WE SHARE... Part 1

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Author: Divya Saksena

en.wikipedia.org
Browning bent his head to his task, methodically scrubbing the gravestone with his handkerchief that he had wetted at a garden water-tap. The sun beat down, its searing rays finding their way through the spotty shade of the few trees clustered in the small churchyard of St James’ Church, Kashmere Gate. It was the first church built by the British in Delhi, and had suffered much during the War of 1857. Numerous monuments to the richer members of the British community stood crumbling among overgrown patches of dry grass. Surprisingly, compared to the other graves, this stone and the space around it was relatively clear of the weeds and thorny plants that sprang up so willingly in the humid Indian pre-monsoon weather. As each letter of the inscription emerged from the protective obscurity of dust, the splintered shards of memory began whirling through his mind.
                James, dear, come out from under that bed. Papa is not angry, but you should ask before taking his books from his study.
                Charles, you must share your cricket set with your brother.
                Shan’t! He holds the bat like a soup spoon. He can’t play any game.
                That boy needs discipline. Always with his nose in a book.
                He needs company.
                Where do we find him company? Not those native boys he keeps running off with!
The sun sank slowly towards the horizon, its rays beginning to slant across the courtyard and touching St James’ façade with their glowing warmth.
                James, dear, now you just listen to Ayah and go to bed when she tells you. I promise I’ll bring you something very special from Delhi.
                What?
                Wait and see!
                Jay baba, wake up quick quick! The gharries are waiting, we are going to Delhi!
                To be with Mama?
                Yes, yes, now come
The emerging letters formed words that briefly blurred before his eyes. Beloved wife and mother…
                Jay baba, you are hiding here and we are all searching for you!
                Ayah, just a few more pages, Then I’ll come in, promise.
                Oh, all right, you will be the death of me, I know. Here take these and eat as you read. I will go calling for you on the other side of the compound. Don’t worry, Ayah is always there for you and you will look after her when she is old, na?
A conspiratorial wink accompanying her toothy grin that never failed to make him smile. It worked even when he was lying miserably in bed, curtains drawn, his body racked with fever and malaria, wishing his father's job in the Indian Civil Service did not make him travel so much. Then he frowned as her shadow fell across his book again, blocking the warmth of the winter afternoon sun. The cloth bag full of nuts was pushed into his hands and she was gone.
Ayah always knows what I like.
Jay baba, did you write to your brother?
No, I’ll do it, don’t bother me now, I’m going out.
No, you just got up from being so ill, Jay baba, come here, Tum idhar aao!
A shadow blocking the sun’s rays again made Biggles look up, frowning, squinting into the heat-struck air. Really, Ayah went beyond the limits sometimes.
A few steps away stood a middle-aged Indian, wearing the cassock of a priest, regarding him with a mixture of interest, curiosity and compassion. Seeing that he was observed, he smiled and came closer, asking the obvious question.
“Good afternoon! You’re doing a lot of hard work in this afternoon heat!”

To Be Contd...
About the author:
Dr Divya Saksena earned her PhD in English from The George Washington University, USA I 2003. She has taught English and Women's Studies in the USA, Canada and India for over 18 years. She is an avid reader and prolific writer.

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