The Silenced Tapestry

 

In the heart of Gulmohur Chowk, a bustling locality in Mumbai, stood Rehman's Emporium. The shop occupied the ground floor of a weathered Art Deco building, its display window a portal to a world frozen in elegant repose.

Adil gazed out of the display window of Rehman's modest shop.

His painted brown eyes, never quite capturing the vitality of real irises, looking out at the bustling street. In the liminal space between reality and imagination, he lived, his consciousness awakened by a simple act of kindness.

He remembered the day Abdul Rehman, then a young man with dreams as vast as the Arabian Sea, had carefully placed him in the window. Rehman had adjusted Adil's posture, whispering, "You'll be Adil. Strong and just, like your name." From that moment, Adil was more than just a mannequin; he was a silent sentinel, observing the ebb and flow of life in the small men's clothing store.

Through Adil's eyes, the story of Rehman's Emporium unfolded. He watched as Rehman, a former street vendor, poured his heart and soul into the shop. Customers came and went, some lingering to chat, others hurrying through their purchases. Adil observed Rehman's kindness, his sharp eye for quality, and his unwavering dedication.

Years passed, and Adil witnessed the shop's gradual growth. Then came a day that would change everything. Rehman entered the shop with a new figure, feminine and graceful. "Meher," Rehman said, positioning her gentle hand on Adil's arm, "kindness personified."

Adil felt a ripple in his consciousness as Meher came to life beside him. Her perfect pink lips curved in a perpetual smile, her green eyes seeming to hold all the mysteries of the world. "Hello," Adil thought, warmth spreading through his rigid form. "You're... you're beautiful."

Meher's thoughts brushed against his, a feather-light touch. "Thank you," she replied, her mental voice melodious. "I think we're going to make a wonderful team."

Together, they watched as Rehman's Emporium expanded to include women's wear. The shop buzzed with new energy as female customers flocked in, admiring the colorful saris and elegant salwar suits that now hung alongside the men's clothing.

More years passed, and Adil and Meher's family grew. Zain arrived first, a small boy mannequin that Rehman placed with a chuckle. "Zain, the handsome little man. You'll charm every child that passes by." The arrival of Alia, a girl mannequin, completed their family. "And Alia, our beauty," Rehman had said, his eyes twinkling.

The silent family observed as the shop transformed into a thriving emporium catering to all. They watched Rehman age, his beard turning salt-and-pepper, wisdom deepening in his eyes. Yet every morning, without fail, he would greet them.

"Good morning, Adil. Meher, you're looking radiant as always. Zain, Alia, I hope you two behave today."

His employees would exchange knowing smiles, attributing it to the eccentricity of age or the quirkiness of a man who had spent decades breathing life into fabrics and fashions. Little did they know that in naming these silent sentinels, Rehman had unknowingly given voice to their hidden consciousness.

Through the years, Adil and his family of four witnessed the changing tapestry of Rehman's life. They saw his joy during festivals, particularly Ganesh Chaturthi, when he would place a small idol of the elephant-headed god in a quiet corner of the shop, the festivities took him back to his childhood days in his village spent celebrating with his friends.

They felt his pain when he spoke of his lost family – his father and brothers, fishermen swallowed by the sea in not very far Konkan.

They understood his deep gratitude towards Shelar Kaku, the Hindu matriarch who had taken him in when he first arrived in Mumbai.

The silent family watched as the staff grew. They observed the arrival of Jyoti, noting Rehman's protective attitude towards her. They saw how he treated her like a daughter, and they understood why – she was his link to Shelar Kaku, her granddaughter, progeny of her wayward son, a debt of kindness he was determined to repay.

But it was the arrival of Nasir, his distant relative that sent a ripple of unease through Adil and Meher’s shared consciousness. Adil noticed the young man's eager eyes and restless hands, the way his gaze lingered too long on Jyoti. A small metal anchor-shaped keychain swirled constantly around Nasir's index finger, a nervous habit that intensified whenever he looked at the young Jyoti.

Meher's thoughts brushed against Adil's. "Something's not right about that one," she mused.

Their suspicions were confirmed when they witnessed Rehman calling Nasir into his office one day. Though they couldn't hear the words, but they didn’t miss the part when Rehman opened his cabin door and shouted“…you leave my store right now and never ever show me your face…Get OUT”

They saw Nasir's flushed face and the dark flicker in his eyes as he left.

