Gift of Life

By Ashwini Shenoy

Gift of Life is Shyamala’s story. A seventy-year-old women, living alone in the small coastal town of Perdur. She is simple and relatable. Yet there is something bold and impressive about the way she lives her life alone, refusing to depend on anyone.

Carrying the burden of a tragic past, Shyamala believes that the only way she can survive is to follow a routine that allows her to spend most of her time outside the house that is a constant reminder of the past. For years this routine is her anchor. But what happens when the whole world is confronted by a challenge that halts normal life and Shyamala is confined to the house that screams of everything she has lost? Does she surrender to her fate, or does she fight back and rediscover herself?

This beautifully narrated, deeply felt story is told with an innate understanding of both the frailty and the strength of human experience. Based on the nationwide lockdown of 2020, Gift of Life is a story of acceptance, hope and healing in times of great uncertainty.

• Language: English
• Publisher: One Point Six Technologies Pvt Ltd
• Release date: Dec 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9789355590701

Ashwini Shenoy

ASHWINI SHENOY is an Electronics Engineer by profession and a writer by passion. In addition to a Master’s Degree in Technology, Ashwini has a diploma in creative writing. A fervent reader, she has an abiding interest in stories with positive life lessons. She wrote her first story at the age of eight and has been writing ever since, experimenting across genres. She believes in drawing into the literary limelight underrated yet pivotal characters, real and fictional, inspiring readers with their stories. Shikhandini – Warrior Princess of the Mahabharata (Leadstart 2019), her debut novel, was critically acclaimed by readers and booklovers around the world. She is also a lifestyle blogger and an avid painter in oils.

Book preview

PREFACE

Perdur, 24 March 2020

Shyamala sighed at the sight of her guest room. It had been years since the last guest had come to stay. This was the room her sister Radhika used whenever she visited India, every two or three years. But that too had been years ago. For a long time now the room with its red-tiled floor and forget-me-not blue walls, had remained unoccupied, except to store unused items and broken furniture.

Today, however, the room had been transformed into a mini larder with groceries and essentials. Taking to heart the words of her friends, and giving in to the paranoia that had spread through her little town ever since the nationwide Janata Curfew had been announced two days ago, Shyamala had spent her monthly allowance, and a little more from her savings, to buy everything she would need for the next twenty-one days, and a few months post that.

Now that her friends had gone and she was alone in the room, surrounded by months’ worth of rations and toiletries, some of which she might never use, Shyamala wondered if the rumours of a fast-spreading virus, now circulating in the town, did indeed mark the beginning of the end?

The news of a virus, first reported somewhere in China, in December 2019, had reached quiet Perdur only a week ago. In Shyamala’s circle of friends, the first news came from a not-so-reliable source – Rajashree had carried the news, verbatim so she claimed, from her cousin in Europe. It was not the news itself that made everyone shudder, but the interpretations and projections that came with it. To pass away peacefully at the age of seventy was one thing, Shyamala thought, but to die alone and infected with an untreatable virus, slowly killing you inside out, was something from the tenth ring of Dante’s Inferno.

At the kirana¹ shop, Shyamala had bought everything that her friends insisted was essential. Rajashree, a movie buff, had also regaled them all week long with scenes from Hollywood movies of the pandemic genre. Oblivious to the fact that some of these movie scenes could happen in real life, Shyamala and her friends had quite enjoyed her stories. The hoarding and shopping spree had begun when Rajashree had told them that in some instances the situation had become so dire that people actually killed each other for food and medicine. Another friend, Namratha, who had also accompanied Shyamala to the store, narrated stories from news channels. These were not much different from the Hollywood movies.

At the Sri Manjunatha Grocery Store, the oldest and most trusted provisions store in Perdur, Shyamala’s friends had dropped many items into her bag despite her protests. Shyamala was sure she would not need them all even if she had to stay at home for the rest of her life. What was she to do with the instant noodles or readymade idli² batter?

When Shyamala asked for soap, she was handed two bottles of handwash, which claimed to kill all sorts of bacteria. Apparently, the soap she had been using for years was not good enough. When she asked for a floor cleaner, they gave her a big bottle of Dettol disinfectant and advised her to use it to clean all the surfaces in her house as well.

The paranoia made everyone so insensitive that when Shyamala protested against buying something, they promptly reminded her that she lived alone and did not know how to use the internet if she ran out of supplies. She had surrendered and paid for everything they pushed into her bag.

Shyamala had spent most of her evening laying out the items and storing them in the right manner so they were easily accessible. Now that she was done, she scanned the room. On the red-tiled floor, on a carpet of newspapers, sat a rotund 25 kg gunny sack of rice. Next to it were two 10 kg bags of wheat flour, two packets of sugar, and a big packet of salt that would certainly last the year. There were also packets of ragi³, rava⁴, millet, broken wheat and soya (something she had never tried before), spices of all kinds, jerrycans of sunflower and coconut oil, as well as many other things. They seemed to have bought everything there was in the store, but her friends had looked most concerned when the shopkeeper had announced he only had two bottles of hand sanitizer.

