The Pram

The dusted baby powder hung in the air, beneath which, Bushki, a bright baby was chuckling with her jiggly soft belly. Her grandmother was scolding her, as she struggled to get her dressed for her pram-ride that evening. Still in diapers, she was paddling hard as she tried escaping the gather of a frilly dress coming upon her like a lasso. In her six-months of existence, she had learnt to derive a devilish pleasure in causing trouble- so claimed her grandmother. As the pink frothy frills surrounded her face yet again, she frowned with a stern pout and released a yelp for a cry that dissuaded the old woman altogether. “Go, don’t wear. Don’t even have to go for your evening stroll. What am I to lose here?” she said in a manner that the baby was expected to understand. Then amassing the pink waves with her palm, she folded them with care to be put back into the box for an easy exchange. At the shop itself, she had enquired if the fabric could be scratchy and hot but had been convinced otherwise. The new dress, though very desirable, had been rejected. She bent low and fetched a basket stuffed with fresh, hand-washed baby clothes and took out that same old jumpsuit which this strong-willed child had somehow developed a liking for. With the sun mellowing into a blushed crimson outside, it was already late for picking up such battles though. Away from sight, in the meanwhile, the baby had started cooing for her grandmother. The walls around her looked bare and she was certain that she was not loved anymore. Just when her hapless pleas were beginning to rise into a crescendo, that the familiar face with a quivering chin mole reappeared and said, “There, there, I’m right here. I’m just getting you your clothes.” The baby brightened at once and the puddle brimming in her eyes swayed and then disappeared, leaving a glint behind. The old lady smiled and buried her nose into the Cerelac-filled belly and burst loud bubbles on her buttery-soft skin. The baby squealed at once, the ticklish blows forming high-pitched giggles that spilled and scattered across the room. When Bushki was dressed and her shoes could be strapped, the grandmother placed her on the pram and buckled her tight, checking twice. A yellow flannel hat, that was threatening to outgrow soon, was plopped on her head, set to be firm. The baby frowned but began rubbing an eye with the back of her pudgy palm, the hat flapping with her moves. The grandmother slid into the prescribed comfort of her Dr. Scholls slippers, and opened the door of her one storey house, pushing the pram halfway through. Then taking a giant step, she landed her foot into the pavement, skipping two steps down, one leg still inside the house. Though somewhat stuck, she pushed the pram down further rotating her arthritic knee and fetched her foot from the house back together. Despite the inevitable circus each day, this was the most comfortable position that she had discovered and decided to stick to, after knotting up on several others. Of course, it would have been much easier for her to swaddle the baby and carry in her arms, but Bushki’s mother’s wish was that her child be taken out in a pram every evening, as the children in the cities. She was an office clerk with the Income Tax department and was posted in a nearby town. And though Bushki was born after many years into her marriage, the allure of a permanent Government job had pushed her to take this hard decision to leave the baby with her mother. That Bushki could not be breastfed longer, that she did not recognise her father or did not wail for her mother felt unfair to the old lady. She had even protested such deprivation. But being a housewife all her life, living on her deceased husband’s savings, she was not expected to know what it meant to work in a big office. A Government office, nonetheless. The fresh air drooling with scented quis-qualis from her little garden outside greeted them, along with the peeking sun from the corner wall of their house. The pram was rolled outside the metallic gate. The one-storey house stood at the far end of the town and the road outside climbed towards a hillock where a water-tank was mounted by pillars at the centre. Besides supplying water to the entire hamlet, this served as a perfect spot for the young lovers and the fitness freaks alike. Of late, a laughter club had been initiated where even she had been invited to become a member. But who needed those frivolous gawkish triggers, when she had her own little bundle by her side to trickle such deep-seated laughter? Soaked in a lonely still life for too long, when she had started wrinkling, this crinkly baby had been thrust on her lap which had soon plumped, filling the creases of her own destiny. Now, she had time for none. She pushed the pram uphill, feeling the weight of it on her arms, the gentle evening breeze caressing the sweat beads breaking over her brow. The road was bumpy and broken, but away from the traffic and noise in the main town. She steered around the potholes, careful not to startle the baby, and had to