The Purple Day

To be able to die in peace is something that almost all of us desire. OK, not desire, because it involves the process of dying first and then being at peace, but the ‘being at peace’ part is what we wish for, don’t we? I also wished to be at peace without being dead. But here I am, resting not quite in peace but yes, resting nevertheless, watching as my body turns into ash right in front of my eyes. I am dead! Am I really?
It was a purple day. I say purple because that was the colour that came to my mind when I woke up that autumn morning. You see I have a quirk. I associate colours to whatever happens in my life, or lack of it, well, while I was alive. Coming back to the purple day, I was busy, I cannot remember doing what, when the phone on my kitchen counter started ringing. I hate the tring tring sound of the phone. It just drives me crazy, so, I decided to take revenge and let it ring. The caller on the other side must really be desperate to talk to me, the phone tringed four times. I let it ring. Then it was silent, dead like it was before, dead like I am right now. I felt amazed at how calm and peaceful my surroundings seem. It was unnatural. I liked it. I can still hear the deafening sound of that silence. It is wonderful.
My mother suddenly comes in front of me and tells me to finish my breakfast. It is a brown day. “I will make you drink this milk, even if you vomit in the glass, you will finish it,” she is yelling. I am getting late for school. I don’t hate the taste of milk. I dislike how it smells. I do hate going to school though, especially when my homework isn’t complete. I look at her from the corner of my eye. My sister is playing next to my grandmother. Granny hates her. She hates everyone except my father and me. I miss her sometimes now. She protected me as far as she could from everything bad. Mother is keeping an eye on her to ensure that she doesn’t hit my sister. I am hoping that happens. The doorbell rings. Mother goes to see who it is and I go to the sink. Milk looks good while twirling down a drain. I come back, pick up my bag and go out of the house, on my way to school.
Wait! This is not school, this is not home either. Where am I? What time is it? I am again in that purple atmosphere. My mother is gone. There is nobody. It’s just me and the wretched phone, and it’s ringing again. I pick up the phone this time. “Mom! Are you alright? I have been calling all morning,” I hear a voice. “Who are you?” I ask. “Mom it’s me – me!!. Mom, did you take your medicines?” “I am fine honey, but who are you? I think you got the wrong number. I don’t have a daughter.” I don’t have a daughter, who is she? “Mother, listen to me, in the cabinet next to the phone, there is a blue box on the 2nd shelf. Pick that up and take out the red pills and the white tablets in the orange packet and take them with some warm milk. I am holding the line. Do that and tell me ok?” the voice says. “OK, I took the medicines,” I lie. “Did u really?” “Yes I did. What is your problem? Who are you? Stop bothering me,” I say and disconnect the phone and the line. Nobody disturbs my peace.
I go to the bathroom now. Wait, there used to be a bathroom here. Why is it a garden now? What is going on? “Come over here sweety, we are planting mango trees,” my father calls out to me. I run and sit next to him. The mud is wet. It feels warm and nice. The day is yellow. “Papa, if we plant a coin here, will there be a tree which has coins on it?” I ask innocently. Papa laughs and says, “No, but you can earn coins with hard work. For the time being, lets plant mango seeds and take really good care of the plants so that they become trees real soon and we can have lots and lots of mangoes to eat ok?” “Ok.” I don’t understand why can’t we have a coin tree, but I like mangoes better. My hands are muddy and my pretty pink dress is soiled. Papa picks me up and says something. Why can’t I remember what he says? I am on his shoulders. Someone’s calling my name, I turn to look at who it is, its purple again. I am on the floor. Papa is not around. Where’d he go? The smell of wet mud still lingers in my mind. I turn around and my sister is sitting there. “Tell me some gossip. I am bored,” she says. So I sit with her on the couch in the light green room and we discuss the old hag who lives next door. Oh she is such a pain. “The other day, I was watering the plants and by mistake, OK not quite, but still, I poured some water over her irritating pooch. She just got on my case,” I am saying while my sister is laughing in her usual laugh, the kind that is contagious and makes you want to laugh with her without even knowing the joke. I am laughing too. The corner of my mouth hurts and I can’t breath.
I throw my head backwards and laugh and laugh till I have tears in my eyes. I look up, laughing hard and she is gone. It’s just me again. God! This house is suffocating me. I need fresh air. I open the door. He is standing there. I stare at him. I haven’t seen him in years, but he looks just the same. He is smiling, the same smile that used to brighten my day and left me with that warm fuzzy feeling. It’s so nice and orange. I smile as I haven’t smiled in years. He takes me in his arms and whispers in my ears, “I missed you honey.” “I love you,” I say. He comes inside and looks at the drapes. “New curtains? Red suits your house. Where are the rest of them?” “Well, we ran short of cash so could only buy curtains for one side,” I mumble. He laughs. I love his laughter. I just smile meekly and look at him. We sit down to have dinner at the couch. Dinner is never served, but I taste him, his mouth, his neck, his entire being. I am not hungry anymore. “I love you,” he says. “I love you, don’t leave me,” I say. We are in this thick embrace. I know I am a part of him and he is a part of me. He breaks away to take a breath. I close my eyes to pray. This is perfect! It shouldn’t end is all I am thinking.