‘See, Shyamala? Today it is sanitizer. Tomorrow it could be anything – food, medicines. That is why I insist you buy everything you will need for a few months. Better safe than sorry, right?’ Rajashree had said as she added another bottle of handwash to compensate for the unavailability of the sanitizer. The shopkeeper was having the best day of his life.

Next to the packets of salt and sugar were several wicker baskets that held the vegetables and fruits she had bought – 5 kgs of onions, strings of garlic and gnarled fingers of ginger, enough to last a lifetime, tomatoes, potatoes and a variety of greens and gourds. It was enough for a feast. When she had suggested to her friends that so much fresh produce was sure to start rotting in a week or two, Namratha had promptly asked the shopkeeper to give Shyamala a pack of ziplock bags. She explained that Shyamala should store it all in the refrigerator, tightly sealed in different bags after being thoroughly washed in salt and turmeric water, and sun-dried.

Shyamala, who was by then exhausted by the entire business, had agreed to follow the instructions, though she detested storing and eating out of the refrigerator. And so all the vegetables had been double-washed in salt and turmeric and then sun-dried in baskets. Shyamala made a mental note to transfer them into the fridge after a few hours.

The refrigerator was the least used thing in the house, except for the television that had stopped working a year ago. Shyamala had refused to get it fixed, convinced that life was better without the idiot box.

On the shelves sat a box of disposable masks, along with all manner of soaps, detergents, floor cleaners, disinfectants, handwash bottles, stored beside their respective refill packets. There was also the new emergency lamp Shyamala had bought as the old one had finally died a few months before. She suspected the power cuts would increase as the monsoon approached, so a bunch of candles and a big pack of matchboxes lay next to the lamp.

On the far side of the room was a window that overlooked what appeared to be a small forest. It was, in fact, an empty site and had remained unattended for several years. Trees and plants ran riot there, and it had become home to birds and small animals.

Taking one good look at the room, Shyamala picked up her box of medicines, of which she now had enough to see her through any common ailment she might encounter in the next two years. She also picked up the packet of paan⁵-flavoured candies she absolutely loved. Closing the door of the storeroom firmly, she walked into her bedroom, childishly hoping the lockdown would never happen and life would go on as it always had in quiet little Perdur.

¹ General goods store

² Savoury rice cake popular as a breakfast food in South India

³ Finger millet (Eleusin coracana), grown widely in India/Africa

⁴ Semolina, a type of grain

⁵ preparation of betel leaf with areca nut, consumed throughout Southeast Asia for its stimulant effect

1PLASTIC MILK

The longer you run from your demons, the stronger they get. They smell your fear and grow bolder. The only way to fight them is to stop, turn around, and look them in the eye.

The following day, Shyamala woke at her usual time of 4:45 am. She never used an alarm clock but rarely missed waking at the right time. She freshened up, neatly draped her checkered cotton saree, tied her grey hair into a neat bun, and then made her bed. She spent fifteen minutes tucking in the edges and smoothening the creases on the sheets. She fluffed the pillows and laid them against the headboard of the queen-sized bed that was now too big for her alone.

Shyamala was not a disciplinarian in the true sense. But there were things that she did without any excuse. Like making her bed before leaving the bedroom in the morning or making sure the kitchen sink was clean before going to bed at night. These were things her late father, an army man, had ensured his children learned at a young age.

Shyamala looked up at the little wooden wall clock that hung between her almirah⁶ and the little table on which sat her medicine box, a copper bottle of water and a photo frame with four smiling faces. She did not let her eyes linger on the photo for long. She took a quick look at herself in the long mirror on the almirah door and picked up the cotton bag that contained her knee support, spectacles and salwar kameez⁷, before exiting the room.

Shyamala walked into the kitchen and prepared a cup of warm cumin water. She went to sit at the four-seater dining table, which stood beside a window in the living room. Sipping, she watched the birds leave their nests. On the narrow window sill sat a lonely money plant in a tinted glass bottle, looking longingly outside. Shyamala made a mental note to change the water in the bottle.

While Shyamala’s room resembled her personality – clean, simple and minimalistic – the living room reflected her life – the epitome of chaos. Except for the narrow path Shyamala had traced from the bedroom to the kitchen and living room, every other space was filled with mismatched furniture and cluttered with things that had no dedicated space in the house – like the extra table she could not get herself to give away. It was covered with all sorts of things, from a stack of old newspapers to a wooden vase bearing dust-covered plastic flowers, a pen stand that had more dysfunctional pens than functional ones, and a round glass bowl that had once housed two goldfish. She called it her all-purpose table. In truth, it had no purpose at all.

In the living room, with its back to the kitchen, sagged an old sofa that had been repaired once too often. It groaned every time someone sat on it and whistled when they rose. But Shyamala loved it more than anything else in the house. It was one of the few things she had brought from her mother’s house as a new bride. The sofa also worked as a bed when one unhinged it at the horizontal partition at the back. It stood right under the little skylight through which golden dust particles danced during the day.