be mindful of the pram lock which had come loose and could fall anytime to stop the wheels with a jerk. Staggering and tottering, she reached the top, breathing hard, feeling invincible in the end. The evening sky was blotching into an inky blue and just a few stray lovers had remained, the sessions were done. Looking around at the public display of heightened emotions, she wondered for how long she could bring the baby to this spot, now that she had begun to understand things. She led the pram through the jogging track that encircled the water tank and parked it beside a bench, fumbling to find the edge before lowering herself on it with a sigh. The muscles in her legs were tingling a hum and beads of cool sweat crawled down her back like an army of ants. She fanned her face with the loose end of her saree, patting herself dry and rubbed her knee. From the caddy tray in front, she plucked the sipper and handed it to the baby, watching her gnaw and then suck the cool water, her own tongue dry, in her mouth. The benches had been built around the edge of the hillock from where they could now see the neatly laid hamlet stretching out down below, flickering with tiny lights coming to life as a flock of herons took flight towards their home. “Birds,” she pointed in English, moving her finger with the flock in the distance. Then she showed her the “Trees,” the “Sun” and the “Flowers” around, drawing attention to each one of them, while choosing to ignore the “Boy” and the “Girl,” for more mature reasons. She had been asked to speak to her in English so that when the time came, she was prepared for her kindergarten interview. The ability to speak in English was an important criterion for admission in any part of India, though this grandmother had warned that she could not be expected to speak full-length sentences in that high-brow tongue. Of course, she knew terms like, “Be quiet,” “Sit down,” “Don’t move,” “Hurry up,” and many such instructional words. But those she believed were better suited for pets. This was a time when dazed by the overturning beauty of the natural landscape, the two of them sat harmonised, cradling between intimacy and abstraction. Finding themselves at the opposite ends of this mayhem of existence, they cherished each passing moment which intertwined their lives, yet pulled them apart, thus tightening the knot between them, and just as one had begun to understand the other understood no more. When some more time had passed, she spoke continuing her comfortable chatter, “See, didn’t I tell you, we are late today? Nobody is around to ask me to cuddle you.” Just then, as some divine intervention, a group of elderly women descended on the bench, finishing their final round of walk, which must have followed their session at the laughter club. They were all known to her, the town being so small. “We were thinking if you weren’t well or something? So late today?” asked the woman sitting right next to her. “Now, when you have a princess to be dressed for her stroll, such delays are inevitable. Isn’t that so, Bushki?” she said looking at the pram beside her and pulled it closer, thinking if it had strayed apart a few inches. The grandmother always assumed a certain sternness while speaking to them, which came from a deriding confidence in having a daughter with a Government job. Not many in that area could boast of such an accomplishment. Now whether it was the rising price of the onions, the lockdown of another mill, or the fall of the government itself, hers was the only house in the area that remained unaffected. If the grapevine was to be believed, she ate pulao cooked with basmati rice every day and even had a golden filling in her upper jaw. Even though she had no maid at home to ascertain the truth. So, while she kept her dentures guarded with that characteristic pout on her face, the woman beside her crinkled her nose and smiled at the baby. Another woman came about babbling some baby talk, with the jerk of her neck. The grandmother could understand very well why they all wanted to be friendly with her. Bushki didn’t look so happy when their attention was drawn towards a man in the distance, leaving on his scooter down on the road outside. One of them demonstrated how his eyebrows moved up and down as he laughed. This brought forth a bout of laughter and another woman spoke about someone in their own group who laughed in a robotic voice as the session began while her eyes roved all around as if to seek permission. Everyone knew who it was and the woman in question slapped the arm next to her, rolling to her side with the flow of her laugh. What came up next was that inevitable paunch, one in every laughter group in the world, that shook and jiggled and also the nose that flared and shrivelled. “Why don’t you join us for a trial session?” asked one them. Giggling till then, the grandmother looked alarmed. This saree with sneakers squad was a dangerous combination and they seemed to have an expert opinion on everything. She cleared her throat and said, “Yes, yes, sometime soon