The Fragile Thread of Hope

By Pankaj Giri

In the autumn of 2012, destiny wreaks havoc on two unsuspecting people— Soham and Fiona. Although his devastating past involving his brother still haunted him, Soham had established a promising career for himself in Bangalore. After a difficult childhood, Fiona' s fortunes had finally taken a turn for the better. She had married her beloved, and her life was as perfect as she had ever imagined it to be. But when tragedy strikes them yet again, their fundamentally fragile lives threaten to fall apart. Can Fiona and Soham overcome their grief? Will the overwhelming pain destroy their lives? Seasoned with the flavours of exotic Nepalese traditions and set in the picturesque Indian hill station, Gangtok, The Fragile Thread of Hope explores the themes of spirituality, faith, alcoholism, love, and guilt while navigating the complex maze of family relationships. Inspirational and heart-wrenchingly intimate, it urges you to wonder— does hope stand a chance in this travesty called life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fingerprint Publishing
• Release date: Dec 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9789390183449

Book preview

FIONA

SEPTEMBER 2012 (THE PRESENT).

As the rented taxi passed through the meandering road alongside the mighty Teesta River, Fiona found herself gazing at the gorgeous landscape before her eyes. A thick veil of mist floated across the lofty hilltops. The sky darkened bit by bit as the overcast evening eased into night. A drizzle moistened the dry, dusty vegetation covering the hills. After tolerating the heat of Siliguri, the breezy journey towards Gangtok felt like paradise. Despite having a gala time at a beautiful place like Goa, she realised—nothing beats the feeling of returning home.

Her focus drifted to a number playing on the local FM. It was an old Falguni Pathak song—‘Tune paayal jo chhankaayi’. A worm of unease wriggled in her stomach as she remembered—Falguni, the singer’s name, was her name once. All at once, an image invaded her mind, an image from her dark past, an image that still haunted her from time to time—the eyes, the bloodshot, angry eyes, the eyes belonging to the one who had wrecked her childhood. The stench of alcohol—the stink ingrained in her memory—engulfed her as a bolt of near physical pain sliced through her stomach. A long-forgotten yet familiar disgust rose within her.

She let out a sigh to disperse the painful memory. Her eyes then drifted toward Joseph. He oozed childlike innocence as he dozed, his spiky-haired head propped up against her shoulder. She gazed at her husband, the man who had come into her life like an angel, the man who had wiped away the blackness of her past, the man who had taught her how to smile again.

Droplets of rain kissed her lap, snatching her attention. As she looked out, she saw that the rain had picked up. A flash of lightning lit up the inky sky. She reached for the window crank and rotated it to close the window. As she sank back into her seat, she saw that Joseph was awake. He yawned, his mouth forming a big O. There was a hint of redness in his eyes. He yawned again, but this time she couldn’t help herself. She blocked his gaping mouth with her hand. A mischievous smile beamed across his fair, clean-shaven face.

Where are we? he asked, his voice thick with sleep.

No idea.

Near Kali Jhora, sir, forty kilometres away from Teesta, the driver cut in.

Oh. Joseph yawned again.

"You’ll never learn, ni?"

What?

"Yawning with your mouth wide open . . . you’re so shameless."

Joseph chuckled.

Turning towards the view outside, she said, Isn’t it beautiful, the lazy rain and the majestic hills?

Yeah.

His lacklustre reply irritated her. She glared at him. "Chya, you’ve become so boring nowadays."

Joseph smirked. C’mon, we’re not tourists. We’ve travelled this way so many times. I get bored watching these monotonous hills and this stupid rain.

Annoyed, she looked away, her gaze now directed towards the scenery.

As I hear the pitter-patter of the raindrops in these . . . umm . . . beautiful, no, gorgeous hills, umm . . .

His husky voice drew her attention. He looked adorable as he struggled to express himself.

My beautiful wife seems even prettier, umm—

Enough. She laughed.

Sorry, you know I’m not very good with words.

You don’t have to be. She gazed into his gorgeous, chocolate eyes, and melted, as always, at the naked affection in them. She slid down in her seat, rested her head on his shoulder, and entwined her arms around his.

I love you, Joseph whispered in her ears, caressing her arm with tender care.

She smiled, bliss seeping deep into her heart.

I know, she said.