Meher had told Adil about the lecherous Nasir and how he vicariously used to eye Jyoti all the time.

As days melted into weeks, the silent family observed a change in the air of Mumbai. The bustling streets of Gulmohur Chowk, once a symphony of life, now pulsed with an undercurrent of tension.

"The air tastes of fear," Adil communicated to Meher, his thoughts tinged with worry.

Meher's consciousness caressed his. "This too shall pass, my love. We've seen troubled times before."

But even Meher's optimism wavered as they watched Rehman's shoulders grow heavier, his eyes wearier. The television in the corner, once tuned to cheerful Bollywood songs, now blared news of bandhs and curfews.

The silent family observed as the shop's rhythm changed. Customers hurried through their purchases, eyes darting nervously to the streets outside. The joyous chaos of festival shopping was replaced by a tense quietude.

Their concern deepened when a group of angry men barged into the store one afternoon. They watched helplessly as the men threatened Rehman, telling him to close the shop.

But Rehman stood his ground, his voice calm but firm. "This shop has been here for decades. We serve all, fear none. I won't be closing."

‘You will regret this old man, mind you’

As the men left, their threats hanging in the air, Adil felt a chill run through his rigid form. "What if they come back?" Zain's thoughts quivered with apprehension.

"Rehman sahab is strong," Meher reassured them. "He won't bow to their threats."

But as the days wore on, and the tension in the city ratcheted higher, even the ever-optimistic Meher couldn't shake the feeling that something terrible was looming on the horizon.

Then came the night that would change everything. The silent family sensed the danger before they saw it. An acrid smell seeped under the door, followed by an oily liquid spreading across the floor. Flames erupted, quickly engulfing the store.

As the inferno raged, the silent family watched in horror as their world melted around them. Adil saw Meher's beautiful face begin to warp, her perfect pink lips distorting in the heat. Zain and Alia, their beloved children, were engulfed by the flames.

In their last moments of consciousness, they shared a final, loving thought – a goodbye to each other and to the shop they had called home for so long.

As dawn broke, the silent family lay in ruins – melted, charred, and broken. Yet, even in this state, a flicker of awareness remained. They watched as Rehman stood amidst the smouldering remains of his life's work. His sons tried to comfort him, urging him to blame the ongoing tensions, to seek revenge against the faceless mob.

But then, Rehman's sharp eyes caught a glint amidst the ashes. He bent down, his fingers closing around a small metal object. As he straightened, the anchor-shaped keychain dangled from his hand, its once-shiny surface now blackened by soot.

"No," Rehman said, his voice heavy with the weight of realization. "This wasn't about community. This was personal."

His gaze fell on Adil's half-melted form. For a moment, it seemed as if their eyes met, sharing a profound understanding of betrayal and loss. "At least there was no human loss," Rehman said softly, his hand clenching around the damning piece of evidence. "That's the biggest relief."

As Mumbai began to stir around them, the remnants of the silent family bore witness to the complex tapestry of human emotions that had led to this moment.

They saw the city, like them, scarred but not broken. And in the ashes of destruction, they sensed the seeds of resilience already beginning to sprout.

In their last moments of awareness, they felt Rehman's presence. He stood among the ruins, picking up a charred piece of fabric, once part of a beautiful sari. A single tear rolled down his cheek.

"Thank you, my friends. For everything," he whispered.

And in the spaces between reality and imagination, four consciousnesses stirred one last time, a final farewell to the man who had seen them as more than just mannequins.

Their story had ended, but their spirit, like the resilience of Mumbai itself, would endure.

When Silence Speaks

 

The Jog family resided in a plush apartment in Pune's Koregaon Park. Chhaya Jog, the matriarch of the family, was just finishing her morning puja when she heard a commotion at the door.

 

"Tai! Tai!" came a frantic voice.

 

Chhaya rushed to the entrance, where she found Sakubai, their maid, in tears. "Kay zhala, Saku?" she asked, concern etched on her face.

 

Between sobs, Sakubai explained that her son had been in an accident and needed immediate surgery. Without hesitation, Chhaya called her husband, Sadashiv.

 

"Sadu, please transfer fifty thousand rupees to Sakubai's account immediately. It's an emergency."

 

Turning to Sakubai, she said softly, "Saku, ja lawakar. mulaacha kaaljee ghe. kaahi laagla tar call kar ( go immediately, be with your son, call me if you need anything more)..."