maybe.” “Where? Does she have any respite?” said another woman who was stretching her arms as she twisted her body from side to side. “Such a big responsibility she has taken on herself.” They all seemed to agree and nodded but before she could protest, the woman turning to her side let out a brute shriek, covering her mouth. The pram that was parked beside the bench had started rolling backwards downhill, towards the barbed fence. The grandmother jumped to her feet at once and ran, stopping short at the edge, screaming for help. Several outstretched arms were now motioning for the pram to stop, calling for others in the park. But it had turned quite dark now, and the place bore the look of desertion, resounding with their screeches. Without a care in the world then, the grandmother trudged behind the rolling pram, a storm of sobs filling her within. Her arthritic knee jolted with each descend, twisting the soft tendons over grass stubbles as she watched in cold sweat the baby straying away faster now. Bushki too had started crying from her seat, fearful of her grandmother’s fears. Somewhere down in the bushes, a pair of lovers who were nestled in the warmth of their embrace stood up. Noticing the pram, the boy scrambled and climbed through, and caught it bumping from stone to stone, threatening to be overturned. He steadied it and looked at the saree with sneakers squad cheering from the edge, pressing each other’s hands with an assuring glee. The grandmother had reached by then and she pulled Bushki to her chest at once and tears as hot gold forged their way through her shut eyelids. That she was led to the top of the hill and was made to sit on the bench, went entirely unhindered till a vigorous shake made her open her eyes again. Bushki lay pickled on her damp chest and was seen recovering much sooner. In her playful manner, she chuckled at the attention around and then with great precision brought her finger to reach the raisin-soft mole on her grandmother’s chin. “Lucky girl. Must say, managing an infant is no easy task,” said one of them. “Tsk Tsk…saved by the Lord today.” They had surrounded her now and offered her water along with advice. “If you must take care of her, why can’t your daughter ask you to move in with them? Where on earth can she find such good care even if she were to look for someone.” The grandmother had poured some water on her face and with her flesh still throbbing red, she joined her hands and thanked everyone around. Fresh tears welled for the young boy who had caught the pram, rescued her shame. Then speaking to no one she started towards home, proud and stiff, the baby buckled tight for her ride. The way downhill was dark and bleak, and tears blurred her journey ahead. How could she be so callous as to allow the pram to roll away? In her foggy mind, she was not sure anymore if she had locked the pram or not. Or if it was the faulty lock after all? A blunder, nevertheless, for which she and only she was answerable. This was an incident though that she resolved to forget at once. Never to be mentioned again, not even to her daughter. For Bushki, no matter how much she loved, was not hers. And what was hers, didn’t feel hers anymore. In all these years, no one had cared to know if she needed anything. Not once had anyone come to accompany her for her doctor visits. Never had it occurred to anybody that despite the frugal monthly interests from the bank, how she managed to buy all those boxes of formula milk, diapers and dresses. These were too petty to be discussed with someone with a big Government job. The truth though was that she had been foolish enough to believe that her love for her daughter combined with her reduced needs would carry her forever. Therefore, the question of moving in with them did not even arise. They were capable of managing fine without her, she knew. In fact, not having to manage her was even better. She had been a vehicle merely, to tide over the delicate phase of infancy. Mindless of the bumpy road ahead, she forced herself to carry on. Loose tarmac chips from the roadside kept weighing her down, barren potholes tripped her on and so by the time, she reached the gate, she had to drag her knee, soft and tender, swollen twice. Her hands fumbled to find the right key from the jangling bunch and when the door was opened, the land phone was already ringing. This was the time when her daughter called each day after returning from work. She hurried to lift Bushki and pushed the pram away into the pavement with a thrust so hard that it went and rammed against the boundary wall. Plopping her on the bed which had to be guarded on the edge with pillows, she dialled to return the call. She began by apologising, complaining about the pram and the fuss over that frilly dress to begin with, till she was stopped by her daughter who wanted to know what happened? She breathed deep, started from the start, and mumbled the horror, thanking that boy, thanking God. A brief silence ensued. Next, what she heard was that daughter would come in the morning to get Bushki. That it