Rose-Petal Red

It felt like flying. She was running down the street so fast that everything around her was a blur. It was as if her legs, pumping up and down rapidly, would cease to touch the ground any moment, and she would float above the road, above the street, above everything else. She felt like a goddess. But not because of the feeling of the wind rushing past her face, or her heart beating in her ears-no, it was her skirt. Long and soft and flowing around her legs as she ran, and most importantly, red. A red so beautiful and deep that she simply couldn’t take her eyes off it. It seemed to be made of the delicate petals of the fragrant roses that she saw everyday in the florist’s shop. It was this red that made her run so fast; that made her feel like she could fly. And the pure joy that filled her soul was almost painful. But she ran, her skirt flying about her- she ran on and on and on and-

She awoke.

This wasn’t the first time her dream had been broken by dawning consciousness. But each time, she felt a sadness so, so deep that tears welled up in her eyes. And no matter how hard she tried to tell herself that it was just a dream; that it would always be a dream, she invariably pined for that feeling of having the deep red fluttering about her knees. But it lasted for moments only. She had learnt to lock up her longing someplace deep within her heart, where it could be forgotten until the next morning, when she would wake up, once again, from the same dream. As the sadness slowly quieted itself, she became aware of her surroundings. In the dim light of sunshine that crept in through the tears in the tin-and-tarpaulin roof, she could make out the familiar things that populated her everyday life. The cramped space within the crumbling, stained brick walls was filled with a plethora of articles that were all as worn out, dirty and old as the slum in which they lived. A corner with a few chipped, broken and dented tins and utensils that marked it out as the kitchen. There, beside the tiny stove with a sputtering flame, squatted her mother, trying, as usual, to coax a meal out of the few scraps that they had.

Seeing the smoke, her stomach rumbled. But it was a familiar feeling, this achy emptiness-it accompanied her throughout her waking hours. The little food she sometimes ate would only placate it for a while-it would return soon. But like her family, and all others who lived like her, she had learnt to consider it a part of her being- sadness, happiness, anger, hunger. The one place where she could be free of it was in her sleep-only her dream existed in that realm; only the redness and the softness and the happiness. She was young enough to have dreams that were vivid and bright- the darkness that pervaded her life had not yet violated her sleep. It soon would, like it did for all the others who lived this life, but for now, her dreams were safe.

That’s why she liked to sleep. She could dream, without hunger and the weakness that accompanied it, the dankness of her home, the endless noise of the roaring city, the endless silence of her perpetually tired mother whose eyes had lost their gleam long ago. But now, even that comfort was being denied to her. A girl in the slum, who was born weak and was always in a hunger-induced sleep, hadn’t woken up one day. Maybe her poor, emaciated body had become too weak to anchor her soul to this world. Since then, her mother was too afraid to let her sleep, unless at night. But she did not understand what all the fuss was about. All the girl did was escape into her world of dreams. She had dreamt for so long that she had forgotten about the real world. Wasn’t that a wonderful thing? She wished that she too, could forever live in her dream, and never have to wake up to the darkness. But then, she could not bear the thought of her mother tearing at her hair and beating her breast like the demented, screaming, wailing creature that the girl’s mother had become after the girl was taken away.

The one thing that made her life bearable was her elder brother. She had never seen her father, and could not muster up the courage to ask her mother about him. But all she needed was her brother. Even when her mother would never smile, and tears would flow down her face for no reason, her brother’s reassuring smile would make everything all right. It was only to him that she had dared to confide her one dream in life- to own a brand new red skirt that would be the envy of all the other girls. Laughing, he had promised her that he would get one for her once he got a job. And the dream had become more enticing, the skirt redder, and the joy more intense ever since. But things were not going well, she knew. Her brother often went away in the morning in search of work, and came back empty-handed. Sometimes, she would see the same look on her mother’s face cross her brother’s-that same shadow. He would look like a stranger then, and it would fill her with fear. But seeing her anxious look, her brother would smile, and return to his old self. He would tease her about her skirt, and make her giggle. Every morning, it was the sight of her brother’s sleeping face beside her that helped her stow away the last, lingering traces of the sadness.

But this morning, the place beside her on the worn-out mat was empty. She sat up, looked around, and asked her mother where he was. Without turning, her mother replied that he had left early. This was unusual. Maybe her brother had heard of a well-paying job and set out early to be the first one. Maybe her dream was about to come true. She smiled. But she tried to put the thought away- it was not good to wish too hard. Hope was a dangerous thing in a place like this, where dreams never came true.

Her brother did not return in the afternoon, as he did when his search proved futile. Dare she hope, then? But she chided herself for expecting too much. She tried to tell herself that her brother wouldn’t buy the skirt even if he did get paid- what about food and the million other things that they needed? But the secret glow of possibility remained, no matter what.

It had become dark, and her brother had not returned as yet. Her hope had turned to fear- discreet, yet nagging. She could see the worry in her mother’s eyes as well. This had never happened before. But she sat at the doorstep and waited, eyes glued to the road. Then, in the badly lit street, she saw a silhouette that seemed familiar. Her heartbeat quickened. Was it him? Was it her brother, running home to show her the one gift she had wanted all her life? But as the figure drew closer, her face fell. It was just her brother’s friend. As soon as he drew close enough for her to see his face, fear numbed her. She felt nothing else, saw nothing else but the moving lips of the boy, uttering terrible words. “He was returning home…. someone tried to steal his wages…..fight…..market…hit on the head…..” She did not see or hear her mother leaping up with a scream; she did not feel the ground beneath her as she ran towards the market. She was deaf to her mother screaming her name-all she knew was that she had to go.

It felt like flying. She was running down the street so fast that everything around her was a blur. It was as if her legs, pumping up and down rapidly, would cease to touch the ground any moment, and she would float above the road, above the street, above everything else. The black terror that welled within her made her feel faint. But she ran, her skirt flying about her- she ran on and on and on and-

She saw him.

She pushed through the crowd around him, and sat down beside where he lay. He seemed to be sleeping. Yes, he was sleeping. Like the girl, he must be living in his dream. Slowly stroking his cold forehead, she smiled. He would be happy forever. Lest he wake up, she slowly lifted his head onto her lap, and ran her fingers through his hair, as her mother sometimes used to. That was when she saw it.

Slowly creeping onto her skirt from beneath her brother’s head, with a warmth that made it seem alive, was the beautiful rose-petal red of her dreams.