 

As Sakubai left, showering blessings on Chhaya, Avantika, Chhaya's 23-year-old daughter, emerged from her room.

"Aai, you're always helping someone or the other," she said, admiration clear in her voice. Avantika, her first born had a deep bond with her, they never seemed like a mother-daughter duo, Chhaya never looked her age.

 

Chhaya smiled, "Aavu, helping others is what gives life meaning."

 

Just then, Chhaya's mother-in-law, called out from her room. "Chhaya! Majhi aushadh!(My meds)"

 

"Yete, Aai!" Chhaya responded, hurrying to tend to her mother-in-law's needs.

 

Avantika watched as her mother patiently helped Ajji with her medications, explaining each pill's purpose. Despite the older woman's occasional grumbling, Chhaya's patience never wavered.

 

Later that evening, as Chhaya watered the plants on their balcony, she noticed Ranjit kaka, the society's security guard, looking distressed.

 

"Kaka, kay zhala?(Uncle, What happened)" she called out.

 

Ranjit kaka hesitated before sharing that his daughter's wedding was approaching, and he was struggling with the expenses.

 

Chhaya's eyes softened. "Kaka, tumchi mulgee aamchich mulgee aahe. Kaaljee karu naka. Mi bolte Sadashiv sobat.( Dont Worry,I will talk to Sadashiv, will arrange )"

 

The next day, Chhaya invited her close friends from the society - Revati and Manjusha - for chai. As they sat in the living room, Chhaya's 19-year-old son, Adwait, stumbled in, looking haggard.

 

"Adu! Kay zhala?" Chhaya exclaimed.

 

"Nothing, Aai. Just stressed about exams," Adwait mumbled.

 

Chhaya immediately excused herself from her friends and spent the next hour comforting Adwait, making him his favorite ukdiche modak and offering words of encouragement.

 

Revati watched this interaction with a mix of admiration and envy. "Chhaya, tu khupach lucky aahes. Perfect family, perfect life."

 

Chhaya smiled at her but she was still checking on Adwait as he was going back to his room.

 

As the days passed, Chhaya prepared for her annual Vipassana retreat in Igatpuri. The night before her departure, the family gathered for dinner. It was always difficult for the family to understand how a hand's down homemaker can cutoff for 10 days and function for it was unimaginable for them.

 

Sadashiv, looking up from his laptop, said, "I wonder always, how can people do nothing but just stare and meditate, mala ajibaat jamnaar nahi"

 

Everyone had a hearty laugh looking at Sadashiv.

 

Avantika chimed in, "Aai, you deserve this break. You're always taking care of everyone else."

 

Adwait nodded in agreement, his mouth full of puran poli.

 

The next morning, as Chhaya left, each family member hugged her tightly. Ajji, usually reticent with her emotions, held Chhaya's hand and said, "Lawakar ye."

 

Three days into Chhaya's retreat, the Jog household though missing her, were engaged with their usual activities. Avantika was helping Ajji with her dinner when her phone rang. The caller ID displayed a name she hadn't seen in years: Soham Parchure.

 

"Soham?" Avantika answered, surprise evident in her voice. "It's been so long! How are you?"

 

"Avantika! Yes, it has been a while," Soham replied, his tone a mix of warmth and hesitation. "I'm doing well. I heard you completed your MBA. Congratulations!"

 

"Thanks, Soham. Yes, I did. And you? Last I heard, you had joined the police force."

 

"That's right. I'm an Inspector now, posted in Igatpuri," Soham paused, his voice growing serious. "Avantika, I... I'm actually calling about something important. Are you sitting down?"

 

Avantika's heart skipped a beat. "Soham, what's going on? You're scaring me."

 

Soham took a deep breath. "Avantika, there's been an accident. Your mother... Mrs. Jog... she's been admitted to Igatpuri General Hospital. It's serious. You and your family should come immediately."

 

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Avantika gripped the phone tightly, her knuckles turning white. "What? How? Soham, tell me everything!"

 

"I think it's better if we talk in person, Avantika. Please, come to Igatpuri as soon as you can. I'll meet you at the hospital."

 

In a daze, Avantika informed her family. Within minutes, they were in the car, speeding towards Igatpuri, their hearts pounding with fear and uncertainty.

 

At the hospital, Soham met them at the entrance. His face was grave as he led them to a private waiting area. The doctor had just finished briefing them on Chhaya's critical condition when Soham gently pulled Avantika aside.