A deafening sound startled her. Something hit the vehicle from the left. The brakes screeched as the cab tilted to the right. Suddenly, the world turned upside down. Her head hit metal. Through her blurred, upturned vision, she saw the vehicle sliding towards the edge of the cliff, the driver’s cries echoing in her ears. Fear gripped her, a fear like never before. As she sought Joseph, a piercing pain ripped through her leg. Then, suddenly, darkness enveloped her as she slipped into unconsciousness.

SOHAM

OCTOBER 2012 (THE PRESENT).

Soham looked out of the window as he sat on the couch in the lobby of his apartment. A smattering of thin clouds drifted across the inky Bangalore sky. A naughty breeze flirted with the stray grass in an uninhabited plot nearby, the lazy sway of the tall leaves betraying their shyness. Suddenly his TV roared, making his heart leap. Oh, yes, back to action. He pulled his gaze inside with a rush of excitement that quickly disappeared when he saw it was a false alarm—a stupid commercial highlighting a fake crowd.

As his gaze returned to the moonlit grass outside, he found himself drifting into his past. He remembered a similar night from many years ago—Dada and he slicing their way through patches of gleaming grass scattered among towering trees, having lost their way in the woods near their uncle’s house at Daramdin. They used to visit the village in West Sikkim almost every year before . . . before the tragedy.

As he pictured his elder brother’s handsome, creamy face, his almond eyes gleaming with thrill, his thick hair ruffled by the autumn wind, Soham felt a familiar pang of guilt-ridden longing, the feeling that lay dormant in a corner of his heart, ready to lash against him at every given opportunity. Oh, how he wished he could turn back the hands of time and undo what had happened on that rainy evening two decades ago! If only he could undo the silly request that had turned his life upside down.

As he shifted in his seat, a dull ache swept through his hip, the pain a remnant of the after-effects of a recent incident that had threatened to push him into depression once again. The arrival of his parents had changed everything, though. Warmth filled his heart as he thought of Aama and Baba. With their care and support, they had brought him back to near normalcy. Slowly, his life had begun heading in the right direction. His manager had mailed him just minutes before, confirming his allocation to a software development project with the client of his dreams—Warner Brothers. Not only had his boss honoured his request of changing his project, he had even found an excellent client. But the project was scheduled to start a couple of months later, so Soham had a golden opportunity to enjoy his first spell of the elusive ‘bench-time’—the time when you are paid without working.

Another roar drew his focus inside. This time it was not an ad; the live telecast of the Indian Premier League Final had resumed. Within the confines of his forty-six-inch LED TV, successive sections of the packed Chinnaswamy crowd rose and fell while performing a Mexican wave.

He reclined on his couch, relishing his momentary spell of loneliness. Aama had gone out to shop for vegetables, and he wished she would take her own sweet time. Else, he would have to fight with her for the remote, and she would win, using her favourite weapon—emotional blackmail. He thought of Baba. He would be making his way to Gangtok in his Government Bolero now. He missed him—a hardcore cricket fan. Watching this match in Baba’s company would have doubled the fun.

As a delectable boundary by his favourite batsman, AB de Villiers, roused the fans, joy filled his heart. Royal Challengers Bangalore, his favourite franchise—any team having AB was an automatic choice—was one of the finalists.

Thirty runs were required off fifteen balls. AB reverse-swept the next delivery over the short third man for a sensational boundary.

Soham bounced in his seat and banged his fist on his couch.

Yes! he screamed.

At the next ball, AB swivelled on one knee and scooped the ball over the fine leg fence—his trademark T-20 shot.

Ten off ten balls now.

His mobile buzzed, distracting him. The phone lay on the seat beside him, vibrating. Sita Kaki, his paternal aunt’s name flashed on the screen. AB and RCB demanded his attention, so he ignored the call.

After a momentary delay, the phone buzzed again. Sighing, he took the call.

"Namaste Kaki. Sorry, I was a bit busy," he said.

Muffled crying reached his ears.

What happened, Kaki? he asked.

A dreadful silence hung between them, magnifying the tension.

Six needed off nine balls now.

Tell me, Kaki.

"How to say it, nani . . .?" Nani, a term of affection, seemed alien and inappropriate somehow. But . . . you need to know. Sita Kaki’s voice quivered on the edge of despair.

