Whenever I see an abandoned, tattered toy..part1

 Whenever I see an abandoned, tattered toy, an array of questions queue up in my mind. How precious it must be when bought? Which occasion did it brighten? How often the child played with it? Was it the comfort toy of little Riya and her bhaiyya often teased her by hiding it?

The questions settle post a turbulence and my memories surface to run a picture film of my childhood. A walk in the forgotten alleys of life. A hop from the swinging swing and a bruise on the left knee. Yet, there would be a quick dusting of the muddy frock and a forced sprint in the leg to hide the naughty impulsivity. Dettol, Savolon did no good for they came with free, verbal rants of a mother who was fed up with a perennially misbehaved child. The swinging would be banned for next few days, and maternal singing would continue ringing in the girl's ears. But the girl cared damn!

Home alone or not. She found her own creative ways to land herself in a soup. Sitting by the window sill, she would call out names to random passerbys and then disappear. She would stick out her tongue, and make faces to studious, obedient children on their way to tuitions or school. Whenever she saw a hungry pup, she would rush to the kitchen, rub her belly, and ask for hot fulkas. The jubilant mother, thinking it to be a sign of hunger pangs, would offer two instead of one. Juggling the piping hot, ghee laden fulkas on her pink palms, she would be back at the window, tearing and feeding the pup, the daily bread. The window was her door to an unlimited dose of free entertainment and pranks. 

This girl, who was wicked and crooked in her own ways, had a sensible and unswerving brother. Not her biological sibling, a cousin, but for her the world. When the gnarled branches of a banyan tree, didn't allow her to ascend, he placed his open palms, and she climbed on them like a hasty creeper. When the frond of her slippers broke, he offered his over-sized ones and danced on the hot pavement to school. To this, she laughed hard while he continued to roast his soles for her sake. When the elders chided him for pampering her unnecessarily, he just turned a deaf ear to them, and a wink to her. 

He was the studious, responsible guy. The pride of the family and the love of her heart. Whatever he was rewarded with for his exceptional academic performance, he shared with this little girl. Kala khatta gola, slippery, oily, hakka noodles, peppermint and nimbu soda, the two celebrated his success, away from the admonishing eyes of their parents. He was ten years older to her but was never bored of watching Mowgli with her. He took her to children's plays and acts in vacations. To make this feisty hurricane sit in a gent's salon for a boycut, was solely his responsibility. He took ultimate pride in doing so. Later, the grumpy girl smiled over kulfis and vada pav that was otherwise prohibited. 

The girl grew up, so did her Dada. Meetings and conversations went sparse. Each busy with building their family. They forgot to wish each other on important days like birthdays and anniversaries. Yet, the two never missed rakshabandhan and bhaiduj. His gifts,  too, had matured. Unlike, the dolls and kitchen sets of childhood, now he handed her an envelope. A ritual of around 15yrs.

"Buy whatever you wish to." He would showoff his generosity. 

Twice a year, they would mert, only to pull each other's legs, call each other funny names. He had stopped being her saviour for now she behaved like a tamed mare. She was married and he was sensitive enough to not disturb her with his troubles. The trouble began here when even after meeting her he never revealed his turmoil. The same laughter, the same mischievous smile with a wound gnawing his heart.

Truth is like a rotten egg's odor. The more you try to suppress it, the more it explodes the nausea within. His truth came gushing out when she could do absolutely nothing. Then, one day as she was busy preparing to leave her house to meet him on his surgery day, a message dropped in her inbox. Too busy, in packing goodies for him, she missed it. It read, 'Going for surgery in the next one hour.'

God was not kind to her in delivering sense of picking up the phone in that one hour. It was late, very late when she saw it. 

Late Sandeep Gawde, they wrote on his photo during the prayer meet.

That day, a part of the girl's childhood was lost forever. It was brutally chopped off from her sweet memories. The hand guiding her was packed tight in plastics. He slept in oblivion to her crying and howling. Death had made him insensitive. 

Would he come back if she threatened him with dire consequences? Would he offer his slippers when her's broke? Would he comfort her today when she is broken?

Such questions also crowd my mind whenever I see a abandoned, tattered toy.