Sirop de Vanille

The sunlight sneaked in through the jute blinds, casting soft, lazy patterns on her face. A face which had braved many suns and slept through many nights. A face lined with laughter and tears and a good amount of worry. Her silver grey hair was tied in a neat knot and she was leaning in a chair far too enormous for her. She looked at me with eyes fading from age, dark eyes turning blue; eyes so full of life and so honest, I had to look away.

She smiled a beautiful smile, pushing away years of pain. I didn’t talk much when I was around her, I liked looking at her, listening to her, just sinking in the enormous chair and letting her smile wash over me. Today, she was in the mood to reminisce. Today, was the anniversary of her marriage. She took the cup of tea I offered and took a tiny sip. She looked at me and smiled again, her eyes glistening with un-shed tears. I looked away and waited. I heard her sigh and take another sip of the tea. I exhaled without realising.

“Did you know I was seventeen when my mother told me about my to-be-husband? It was a rainy day and I felt that the news was… hmmm… unwelcome. I wasn’t happy, there was nothing special about the day and Maa, she looked tired. She looked relieved and tired. I felt disappointed.”

“Disappointed?”

“Ah, well… I had read enough stories and enough history to know, no, to understand what was in store for me and what wasn’t. But I was a hopeless young fool, now, now, don’t raise that eyebrow at me.”

“Sorry, I didn’t realise…”

“So, I had hoped for someone who would love me and write for me, I had wished for someone beautiful, a partner. Someone who wouldn’t find my ability to read English, Hindi, Urdu and Gurmukhi a waste. I wanted someone who wouldn’t care that I enjoyed baking more than making rotis, who would tell me stories, write me stories. I love stories, and once upon a time I loved them as much as you do.”

“But he liked stories, he was even published…”

“Shh… let me continue.” She tugged at my ear and winked. I smiled back and put my finger on my lips in mock seriousness. “I wanted to be special, to have a life different from that of my sisters and mother. I wanted to read and continue reading, I wanted to learn more… I wanted to love, sing, laugh and even be allowed to dance.”

“Allowed?”

“It was different then, we weren’t even free in our own country, and women… well, as I said, it was different then. We have a long way to go… But you can choose. You have the freedom to make your own choices, your own mistakes, learn your own lessons. So, as I was saying, they told me about my husband-to-be. He was thirty-two. Shh… no interruptions!”

I stared at her, the words dying on the tip of my tongue.

“He was a business man, he was rich, had a huge haveli and was my father’s friend’s younger brother. It was a suitable match. I was to be happy, I was to take care of his house, supervise a small army of house-help and what not. Understandably, I was terribly upset. So, I sulked in my room and didn’t do anything but read my ‘useless’ books. After about a week of being left alone, I was finally tricked into leaving my room by my brother. He was home from the University. Yes, Lahore University. He was home with a friend and they were being pampered by the entire family. He tricked me with books…” she giggled like she was seventeen again and continued, “he left a trail of books and many clues, the grand prize was a copy of Jane Austen’s Emma! I ran out of my room and followed the books, solved clues, some were silly and some, tough. I had to recite the appropriate Kabir’s doha to my Grandmother and only then would she give me the next clue, which led me to the kitchen. There I had to finish an entire meal before my mother told me softly to look up the forbidden page number 1024 in the study. Oh! Milton would’ve been proud of me! Yes, he was a funny one, my brother… but he got half these ideas from that friend of his. His beautiful, mild-mannered friend, who wrote poems and stories in his black notebook. Well, we had not really seen each other but I had caught glimpses of him from behind the blinds that separated the guests from the women of the house…”

“So, you were in the same house and you didn’t even see each other? How is that possible?”

“Well, it was a big house, with separate rooms for guests, and curtains behind which we were confined. I was engaged, after all, I was to keep to myself… he had seen me walk from a room to another, he had seen me through the lattice, through the purdahs and curtains… but we had never really seen each other… Until that exceptionally hot afternoon; my mother was feeling faint and had asked me to prepare Khus sherbet for everyone. I offered some to my brother and him, that was the day he saw my feet. That night he wrote me a letter, it was a beautiful letter. He talked of my voice, which reminded him of silver, strong and beautiful. He wrote about my exquisite feet,” she looked at her tiny, beautifully arched feet and sighed, “he wrote, well, let me try and translate, hmmm… yes, ‘your slight frame, proud chin and all-seeing eyes could not be hidden behind a flimsy curtain. Your unafraid feet daring to break free of confines have captured my thoughts. I will speak to your brother and confess my love for you, if you will have me. Yours.’”

We fell silent, I stared at her beautiful feet and she closed her eyes. I could hear her breathing, I heard her sigh and shift in her chair. She put her soft hand on my wild unruly hair and cleared her throat.

“You must understand, I never wished to hurt my parents or my brother. I never wished any harm to the business man either. I was young and in love. That night, I read and re-read that letter in candle light. I left my room twice, only to return halfway. I finally gathered the courage to write ‘Yes’ on a piece of paper, I folded the thin sheet 6 times! My lucky number… to be young is quite something, sweetheart, you should enjoy it while it lasts.”

“I do!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, yes, with those cigarettes and that American whiskey. Must be fun”

Sometimes, its best to keep quiet and stare at your own feet, and hope they were prettier. Sometimes, you may utter a tiny whisper to change the topic, “Did you elope?”

“Next morning, my mother asked me to take some breakfast to my brother. I tiptoed into my brother’s room and put the heavy plate on the study table my brother had overloaded with books. I tiptoed to the bed and slipped the folded sheet of paper into his hand, he instinctively closed his hand on my anonymous note. I ran as fast as I could to my room and didn’t step out till my brother came to see me.”

“Behna, he had said, in his clear deep voice. I didn’t have the courage to look him in the eye and stared at the floor. His voice, kinder somehow, announced, he’s a poet, a writer. Poets don’t earn. Businessmen do. Even babus do. He is a dreamer, dreams won’t feed you or keep you warm. I kept quiet, but I couldn’t control my ridiculous, weak tears. He stood there, tall and wise. My elder brother. He had taken care of me since our father had passed. He had paid his teachers extra to teach me on the sly. He had given me books, convinced my mother to let me read them. He had taught me how to dream and now, now he was delivering a lecture against dreams and happiness, my happiness. I couldn’t utter a single word. I sat there in shock and confusion. After what seemed like a very long time, my brother cleared his throat and asked, if he gives up his poetry, his writing to take care of you, will you be happy? I shook my head. Ah! But he’s adamant. He has already procured a salaried position, he claims, he can write in his free time. I jumped up and hugged him, he laughed and asked me to stay out of line of fire, while he dealt with Maa.”

“Yes, it was quite a day. My mother stopped talking to me and the business man’s family severed all relations with us. Your Nana and I decided to have a small wedding ceremony once things got better.”

“Your mother didn’t talk to you?”

“Well, not forever! She knew I wouldn’t stop trying and she realised he wouldn’t either! She had to accept or else I would have stayed home even after my nineteenth birthday”

“You waited for two years!”

“Yes, it wasn’t that long… oh! even the business man convinced his family that all was well. He claimed I was too bookish and boring for him!”, she laughed happily and tried to tame my wild hair.

“Naani, your life is like a fairytale!”

“Not all of it… he never wrote me a story.

But certain moments, some memories make it seem like one. Oh! Don’t you worry, my little one, yours will be too. You simply have to wait for the right time…”

And I wait.