A Flight of Change...!!!

"Any news from the airline yet, kanna?" Meena Iyer's voice carried a mix of hope and anxiety as she addressed her daughter across the breakfast table.

Priya shook her head, her eyes fixed on her phone. "Not yet, Amma."

Venkat lowered his newspaper, offering a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, they'll call. They'd be fools not to hire our Priya."

The Iyers' 35th-floor apartment in Mumbai's Parel district buzzed with nervous energy. At 25, Priya was on the cusp of achieving her dream of becoming an air hostess, and her parents' pride was palpable.

The doorbell's sharp ring cut through the tension. Meena's expression hardened as she went to answer it.

Mangal stood in the hallway, her small frame slightly hunched, a large garbage bag in gloved hand. Her eyes, as always, were fixed on the floor, she was from their complex’s housekeeping staff who was at the door to collect last night’s garbage.

"Namaskar, aunty," she murmured with a thick accent.

Meena always flinched at the word "aunty," a flicker of displeasure crosses her face. In her mind, such over familiarity was inappropriate, even if the term was meant respectfully.

Without a word, Meena retrieved their garbage bag from just inside the doorway, holding it out at arm's length. Mangal took it, careful not to let their fingers brush.

As Mangal turned to leave, a small piece of trash fell from the overstuffed bag. Without thinking, she bent to pick it up.

"Don't!" Meena's sharp voice made Mangal flinch. "Leave it. I'll get it later."

Mangal nodded, her eyes still on the floor as she hurried away. Meena shut the door firmly, trying to shake off the unpleasant feeling that always accompanied these interactions.

The word "aunty" echoed in her mind, grating on her nerves. She was not some of familiar acquaintance to be addressed so casually.

Back in the kitchen, Priya's phone buzzed. The apartment fell silent as she answered, her family watching with bated breath. As she hung up, her face broke into a radiant smile.

"I got it!" she squealed. "I'm going to be an air hostess for Air India!"

The apartment erupted in celebration. Meena's eyes glistened with tears of joy as she hugged her daughter. Venkat beamed with pride, already imagining boasting to his colleagues about Priya's prestigious new job.

Weeks later, it was time for Priya's first official flight as an air hostess. To everyone's delight, it was a short hop from Mumbai to Chennai – perfect for her parents to be on board.

As they settled into their seats, Meena couldn't stop smiling. She watched with immense pride as Priya, now going by her official name "Prerna," moved gracefully through the cabin, assisting passengers and delivering the safety presentation with poise.

"She's a natural," Venkat whispered, squeezing his wife's hand.

The flight was smooth, and Meena found herself drifting off to sleep, lulled by the engine's hum and the satisfaction of seeing her daughter succeed.

She wasn't sure how long she'd been asleep when a gentle touch on her shoulder roused her. Opening her eyes, she saw Priya standing in the aisle, a warm smile on her face.

But something was off. It took Meena a moment to realize what it was – Priya’s gloved hands were holding one end of a large garbage bag, while another flight attendant held the other.

"We're preparing for landing, Amma," Priya said softly. "Pass on that plate and cup of yours for disposal?"

Meena stared, her mind struggling to reconcile the image being played in front of her. She watched in stunned silence as Priya moved down the aisle, collecting cups, napkins, and food wrappers from passengers with the same grace and kindness she'd shown while serving them earlier.

As Priya passed, Meena caught snippets of conversation between her daughter and an elderly passenger.

"Thank you, beta," the old woman said, her voice warm with gratitude. "You remind me of my granddaughter."

Priya's smile was genuine, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "It's my pleasure, paati," she responded, using the Tamil word for grandmother. "I hope you had a comfortable flight."

The old woman's face lit up at the familiar term. "Oh! You're from Chennai, are you?" she asked, her voice tinged with delight.

Priya chuckled softly. "Born and raised in Mumbai, paati, but my family is originally from Chennai. We still visit often."

"Aha, no wonder your Tamil sounds so nice," the old woman beamed. "You youngsters keeping our culture alive in the big city makes me so happy."

Priya nodded respectfully before moving on, leaving the elderly passenger with a warm smile on her face.

Meena had watched this entire exchange, a complex mix of emotions swirling within her. Pride in her daughter's ability to connect with passengers warred with her lingering discomfort at seeing Priya handling garbage. Yet, there was something happening that stirred something deep within her.