 

"Avantika, there's something else you need to know," he said softly, his eyes filled with concern. "When I found your mother's phone at the accident site,  saw she had last dialed a contact named 'Aavu'. I didn't realize it was you until I dialed the number from  my phone and your name showed up. It was... unexpected."

 

Avantika nodded, remembering the childhood nickname her mother still used for her.

 

Soham continued, his voice low and gentle. "There's more, Avantika. And it's... difficult. Your mother wasn't alone in the car. There was a man with her, around 45 years old. He... he didn't survive the crash. They were both staying in a nearby hotel since last three days, his whereabouts are being investigated. The Hotel staff said they were among their regular guests there" Soham was very careful in coining his words.

 

Avantika felt the ground slip away beneath her feet. She stared at Soham, unable to process his words.

 

Seeing her shock, Soham who knew that she or anyone in their family was totally unaware about this, quickly added, "I understand this is a lot to take in. I haven't mentioned this to anyone else yet. I thought... I thought you should be the first to know, given our history."

 

Avantika nodded numbly, grateful for Soham's discretion and sensitivity.

 

"Take your time," Soham said softly. "I'm here if you need anything. We can discuss how to handle this information when you're ready."

 

As Avantika stumbled back to her family, her mind raced. Her mother, the pillar of their family, the epitome of devotion and sacrifice... had been leading a double life? How could she protect her mother's reputation? How would this affect their family?

 

Standing by Chhaya's bedside, the rhythmic hum of the ventilator seemed to grow louder, drowning out everything else. Dr. Prakash approached; his face etched with concern.

 

"Ms. Jog," he addressed Avantika softly, "I'm afraid your mother's condition isn't improving. The latest scans show minimal brain activity. We need to discuss... how long you want to continue with the ventilator support."

 

The words hit Avantika like a physical blow. She looked at her family, scattered around the sterile ICU room. Her father, Sadashiv, stood rigid in the corner, his face a mask of anger and betrayal. Adwait sat slumped in a chair, tears streaming down his face, a mix of confusion and helplessness evident in his eyes. Ajji wept silently, her wrinkled hands clutching her daughter-in-law's unresponsive fingers.

 

Avantika felt a surge of protectiveness towards her mother. She could see the judgment in her father's eyes, the disbelief in Adwait's. But all she could think of was the woman who had given everything for her family. The same woman who, perhaps, had needs and desires of her own that none of them had ever considered.

 

"She was more than just our mother," Avantika found herself saying, her voice trembling but growing stronger with each word. "She was a woman, an individual. We... we never stopped to think about what she might have needed, what she might have been missing."

 

Sadashiv's head snapped up, his eyes flashing. "How can you defend her? After what she's done?"

 

"Baba," Avantika pleaded, "Aai loved us more than anything. But maybe... maybe she needed something for herself too. We can't judge her entire life based on this one thing we've discovered."

 

Adwait looked up, his eyes red-rimmed. "But Tai, how could she do this to us? To Baba?"

 

Avantika moved to her brother, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Adu, we don't know the whole story. And we may never know. But what we do know is how much Aai loved us, cared for us. That hasn't changed."

 

She turned back to Dr. Prakash, who had been waiting patiently. "Doctor, how... how long does Aai have if we remove the ventilator?"

 

The doctor's eyes filled with sympathy. "It's hard to say with certainty, but given her condition... probably not more than a few hours."

 

Avantika felt her heart breaking, but she knew what she had to do. She looked at each family member in turn, silently asking for their agreement. Sadashiv turned away, unable to meet her gaze. Adwait nodded slightly, tears still flowing. Ajji squeezed Chhaya's hand one last time before letting go.

 

"We'll... we'll remove the ventilator," Avantika said, her voice barely above a whisper. "But we'd like to stay with her until..."

 

Dr. Prakash nodded understandingly. "Of course. I'll make the arrangements."

 

As the medical team prepared to remove the life support, Avantika leaned close to her mother's ear. "Aai," she whispered, "we love you. No matter what. You can rest now."

 

The family gathered around Chhaya's bed, their anger and confusion momentarily set aside in the face of their impending loss. As the ventilator was switched off, the room fell into a deep, heavy silence.

 

In those final moments, as Chhaya's breathing grew shallow and eventually stopped, Avantika made a silent vow. She would honor her mother's memory not just as the perfect wife and mother they had always seen, but as a complex, human woman with dreams and desires of her own. And perhaps, in time, she could help her family understand her more.

