New Beginnings

Tick - Euphoria

The buzzer of the oven beeped insistently through the otherwise still air of the cozy and homely kitchen, snapping Rhea out of her pleasant reverie. Tearing her eyes away from the dewy mountains surrounding her townhouse in Mussoorie, she hurried to open the glass door of the oven and was immediately greeted with a rush of heat and the heavenly aroma of baked goodies. After ensuring the proper placement of the multicolored cupcakes on the kitchen counter to cool down, she grabbed a bottle of merlot and sat with a grateful sigh at the dinner table. The rich teak wood table which sat grandly in the veranda against the backdrop of the lush Himalayan foothills had been set up for two and was laden with plentiful servings of pasta, breads and salads. It was way more than what the people it was meant for could eat but Rhea liked to indulge on a few special days; and today was nothing, if not a special day. Looking around, she understood why her hometown was called the ‘Queen of the Hills’, the cottage tucked away into the lap of nature felt like a slice of heaven drifted down to earth.

Throwing an eye-crinkling smile to the other end of the table, she helped herself to a generous amount of everything. The minute she took her first bite, Anant’s excited voice filled her head, chattering about the cultural significance of their dinner and the far and wide places and ages the simple pasta recipe that travelled through to reach their kitchen. Rhea let the flow of his voice carry her out to the distant land of ancient Sicily, the traders from the Orient along the silk route and the noisy bazaars of Arabia.

As much as she admired Anant’s passion for his craft as a chef, Rhea’s reason for liking pasta was much different – it was the first dish she had tasted, prepared by the nervous, dark-haired boy in her Home Ed class in college. The tangy richness of the tomato mixed with the subtle undertones of the spices and herbs had made her fall in love first with the food and years later, with its preparer.

Tock - Nostalgia

The echoing chime of the ancient wall clock which was a wedding gift from Anant’s parents (to signify that the young couple had all the time in the world) soon replaced the lively chatter of her husband. Hastily shoving down the remnants of her plate, Rhea picked it up to return it to the sink. Being so engrossed in his ramblings, her husband’s plate had remained untouched.

She walked back into the kitchen, now completely entrenched in the fragrance of melted chocolate and set her sights on the fluffy cupcakes. Grabbing a piping bag from the refrigerator, she gently iced the tops with classic whipped cream just like she had seen Anant do countless times. As she delicately guided the cream in careful strokes to create gorgeous floral patterns, she felt the ghost of her husband’s arms encircling her; not quite touching, just hovering there like a steady and loving presence. Usually, the calming repetitive activity would allow her brain to drift off to the past, her fondest memories playing in her mind like a cherished film of old and today was no different.

She reminisced of how she had met Anant back in college in Delhi, and how she had found him so annoying with his peppy ‘live to eat’ attitude in Home Ed. Indeed, even he wasn’t very fond of her ‘eat to live’ outlook, especially seeing that it was a culinary class (Rhea had done it for the extra credit after all). It felt a lifetime ago when the two teens had put their differences aside as they realized that they weren’t much different; one had chosen spices and chopping boards while the other, tunes and melodies, but they both created art.

The two dozen or so cupcakes were iced and Rhea sprinkled five

chocolate chips on each to signify each of the years she had spent with her husband. Five years since they had tied the knot, five years of blissful togetherness. Meticulously, she wrapped up each treat and placed them into a basket and carried it out her front door, ignoring the upturned sofa in the sitting room behind her.

Tick – Melancholy

Rhea rang the Institute doorbell and could hear it reverberating inside the medieval-looking structure of the Orphanage of Mussoorie, a place she had once called home. The aged matron answered and instantly brightened on seeing her. Opening the door, she led Rhea into the richly furnished foyer. Contrary to popular belief created by the media, the Mussoorie orphanage was not a complete hellhole. Rhea’s grandmother had erected the grand building with her hefty inheritance wealth after her son and his husband had passed away in a car accident, leaving their 2-year-old orphaned. Her Nani had been a formidable woman who had strived hard to ensure that the orphans never grew up without love and always had a home to return to.

They passed Nani’s portrait which hung on the brick wall watching over the kids with a stern but loving eye from beyond the grave. The current housekeeper was chattering about the upkeep of the sprawling mansion, how Rhea should not have come so late in the night and the children and how much they had missed her in the past months. Both of them entered the toasty sitting room and Rhea placed her basket on the glass teapoy at the center. The matron peered at the covered sweets and understanding flashed through her eyes as she immediately wrapped Rhea in a warm mama bear hug.

“I forgot it was today, I am sorry,” she mumbled.

