of a newspaper pakora-wrapper or from some lone internet page. And she used those ideas to learn, applying her new knowledge to her school work and creative endeavors. She had the unique ability to put together every discarded resource to use. Catching herself getting lazy while awaiting her school results, she once chopped up some leftover Capsicum and modeled it into a Christmas tree with cheese-pints for the bells and the stars. Once, while awaiting the arrival of the host at her neighbors’ house, she had felt it compelling to utilize her time in sketching the view of the next-door bedroom partly visible by the side of the living room curtains.

Her father, Mr. Abhishank Sharma, also worked as a medical representative. Moderately pot-bellied and tuned in to his emotions, he was a man no one could ever entirely miss, especially since he treated others to such frivolity. Mr. Sushil, Sanjana’s father, found it easy to recommend his friend to his colleague: Abhi, my friend, cracks my head out. You should stop whining and reach out to him. I wouldn’t be surprised if I saw you return a happy camper after your first day at the office.

Mr. Abhishank was very fond of his family. To whatever extent the uncertainty in his profession seemed to encourage him, to whatever waves of misfortune or success his business afforded him, the scope of the richness of love he felt for his wife, Akansha, and for Kriti was far beyond them. Every day, he showered joy in little ways at home, secretly buying flowers for his wife or ribbon-bands for Kriti and often returning early from work to help Akansha prepare dinner. What his colleagues never knew when they often tagged him as a loser if his business took a downfall was that he was present for his family all the time, whereas they deserted theirs. However, Mr. Sushil held him in high regard, always, although they worked in separate medical industries.

Then, Mr. Abhishank fell ill. In fact, he was very sick as his kidneys had reached their last functioning stage and had begun to fail while uncontrolled diabetes ravaged his body. And it was only growing worse. The striking thing about him, though, was that he never created any fuss about it. However, lately, the illness grew on him, crushing his cheer and smiles, unmasking the pain and agony he hid underneath his chuckles. Even then, he managed to crack a joke or two.

One morning, Kriti heard her father claim, I heard Sanjay’s showing off his politician-wig these days since the crows flew away with his previous one. He giggled at his own joke. He saw to it that he never got stupefied by the cloud of ailing thoughts that swarmed his head.

Waking up in the morning and pretending to be bustling with energy and good health, he would set the morning tea for everyone. Denying the distress that crawled underneath his skin, he flaunted a certainty of well-being after waking up every morning, and he was almost his old self again until his illness took over and reminded everyone that everything had changed. Happy at not being crippled, he would give Kriti’s mother a hand in the kitchen until the steam from the bowls would suffocate him and he’d have to sit down for a while. 

Kidney failure meant he was on regular hemodialysis. Kriti’s mom, Mrs. Sharma, worked hard to make ends meet. Her job was steady, but a new surge of responsibilities seemed to have come upon her. While she always managed to sort out problems in an orderly manner, she felt challenged in thoughts and spirit.

Hence, she took to praying. Every night, after tucking Kriti and her dad underneath covers, she leaned in front of the altar and offered two marigolds at the deity’s feet for good luck. Strong in mind and spirit, she knew she would brave easily through the storm. Kriti took after her mother, their neighbors would say, as she helped her through the most difficult trials.

Discouraged by the doctors in town who bluntly told them there was a lack of good nephrologists around, Kriti and her mother realized they were having to deal with a bigger gamble than what they initially expected it to be. They found nobody qualified enough to help them. Both mother and daughter seemed to be battling against a separate struggle. They wanted to ensure that Kriti’s father had the best healthcare and the most-suited meals Mrs. Akansha’s teaching income could afford. However, in the silence of her room, both Kriti and her mother broke down often, finding themselves confronted by visions of running out of solutions.

After school and when time permitted, Sanjana and Kriti went for long walks to discuss things. Kriti tried every hair-splitting possibility she could to upgrade her dad’s treatment and consulted Sanjana often in this regard, hoping to borrow her parents’ knowledge on diet and medication, if they knew any. As the two girls talked frequently regarding what else the two could do to improve his life, they drifted into talks of miracles coming true or about angels presenting them with brilliant answers. Both put up a pretense of strength as they talked, and it wasn’t until they delved into their favorite enclosure in the library with their assortment of books that they felt life was safe all over again.

The town library was built some thirty to forty years back, and it underwent decor and organizational transitions every decade, creating a hodge-podge of styles that the girls had come to love. The library, although overflowing with an abundance of ancient and medieval books, shouldered a stock of modern books, slowly aging into vanillin-scented pages, their scent strengthening over the years enough to qualify them to the pile of antiquarians.

Immersed in the silence inside, intermingling with the cloud of scents that hung in the still air, the girls would sit there with their books after school hours, sometimes sneaking out of their tutoring classes to meet in the stacks. Mrs. Sorya, the librarian, felt a flicker of excitement dancing in her eyes whenever she saw the two girls walk in after school, hungrily holding out their cards and pawing through books.