 

As Chhaya took her last breath, the Jog family stood united in grief, the first step in a long journey of healing and understanding that lay ahead of them.

Anklets in the Shadows...!!

 

The aesthetically rich old tharavadu known around the place as ‘Valiya Veedu’ stood weathering countless monsoons in the lush, green heart of Ernakulam district, where the Periyar River embraced the Arabian Sea.

This ancestral home belonged to Vasundhara Menon, the renowned Mohini Attam dancer and Padma Shri awardee. The house, with its red-tiled roof and weathered teak pillars, was home to many talents, her mother was a reputed Carnatic singer, father an awesome Mridangam player. The tharavadu was a silent witness to the ebb and flow of art, ambition, and the unchanging rhythms of Kerala life.

Vasundhara's fiercely competitive spirit, focus and dedication to her art had catapulted her to where she was today, often compared to the thespian and Mohini Attam’s legend, Kanak Rele.

But this came at a cost, her short lived marriage suffered and ended in a bitter divorce.

As the monsoon rains lashed against the windows, the sound of ankle bells tinkling in rhythm with the mridangam filled the air. Vasundhara's eyes blazed with intensity as she watched the dancers , struggle through the intricate mudras of Mohini Attam, students of hers who were mostly daughters of equally rich background, diplomats or ministers.

It was a privilege and a rare opportunity to be trained under Vasundhara for she carefully chose her students.

"Manjushree! Your wrists are as stiff as my father’s walking cane lying in the corner, Soften them girl!" Vasundhara's shrill voice cut through the music. The girl in question, sweat beading on her forehead, nodded frantically and attempted to correct her posture.

In the corner of the room, Devika Menon observed the class, her own ankle bells silent. At fifteen, she was the spitting image of her mother in her youth – the same high cheekbones, the same imperious tilt of the chin. But where Vasundhara's eyes held fire, Devika's held a gentler light.

Devika knew very early in life that her mother wants to relive all her glory again, through her. She was definitely better than the other students but Devika was aware of her frailties.

As the students fumbled through the Cholkettu, the opening piece of the Mohini Attam repertoire, Devika's gaze drifted to the window. Through the rain-streaked glass, she caught sight of a small figure darting across the garden – Kani, the daughter of their house help, Lakshmi.

Devika watched as Kani paused by the window, her wide eyes taking in the dance class. For a moment, their gazes met, and Devika offered a small smile. Kani's face lit up, but before she could respond, Lakshmi appeared, ushering her daughter away with urgent whispers.

"Devika! Stop daydreaming and show these girls how it's done," Vasundhara with a certain surety commanded, breaking the moment.

Devika rose, the bells at her ankles chiming softly. As she took her position at the center of the room, she caught sight of Kani's face peeking around the door frame, eyes shining with admiration and longing.

The mridangam began its rhythm anew, and Devika's body flowed into the familiar movements. Her arms curved like gentle waves, her eyes darted in practiced nritta, and her feet stamped out complex patterns on the cool stone floor.

Vasundhara always used to watch her daughter with a gleam in her eyes, mixture of pride but also critically assessed her. "It was okay, can be better," she said as Devika finished, "your abhinaya still lacks depth. You must feel the emotion, not just show it."

As the class continued, none of the girls practising in the central courtyard of the naalkettu noticed Kani mimicking the movements in the shadows of the veranda, her bare feet silent on the worn stone, her eyes closed in concentration as she lost herself in the dance.

While life in the Menon tharavadu revolved around the rhythm of the dance classes, a different tune marked the days in the small village of Puthenvelikkara, just a few kilometers away. Here, in a modest thatched hut at the edge of a lush paddy field, lived Lakshmi's family. They were among many displaced families who had settled there as a result of a big dam usurping their land many years back.

Each morning, before the sun had fully risen, Lakshmi’s husband, Rajan would leave for the nearby rubber plantation, joining the throng of landless laborers. His calloused hands and weathered face told the story of years of hard work and meager rewards.

Lakshmi would hurry to prepare for her day of work at the Menon household, her quick movements a dance of their own - one choreographed by necessity and seasoned with worry. Kani, their daughter, would stir on her thin mattress, blinking sleep from her eyes.

"Amma, can I come with you today?" Kani would often ask, her voice hopeful.

Lakshmi would smile tiredly. "Not today, molu. You have school. Maybe this weekend, if Menon amma allows it."