The rest of the trip passed in a blur. As they disembarked in Chennai, Meena barely registered Priya's cheerful goodbye, promising to meet them for dinner after her turnaround flight back to Mumbai.

On the taxi ride to their hotel, Venkat chatted excitedly about Priya's performance, but Meena remained quiet, lost in thought. 

The image of her daughter, hands on the garbage bag, kept replaying in her mind, overlapping with memories of Mangal in their hallway.

The next morning, back in their Mumbai flat, Meena stood at the kitchen window, her coffee growing cold in her hands. When the doorbell rang at 7:00 AM, she took a deep breath before answering.

Mangal stood there, eyes down as always, garbage bag at the ready.

"Namaskar, aunty," she murmured.

This time, Meena didn't flinch at the word. Instead, she studied the woman before her, really seeing her for perhaps the first time. She saw the calluses on Mangal's hands, the slight stoop of her shoulders, the faded but clean sari covered by a blue apron displaying her firm’s name on the right side. 

She thought of Priya – Prerna – in her crisp uniform, handling garbage with dignity and grace.

"Mangal," Meena said softly, her voice wavering slightly. The other woman's eyes darted up in surprise at the use of her name.

There was a moment of silence, heavy with unspoken words and years of ingrained behavior. Then, Meena stepped back from the doorway, her hand trembling as she gestured inside.

"Will you have tea?"

The words hung in the air between them, fragile and monumental. Mangal's eyes widened, a mix of confusion and hope flickering across her face. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Then, slowly, hesitantly, Mangal nodded.

As she crossed the threshold, both women felt the weight of generations shifting, like tectonic plates grinding beneath their feet. In the simple act of sharing tea, walls built by centuries of prejudice began to crumble, one small crack at a time.

Kneading Dreams..!!!

"Aai, why can't we go back to our old house?" Saee's innocent question hung in the air of the cramped chawl room in Kurla, heavy as the monsoon clouds outside.

Sangita’s hands stilled over the dough she was kneading for dinner. The sounds of the bustling chawl - a neighbour’s TV blaring, children shouting in the corridor, the rhythmic pounding of someone grinding masala - filtered through the thin walls. How could she explain to a six-year-old the cruel twists of fate that had brought them here?

"Bacchu, sometimes life takes us on unexpected journeys," she began, her voice soft. "Our old house... it holds too many memories of your Baba."

Ten-year-old Anandi, always the more perceptive one, piped up from where she was struggling with her homework on the single table they owned. 

"Is it because we don't have money anymore, Aai?"

Sangita's heart clenched. When did her little girl grow up so fast? "Yes, Anandi. But don't worry. Aai is working hard, and one day—"

A sudden power cut plunged the tiny room into darkness, cutting off her words of reassurance. As if on cue, both girls started to cry, they always did as if like a haunting memory resurfaced every time.

"Shh, shh," Sangita soothed, fumbling for the emergency lantern. "It's just for a little while. Remember how we used to play shadow puppets when the lights went out in our village?"

As she entertained the girls with shadow animals on the wall, Sangita's mind wandered to simpler times. Growing up in a small village near Nasik, education had been a luxury her family couldn't afford. She'd barely finished 10th standard before being married off to Vinayak, a promising IT engineer from the city. She always asked him why on earth did an educated person like him chose her, he used to smile it off. 

Life in Mumbai had been a whirlwind of new experiences. Vinayak, patient and kind, had encouraged her to learn English, to dream beyond the confines of their home. For eight blissful years, Sangita had reveled in her roles as wife and mother, her world expanding alongside Vinayak's growth at SoftTech Global.

Then came 2020, and with it, a global pandemic that changed everything. 

"Aai, why isn't Baba having dinner with us anymore?" Anandi had asked during the first week of lockdown.

Sangita had smiled, explaining the concept of 'work from home' to her curious daughter. "Baba is working beta. Vinayak and his team were implementing SoftTech’s cloud application which was in sudden demand than their desktop ones, keeping him long hours, often missing their family dinners.

At first, having Vinayak home all day had been a joy. Despite the fear and uncertainty gripping the world, their spacious 2BHK flat in a gated society in Vashi had felt like a safe haven. Sangita had enjoyed preparing Vinayak's favourite dishes for lunch, the little girls delighting in having their father around more.

But fate had other plans.

The memory of that terrible day still haunted her. It had started like any other day in lockdown - Vinayak on his umpteenth video call of the day, the elder one attending online classes, little Saee running around the house, Sangita preparing dinner. That’s when came the crash.

