Missing Memories
Tired of tapping on the keyboard, I took a break and made my way to wards the pantry. My colleague (and girlfriend), Neeti, was making herself some coffee and offered to make some for me as well. I happily accepted and she poured me a cup with just the right amount of sugar. I took a sip and gave her an appreciative nod — she knew exactly how I liked my coffee. We leaned on the wall and began chit chatting. Suddenly, the piece of wall behind her disappered and she fell from 8th floor. I flailed my arms in an attempt to grab her but was too late. At this point, I woke up. I was covered in sweat, panting heavily and my heart must have been doing 180.
I have been having this nightmare since I was child and it was always ended the same way — someone falling. I know that it is common to dream about falling and then wake up with a jolt, but with me, it is always someone else falling, never me.
I looked at my phone to see the time — 5.30. “No point in going back to sleep for 30 mins”, I thought, and decided to go for a run. I cheked my notifications as I dressed and saw a host of new messages in the society group, under yesterday’s announcement: “Please welcome Ms. Vaidehi Aatrey to our society. She has moved in to Flat no. 502 with her son, Kush”. Since then, the group had been inundated with replies from enthusiastic middle aged men, showing off their welcome sticker collection. Since I am neither enthusiastic, nor remotely middle aged, I had chosen to not participate in this Wrestle-mania. However, it had piqued my interest as the names sounded familiar but I could not place them.
During the run, I came across a woman whom I had not seen before. Dressed in a black track suit, she had a slender physique and walked briskly. As I got closer, I noticed she had clear, smooth skin and sharp features, which probably stopped ageing after she hit 35. It was only her greying hair that belied her age. We crossed each other and gave a short nod of acknowledgement, seasoned with a polite half smile.
And just like that, a rush of memories flooded in. I knew who she was. She was Vaidu Aunty, our neighbour in my old home and mother’s friend. My mother had been complaining about being lonely ever since we moved cities and learning that her close friend had moved in was bound to cheer her up. Too excited to wait, I abandoned the run and cantered back home. Barely able to breathe, I told her about Vaidu Aunty in pants. But, instead of the the joy I expected, her eyes filled with sadness. “It was about time you found out”, she said. “What do you remember about her?” With a sigh, I slumped on the sofa and began rewinding my memories.
We lived in a small town with narrow roads and narrower minds. On Sundays, the adults watched Mahabharat leaving their children unsupervised who hijacked the road to play cricket. Everyone knew everything about everyone else and nobody could escape some light bitching. If anyone was private enough to hide their flaws or problems, the more imaginative ones cooked up some.
Vaidu Aunty and Ram Uncle had moved in as tenants next door when I was five. They were newly married and starting a new life together. Ram Uncle was a decade or older than Vaidu Aunty and looked even older. Within a day, my mother her invited herself to their house for tea and found out as much about them as she possibly could. Words like privacy held little meaning back then.
Their friendship grew quickly and within a month, she had graduated to my mother’s younger sister and my Mausi. After uncle left for work, and until he returned, she practically lived at our home, even helping mother in her chores as if they were hers too. She was kind and joyful and I got along well with her. Uncle and Aunty were like chalk and cheese. He was always bitter and angry and barely spoke to anyone in the colony. We would only hear his voice through the thin walls, screaming at Aunty. Before long, I began noticing swellings on Aunty’s face and body too. I’ll leave out the details here but cutting a long story short, she was in an abusive marriage.
They only lived there for a year. One day, my mother woke me earlier than declared that in stead of school, I was going on vacation to my Nani’s house. I was surprised and very excited. I had a standard, fun-filled stay there but when I returned, they both were gone. All my happiness vanished in a moment on hearing the news that they have moved to another city. I cried my eyes out that day.
I narrated all of this to my mother. “You remember exactly what I had hoped you would”. She then filled in the missing pieces. She had kept in touch with Aunty for all these years and had asked her to come and live close by.
Aunty was in her final year when she and uncle had eloped and Aunty’s family had cut all ties with her. Uncle, unfortunately, did not turn out as she had expected and began throwing fits of anger. At first, the neighbours advised her to try harder at being the perfect wife to please him. But the more she tried, the worse things got. Over time, the target of projectile vases and utensils had changed from walls to her. But cut off from her family and financially insecure, she had nowhere to go. One night, we were preparing our cots to sleep on the terrace and we heard rising voices from theirs. Uncle was screaming his lungs out at Aunty and when he could not bear his anger anymore, pushed her violently. For once, the docile and calm Aunty, lost it and retorted by running at him and head-butting him right in the stomach with full force. He was standing close to the ledge and Aunty’s blow pushed him over.
Mother rushed to help but he was beyond saving. She then pulled Aunty aside to a room and instructed her to not utter a word. She had decided that uncle deserved it and she was going to save her sister. The two of us were the only witnesses and she was confident that she could keep a lie. But, I was only 5, freshly taught that lying is a sin and there was no way in hell that she could convince me to do so. So, she sent me away to avoid any interrogation. When I was back, she maintained the lie that they had moved away together and I bought it, after some bawling about missing my Mausi.
Meanwhile, Aunty moved to another city and found out she was expecting. She gave birth to a boy and named him Kush, perhaps out of some guilt. She managed to make ends meet for a while with the insurance money and some help from mother and other kind souls. But she knew that neither the money, nor the kindness would last forever. So, with a baby in lap, she went back to college and landed a degree as well as a job that could pay for their modest needs. Since then, she seems to have done well and climbed the ladder of corporate success.
The memory though, did not go away easily. I did mention my recollection of the night’s events a few times but she brushed them off as a growing boy’s very imagination and made me swear to not tell this to anyone else. The repressed memory turned into one recurring nightmare that has followed me into adulthood. I am not sure how I’d face Aunty again because Mother had known the reason behind the nightmares all along, but decided that a bit of mental trauma for me is not worth risking Aunty’s life and freedom.