was better not to take any more chances. How she spent that sleepless night she didn’t know, but when her daughter came knocking, her tousled hair and soggy saree foretold her comportment, as did the milk packet left unattended at the gate along with the newspaper tucked beside. She followed her daughter into the house, her knee clammed over the night crackling her into a sweaty breathlessness. The bed was unmade, pillows were on the floor and they saw Bushki blowing spit bubbles and pedalling in the air which also revealed her swollen diaper, leaking deep into her clothes. Looking at the unprepared reality, her daughter sighed but thanked her for having tried at least. “It’s not easy to care for a child,” she said, she understood. A daycare had been arranged for Bushki, where they could afford her professional care. Bushki refused to be touched by the intruder and kept protesting with her loud wails, as her mother fought to remind her of her previous visit just two weeks back. Such dissuasive stubbornness needed the firmness of a mother she implored and took to the rigorous cleaning of the house instead. Half a day’s off at work had to be converted into a full Personal Leave, requested over the phone. Well into the day, she cooked the meal as the grandmother prepared a nice warm bath for Bushki, talking to her about her mother and how she too had been stubborn as a child. She seemed to derive a self-indulgent glee at the indignation which came her way from her high-handed daughter with a Government job. Treading with her usual calm, she lifted the baby and plopped her into the tub; each movement searing the pulp of her knee with electric daggers, dizzying her into a white blindness. Sitting from a stool, her jammed leg sprawled beside, she poured water in the tub and regaled about all the wonderful things awaiting her at home and all the love she was going to get, wondering in her heart if she would be forgotten soon. The tiny presence had given her a validation, but could the leaky memory of a child render it all unreal in the end? Gleaming from the tub with her soapy slick skin, Bushki looked busy posing for her mother who clicked her for a few uploads. Her eyes, bright as a bubble, looking up at her, carried no trace of recognition though. At the same time, she knew, those pink little toes which she counted everyday were never meant to remain the same. When the evening came and it was time for them to leave, Bushki was still napping, breathing soft on her pillow. “Wake her up at least,” said the grandmother as she saw her being lifted to be taken away with the trolley suitcase in the other hand. That was not the way she liked being carried and she leapt forward but gritting herself to a stop. “Won’t you give her a chance to bid goodbye?” she urged again, thinking of the miserable consciousness she would wake into. “Let’s take each day as it comes,” said the daughter, unwilling to trade the benevolent convenience for a messy brawl. “Anyways children don’t have such vivid memories of their initial years.” She got into the car and buckled the baby into the car seat. Bushki stirred a little and rolled her neck to find a chubby tuck. The grandmother waddled near, patted her cheeks and kissed the soft touch on her fingers, repeating herself twice. She reminded her of the lullaby to which she slept, that she needed the little finger to gnaw on when she turned colic, that she enjoyed her food if sprinkled with a pinch of cinnamon. “She’ll be fine, don’t worry,” said the daughter who had settled into the driver’s seat and was adjusting the rear-view mirror now. “I’ll bring her over whenever I get a chance.” The grandmother then remembered the pram, that had remained rammed into the wall since the previous night. It needed to be collapsed and fitted into the dicky. “Relax,” said the daughter and thrust a cardboard box in her hand from the seat beside. “This is for you. I had left it in the car.” The box carried a pair of new sneakers for her evening walks. But that useless pram she said was needed no more. It was defective and besides, Bushki had clearly outgrown it. The car had started moving now. She hobbled along on the pockmarked road, tearing the grip of her knee, her palms plastered on the window glass for a last glimpse. A sudden urge to squish took hold of her and she let out a whisper calling out, “Bushki!” The weightlessness of a hollow descended on her chest where once sat swathed a warm tiny body, now smiling to the angels in her dream. The car sucked away gathering speed, leaving her behind in shambles. The nerves had snapped, firing up her knee in hisses. Sneakers in hand, she couldn’t even move. All these comings and goings changed not only the roads, but also the people who travelled them. From a distance though, one could never tell how much. The dying day was dissolving her into its dark fold. Turning around the house looked empty, the pram: barren. A voluminous silence throbbed from leaf to leaf. She had been alone even before but now she was an absence which had made someone very lonely.