The library had a little courtyard at its backside where the two girls would sometimes practice karate. The techniques, they said, were acquired from their beauty book, The Shaiku Artist. The girls were fascinated by the Zen Master, Shaiku. He was born out of a bundle of old tattered books securely locked up at a mini-trapdoor underneath a corner of the second floor of his house. The books were a gift to Mrs. Nishu, mother of Mrs. Sorya, by the far downhill descendant of Master Shaiku himself, Master Yuanzhi. He perpetuated the art of mind-modulation, which required that the practitioner perform meditation techniques for hours and hours, laser-focusing their mind into an act of will to heal wounds and open new doorways in life. Sword-fighting was a part of his teachings, too, and it fascinated Sanjana and Kriti.

These sword sketches are amazing. How do we buy them? We don’t have the money, Kriti had whispered to Sanjana one day at the library when Mrs. Sorya bent below to pick up a fallen object.

For a while, the girls thought hard, which eventually paid off as they came up with solutions. Without informing her mother, Kriti sold their old, discarded items to the Dalits who resold it for a higher price to raise money at the town fair. Even though she didn’t gain much, she earned a lot of money in her eyes.

Sanjana’s plan was different. Shivam was the handsome snob who lived in a mansion in the next para who only occasionally spoke to the common man, let alone children of any social status below his own. Somehow, Sanjana made a deal with him. It required her to get him five, young, hilly rose saplings in two months. Their price was low up there because the roses were everywhere. Making two trips to the hills in two months wasn’t a problem since the school had an excursion planned in July that year and her dad had planned a short visit to Kalimpong in August for a summer vacation where she would request that he buy her a rose-sapling.

When, finally, they did acquire enough money to buy swords, they checked out as many hardware shops as they could, bewildering the shop-owners with their requests.

Nobody had swords to offer them! They eventually gave up their search and returned to their library books, eager again to discover something new.

The library was open twenty-four hours. Lucky for Sanjana, her mother trusted the librarian and allowed her daughter to travel there alone. Sanjana always carried her school books with her to put on the air of a grand literate, someone who demanded her own study time in a private corner enclosed by the archaic shelves. She would walk in with books on algebra, English, and mathematics, adding to her stack a personal favorite novel she would select for herself out of the overhead novel collection around her seating area. Racing through her homework so that she could switch over to her book, Sanjana would start from the bookmarked page and would read for half an hour. She would merge into this world of words and colored pictures, like crystal-sheets so perfectly blended with glass, you could hardly see the partition between the two. She would forget every object or person that surrounded her.

On this day of Kriti and Mrs. Swati’s talk, though, the library wasn’t feeling as magical as it usually did.

And what’s keeping my Daisy so sad today? the old library guard asked, smiling at Kriti, his face masked with concern.

Nothing, sir. I’m sleepy I guess, Kriti replied, shrugging her shoulders. Sanju dragged me here, hoping it would brighten my day.

It is a marvel your friend has sensed your need and brought you back to the perfect healing place, the seat of calmness within this noisy city, said the library guard.

Seeing that her friend needed her own time, Sanjana engrossed herself in her own book in the corner and let Kriti be. Amidst the dark black cloud of thoughts that hovered over her head, Kriti managed to find herself a seat in one sizeable wooden cubicle inside the library. She wasn’t sobbing as Sanjana had suspected she would be. Instead, she was looking for answers.

How much longer will he take it? Kriti wondered to herself. She was filled with questions. What’s our next step? How can I help? Whom can I trust? Where do I look next? I have to look fast, but where?

Kriti closed her eyes and thought long and hard about her situation. Time was no longer something Kriti could spare. As each moment passed, she was losing her father. Deep in thought, she drowned herself into a reverie. There’s courage in being responsible, grit in being the caretaker. But to be in charge of emotions that gauge the naked reality of things at home—that poses a staggering test of patience and faith. I wonder if there’s an instruction manual for my problems available at the library. I need it. I need help.

* * *

Wake up! Sanjana said, shaking Kriti at her cubicle. It’s 7:30, and I called an auto. Didn’t get enough sleep last night, did you? You slept the whole time we’ve been here!

Startled, Kriti scrambled to get her bearings. Oh no! I must’ve dozed off.

The cubicle was dark except for the dim bulb lighting the study section. The two girls picked up their books, flashed a smile at the librarian and the old man at the entrance, and left.

Mom must be worried back home, Sanjana said, sighing.

She lived in the heart of the city, right next to the Angela Primary School and away from the main noise and din of the crossroads twenty feet from Kriti’s house. It wasn’t easy for Sanjana to allow her butterfly-self to open up in the quietness of her room while her parents either fought or worked, frequently checking in on her, always ensuring she was as composed as they wanted her to be. She was the unnoticed artist who quietly wrote verses and stories, creating sketches in hidden sheets underneath the school books she pretended to read. Her cousin, Aditya, who visited for vacations, always cracked a joke or two about her unpredictable creations and patronized her efforts. Little did Sanjana know that while she wasn’t about, Aditya would secretly step in and smile away at her creations with mysterious inquisition. Unnoticed by anybody, she found herself emerging out of the outer shell of mechanical life at the simplest of times: while stopping to admire the soft lines of the lovely lake that bordered the road to her home or while sneaking up the school terrace during lunch breaks to catch a glimpse of her city.