In front of the sofa stood a little coffee table that was over a hundred years old. With its differently coloured skin and beautifully carved legs, it looked out of place in the room. The sofa, the little table, and her sewing machine, placed to the right of the main door, were the few things not covered in layers of dust. There was also another table on which sat the old CRT television that did not work.

When the grandfather clock beside the door struck 5:30 am, Shyamala rose and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. Picking up the yoga mat from the all-purpose table, she tucked it under her arm. The handwoven cotton bag hung from one shoulder. She went into the kitchen and gathered the garbage from the bin into a black polythene bag, securing it with a firm knot. She then made her way to the front door, unhooked the keys from their place on the wall and dropped them into her cloth bag. Stepping outside, she pulled the door firmly, closing it behind her.

Shyamala took a deep breath and smiled as the early morning breeze wafted across her face. The first rays of sunlight were feebly piercing through the blanket of clouds that always seemed to linger above the sleepy little town. Perdur was known as one of the rainiest places in the district and received uneven rain throughout the year. This year, however, they had only just begun to have the occasional drizzle. The locals always carried umbrellas, for the rain and the scorching sun that alternated during the day.

As Shyamala trod down the two small steps from her verandah, she suddenly cursed and lifted her right foot, cringing at the excrement that was now attached to her slipper. ‘That stupid cat! I’m going to beat the hell out of it someday,’ she said fiercely. The ginger cat that sat on the compound wall licking its paw, gave her a bored look before stalking away without a care in the world. It leapt down onto the blue tarpaulin covered Honda, with a heavy stone placed on it so the tarp would not fly away. Shyamala sighed and scraped the sole of her slipper on the edge of the stone step. She made a mental note to clean it up later, and to keep an eye out for the cat.

Shyamala walked through her front yard, filled with weeds, bushes and plants growing in happy abandon. She did not look at them, saving herself the guilt of not having tended what had once been a beautiful garden. There were also three coconut trees and a few banana plants in the backyard, and a papaya tree near the gate, which she considered useful. A well sat to the left of the main gate, from which Shyamala drew a pot of drinking water every day. A few steps on was the delicate Tulsi⁸ in its carved Brindavan planter. It rose well over three feet and was the only plant she took care of.

A few steps ahead she saw the papaya tree. One of the fruits in a cluster was ripe and yellow, hanging low. It was larger than the tree usually bore and looked very juicy. Shyamala stood on the flat stone that had been there for several years now, placed to help her pluck the papayas from the tree, and pulled at the luscious-looking fruit. It came away easily in her hand and she put it carefully into her cloth bag.

She knew that if she waited till she got back, it would be gone, for the tree was situated in a very convenient spot for anyone walking by.

Finally, reaching the gate, Shyamala felt her heart sink. Everything came crashing back as she stared at the milk packet in the basket she had hung on the gate the previous night. ‘You will not be able to get fresh milk now, Shyamala. It is too dangerous,’ Rajashree had said when she had dropped Shyamala at the house the previous day after the grocery shopping. ‘I have asked the man at the dairy to have his boy drop off a half litre packet at your house every day.’ Shyamala had reluctantly placed the basket at the gate since Rajashree refused to leave otherwise.

She had forgotten all about the nationwide lockdown and had been looking forward to meeting her friends at the yoga class. She had planned to buy half a litre of fresh milk from a milkman on her way back, as she always did. But now the milk packet, which she always referred to as ‘plastic milk’, was sitting in her basket, reminding her that this was not a normal day.

In her long life, Shyamala had seen many ups and downs. She had faced some major incidents that she had managed to bury deep in her mind. But it was the small things she found difficult to accept. Like the cat that littered her front steps every other day, or having to drink plastic milk for the next twenty-one days.

Shyamala dropped the garbage outside the gate, from where the garbage van picked it up every day. Picking up the plastic milk, she walked back to the house, wondering how she would spend her day, or the next twenty days. Ever since her husband had died nine years ago, Shyamala had developed a routine. She had made friends, and enrolled in different classes, ensuring she spent as little time as possible in the house that reminded her of everything she had lost.

On the rare occasion she had spent any extended time in the house, Shyamala had felt she would lose her mind. She had counted the hours before she could get out once again. But now she had no choice. She had to live by herself for the next twenty-one days. The thought of it made her shudder.

Walking into the living room, Shyamala put down her bag and yoga mat on the all-purpose table before taking the plastic milk into the kitchen. Returning, she sat down on the groaning sofa and wondered what to do next. The television had not worked for a year, but she had refused to get it repaired, convincing herself that the repair and cable costs were both unwarranted expenses. There was no newspaper either. Owing to speculation about the spread of the virus through newspapers, she had discontinued her subscription.

Shyamala walked over to the telephone and picked it up, wondering if she should call someone and spend some time talking to a friend, but decided against it, fearing they would judge her for not being able to live