As Kani dressed for school in her worn but clean uniform, her ears tranced her to the faint strains of music from the big house. Her feet moved unconsciously, tracing patterns on the packed earth floor.

"Kani!" Lakshmi's voice would snap her out of her reverie. "Hurry now, or you'll be late."

As Kani rushed out, narrowly avoiding the puddles left by last night's rain, Lakshmi would watch her go with a mixture of love and worry. Times were hard, and getting harder. Rubber prices had drastically dropped, Rajan's work at the plantation was irregular, and the meager pay barely kept food on the table. Lakshmi's job at the Menon house was their lifeline, but that too couldn’t hold her house tight.

In the following weeks, as Vasundhara drilled her students relentlessly, Kani found herself drawn more and more to the big house. On days when she didn't have school, she would accompany her mother, ostensibly to help with chores. But her real purpose was to sneak glances at the dance classes, her keen eyes absorbing every movement, every expression.

One sweltering afternoon, as Vasundhara's students wilted in the heat, Kani was scrubbing the veranda floor. The mridangam from the dance room wafted through the air, and almost unconsciously, Kani's hands began to move in rhythm, her eyes half-closed as she lost herself in the melody.

Devika, stepping out for a drink of water, froze at the sight, she couldn’t believe what her eyes saw. There was Kani, on her knees, performing Sankalana Mudra, one of the most difficult one as it requires one to show different Mudras on both hands at the same time - the one she and her fellow students had been struggling with for weeks - with effortless grace.

"Kani?" Devika's voice was barely a whisper, but it was enough to snap Kani out of her trance. The girl's eyes widened in fear, her hands trembling as she clutched the scrubbing brush.

"Chechi…please, don't tell Amma," Kani pleaded, her voice quavering. "She'll be very angry if she knows I've been watching. My mother badly needs this job, chechi. I will never do it again" Kani was petrified of the possible outcome.

Devika knelt beside her, taking Kani's calloused hands in her own. "Why would I tell? What you just did... it was so beautiful."

A tentative smile blossomed on Kani's face, and in that moment, a bond was forged between the two girls that would change both their lives.

As the annual inter-school dance competition of Ernakulam district approached, tension filled the air. This wasn't just any competition - it was a chance for schools across the region to showcase their talent, from the prestigious convent schools to the humble gram panchayat ones. School talent competitions across Kerala is widely popular and covered by all media outlets.

In the Menon household, Vasundhara drilled her students relentlessly, with Devika bearing the brunt of her mother's perfectionism. Devika would be representing St. Mary's Convent, the most elite school in the district.

Vasundhara was certain of her daughter's victory.

Meanwhile, in Kani's small hut in Puthenvelikkara, a different kind of preparation was underway. With no formal training and no resources, Kani practiced in secret, using every spare moment to perfect her moves. Her local gram panchayat school, had initially been hesitant to send a representative. But Rukmani, Kani's teacher, having caught glimpses of her talent, had insisted she participate.

The day of the competition dawned bright and clear. The auditorium in Ernakulam city buzzed with excitement as dancers from schools across the district gathered, a riot of colorful costumes and nervous energy.

Vasundhara sat in the front row; her eyes sharp as she assessed each performer. Her gaze softened with pride as Devika took the stage, resplendent in her costume. Devika's performance was flawless, her grace and technique drawing appreciative murmurs from the crowd. As she finished, Vasundhara nodded in satisfaction, certain of her daughter's success.

But then, something unexpected happened. A slender girl in a simple, worn costume, sourced by Rukmani, took the stage. Vasundhara's eyes widened in recognition - it was Kani, the daughter of her house help, the one who use to always run away seeing her sight in her house. She hadn't even known the girl was participating.

As the music began, Kani transformed. Her movements were just magical, the mudras her small hands made were perfect, her pathakas, kartharimukhas enlivened the imagery, flowed like the smooth flowing Periyar River, but powerful and graceful.

Her eyes spoke of love, of longing, of the very spirit of Kerala itself. With no expensive costume or ankle bells, she turned the stage into her canvas, her mesmerising dance an example of raw, unbridled talent.

Vasundhara sat frozen with stunned eyes, her face a mask of conflicting emotions. This was not just an imitation of steps seen she may have learnt from afar. This was a prodigy in its purest form, the kind she hadn't witnessed in years - perhaps not since her own youth.

