The Game

Medicines. Monthly groceries. Electricity bill. Phone bill (this will go). Room rent (this may soon go too). I have been digging into my old files to check if I have any resources left. There were many, in the past. Between the untouched pages of an old dictionary that once belonged to Prithvi, amidst the shiny sheets of movie magazines I kept for collage work, in the deep folds of my favourite novels – a tenner here, a twenty there. No less, no more. I knew the pure thrill of finding these little treasures when I wanted them the most, not knowing when and where they turn up. It was a game I picked from Prithvi. He always hid little notes for me to find while browsing through his things, although, he hated it that I went through them at all. That was him – hating me and yet…

The door bell is ringing; I guess it has to be Lala: the ugly hippopotamus of a man, my landlord. I don’t know what I am going to say this time. I keep still, hoping he will go away. He does, after swearing at his loudest; I can imagine my neighbours smaning.

My search does not go waste; I manage to gather a few bucks just enough for the day. I get out as quietly as possible yet, I see the neighbours peeking through the windows – life’s little prisoners with their own secrets.

A half an hour of bus ride to the mall is what I get to think about life and other important matters. The cancer was definitely a bolt out of the blue. In his entire life, Prithvi had never touched alcohol or cigarettes. It broke him and our dream of a family. A full-fledged treatment may not be a fitting reply, but that’s the least I can do for Prithvi.

While peering through the dusty window, I remember the half a litre of petrol in the bottle, at home. I have been thinking how best to use it – on me. All these days, I ignored it and it has been sitting there quietly like a leftover cheese, growing more virulent in the corner.

Another completely tiring day at the mall. The same old rusted smile and stale dialogues: ‘please try this on ma’am, it suits you very well, that one? sorry… we don’t have your size. New stocks? probably by next week’. The psycho manager is forever riding high on sarcasm, vying to get into my skin. How long can I hold on? Where else can I go? It is one more week to go for the salary and I am yet to figure out how to survive those seven days.

It is eight thirty, I hope I have not missed the last bus. Night rides scare me – the wolves come out once the moon shines. I get a seat next to a small girl. I see her mother sitting two rows ahead, turning her head often to check on her daughter. The girl is singing something, sitting pretty and looking happy. Pink shoes, peach dress and a tiny bow on the shining hair. She holds a huge plastic flower – a pink sunflower. She looks at me occasionally; I have no desire to be friendly. We pass the neon lit bar signs, hotels with their shutters pulled halfway down and huge billboards. I can see her eager face trying to catch my eye.

“I hate you all stupid children” I silently shout.
“You know what? This is a special flower.” Those bright, button like eyes, inviting me to be part of the world’s biggest secret.
I can be cruel too. I simply stare ahead.
“It is a special flower because God gave it to me,” she persists.
I look at her blankly. What is wrong with this kid?
“We played this in Sheela aunty’s house; every one gets a chance. Whoever gets this flower should give to the other. If you give it away, you become the God and grow powerful.”
I pretend not to hear anything. I have no time to be nice.
The bus is slowing down, I can hear her mother calling out: they will be getting down now, thank God. The girl moves, clumsy with her plastic flower while trying to get a grip. She turns towards me and gives me the flower. I shake my head – I don’t need it.
“Please take it.” I feel very awkward but don’t want to extend my hand.
“I am God now!” she walks away triumphantly, leaving the flower on my lap.

I walk towards my room, swaying my arms, I look up and I see a stupendous sky with billions of stars. Tonight the moon is in hiding; it’s time for the little stars to show off. Somehow, I can breathe easy now. I am wondering to whom I should give the flower – my manager or Lala.