The well wisher

 "Lambe ghane kale baal.... Amla Hair oil ka kamal..."

Kussum switched off the television. Such advertisements held no hope to her dwindling hairline. The sparse populous was getting thinner, thanks to the heartless chemotherapy drugs. Heartless was the creator, who had banged this fate on her whilst she was at the peak of her singing career. How could she make public appearances with that bald head and baggy eyes. Though the mellifluous voice had still not betrayed her, the sun shone less on her will to move out. Gloom enveloped her like a never settling dark cloud. The silver lining just didn't seem to outline her life. 

Ting tong.... 

Who was breaching her brooding reverie?

Reluctantly, she got up from the sofa, tied a scarf around her exposed agony and headed to the door.

No one at the door!!! What fun people gained by poking a deflated balloon? The cool air outside did nothing to uplift her spirits. Bogged down as she was about to shut the door on the invisible intruder, a bright yellow envelope caught her attention. For a moment, she thought of ignoring the sunshine thinking it to be a mischief by some urchin, calling her 'taklu aunty', but better senses prevailed and she finally picked the envelope. 

It smelt good. Definitely worth opening she thought. 

Dear Kussum,

         The crab is pinching you by the pinchers. You seemed to have made peace with your turmoil. I understand the worst has befallen on you. But I can only understand or maybe hope for a cloudless day for you. 

Like the periwinkle in full bloom, like your name in abundance, come out of the abyss of grief. Break the shackles of despair and emerge to embrace your fate. Go about singing the melody of love. Who knows the mantle might break and the crab would leave for better shores?

Your empathetic,

Well wisher.

The tightening grip around her heart seemed to loosen. Somewhere a root of hair tried to push out the scarred scalp. Her lips curved like the arch of a rainbow. After ages, Kussum found herself smiling. Who wrote the letter overpowered what was written. The handwriting though crooked, the intention was straight and clear.It was her silver lining. 

* * * * * 

Shantanu tried hard to remember what he had eaten for breakfast. Only the growling stomach told him, he hadn't eaten his breakfast at all. Like a toddler, a sixty year old man cried helplessly burying his head in the threadbare dirty pillow. Once a man of steel grit and determination, today survived on shreds of his tattered memory. Alzeheimer's was tearing him apart. The runner in him had to now run away from the harsh reality of life.

On occasions, to beat the blues, Shantanu sped off on a run only to wander on lost tracks. Few good acquaintances would bring him to the address he called home. Dependency crippled his desire to move about and now he had eternally locked himself in his cubbyhole. 

"Sahab, there is a letter for you." Once the society watchman had informed him. For days, the envelope lay on the dust laden table waiting for moths to inflict it. Thanks to dementia, Shantanu had blissfully forgotten to open it. Considering it some notice, one day he finally opened the bright yellow envelope.

Dear Shantanu,

         The spider seems to be weaving a web with your memories. The entanglements have trapped you.  Why fear losing yourself in the crowd? Tell me how many of us have actually found our real selves.

        We all live fake lives and display plastic smiles. Is there a soul who in the mirror can identify his real self? By God's grace, you are blessed to start everyday on a clean slate. No guilt of yesterday. No worries of tomorrow. No baggage of past.  No apprehension of future. Whatever it is, it is of today. 

        Live in the present. Run to your heart's fill. So what if you never return. Another world waits your discovery. Run. Who knows someday your memory catchs up with you?

Your confident,

Well wisher.

The words at places were incomprehensible but made total sense. Could be a friend, he had forgotten. Shantanu didn't even try to recollect and strain his stressed memory. Folding the letter, he rushed to his cupboard for the track pants, lest he forgets this too. He was prepared to run amok.

* * * * * *

The ball bounced back from the rigid wall. Arnav this time too failed to catch it. How was he to face the tall, rowdy batsman on field tomorrow? Cricket wasn't his passion. But Daddy dear told him that dancing wasn't for boys. Real men played cricket, drank whiskey and possessed an indomitable spirit. The lanky lad tried his best to please his real father. But all in vain. How he wished he could enthrall an audience in the auditorium instead of a pitch. How he wished the dance strokes would cheer his father than the bat ones. Alas! But he could only wish and not turn it into fulfillment. 

For the nth time again, today he was practicing his catches. On Daddy dearest's influence, he was selected for a tournament tomorrow. His father's stern stance told him, he had to win it and not only play. This time he couldn't break his trust.

"Arnav Baba, aap ke liye ek parcel aaya hai." The maid handed him a box and left. Maybe Daddy was trying to cheer him up. Carefully, he unboxed the surprise. Shaimak Daver's DVD caught his fancy. Wow!! Something he always wanted to possess. Was this a dream? He pinched himself. Ouch!! It hurt. 

What amused him more was a piece of bright yellow paper interspersed between the cds. A note, he thought. 

Dear Arnav,

        Maggots are growing on your rotten desires. Life is a match where you play every over carefully. You plan your own defense. You create your own fielding. Without fiddling with your insecurities, you bat out your choices.

        This is the time to be vocal of your choices. Dance to your heart's tune. Perform for your desires. Be your own audience and watch yourself applauding the dancer in you. I am not trying to instigate you against Daddy dearest but only trying to show you a path which you will never regret.

        Talk it. Prove it. Only if need arises, rebel for it. Who knows this time the ball would be in your court?

Yours mischievous, 

Well wisher.

Reflexively, the ball that hit the wall now landed in his inattentive palm. The scribbled letters broke at places. The words bore the burnt of the writer's quivering hands.Maybe Arnav knew who was writing this letter. But he would confront the well wisher only when he had fulfilled his own wishes. This match had to be played.

To lose. 

The loss would win him an argument to dance.

* * * * * *

Jeevan's hands trembled while writing. Thoughts came to him at lightning speed but his hand shivered at the thought of writing. His handwriting was like ants walking with pods dipped in ink. Parkinson's disease had shaken the general physician out of him. Being a family physician for years, addressing people's concerns came easily to him. Today in his twilight years he couldn't fulfill the Hippocrates's Oath. But how he not stand true to his nature of being humane to another distressed human?

The doctor's gibberish handwriting on bright yellow envelopes, anonymously continued to prescribe for his patients.