As Kani's performance ended, the auditorium erupted in unequivocal applause which didn’t seem to stop. Tears streamed down Lakshmi's face as she watched from the back, her heart swelling with pride and fear in equal measure at her daughter’s unbelievable performance.

When the judges rose to announce their decision, the audience spoke for them in unison, the auditorium raptured as one in proclaiming ‘Kani’ as the winner. the judges joined them and announced that the girl from the Puthenvelikkara gram panchayat school, had won first place.

Devika, to everyone's surprise, including her own, had secured a close second. She won everyone’s hearts when she lifted Kani’s left hand and gave her a peck on her cheek. Devika was happier for her friend’s win than anyone else in the auditorium.

Vasundhara's world tilted on its axis. Her daughter, whom she had trained rigorously for years, had been outperformed by a girl who had never had a formal lesson. A girl who cleaned their floors and tended their garden. The implications were staggering. She had self-doubts for the first time in her life and she hated the feeling which was creeping and eating her.

Vasundhara withdrew into herself, spending long hours alone in the dance room. Devika, didn’t miss noticing her mother’s agony, caught between joy for her friend and loyalty to her mother, she tried to bridge the growing divide.
|

In the days that followed, Kani's victory sent ripples through the community. Some celebrated the triumph of raw talent, while others whispered about the impropriety of a servant's daughter outshining her betters.

But fate had other plans. A week after the competition, as Kani was still basking in the glow of her win and preparing for the upcoming state-level competition, disaster struck. Rajan, desperate after losing his job at the plantation, was accused of stealing from a local landlord. Despite his protestations of innocence, he was arrested and thrown into the Ernakulam District Jail.

The news spread like wildfire through Puthenvelikkara. Lakshmi, frantic with worry, knew they needed help - and money - to bail out Rajan. With nowhere else to turn, she approached Vasundhara.

Vasundhara listened to Lakshmi's tearful plea, her mind racing. Here was an opportunity - to help, yes, but also to remove the threat to her daughter's success, to restore the natural order of things. But she needed time to plan, to make sure her intervention would yield the results she desired.

"Come back tomorrow," Vasundhara said, her voice carefully neutral. "I need to consider this."

That night, as Lakshmi and Kani huddled together in their hut, their future uncertain, Vasundhara paced in her room. She crafted her scheme carefully, weighing each word she would say.

The next morning, when Lakshmi returned, hope and desperation warring in her eyes, Vasundhara was ready.

"I will help you," she said slowly, "but I must speak to Kani alone first."

In the privacy of the dance room, Vasundhara made Kani an offer. The bail money in exchange for Kani's withdrawal from the upcoming state-level competition. Torn between her passion and her family's needs, Kani readily agreed, her dreams crumbling like the chalk powder on a dancer's feet.

But Devika, overhearing, felt her world shift, she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. The mother she had idolized, the art she had devoted her life to - suddenly, it all seemed tainted.

She had heard of her mean streak, her fierce go-getting attitude when it came to achieve certain things, she herself was a prize her mother fought to the nail at the time of her divorce. She also feared her mother but she knew what her mother was asking her to do is unfair.

That night, as monsoon rains lashed the tharavadu once more, Devika made a decision. Sneaking out, she made her way to Kani's humble home in Puthenvelikkara, clutched in her hand, her savings she used to receive as kaineetam on her birthdays and festivals.

"Take it," she said, pressing the money into Kani's hands. "Compete. Dance. Show the world what Mohini Attam truly means."

Kani's eyes filled with tears. "But your mother..."

Devika, someone who was deprived of fatherly love, squared her shoulders. "Let me handle Amma. Some battles are worth fighting." Devika though unsure was determined to take on her mother should the time come.

The state-level competition, held in Thiruvananthapuram, was a blur of color and sound. Kani danced like one possessed, her performance a love letter to Kerala, to Mohini Attam, to the indomitable spirit of those who create art against all odds.

As the judges conferred, Devika sought out her mother in the audience. Vasundhara sat rigid, her eyes never leaving the stage where Kani had danced, she had never seen such a brilliant depiction of Mohini, the female enchantress in recent times

"Why, Amma?" Devika's voice was soft but firm. "Why would you try to stop her?"

Vasundhara was silent for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was thick with emotion. "I saw myself in her. The hunger, the raw talent. I thought... I thought I was protecting you."

Devika took her mother's hand. "Art isn't a competition, Amma. It's a celebration. You taught me that, once."

