The Angel

Ayesha heard the rustle of wings and a blinding white
light lit the darkness of the bedroom Mama
had locked her in. She raised her head, small body
racked with sobs.

How could a bird fly through the window bars, how could a
bird shine so bright? Something soft wiped the tears from her
cheeks. Within the light she saw a figure with sweeping wings and
heard a voice say, "Remember the Dandelion, Ayesha!"

It was unfathomable to her soul that Mama's
hands,those hungry hands that mauled her body and
spirit, had helped her capture the elusive,floating
seeds of the Dandelion. Mother called the seeds
fairies.

Ayesha imagined, with a sense of guilt, mother
dead, lying on the floor, rose petals upon her
eyelids, and her arms that had never rocked her to
sleep, lying stilled upon her quiet breast. She shook
her head to get rid of the vision. What would Jesus
say to her in heaven for imagining Mama's death?
Surely he would punish Mama for her cruelty.

But the Angel was real; and angels only came to
comfort good children. She had seen him in the great
red -bound picture Bible,its pages frayed with her
love. Her favourite was the story of Jesus turning
the stones of the desert into bread to feed the
believers. She was a believer. She believed that this
dark night of the soul would pass; that one day, Mama
would love her as mothers should love their
daughters.

It was Jesus, surely, who had appeared to
her in the long, twilit corridors of the great house.
His luminous presence soothed her when Mama had pushed
her onto an upturned nail in her rage. It was He who
had sent the Angel to her.

She remembered the Dandelion the Angel had told her
about; the dandelion she so loved her mother for; and
knocking upon the door with her fists, cried, "Mama,
I'm sorry!" but she had no idea what she was supposed
to be sorry about. All she had done was talk to
Amma,her paternal grandmother who had taken care of
her as a mother should.

The door opened. An arm pulled at her, a voice raked
at her.
"I told you not to speak to Grandma! She's a witch,
she'll boil you in a cauldron and eat you up!" Why did
Mama call Amma a witch? Amma was kind to Ayesha. Her arms
rocked her to sleep. She wanted Ayesha to call her Amma. It
made her feel younger, she said. She was dark and
young looking; her saris smelled crisp, her hands were
gentle. Her hands fed her, clothed her. When Ayesha
hurt, her hands made the pain go away. She was magic
- maybe a good witch. When Mama called her ugly, Amma
called her a princess, with her rare oval face and
rich hair.

Beyond her reach, on the edge of her misery, her
younger sister, Meghna watched her suffer with pained,
puzzled eyes. "Stop it, Mama, stop it!" she cried
when Ayesha cringed beneath Mama's blows. She never
beat Meghna.

Perhaps this was why they could not love
as sisters should.

Meghna was fair,plump and
brilliant. It was she Mama took out to see the lights
of the city, locking in Ayesha in the bedroom, for
having made ugly faces at her.

Amma could not reach her through the little gap in the door. She
could see Amma through that gap of heaven- for heaven was where
Amma was- she could see how unhappy she was, how her
tears flowed too.

Siddhartha, Ayesha's father, whom she loved most of
all, wept silent tears for her. She had heard him
accuse Mama of cruelty, heard him forbid it; she knew
he could not always be there to protect her. He was a
busy man.

Ayesha loved him for his gentleness, his
belief in her,the way he rubbed his stubbled cheek
against hers, making her skin tingle, the way he gave
her those big `bear hugs'. She loved him when he
secretly told her that she was his favourite daughter.

She loved him for never letting Meghna know.

There were times when Ayesha and Meghna were one.
When they hunted together for the wild black berries
the sunning lizards so loved to gobble, chased butterflies,
gathered the succulent mangoes
felled by the hot dust-laden winds of summer; and
tried to capture the fairies of the Dandelion and hold
them for ransom in the Japanese Summer House, its
seasoned wood a sun mauve.

On Diwali,the Festival of Lights,they fought over the
iridescent pink and blue clay pots and pans and stoves
and tiny platters and spoons and the white porous,
crumbly candy and puffed rice.

The gigantic house was transformed into a fairy tale castle,
glittering with hundreds of flames, lit to welcome back home from
exile, Lord Rama. The skies were glorious with stars
that fell to earth, trailing glory and a smell of
sulphur lit the air.

But they never loved as sisters should.

Ayesha was grateful to Mama at Christmas. Enchanted
nights, filled with the voices of angels singing
Silent Night, Holy Night, as she lay half asleep. She
yearned to know the truth about Santa Claus, no matter
how it hurt.

The sisters dropped bricks down the
chimney to find out how fat Santa came down it with
his huge sack of presents. Grandfather roared at them
for cluttering up the fireplace.

In the darkness, Ayesha heard the reindeer bells and looked
up at the ventilator to catch a glimpse of Santa's white beard.
She closed her eyes quickly. Mama had warned her
not to let Santa catch her peeking. It would make him
go away forever. How hard her heart beat on that
Christmas Eve!

Mama took them to the roof the morning after Christmas Eve and
showed them the tracks of Santa's sleigh circling the chimney.

They fought so bitterly over the presents, that mother
decided to give them identical gifts. But Ayesha
would rise earlier than Meghna to eat both their share
of chocolates and those hungry hands would have their
fill again.

When Ayesha did discover the truth about Santa,
Christmas was over. That night of the great and
painful discovery, Ayesha spied a dark, slender man
push some large packages under her bed. It was Uncle
Krishna! Uncle Krishna who adored Mama and Meghna and
was rather indifferent towards her.

Mama was furious with her for finding out. Ayesha realised then the
love and effort Mama had put into making Christmas so
special for them. It was she who had etched the
sleigh marks round the chimney; it was she who had
rung the bells!

And then one day, when Ayesha was 15 and they lived in
a hilly town where the wild balsam reigned and
softened her pain from the constant beatings with
crimson showers, Siddhartha took Mama for a `long
drive', and returned without her.

He refused to answer their questions about her. Ayesha had
understood by then, Mama's rejection. She had not
wished to bear Ayesha at seventeen. What did her
poetic mind have to do with the mere biological
process of bearing a child? Any woman could do that.
It was the children of the mind that were most
difficult to create.

Ayesha was relieved that Mama had gone away.
There would be no more scars. No more
nights sweet with the voices of angels.