When Rhea’s only response was a little hum and a resolution not to make eye contact, she let her go with a sigh and continued to resolutely talk about the kids and the happenings of the Orphanage in a quiet voice; knowing that despite the many years since Rhea had moved out, she still cared deeply for the children.

Rhea was thankful for the distraction and the housekeeper’s tact and let her steady voice wash over her as she let her gaze wander across the room, over the plush couch and half a dozen armchairs scattered across the room to the single grand piano which sat against the curtained window. The signs that the building was inhabited by children was all over the place; the mantelpiece was dotted with ornate frames containing the smiling faces of the children who soundly slept upstairs and the opposite wall was cluttered with memorabilia, courtesy of the orphanage’s past residents. From the crayon drawings to the stuffed animals, the room practically screamed with childhood innocence.

Suddenly being back there felt overwhelming and suffocating. She could feel the walls squeezing in as hot tears pressed against her eyes and her head spun. She certainly hadn’t expected everything to go to shit so soon. The matron immediately felt the shift in Rhea and was about to leap at her when Rhea quickly gasped out for water to get the lady out of the room. She knew that the kitchen was on the other side of the institute and that it would take at least seven minutes for the trip and back.

She focused on the click-clack of the matron’s retreating footsteps

as she tried to control her breathing in the way her yoga instructor had taught her.

‘Breathe in, breathe out, in and out in a steady rhythm’

The ticking of her watch seemed to echo in the now quiet room and comforted her. Wrenching her eyes away from the mantelpiece covered with bubbly smiles she walked to the beautiful piano tucked away in the corner.

Children; apparently that was still a trigger. She had hoped that in the nearly five months that she had kept away, it would fade away, but apparently not. It wasn’t quite a panic attack, more like bursts of extreme emotion triggered by strong memories.

Her fingers softly danced across the pure white keys, touching but making no sound. In her head, she played a tune; she hummed under her breath; she quietly belted out a song. In her head, she sang of children, of being named Rhea - the Titan mother of the Gods in Greek Mythology, but mostly she sang of the three souls she had lost before they could have seen the world, she sang of the joy and the pain of her motherhood, an agony she knew Anant shared with her but couldn’t completely comprehend the extent of it.

Rhea couldn’t find it in herself to sing out the words or to play the notes, music had left her heart long ago. It was a distant memory now, deep in the catacombs of her mind, but that was enough for her. Music, which was once her entire life, was now but a single thread in the large tapestry of all she had lost.

Wiping away the tears which streaked her cheekbones, she turned on her heel and showed herself out the door, without a goodbye. Today was enough; maybe she would be back in the future.

Tick Tock Tick – Hope

Rhea swung open her front door and said aloud in a singsong voice,

“I am home.” As usual, there was no response, as she made her way to her drawing-room and stopped short. It was a mess; the sofa was upturned and the curtains were torn. It looked like a rabid animal had been let loose but it was better than last month when multiple liquor bottles were smashed against the windows, their contents dripping on the walls. Yes, an upturned sofa was incredible progress for her rages.

She slowly cleaned up the disaster zone and tried to remember the previous evening, when she had wreaked this havoc. It wasn’t a pretty episode; the dark nights had become too much for her grief and it was the first anniversary she would spend alone. Anant was gone, he had been gone for four months now, four months since the cancer claimed him as its own, but Rhea could swear that she could still feel her husband around the house; in the shadows of the garden and the light of the rooms. Maybe they were memories, maybe they were something more.

She settled down on the now upright sofa and grabbed the photo frame atop the side table. Her past self gazed back at her, arm looped around Anant’s, both of them decked top to bottom in traditional Indian wedding wear, laughing at the camera, as he held up the clock his parents had gifted. Rhea wished that she could turn back that clock, tell the young couple to not take time for granted because they would soon run out of it. Her hands brushed over Anant’s smile, the bright grin which had lit up her entire world and had not faded until the very end, even when he lay covered in tubes on an alien, hospital bed, hand gripping hers until it stiffened for the last time.

The buzzer of a timer, the chime of a clock and the ticks of a watch; Rhea had been acutely aware of every little thing which signified that time passed since the death of her love. She had lost her mind over time, obsessing about its transience and her own mortality. Anant – his name meant something which didn’t have an end, forever, eternal. What had once been a race against time, now, felt like the beginning of a new age. She lightly placed her hand over the slight bump of her stomach and felt the ticking of her baby’s heartbeat.  

Tick Tock Tick Tock.

She could feel it this time; the hope that it was a new beginning for both of them. One hand clutching the frame and the other cradling her bump, she looked up to see Anant’s warm smile gazing down at her.