As Kani's name was announced as the winner, Vasundhara stood. The auditorium fell silent as the renowned dancer made her way to the stage.

Standing before Kani, Vasundhara did something she hadn't done in years. She bent down and touched the feet of the young dancer, acknowledging her as a true artist.

"Teach me," Vasundhara said softly. "Teach me to dance like that again."

Kani's smile was as bright as the Kerala sun after a torrential rain. And as Devika joined them on stage, the three dancers stood together, representatives of past, present, and future, united by the timeless art of Mohini Attam.

In the years that followed, Kani rose to become one of the greatest students of the Vasundhara Menon School of Dance and it became not just known for its technical excellence, but for its heart. Dancers from all walks of life found a home there, their feet tracing ancient patterns on the weathered stone floor, their spirits soaring with each tinkling of the ankle bells.

And on quiet evenings, when the light turned golden and the air was heavy with the scent of jasmine, one might see three figures dancing in the Valiya Veedu’s courtyard - the teacher, her daughter, and the servant girl from Puthenvelikkara who had now become a maestro. Their movements told a story of tradition and change, of pride and humility, of the eternal dance of life itself.

As for Rajan, he was eventually cleared of all charges, the truth of his innocence coming to light. The Menon family, led by Vasundhara's newfound humility and Devika's unwavering sense of justice, used their influence to secure him a respectable job at the Cochin Port Trust.

The story of Kani, the celebrated dancer of Puthenvelikkara, became a legend in Ernakulam district and beyond. It served as a reminder that true art knows no boundaries of class or privilege, and that sometimes, the most profound lessons come from the most unexpected sources.

And so, in the heart of Kerala, where the backwaters mirror the sky and the rhythm of life beats in sync with the classical arts, a new chapter in the story of Mohini Attam was written - one of hope, transformation, and the enduring power of dance to bridge the divides that separate us.

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."

The Lift.

 

“Sir, please can I also come in with you” Sarika, our maid asked me when I was about to get into the lift of our building while leaving for office.

 

“Of course, please get in, why do you ask??” I was a bit perplexed by her question and then I realised all the elevators in our building had been erratic for a month, the maintenance was still figuring out the snag.

 

High rises are only as good as their elevators and can leave you high and dry, trapped and stranded in your glass houses when they give away. I realise it every day in some manner when it’s a grueling, snail-paced climb down each time from the 30th floor.

 

Sarika was worried that people getting in from the floors below would object to her presence in the resident's lift when the elevators stop to usher them in.

 

“Sorry M’am, the service lift is not working otherwise I never get in this one” Sarika was explaining herself to Mrs. Joshi’s stern look as she got in from the 20th floor. Her stare hadn’t stopped. She looked repulsed and pulled the end of her dupatta and covered her nose as if the lift just started to stank.

 

The visibly apologetic Sarika was praying that the lift doesn’t stop on any of the floors and save her more such unpleasant gestures, but the lift wasn’t kind to her, it was taking in passengers from every other floor.

 

“Sir, my daughter is waiting down to go to her tuition class, I asked to her come and collect the fees from me, otherwise I always use the service lift, sorry sir” Sarika was now answering to one more admonishing look, this time it was Pragnesh bhai from the 15th floor.

 

I recollected the wife handing over the month’s wages in the morning and she had asked for an advance saying it was for the fees.

 

“Okay Okay, press P2” Pragnesh bhai ordered her to press the parking floor, his new BMW was parked there.

 

As people got in and with only one lift working it got overloaded quickly, the squirming Sarika hurriedly began to step out. 

 

“No Aunty, you stay back, we will take the stairs…. come on, Darsh, just 5 floors left buddy” Advay Gupte, the bright young lad from the building stepped out with his school buddy.

 

“Shit…. didn’t you press P2 properly?” the lift hadn’t stopped at the parking floor and Pragnesh was furious over Sarika.

 

“Pragnesh, don’t shout at her, you should know because of such issues the lifts are under maintenance for over a month now” Mrs. Iyer was quite vocal and didn’t mince her words towards Mr. BMW.

 

Sarika rushed out of the lift to her little young daughter, she was standing there for quite some time.

 

“Mummy, where were you, I am getting late,” said the eagerly looking daughter waiting with her classmate from the 4th standard.

 

“Sorry dear, the service lifts are not working, keep this fee in your bag, be careful with it” 

 

Sarika waved back to her daughter and walked inside the building to stand behind a big line of her colleagues in front of the service lift.