Spilled Tea

It was a mellow morning. The sun was bright but not too bright to hurt the eyes. It was cool and the gentle breeze fanned at one and all. The sunlight glinted off freshly washed paved stone road. It was a narrow road with a few shops between houses. Shantaram lived above a shop that sold milk and milk products. It was a small house with small windows which, if one would peer in, showed a simple household. There were small rods fitted in the window. They had once been painted green but now the paint had peeled off and it was completely black. They opened into one of the two rooms in the house. One of the rooms was used as the bedroom and the other, which had the windows, as a sitting room for guests and visitors who would frequent Shantaram's place like children at the annual fair. The walls were whitewashed but showed stains of hair oil (from the heads of the people who sat down and brushed their head against the wall) and sprays of betel leaf juice (from Shantaram's habit of speaking while chewing betel leaf). There were a few portraits of Gods handed down from ages and a red coloured silken wall hanging (from his marriage time) that had started to blacken. There was a small kitchen in which Shantaram's wife, a girl of 15, cooked for him. It was dark and the walls had blackened from soot. Cups and utensils lined the small wooden shelf and the small cooking area was usually cluttered.

Shantaram was approaching 22, a small round man. He was fat with a small round face and small round eyes. His wife was a pretty girl from one of the neighbouring villages, who had been married at the age of 10. She had lovely dark eyes that looked upon in wonder at anything interesting (apart from Shantaram), the result being that she got distracted by anything and everything, as is understandable for a girl of her age. Consequently, she would forget to add something or the other in the food, thereby angering Shantaram, who would give her a sound tongue lashing and occasionally slap her too. Then he would go out in a huff and she would sit down on the floor, her saree spread around, and weep and think of her mother from whose comforting hands, she was away from. She would not eat and sulk all day and when at evening Shantaram would return, she would quickly get up and make tea for him, silently crying all the time. Then for the next few days she would carefully prepare his meals but as is expected, soon a relapse would happen and the cycle would continue.

This morning he climbed down the steep stairs that led to his tiny abode, wearing a white kurta and a white dhoti, chewing betel leaf. He smiled to himself and brushed the lint off from his kurta. It was a pleasant morning. A few people on bicycles went by, waving to Shantaram. Just when he was thinking of what to do on such a morning that he heard his name being called out. He turned around. It was the newspaper editor's son - a handsome man of about the same age as Shantaram. He was dressed similarly only that his kurta and dhoti were whiter. "They don't even have a stain", Shantaram thought silently as he greeted him with folded hands. They began chatting about various things and presently Shantaram spat out the red betel leaf juice on the road and invited him to have a cup of tea with him upstairs.

They climbed the steep stairs again and Shantaram called out to his wife to prepare two cups of tea. He led his visitor inside and they sat down talking of things of importance. She peered out from inside the kitchen and was struck at his sight. Her heart started beating rapidly and it was only after a moment that she could get some control over her trembling hands and began to prepare tea. She had gone blank and while her hands mechanically prepared tea, she let herself be consumed in dreams and wild thoughts. Once the tea was ready, she poured it out in two cups, put them on a tray and covering her head with her saree brought it out to them. She walked slowly and shook from head to toe. She extended the tray to her guest and smiled shyly. He looked up at her and smiled and she blushed. Her hands trembled and as she handed Shantaram his cup, some tea spilled over him. He cursed loudly. "You mindless daughter of a..." but his words were drowned out. She did not hear Shantaram. Her eyes locked briefly with her guest's and he gave her another smile. She covered her face with her saree and ran to the kitchen.

She sat dreaming impossible dreams and she quivered in wonder and in delight and was afraid. Then she heard her guest leaving and Shantaram escorting him downstairs. She dashed out of the kitchen and stood in the landing so that she could see him one more time. As if by a secret cue, while climbing down, he turned and looked at the exact spot where she was and for a brief one second their eyes locked again. Her heart almost stopped and she ran away to her bedroom and lay down. She pressed her burning face against the pillow and hoped to quell the thudding of her heart. He would be back soon, angry over the spilled tea and would surely beat her up, but she didn't think about that.

As she lay there, she giggled and smiled and laughed to herself. And she tried, but failed, to stop the wild racing of her heart or to quench the burning sensation of her face and at that moment the world ceased to exist. For all she saw was him looking back at her, his smile and her own little bundle of emotions that rose like a storm in her little heart.

- Parekh, Pravesh

04:15 AM, 13^th December, 2012