She had rushed to their room to find Vinayak slumped over his keyboard, unresponsive. The next few hours were a blur of frantic calls, paramedics in PPE suits, and finally, the devastating news. A massive heart attack. 

Gone before she could even say goodbye. 

The small girls still bewildered what was unfolding before them, the two-year-old Saee crying frantically not knowing that she won’t any more go to sleep slumping herself on her father’s chest, Vinayak use to put her to sleep placing her close to his heart every day.

In the midst of a global crisis, Sangita's world had shattered. The lockdown that was meant to keep them safe had become a suffocating reminder of her irreparable loss. No proper funeral, no gathering of loved ones to share her grief. Just isolation, fear, and the daunting reality of facing an uncertain future alone.

What followed was a nightmare of grief and shock, made even more challenging by the pandemic. Her in-laws, stranded in their own city due to travel restrictions, had washed their hands of her.

 "We have our own expenses," they'd said coldly. "You should return to your parents once the lockdown lifts."

But her aging parents, landless laborers struggling to feed themselves in a village now cut off from the city, could offer little more than tearful apologies over a patchy phone connection.

Overnight, Sangita had gone from a comfortable lockdown life to a desperate scramble for survival. The insurance money and Vinayak's savings had lasted barely a year, dwindling faster than expected due to the economic downturn. With no degree, no work experience, and two young daughters to raise in a world turned upside down by COVID-19, her options had seemed hopeless.

The decision to move to the chawl in Kurla had been born of desperation. It was all she could afford while still keeping the girls in a local school, the school Vinayak had admitted Anandi was no longer affordable for her. Every day was a battle – against the leaky roof, the erratic water supply, the constant noise, and the gnawing fear for their safety. 

The stark contrast to their previous life – the 24-hour water supply, the watchman at the gate, the quiet evenings on their small balcony – was a constant, painful reminder of how far they had fallen.

The power flickered back to life, illuminating the tears Sangita hadn't realized she'd shed. Anandi and Saee, their game forgotten, were looking at her with worried eyes.

"Aai, are you okay?" Anandi asked, her small hand reaching out to wipe Sangita's cheek.

Sangita mustered a smile. "Of course, bala. Aai was just thinking about how lucky she is to have you two."

As she tucked the girls into bed later that night on the single mattress, they all shared, Sangita's gaze fell on the calendar pinned to the peeling wall. Tomorrow was Friday – her third week catering snacks for SoftTech, her dead husband’s company. She had heard about their fun filled ‘Social Fridays’ from Vinayak and the savouries they had every week.

The opportunity had come like a bolt from the blue, willing to do anything, a desperate call to Varsha Deshpande, the compassionate HR manager at SoftTech, leading to an unexpected lifeline. She was very helpful when Vinayak passed away by expediating the process in disbursing his dues.

It wasn't much, but it was a start. Each samosa she folded, each vada she fried, was a step towards reclaiming their lives. The work was exhausting, coming on top of her daily rounds of cooking in five different households, but Sangita tackled it with fierce determination.

Sleep, however, proved elusive. The looming electricity bill, Saee's need for new school shoes, and the constant fear of not being enough swirled in her mind. 

In her darkest moments, Sangita wondered if she was fooling herself. What chance did a barely educated widow have in this unforgiving city?

But then she thought of her girls. Of Vinayak’s dreams of making Anandi a doctor, of Saee's infectious laughter. Of the promise she'd made to Vinayak's photo every morning – to give their daughters the life they deserved and he dreamt.

Sangita rose quietly and made her way to the small cooking area. Opening her treasured recipe book, its pages stained and dog-eared, she began to plan tomorrow's menu. Her mother's special puran poli, Vinayak's favourite kanda bhaji, the pav bhaji that always made Anandi smile.

As she worked, a calm determination settled over her. Life and a global pandemic had taken so much, but they couldn't take this – her skills, honed over years of loving preparation for her family. 

In her hands, even the humblest ingredients transformed into something special.

Tomorrow, she'd serve not just the lip smacking Kothmir Vadi, but little morsels of hope. To her precious girls, to her husband’s office colleagues who fondly called her ‘Vahini’, and most importantly, to herself. 

"Watch over us, Vinu," she whispered, her fingers tracing his name written inside the book's cover. 

"I'm not giving up. Not now, not ever."