Anonymity

It had been two days, two long days, and now she had to go back, she couldn’t afford any more grief, already over the last evening, compensating for the last two days of staying away had cost her more sleep than her son’s death.

Two days ago, at the corner, just outside the entry to their alley way, at the dingy built over, and drippy end of which was the entrance to their small 5 storey building with its 36 rooms, each room a flat, and some flats were shared, shared by more than one family. They were the lucky ones, though, they could actually afford the rent of  half a flat all by themselves, and so her 5 sons… no 4 sons now, had enough space growing up, to stretch their legs in, and even toss when they sleeps. Luxuries that made their friends envious. And which had earned her the reputation of being a waster, after all, with that much more money, she could have afforded her husband’s alcoholism, instead of thrusting him out onto the street, poor man! What a woman!

Well, she was okay with all that, she thought, that somehow the extra 12 square feet of space, and not getting the smoke from the wood stove she cooked on, in their eyes, would contribute in getting her five sons, (at that time) out the life they had been born to. That had changed, recently, and quite drastically.

Two days ago, she had been on the same curb outside their alleyway, waiting for a bus to come, which would take her to work, when Anish, the youngest of her 5 had come charging down the alley, “ma ma,” he was shouting. She had left the house in a hurry, it was getting late, and she would miss her bus. She had also forgotten something obviously, she realized as he rocketed down the alley towards her. He was carrying her lunch in his hand, the plastic bag bouncing all over, threatening to tear.

“Slow down,” she called to him, concerned at that point more about the tiffin, and him slipping, “Slow down, It’s okay, come walking.” The curb was wet that morning, and he really might slip.

“Ma, you left your tiffin.”

“Yes, I know, now slow down before you slip and walk over here, or I’ll come over there with my slipper.”

That seemed to work, he slowed down. The she saw her bus turn around the corner at the end of the street, “Okay now come on, come fast, my bus is almost here.”

He responded, as you may expect, by beginning to sprint. By now, there was just the road for him to cross, she was watching him, her arm out stretched to get the tiffin, when she heard the bus’s engine roar, and continue to grow in volume. The bus was running late. The driver really didn’t like that. And he was trying to make up time. The roar dulled for a second as he shifted up into second, and returned at a slightly higher pitch this time.

She wasn’t looking at the bus. Still waiting for Anish, watching him, as he jumped onto the street, hurrying to beat the bus, which to her still seemed far enough away, only the roar, that was meant to be far away still, was far too close at hand. Suddenly, panicked, she looked up, to see the bus barely 20 meters from the stop, and it was still roaring, the exhaust spewing black smoke, in a plume that stretched back to the end of the street. And its wide, tires were kicking up a volley of stones that were splashing back onto the road.

She lost sight of her son, but knew, by instinct where he would be, and it appeared the bus was also heading for the same space. She looked back, her gaze fractionally behind the bus, as it began to screech. Its wheels locked, it skidded across the lose gravel they called a street. She followed its blue monstrosity as it bore down on where Anish must have been standing. She hadn’t seen the actual impact, but when the sawing of the gravel stopped, the bus was right in front of her outstretched hand, as though in response to her flagging it down.

And Anish wasn’t there.

Everyone else reacted before she could and she had to fight to get to her son. When she did, there was nothing she could even think, let alone do. He lay there, his legs crumpled, his head bleeding, and his arms quivering. His skull had been smashed in, and his eyes and nose were bleeding. He wasn’t yet dead though, which made things worse, since there was an expectation of something possibly which could be done, yet there was nothing to do.

Ahilya, that was her name, beant down next to his brow, completely aware of the futility of what she was doing, and mopped some of blood away from his temple, using her pallu as a swab, and as she moved towards his lips to wipe the blood away, he died.

No one noticed, in fact, it was only as she withdrew her pallu, soaking in her sons blood, that she realized the quiver had gone from limbs, and when she put her finger before his nostrils, that he stopped breathing.

Still she sat there, doing nothing, merely aware, or trying to attain awareness of the fact that she had just witnessed the end of her son’s life. But there was no way she could realize that, or even comprehend it as a possible eventuality. This just wasn’t real, she knew. As she watched the scene from an aerial camera, right above the small circle of on lookers that had come to watch, or perhaps, giving them the benefit of the doubt, help. From her birds eye view she saw the pool of blood from her son’s head, spread, and the stain of moist dirt on the gravel change color, until finally the dirt under her legs was moist, and she felt the change on her calves.

This really was happening, she wasn’t watching some weird tamasha, she was in fact sitting next to the corpse of her son.

Just as the grief of it all could set in, a million other things began to happen. Murmurs began around her, confirming his death. Making her want to stand up and shout at the crowd that they were wrong, that he was fine, that he bled from his head like this all the time, that he’d be getting up soon, and they should all carry on.

Other murmurs began of how he would be tended too, since his father wasn’t going to be around.  And other aspects of reality, which kept the tidal wave of grief just beyond the dikes of her self control, as she wiped the blood away from his face, now without the gentleness of a mother, but merely mechanical efficiency. Once the face seemed clear of any traces of blood. She picked him up, but already his body was stiffening, it was harder than she expected.