What happened? he asked again, nervousness lacing his voice.

Your Baba . . .

She paused. Moments passed, moments filled with apprehension, moments raising an army of questions, moments hanging in uncertainty, moments seeming to last an eternity.

Your Baba . . . Your Baba’s . . .

SHANTI

DECEMBER 1981 (THE PAST).

The wintry chill seeped through the opening of her shawl, leaving Shanti shivering. She sat in a corner of the living room, staring at her mother. Aama lay there, lifeless, draped in white cloth. The night before, a fatal heart attack had taken her soul. Shanti’s heart bled, but her eyes failed to moisten—the tears seemed to have dried up. She sat on a woollen rug, watching a multitude of people streaming in to pay their respects to Aama. She took a deep breath. A sour smell invaded her nostrils, directing her gaze towards the chalk-white walls, dragging her down memory lane. Days ago, Baba had the house painted after the whitewash had worn off the walls. She pictured Aama in her sky-blue saree and black woollen blouse, supervising the workers, giving them instructions. Her crisp voice echoed in her ears, drowning her in sorrow.

"Shanti jyu?"

A coarse voice derailed her train of thought. She looked up. A short, well-built man stood by her, calling her. She felt awkward. Who is he?

"Shanti jyu, Panditji is calling you," the stranger said.

Why?

"He’s in the bathroom and needs besan to wash his hands. I was passing by, so he asked me to call you. He says you know where it’s kept."

Her blood boiled. Why does that man have to use gram flour instead of the perfectly usable soap bar near the basin? But at the very moment, logic struck her, diluting her irritation. Since he was the chief mourner, Baba could not use chemical products for washing and bathing for the thirteen days after Aama’s death. Also, he wasn’t supposed to touch anyone and had to avoid consumption of salt and oil. Being a reputed Hindu priest of their village—Singling Basti, Baba always honoured all rituals with unerring devotion.

Shanti peered at the man—a clean-shaven face, chocolate skin, black beady eyes, and curly hair. But she felt disgusted as she caught his teeth—they looked as if they were borrowed from a dead rabbit.

She sighed, rose to her feet, and led him to the kitchen, making her way through the swarm of mourners. A lively breeze floated in through the window, playing with a single column of steam rising from a steel kettle placed on the chulha. A steel bowl brimming with yellow gram flour sat near the earthen stove. She stooped, picked up a handful of gram flour from the bowl, put it into a plastic container, and offered it to him.

Thank you, the stranger said, showing his rotten rodent teeth again. She suppressed a strong urge to extract them and replace them with human ones.

She watched him as he drifted out of sight.

SIXTEEN MONTHS LATER.

‘Naumati Baja’ played by the nine-member Damahi group blared in her ears. The combined sound of the nine traditional musical instruments lent a grand touch to the proceedings. Her feet were still wet, water from the ‘Goda Dhune’ ceremony lingering on them. Her cheeks felt stiff with dried tears. She remembered how the tears had come when close relatives had washed Parashuram’s feet and hers and blessed them by applying Tika—a sticky paste of uncooked rice, curd, and vermillion—on their foreheads. Tips of the Bermuda grass in the ‘Dubo ko Mala’ made her neck itch, but Shanti resisted the temptation to take off the grass garland.

She couldn’t see through the veil of thick, white cloth extending from her forehead to the ground, but she could make out his movements—by the sound of his naked feet crushing the straw mats—as he made his way around the sacred fire. As she waited, she found herself lost in thought.

She recalled the drizzly Sunday—a year after Aama’s funeral—when Parashuram Sharma and his family had paid them a sudden visit. While coming out to the lobby to serve tea, she had surveyed the scene. She had seen the relief in Baba’s face and the excitement in Parashuram’s eyes. So, it had been no surprise when she had come to know that her marriage had been fixed with the rabbit-toothed man—the man she had met in Aama’s funeral. Yet, she had felt sad—Baba hadn’t even cared to ask her once before making such an important decision of her life. She had kept from questioning him, though. After what happened last year, she had lost faith in life itself. Now, with Aama—her sole well-wisher—gone, any man would do. She just wanted to leave home as soon as possible.

