The Mind Creative NOV-Dec 2016

‘Today,’ she repeated.
‘Yes, ma, today, we have to move, today. There is no other
choice. Tomorrow’s the last date mentioned in the papers.’
Mitali was slowly gaining back composure. ‘Okay,’ she
breathed, ‘Okay, today, yes today.’
Rimu poured the tea into two mugs, ‘Your tea Ma…’ She
stopped midway; Mitali had gone back upstairs while she was
making tea. Rimu put one of the steaming mugs on the counter
and took her tea out into the garden.
The fragrance from the maddening bloom of frangipani was
overwhelming, but in a good way. The heady scent comforted her
inner being. It was obviously harder for her mother to accept
after being married for over thirty two years.
Rimu felt that it had to be a hallucination,
this couldn’t be real. The numbing
pain, the ever rebelling tears, the unwillingness
to accept, she has created them
over papers over and over. She has typed
out this feelings, edited them, marked
them, proofread them, these feelings were
too strong to be real, it had to be a story.
Was she losing it too? Like her mother?
Were the stories getting to her?
She placed her empty mug on the
grass and sat down cross-legged. The
garden was small but there was a sign of love through all the
branches, leaves and blooms. Her mother had never been too
fond of the garden; it was only her father’s sanctuary. Rimu used
to join him occasionally in the garden, share awkward fatherdaughter
moments while planting trees or weeding.
She wished she had told him, once, even with all the empty
space dividing the two of them, she still loved him. He was still
her dear Baba.
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