I open my eyes and he is gone. It’s all purple again. I am standing at the door. This house has too many windows. I don’t like it. I close the door and go into the storeroom. There is a black trunk there. I open it and take out the bright red curtains and put them on the windows. The house is still purple, but atleast no one can see me from outside. I hate it when people stare. I get down from the stool I used to reach the curtain rods and look at myself in the mirror in the hall. I am fat! How much do I weigh? God! This was unexpected. How’d I get so fat? My maid comes and tells me, “Madam, you are glowing. How much more time now? I bet it’s a girl. You look beautiful.” “Any day now,” I tell her. I know it’ll be any day now but what am I talking about? I can’t remember. The ivory day is making me forget things. I close my eyes to silence the voices in my head. When I open them, its purple again. I am alone, where’d the maid go? The house is still dirty. I take it upon myself to clean the house, so, I pick up the broom and begun sweeping. “Mother, what are you doing?” I hear a voice. I turn around to see my girl. “Give that to me. Sit down ok?” I see her as she cleans our house. It’s nice and pink. She comes and sits down next to me keeping the broom aside. “Mother, I have got a really good offer for a job. It’s very well paying and it has lots of perks too,” she is saying. Wow! My little girl is all grown up! “What job honey?” “Just like you, mother.” My girl’s going to be a writer! I am thrilled. “Mother, don’t freak out ok? The thing is that this job requires me to reinstate myself to another city.” Am I imagining things? Did she really say what I heard? “You will leave me?” I ask. “No mother, you will go with me, just give me time to find a house and then I’ll come and take you there myself.” I don’t believe her. She wants to get rid of me. I stare at her, a long hard stare.
“Mother, if it hurts you so much, I will not take this job,” she finally says. I am a bad bad mother. How can I become an obstacle in the way of my child’s success because of my insecurities and some obscure ideas? “Honey, I’ll be alright. Call me everyday and promise you’ll get a house really soon. When do you have to leave?” “In a week’s time. Oh mother, you’re the best,” She chimes. “I know,” I mumble looking at the threads coming out of the carpet, thinking what to say next. “Honey, you must start…” I look up, there’s no one. It’s that purple room again.
This is like confinement. Am I crazy? Of course I am not. Oh God! That woman on the phone, she was my daughter. How could I forget? I must call her now. Wait, what is her number? I’ll have to look for it, but where? Let me look in the kitchen, it must be there somewhere. I walk to the counter and open the cabinet next to the phone. Ah! There is a phone book. Now all I need is to remember her name. I pick up the diary and close the door. “Hi!” he says. I drop the diary in a huff. Where’d he come from? “How have you been?” he asks. “I am alright. What brings you here?” I look around the blue room. “Just wanted to see you. It’s been 6 years. How are you doing? Where’s our daughter?” he says. What does he want from me? Showing up suddenly after six years like this, it’s unusual. “We are doing fine. It’s a school day remember?” I blurt out. “I am sorry,” he says. “What for?” “For everything.” I look at him. He hasn’t changed. I have, I think. “Doesn’t she ever ask about her father?” he breaks the silence. She does, all the time. I tell her he died in a car crash before she was born. I think she believes me.” I tell him. He looks blank. Not hurt, not surprised, just blank. “And you? Don’t you miss me ever?” I close my eyes so that he doesn’t see through me like he used to. Oh God! How can I not miss him? I think about him every waking moment of the day and dream about him when I am asleep. How can I tell him that when he left, I had nothing to live for? How can I tell him that I still will forgive him, all he has to do is ask for forgiveness. How can I tell him that…
My head suddenly starts hurting. It’s like someone just ripped my brain out. I open my eyes and see a young boy. He has a rod in his hand. I look at him with a puzzled expression. His eyes are enraged. The room is purple again. I can feel something running down from my head, onto my forehead, down my nose. I don’t understand what is happening. Things are blurring. The boy is saying something, I can see his lips moving in a synchronized pattern but I can’t hear the words. I keep staring at him. Suddenly, he hits me with that rod again. This time, I smile. “You know, you are the first guest I’ve had in ages.” I mumble and fall to the ground.
The purple room is black, finally, some real change in colour.