She carried him holding him against her, in exactly the same way she did when she was carrying him back from the park, against his will, but this time was so different, and the difference was there in everything. The silence, the sensation of his unyielding body pressed against hers, the growing coldness as her son became a thing, and the smell of drying blood.

At home, once more things started going at a pace which would not allow her to think about what had happened, as always there was much to do.

Relatives started trickling in almost as soon as she got home, and the preparations for the cremation began, someone was sent to get the punditji, who was already on his way. Other people who were both needed, and not offered to help, some volunteering to be fire bearers for the boy, others offering to cover some part of the expense or provide for something, for the cremation, but all in all, most being completely superfluous to her.

Yet they kept her occupied, though she felt it rather pissing off that she had to make at least 12 cups of tea, on request for people from the building and around, as they came to offer condolence.

She used the mobile phone her mistress had given her to call her up, and told her what happened, and asked to be excused for a few days. Permission was granted, with a few parting words of sorrow, and a guarantee to provide anything that she might need over the next few days, even the car. Her mistress truly was generous, But Aliyah knew exactly how generous.

And even then, as she put down her phone, within hours of watching her son die, she started counting the bare minimum number of days she could have off, before the money she lost would affect the rest of her family. You got paid for exactly as much work you did. Fair is fair, after all.

‘hmm… at least 2 days,’ she surmised, looking around the house, her eyes unfocused, as though, she expected a solution to come spiraling down, through the air, which was uncommonly still. Someone had turned off the fan. ‘Are fans, disrespectful to the dead?’ she wondered as she wiped the sweat she was suddenly conscious of from her brow. She was standing in the kitchen, catching her breathe after the hectic morning she was having. She thought about all that was left to be done, and shuddered, it was a lot.

She heard a tapping. Was there someone new at the door? She couldn’t be bothered. She hoped they’d  go away, so she could rest a little, and think about her little boy. Or perhaps it was a good thing she wasn’t getting the time to?

She still didn’t seem to be aware of his death, there was no gaping whole in her being, she expected, she was still functioning as she should, as a responsible woman of the house, seeing that all her social and religious duties were being met, and her son’s death was just another such occasion when  there was stuff that had to be done. That it was son’s death didn’t register  yet. She hadn’t cried.

On the evening of the second day, the cremation somehow over, the last billows of smoke and final licks of flame dying, her son nothing more than cooling embers. She stood next to pyre, watching a grey cloud, she wistfully called her son, drift away from her, it’s shape already vague, it was soon lost against the vaster background of the rain clouds that were gathering. She stood there, for some, as it stretched on and on, watching the grey clouds, as they changed shape, and changed colour, and left.

Her other four sons were standing behind her, completely unsure of how deal with what happened. They understood death, they had seen so it often now, in their little building even, that no one really needed to tell  them what had happened. They even understood cruelty, so there was no explanation of God loving their younger brother more. This was just the way it was, and they, already content with that explanation, not expecting, not seeking betterment, not seeing injustice.

They were waiting for their mother, when the pundit brought them a small clay pot filled with what where, their brother’s ashes. He handed it to the eldest son. And with a doubtful look at their mother, walked away. Finally, slowly she turned, and started walking.

Once they were back home, she noticed her mobile had a missed call. She picked it up, and checked. He mistress had called her. It had been two days, yup, the outer most limit, that she thought she’d be given to grieve. Hmm, well she’d be back to work the next day.

A knock sounded on her door, no it was the neighbours, but her eyes not perked, listened in.

“hello,” said a voice, clearly not someone from around here, the accent was too crisp, or perhaps too clean. “We’re looking for someone,” a slight pause, “Yeah, some one was killed by a blue line?... yes? Okay, do you know who it was? … the next building? Are you sure? … cause we were told it was your house… no no … sorry, I’m not threatening you, no, I don’t want your son to die… I’m sorry auntyji, they told us, it was you, I’m not saying that… Aunty please… help…” and then the angry hollow voice of her next door lady, typical of habitual pan eaters rang in the hallway outside, “go away, you want my child to die? What the Fuck do you mean? Fuck off, get yourselves out of our building… someone’s died, some one, can we see? Can we take photographs, can we put it in the newspapers so that people can read about you… fuckers, and they’ll spell the names all wrong too, or change us to khans to make it more spicy. They don’t give a shit about us, no one does… get the fuck out,” She s creamed at a reporter perhaps, who’d already left.

Ahilya was grateful that her neighbor hadn’t told the reporter where the child had died, and then she wondered, whether the aunty even knew. Did she? They were next door neighbours, had been for years, but what did they know about each other? And what did it matter.

For the last few weeks the city had been set ablaze with reports of rash driving by blue line buses, everyone was concerned, everyone who had the free time was petitioning, planning to petition or at least talking about petitioning, as all responsible citizens should.

It was a result of corruption, with these MLAs owning buses.

