PGR’s blog

The Pebble

My mind is a VCR that can play, rewind, fast forward and pause any second of that day. But regretfully, I cannot stop it.

When did my life begin? In all truth I would have to say that it began eight days before Onam when I was already the mature age of nine years old. Or to be more exact, I was nine and a half. That extra half makes all the difference in the world to a child itching to grow up quickly. August 16, 1966- that is a day vividly etched in my memory. Oh! Accursed memories! They are more indelible than ink.

Yes, it started out just like any regular day for a young boy just dying to get out of school as early as possible. I was always the teacher’s pet and the quiet type but just between you and me, school was no roller coaster ride. My most terrifying memory is about my Maths teacher that year. I would dread him till the end of each school day. He would ask me to solve a division problem on the black board. For each false step, he would pinch my rear and I would simulate a cycle ride as he shifted his pinch from one side to the other.

The day was pretty sultry. It was hotter than hell on that fry day. The sky might have been blue but your skin would be bright red.

I would meet my sister, Geetha, at the cycle racks as soon as the school let out. She was a year younger than I and was a pretty girl. We lived nearly barely a KM away from the school grounds and used to ride our cycles to and from the school all the year. Our parents both worked full time and yet reached home earlier than us. For us, riding our bicycles back and forth wasn’t exactly a hardship; It was more like a grown-up responsibility. More importantly, it was fun.

Now you have to understand, we needed to get home as quickly as possible. With Onam being so close, we assured ourselves that there were possibly many unwrapped shopping bags lying in our home. The goal was to get home before Mom and Dad so that we could grab it from them as soon as they arrived. My sister and I vied with each other in this exciting deed.

Anyway, we rode like mad, passing by tons of new shops and hotels that were mushrooming up in our town.  Trade fairs, Exhibitions, Sales stalls were all fast coming up to impart true colour and pomp to Onam festivities. The hum of Onam was evident everywhere.

As it was festival time, extra traffic policemen were posted at many traffic junctions. A smiling guard led us silently across the last intersection before our intended destination. Just four more blocks and we waited side by side for the traffic to subside before crossing the last street to reach the side road leading to our house. Two more minutes and we might have a chance peep at our Onam presents.

I don’t know which way my eyes were looking but I did see the white van. It was the last vehicle that would pass us before we crossed the street. I looked over at Geetha. Her eyes were focused on something down the road in the opposite direction. That’s when I realized that her feet were propelling her cycle forward.

“Stop Geetha, Stop!”  I screamed at the top of my lungs. She was almost in the opposite lane, almost across the street.  My sister never turned her head. Screeching tyres and I watched her fly off of her cycle and skid several feet along the harsh pavement.

“Geetha! Geetha!”

The driver of the white van jumped out quickly. He slammed the door shut and pressed his body against the side of his vehicle. He pounded his fists furiously against it. I looked at my sister lying there helplessly. There was no movement.

“I’m going to get my parents!” I shouted at the driver, not knowing what I should do or say. He glanced at me but said nothing. I ran down that old dirt road faster than a cheetah. All the while I was shouting, ” Mom, Dad?  Mom, Dad!" Our house was the fifth one on the right in that lane.

I met my mother on the way. She was carrying many bags almost up to her chest.  “Geetha got run over! Geetha got run over!” My mother dropped all her shopping bags and ran down that road faster in her sari than I could in my sports shoes. She never once looked at me or at anything else on her desperate journey. Her sights were only set on keeping her daughter alive.

I continued to run all the way to our house. My father had already reached home. I couldn’t understand why he just stood there. I told him "Papa, Geetha got run over". He made a naughty look at me and asked, “This is a joke, isn’t it?”

My father disappeared to join my mother. I wanted so badly to know what was going on. I deserved to be with my sister. She was my best friend. Nirmala aunty, a friend of my mother, came and took me over to her house a few moments later. She had a daughter who was of my age and was a friend of my sister.

At their house I watched a movie and ate ice cream. I felt momentarily happy. It was then that Nirmala aunty came to me and said it was time to go home. She looked tired and her daughter was crying hysterically. I was only confused. No one told me anything. I just wanted to see my sister and make sure she was going to be okay. She was going to be just fine, I never doubted that for one minute.

Nirmala aunty told her daughter to go and pick a rose from their garden. She only cried more as she did so. When we finally got back to my house there were people everywhere- Friends, relatives, neighbors, students and even police. My father grabbed me by the shoulders and led me to an old wooden swing just in front of the house. He sat beside me and told me without any fanfare or frills, ” My dear son, your sister is dead.”

Yes, that is the day my life began, eight days before that black Onam. It changed the way I feel about people and events. Onam presents aren’t the most important things in my life?  Family and friends are. Onam for me is the time when my frozen sorrows begin to melt. Thirty-five Onam have passed and I still cry when I think about my sister and that terrible day. I don’t remember much about her and her image has blurred in the corridors of my memory. But I do know this; I know- I loved her, I loved her , I loved her .

Will someone now switch off my VCR?

(This is not my story . Sigh! . A few years back I was searching for a simple touching story for a speech project. Someone had sent me a similar story as a forward. I did a surgery on it, perfumed it with a pinch of my childhood memories and polymerized it  into this Onam Schmaltz.. A heart rending story titled "Black Onam" by renowned Malayalam writer C Radhakrishnan also came to my mind. So this is an amalgamation of assorted stories. I first sent it to my Alumni group in Yahoo and surprisingly two of my batch mates replied that it is their story and their sisters had died in similar circumstances. Notwithstanding the sad tone in this story, I wish all my friends a bright and beautiful Onam )