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| (Photo courtesy: Priyanka Singh; Model: Datri Sodha) |
Nandini sat folding, unfolding, refolding the little piece
of slightly yellowed, rectangular paper. Her trembling hands trying to get each
fold right and equidistant. Matching the corners and edges each time. It was
important that the folds be just right. She was an architect. She liked
symmetry. She needed symmetry. Things had
to fall into place.
Behind her, the clock tick-tocked on the wall. The once
bright yellow wall paint now cracked and coming off around the ceiling and the
corner to the left of the clock. Nandini didn’t like to look at that wall, even
though the large window on it looked out into the society’s beautiful park. The
visage was always colourful. The society’s caretaker was fond of flowers and
had strategically planted the trees and shrubs, so that there would be blooms
of different hues all through the year. Nandini didn’t notice the white jasmines,
pink, white, blue and purple lilies, and the bright orange marigolds that lined
the boundary, the bright yellow of the amaltas trees breaking the otherwise
green lush. She sat with her back towards the vibrant summer palette. Her ears
shut to the chirping of birds and children alike.
Even the time on the clock on that wall was perpetually
wrong. She never looked at the clock either; it was just there. She never quite
figured out why she never got rid of it, she thought, as her fingers worked that
piece of official paper. First fold. Tick. Second fold. Tock. Third fold. Tick.
Hard-press the crease. Tock. A small little square. As tiny as the plastic hand
of the baby doll kept atop the cupboard across the floor from where she was
sitting. Raghav had bought her the doll seven years back—their first week
anniversary. Nandini had LOVED it. It was so lifelike—bald head, crinkled,
chubby hands and feet, wide, dreamy eyes, a cooing mouth. She had tended to it
as if it were her own. Now only Raghav looked after it. That was pretty much
the story of every little thing in the house that they had lovingly built
together.
They loved kids. Unfold one. They’d tried for their own for many
years. Unfold two. The reports lay strewn around her. She was summer cleaning. Unfold
three. The doctor had said she could never become a mother. Some operation had
gone horribly wrong.
Raghav’s jacket lay crumpled on her lap, as she finally opened
the rectangular paper down to the last fold for the first time in seven years. A
single tear trickled down her cheek and on to the receipt from the abortion
clinic. He still had it. The date was a week—to the day—before their parents
had miraculously approved of their relationship. If only...
(Writer's Note: This was my first attempt at fiction. Feedback, criticism, suggestions are most welcome :-) Thanks for reading!)