God knows where they come from, who votes for them…

And its not just he poor who suffer, my uncle just recently had his car scratched and dented by a blue line… NO WAY, your new Honda? Yes… Oh fuck dude, I really like that car, can I get a ride?

Something needs to be done. Yeah, somebody should take these damn buses of the road

They’re a mobile mortuary… OOOOH good one!

 Let’s have a march… okay… Saturday? No ya, the finals, oh… yeah, how about Sunday then, I’ll be out of town, Monday, or then next Friday, are the only times I’m free… hmm.. okay lets, I’ll check my calendar and email you guys.

Yeah, man, this is shit, ek chai dena…

People were talking, and it mattered… a couple of demonstrations against blue line buses also started, and actually completed. They got good media coverage, and what more?

Anish’s death was at the fag end of the furor, in fact, only one reporter had been sent to cover the story, and that too, she was an intern, hired, because of pressure from the boss, (his neice) whom the editor found a chore finding work for. He really didn’t think there was anything left in the blue line business, specially not with Sehwag getting married soon, his mother’s preparation was far more important.

So she was sent out to find out about this most recent of blue line deaths, and she had knocked on the wrong door, and saved Ahilya a tone of trouble. She just left, and why not, she couldn’t believe people actually lived in that kind of stench, she would have to speak to her uncle about the kind of assignments she was getting.

No one cared anymore, this one too, like all those other fights for justice was worth only a couple of weeks of column space, and after that it was back to normal, cricket, and television, with a  sprinkling of crime. And now, well, it was over.

Ahilya was grateful, she didn’t have to deal with that, and have her grief sprayed across national tv, and possibly even the front pages of newpapers like all those other poor people. Her thoughts returned to what had to be done, as they always did. And there was literally nothing, left. Not in her, not in the world, not even her son. Her other boys were out playing, as they would be at this time. And, yes there was something to do again, she had to go call them in.

She wondered what they would be doing right now, so soon after the death. But she trusted in the resilience of youth to mend what ever hurt they were feeling, after all, she had more than she could handle just feeding them. And she had to get back to that, she thought as she descended the stairs to the alley. Hmm… work again tomorrow, was the only way. She couldn’t afford another day off.

She was standing at the same bus stop, and had a feeling of trepidation creeping up her spine. Nervously she kept checking the alley way, and reminding herself that no one would come running down the slippery alley to meet her, she had her tiffin, she had everythings he could need for work, and her boys were in school. Still she couldn’t shake the feeling of dejavou. The feeling only increased as she realized the bus was late, just as it had been that day. But the realization also brought on another feeling, ‘The mistress wont like me being late on my first day back…’ she thought, damn these bus drivers she thought.

Just then she heard the screech of wheels and a grate of gravel, as the blue bus came careening around the corner. Was it the same man she wondered, the bus looked similar to her, but then they all did. But could this be the same man? She craned her neck trying to get a glipse through his windscreen, but the sun’s glint kept him hidden. Finally the bus stopped, once more level with hand, that she was holding up to shield her eyes from the sun.

Hurriedly she put them down, and crossed over to the other side and into the bus. With a jolt that almost through her against the door, it started off again. She bought her ticket and stood in the centre aisle, waiting for her stop, and trying not to notice the men who were ogling her, which was really weird, given that she wasn’t even attractive, what are they looking at she wondered, looking at her completely covered body. ‘men!’

As her stop approached the bus lurched again. It was driving like this that took the life of her son, she thought. It was probably this same man, She looked towards the drivers seat trying to see through the curtain of human bodies shielding him. It was this man, suddenly conviction came to her. She was sure, the bus was the same one, it had to be.

She wanted to see the face of the man who had killed her son, as if in being able to recognize him, and accost him, perhaps, she would find peace. Determined to be able to recognize who had killed him, she moved forwards purposefully towards the driver.

“hey, madam,” said someone, “Watch it. They’re people standing here, its our stop next, stop pushing, wait a bit.”

“oh, oh yeah, oh, sorry.” She stuttered, coming out of her reverie. Hmm… she waited patiently, biding her time, determined to see his face, if it was the last thing she did. And so she moved forward, when it was time for her stop to be next, she moved forward, and stood in such a way that when she walked down to the door, she’d have ample time to turn around and look at him.

She imagined his cruel face, covered with pockmarks, from chicken pox, or perhaps a long scar form a knife fight… or even a burn bleached face, with skin stretched over his cheek, which made him look hollow. She was sure it was an ugly face, recognizable in any crowd for how dirty it would be.

Just as she became convinced of his description, the bus stopped and she moved to get down. On the last stem, she began to swivel her head to look back at him, and the man behind her pushed her forward, “Hey move na, what do you think you’re doing, we have work okay, work.”

And the bus moved off, and she was left there, standing at the bus stop. She looked around trying to spot the man who had pushed her. And then she turned towards the bus again, as it sped away, unconcerned by her. The man who had pushed was gone, already, so was the man who may have killed her son. And she hadn’t even been able to catch a glimpse of his face. He was just another anon* like the man who had pushed her was, like she was, and like her son had been… everyone, was just another anon, and it didn’t matter.

* anon as in anonymous