Thereafter, things had progressed without any hitch. They belonged to the same caste. Parashuram, although merely a high school graduate, had a decent enough job—as a peon in the Forest Department at Gangtok. The fact that Parashuram was Dada’s (her elder brother’s) friend had sealed the deal. Both families had greeted the match with delight and began preparations without delay. After that, she never knew how time flew by.

The sound of Parashuram’s approaching footsteps interrupted her thoughts. She heard him plant himself before her and felt his thumb dragging its way from the ground, upwards across the veil. As his thick thumb deposited Sindoor in the parting of her hair, suddenly she felt a pang of reluctance, reluctance to trust a man with her entire life, a man chosen by her father without her approval, a man whom she barely knew. But . . . it was all too late.

Parashuram took off her veil. Light stabbed her eyes as she peeled them open. She caught the crescent moon hanging like a bow in the coal-black, starry sky. Her relatives were crowded around the makeshift tent erected outside her home, staring at her as if she were a showpiece in a museum.

She turned to Parashuram. He was looking at the sky, lost in thought. His daura—a variant of the kurta, comprising eight strings which served to tie itself around the body—and suruwal, trousers, imparted a traditional grace to his inherent unattractiveness. He turned towards her. As their gazes met, she saw something in his eyes. It piqued her curiosity. What is it? Is it boredom, kindness, or affection? She failed to understand the peculiar emotion . . . but whatever it was, it offered her a strange assurance that . . . that things would be fine. At that very moment, she dedicated herself to him, forever.

EIGHT YEARS LATER.

Shanti woke up with a start. She stared ahead, her heart beating like a jackhammer in her chest, blood thumping in her ears. Beads of sweat trickled down her back. Images of the nightmare danced in her mind. This particular nightmare used to haunt her often—her body glued to a cold bed in a dark room, her legs stretched wide apart, hazy, indistinguishable figures hovering around her. Then, slowly, something creepy would crawl between her legs and enter her. An excruciating pain would follow, and she would be jolted awake.

But before that she would always see a face—a face she craved to forget, a face full of bittersweet memories, a face that reminded her of the happiness and love she had lost.

Shaking off her memories, she looked out of the window. A thin blanket of mist was wrapping itself around the neighbourhood. A blaze of lightning sliced through the jet-black sky. She pulled the window shut to shield it from the threat of an imminent gust of wind. As she gazed at the murky ambience, she felt as if it were mirroring her own life.

Eight years had gone by since Parashuram and she had tied the knot. She recalled how, in the beginning, a lack of familiarity and awkwardness had kept her from opening herself to him. But despite her coldness, he never complained, never tried to force himself on her. This sowed the seeds of admiration in her heart. As time passed, his mild-mannered personality and politeness slowly dissolved the aloofness between them. Even the dislike towards his rodent teeth faded away, and in time, affection took its place.

Life then had seemed like a bed of roses. Parashuram would come home early, and they would loiter around M G Marg or Development Area bazaar almost every evening. They would shop for vegetables or meat, and on reaching home, they would head straight to the kitchen. Parashuram was fond of cooking in those days. You slice the vegetables and mince the meat. I’ll cook, he would say with an affectionate smile. Those pleasant evenings spent in their cramped kitchen had played a major role in fuelling their intimacy. But now ages had gone by since they last prepared a meal together.

Sighing, she turned around. Her gaze fell on their bed. She remembered how they would settle down on their rickety bed and talk while having dinner. As she caught sight of his leather jacket hanging behind the main door, memories of their travels came flooding back. At every opportunity, they would take a trip to tourist spots near Gangtok. Parashuram always wore that jacket during their winter trips. A sense of togetherness had been there in everything they did. She failed to understand how it had evaporated with time.

She looked at the wall at the far end. Damp patches had sprouted on it like a skin disease even before they had moved in. Moistness seeping in from the drain beside the flat had been a known cause, but it was an issue beyond resolution. The reek of the open drain flooded her nostrils, but she didn’t grimace. The stench infected the air almost throughout the day, so breathing it had become a habit. She peered at the lonely bulb hanging from the ceiling. As the tall buildings from all sides blocked sunlight, a shadow of perpetual darkness hung over the flat. She had to keep the lights on all day. Paltry rent compared to flats in the main town had compelled them to live in this virtual dungeon, but now she had got used to this disgusting flat and the perennial unpleasantness overshadowing her life.