And she admired someone: Kriti and her resilience.

* * *

A month passed since their last mid-term exams, and it was another normal Tuesday at school. The bell rang, and a classful of grunts converted to breaths of relief as the history class ended and the art class ensued.

Look! The clouds have cleared, and you can see the moon already. This crisp breeze is ideal for flying Thapa ma’am’s discarded kites, said Kriti, giggling. Thapa ma’am was the art teacher, and their latest task was kites. She acquired the assortments needed for the art-task and guided her students as they built the kites in class.

In their art class, the two friends found an entire collection of discarded colorful kites at a corner of Mrs. Thapa’s desk and chair, probably donated to her by older students who had completed their current class. Sanjana and Kriti were joyous with their creations and stepped out mid-way during class hours from the backdoor to start flying kites to the skies. Nobody noticed them sneak out.

Someday I’ll become a great doctor and will soar with these kites, Sanjana said, her eyes on the evening sky. I’ll cure your dad and ward off these ailments that vex him. Besides, look at the upside, we shall be beyond madam Sushmita’s reach and there shall be no worries of grades, not to forget her famous F-grade, or exams because we’ll be high up above and soaring more and more.

Okay, you will, Kriti said. She wished for her friend’s predictions to come true. We’ll fly the kites from my house this evening. You’ll come? Ask your mother and come along.

Sure.

Without permission, Sanjana came over to Kriti’s house that evening. Evening pall descended over the city, and after boiling milk for the two buddies, Kriti’s mother stepped out for the dhobi’s home with her basket of clothes of different sizes.

Kriti drank her milk fast and poked at Sanjana, Finish fast, girl! The sun is going down! You can call your mother later.

Kriti, maybe it’s too late to fly kites. We can just do homework today. What do you say? It’s already dark, blurted Sanjana nervously.

A groan floated into their room from the bedroom on the east side of the house, interrupting the girls before they could argue about their night. It was followed by a creak of termite-ridden furniture. It was Kriti’s father. The clanging of an empty steel glass falling to the floor made the girls jump.

Wait, Dad, Kriti said, I’ll be there in a minute! I got your medication.

Leaving Sanjana behind, Kriti ran off for her father’s bedroom, turned on the lights, and helped him sit up on his bed.

Thank you so much, girl! he said. You make me proud every single day.

Yeah! Dad, listen, I wanted to tell you that they were really kind to me with the pills. They not only gave the medicine to me as soon as it was possible, but they were kind enough to offer me some fruits, as well, she lied, cooking up whatever words of comfort she could say. She winced at her own words, hoping she wasn’t audible to her friend and shot a glance at Sanjana’s reflection on the mirror. Refocusing on her father, she smiled again and poured a glass of water for her dad. His pills and prescription folder were lying strewn on the bedside table. The room wasn’t gloomy as one would expect. Her dad tried hard to make the best of it all, creating jokes out of his moans and belches.

I am so proud of you, my baby. People are noticing your hard work and kindness. You will definitely go far, my child, someday. He began coughing and had to lean over the side of his bed. When he lay back down, he was breathing hard. Baby, he continued, could you please convince your mom to pay my colleague for his help with my treatment? He isn’t to blame for the steep plunge with the money, dear. He has helped in several other ways, too, you see. I hold deeply ingrained regards for him. So could you please tell your mom that when she returns from school? He closed his eyes.

Yes, Dad, Kriti said with joy, glad that her father was thinking clearly.

"Kriti, Beta, I have a confession to make, he said, squinting his eyes open again. I broke your mother’s little puja lamp after slipping off near the altar-place today while you were away. It was one of her favorites. I am scared your mother will be cross with me. I will find a way to talk to her today, but I can’t raise myself to clean it, now. My joints are aching really bad today."

Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll do it. She’ll be here any minute now. And, trust me, Father, she will understand.

Stepping into the room, Sanjana asked if she could be of any help.

"Beta, how sweet of you, dear! Don’t worry, I’ll surely notify you, should the need arise, assured Kriti’s dad with reassurance. Kriti, why don’t you let Sanjana watch the TV?"

"No, it’s all right, Uncleji. It’s getting late, so I’ll go on and take my leave for today. Bye-bye, Kriti. Mom will worry if I don’t come home soon. I haven’t told her where I am. Something is nudging me homeward anyway, and I should get going. You take good care of Uncle, okay?" She smiled at them and left.

On her way home, Sanjana stopped by the temple and prayed for Mr. Abhishank, visualizing him all happy again and hoping that her friend’s family would reach peace.

At the end of the market-road, she came by a lady who sat over a cotton dhurrie behind a display of earthenware-lamps arranged in front of her. She checked her purse and found the last fifty rupees of her pocket money in it. Choosing a bright red painted lamp on display, she bought it, spending all her cash on it. I’ll gift it to Uncle and Aunty tomorrow, she thought.

After buying the lamp and tucking it into her school bag, Sanjana walked the rest of the way home. She gently yanked the entrance door knob open