THE EVENING A PART OF ME DIED

THE EVENING A PART OF ME DIED

Author: V Pattabhi Ram 

Write a story that starts with someone writing their will — one they know people won't like.

Cast:Nisha Shora, Shloka Shora, and A M Chako

This story is set in Mumbai, India

The slim notepad sat in a far corner of the table, gathering dust for two months. On page 3, Nisha Shora had jotted in green ink, "NASA." Underneath in blue: "must travel to space." By the side was a picture of a smiling Kalpana Chawla, the astronaut. In another sheet, there's a scrawl, which reads, "Impossible says, 'I'm possible." Beneath it is a photograph of Stephen Hawking.  

From where she is sitting, Nisha stretches to lay her hand on the notepad, making sure she doesn't trip. It takes her some effort, but she manages. She is keen to scribble a few points.  Later, courts would consider those unsigned jottings as her last will. 

Shloka is Nisha's 44-year-old mother; the strapping lady could make a few jaws drop. In a chic blue cotton sari, her hair trimmed shoulder-length, she smiles, picks a Rs 10 Reynolds pen from another end of the table, and places it on her daughter's lap. Nisha's heart rate shoots up, and her jaw clenches as she stares at mom, willing the act burns her. Unsolicited help is the last thing the petite ponytailed girl wants.

"It's okay," says mom running her long fingers into her daughter's thick hair. The daughter, in star-patterned pajamas, slowly turns her neck, as much as her medical condition would allow, looks up, and beams. She pulls Shloka’s index finger and digs her teeth into it!  The anger is gone, but the hurt remains. 

XXX

Nisha is five-foot-three inches and believes in order and method. She rises each morning at six, has her breakfast of three idlis and one vada at 8:20, and drinks three-fourths of a liter of milk. She reads the day's newspaper for seven minutes, then dresses and gets ready to go -- not to work or school, but to another room in the house. 

An electronic wheelchair helps her stay mobile. 

"Five percent to Isha Miss," she makes out on a new page of the notepad. The writing resembles an autism-struck kid, but she isn’t autistic. A closer look makes the words appear legible. She draws a photo identikit, lest someone has trouble identifying who Isha is. The teacher taught English when Nisha was in class three and was the one kids rushed, to carry notebooks. Nisha takes a second look at "Five percent to Isha Miss," and grins. 

Shloka, she knows, would approve the idea, but not the amount!

A 30-something lady, A M Chako, walks in with medicine and water, but Nisha waves her away, "Later. Not now." Chako isn't a star caregiver for nothing. "No, dear, now is the time." So saying, she smiles and makes Nisha swallow the tablets. 

"I want the directory of mobile numbers." Madam raises her voice a bit, showing a sense of anxious hurry.  

"But dear, there is no official directory for mobile phones. Neither are reliable online directories available," Chako responds after googling.  In the one year she has been around, the nurse is aware Nisha makes strange requests. 

"Doesn't matter. Let me know with which number handheld sets start." 

"Usually seven, eight, or nine.  Nowadays, with Jio in, six as well." 

"So a 10-digit number with the second to 10th digit being any number from zero to nine, while the first is any of six, seven, eight, or nine?" 

"Yeah. Well put."  

"That would give 400 crore combinations, and there are already 114 crores used up!"

"Perfect math, Nisha. Who taught you permutations and combinations?" she teased.  

“That will do. Now, read out some 10-digit numbers at random starting with either 6, or 7, or 8, or 9."

"But why?" 

"Please do as I say." 

So, seven 10-digit numbers appeared across two sheets of paper on the notepad with nothing else written other than Total seven percent. “Seven strangers picked at random from a combination of numbers would receive 1 percent each of the Nisha’s estate,” the Executor later explained in court.  

The daughter knew mom would never approve this. 

XXX

As her eyes meet Chako’s, Nisha Shora realized how much the lady meant to her as a companion. She wondered how life could have been if only the incident hadn’t happened.  It runs over her mind for the nth time. 

The Thane-VT 18:05 Fast train had begun to slow down for the approaching station, Vikhroli. As she moves forward, someone squeezes Nisha’s small but tight bottom, and says, "Hey babe, get going." She springs around, and a stunning slap resonates across the train. No one knows what happened next, but Nisha found herself thrown out of the train. As she flew, her spine hit one of the steel pillars supporting the station's roof, and she went blank. 

No passenger helped her,” screamed the anchor. “Is humanity dead?” A noisy panel discussed how none of those present on the platform took her to the hospital. “Trains moved in and out of Vikhroli, like business as usual.”

At the Wockhardt Hospital, the best surgeons operated on her, but said she would have to live the rest of her life in a wheelchair. In private, doctors told Shloka her daughter had five years. At the court, where Shloka sought compensation from the Railways, Nisha refused to identify her attacker, saying, "I didn't see him.” Her body language suggested she was lying.  

The court ruled a compensation of Rs 7 crore, the highest medical settlement in history. The Railways deposited the money into Nisha's bank account within 15 days. Nisha is jolted to the present as she hears a knock on the door, and quickly puts the notepad away. 

Chako is there with the lunch tray. “OMG. Is it already 1 p.m.?” 

Lunch done, and now alone, Nisha sets aside Rs 1.4 crore to reduce the national debt!  

She knows Shloka would disapprove. “The government can always print money.”

On another page, Nisha Shora slowly puts out a landline number with the figure ‘four’ written in bracket. Later the executor would announce referred to four percent. The number is traced to Chako. 

XXX

"What are you writing, instead of reading Robin Sharma's new book?" Shloka had quietly moved into the room again. 

"Why should I tell you?" Her lips move ajar, to display her shining teeth. 

"Because I am your mother." So saying, mom tweaks her daughter’s small ear. 

"These are my most private thoughts. No one should have access to it." 

"Not even me?" 

"No. Okay, I change my mind. This is my will."

"What nonsense are you talking?" Shloka was livid. "You will live another 50 years." 

"You are cruel. Do you want me to go through this excruciating pain day after day, month after month?"

Mom knelt down, held daughter by her hands, and looked up in the eye. " You will come through. We share your pain and anguish." 

"No, Mamma. Everyone must pay for the wages of their sins." 

XXX

That evening Nisha wrote “Rajat Goswami,” and against it, the words Thane-VT 18:05 Fast Vikhroli. Leaving nothing to the imagination, she scribbled "Rs. 21 lacs. To be spent by him to get a better education."  If Shloka figured out the clue, she would contest, Nisha knew and wiped a teardrop from her eye.

Ten days later, Nisha Shora was gone. Forever. 

When the will was probated, one of the seven lucky mobile numbers belonged to corporate scion Britam Thapa. Thapa accepted the bequest saying, "Failure to do so will be an insult to the girl’s sentiment.”  

The last words in Nisha Shora’s notepad read, "Imma bounce."Her generation's way of telling, "I am going to leave." 

XXX