Falguni shifted her position on the bed, drawing Shanti’s attention to her. In her reflective daze, she had forgotten about her little daughter. She was asleep, an angelic smile gracing her guileless face. She had inherited the dusky skin tone of her father. Frail since birth, Falguni had always been prone to minor illnesses. Shanti covered her daughter with the blanket that had slipped away from her.

As she looked at Falguni, she found herself drifting down memory lane. The arrival of the little angel on a humid day six years ago had added another dimension of happiness to their lives. She could still picture Parashuram’s moist eyes as he pulled her into a loving embrace after delivery. Every day felt like a blessing as they nurtured their daughter, a piece of their hearts. They bathed and fed her together, took turns to change her nappies, and managed their night vigils carefully so that both of them got sufficient rest.

That was before things started to change. Parashuram began coming home late, often with a stench of alcohol accompanying him. He had admitted to being a casual drinker once, so she had ignored the hints, assuming it was nothing worrisome.

The sight of Falguni’s report card interrupted her thoughts. It lay on the side table, gathering dust. Just a few days back, the first standard half-yearly results had been announced. Falguni, to her pleasant surprise, had ranked fifth in the class. As she traced the name ‘Orchid High School’, she found herself drifting back to the sunny day four years ago, the day they had admitted her into the school. She could still picture herself carrying Falguni in her arms and Parashuram filling the admission form in the cosy office.

Why don’t we admit her to your school? It’s cheap, and the best part is—you work there, he had asked months earlier, when they had still not come to a decision. She worked as a caretaker for Kindergarten students in Carmel Catholic School.

No, it runs classes only till the fifth standard. We need to find a better school.

But . . . will we be able to afford it?

He had looked uncertain. His paltry pay of seven thousand rupees coupled with hers, which was lower, didn’t amount to much.

We will, for our daughter, we will, she had insisted.

Thunder boomed in the sky outside, bringing her back to the vulnerable, hopeless present. She stole a glance at the clock. It had ticked past 10:00 p.m. As usual, there was no sign of him. These days, he arrived late every day, dead drunk. He ordered her to serve him dinner before retiring to bed. Sometimes he would be so drunk that he would collapse on the bed straight away and then, within moments, fall asleep. She had complained, but he always defended himself, saying, My friends forced me to gulp a few pegs after work. I can’t help it. Sometimes, though, he would command her to stop pestering him, his eyes full of fury. Slowly but surely, togetherness, love, and intimacy had faded away.

Her stomach rumbled; she had not had dinner. All because of a habit instilled in her by Aama—not to dine until your husband arrived. She decided: "If he doesn’t come within an hour, I’ll eat." However, she had fed Falguni as it was pointless keeping her awake until late night. Her blood boiled with fury. Of late, it was the same story every night: waiting for her drunken husband.

A thunderous rat-tat at the door scattered her thoughts. It must be him. She rose and made her way towards the door. Before she got there, the pounding started again, this time with uncontrolled fury. She heard a faint rustle behind her, the rustle of the bedsheet. Oh, Falguni’s sleep is disturbed.

Who is it, Aama? Is it Baba? Falguni asked.

Wait, let me check.

She unlatched the door. A stench of cheap alcohol hit her. Parashuram stood there, his white shirt hanging over his black trousers, his red eyes giving her a cold look. Fury leapt within her like a provoked snake.

What is this? Why are you so late? she spat.

Let me come in first, he hissed.

No. You’re totally drunk. I’ll not allow you inside.

This is my house. Get out of the way.

No. She was adamant. I have to counter him today. This alcoholism has to end.

"I’m warning you, Kukurni," he snarled. Let me come in.

The derogatory Nepali word meaning ‘bitch’ echoed in her ears, leaving her shocked. Nobody had insulted her like this before. No, I’ll not budge from my position.

No.

His left hand swung towards her in an arc and landed on her right cheek with a smack. The recoil action triggered by the slap shoved her towards the left. Her head smashed against the doorframe, and she collapsed to the floor. An ear-splitting roar of thunderbolt boomed in the sky above. Raindrops pitter-pattered on a rooftop nearby. Moments passed as she lay on the floor, frozen. Before long, she heard footsteps approaching.

Aama, are you okay? It was Falguni, her voice