It was a dull shade of ochre.
Slightly curving in at the corners, it looked like it had been bunched up in uncertain hands. Sometimes the inner battles escape the clutches of consciousness and leave their imprints on the world outside. A scar here, a bloodstain there.
It lay there on the polished rosewood, a yellow leaf on a barren tree, surrounded by red swirls threaded together like yarns that cannot be separated . Red ink splattered across its poker face, a swing, a luscious curve . The sharp edges were softened with smudges.
It came in the morning, probably. The dew leaving its traces on the blurring red corners.
The kettle shrieked on the stove. The maid quickly took out the only cup in the cupboard. When she had first come here to work, she had found it surprising that there were utensils sufficient for just one person.. That if a guest ever arrived, there would be nothing to offer, nothing to offer it on. She took out a ceramic plate and kept it on the kitchen island. Her eyes strayed to the letter on the table, her teeth clamping down on her dried lips.
The door to his chamber creaked softly as she peered decisively into the darkness.

The hiss of batter on the hot tava woke Mr. Dopyaza up. Blinking his misted eyes, he stared at the same ceiling he had been for the last seventy-six years.
No, seventy-seven.
The realization woke him up with a start. Usually, he spent a few minutes in bed, marvelling at the world outside his window. The faint shadows of stars receding back with the dusk . The crooked coconut trees swinging in the morning breeze. The sun blushing from behind the huts in the distance. He would take in the songs of the jays, the distant wail of a child.
But today, he got off the warm womb he had sheltered in his entire life and walked over to the mirror. The magic of youth had faded decades ago, leaving warts and moles in its place. The folds of skin around his neck, the crinkles around his eyes and mouth seemed to deepen like thirsty soil, every time he looked at himself.
His black-tipped grey hair had started disappearing like his memories. Sometimes he felt he would wake up and forget who he was.
His eyes darted away from the saliva stains on the corner of his mouth as he wiped them away shamefully.
The incessant ringing in his ear had increased. He wondered if he would ever stop hearing the bell of the postman’s cycle that never came his way, or the laughter of the children he never had.
“Sahib, the food is ready.”
The distant voice of his maid knocked him into consciousness. Collecting himself, he turned the knob of his door and pulled at it.
It didn’t open.
Momentarily paralysed, he felt trapped and useless. His pulse picked up. In a desperate attempt, he pulled the door once, twice... but nothing happened.
Perspiration laced his skin as his heart stammered. Feeling imprisoned in his own house, he banged on the door.
The door shifted slightly, before opening altogether. He stood there at the threshold, dazed.
For seventy seven years, he had pushed that door. Today he had pulled it.
“Sahib” the maid called from the kitchen. Mr. Dopyaza shook away the morning’s misadventure and stepped into the corridor. Walking along the narrow hallway, he sought the relief of familiar faces on the walls. But the barren surfaces seemed to mock him, telling him he had none to call his own.
The walk through the corridor was oppressive, the walls gloomy and intimidating as if inching closer, ready to collapse on him.
His rubber slippers dragged across the marble, even his shadow reeked of grief. He remembered that the bathroom door was to be pulled. Standing in front of the white washed door, he pulled it before he remembered that it was to be pulled from inside. He gave it a soft push and it eased open.
That day, he spent a spent a little longer than he usually did in the bathroom..

The chair screeched as Mr. Dopyaza dragged it. Settling into it, he clutched the glass of water his maid had kept for him. Taking a sip, he reached for the pills on the china plate. Swallowing them, he stared at the middle- aged woman in the kitchen.
She had worked for him for more years than he could recall. When he had first seen her, her hair was black. Oiled and tied into two braids, her raven tresses shone when the sunlight caressed them. She wore a salwar kameez, with her dupatta knotted on her side. Her skin, the colour of almonds. Her eyes, clear and dark. And deep. Soulful. She was a girl on the brink of womanhood. But her vermillion streaked parting told him that she had crossed over the threshold.
He’d seen her when her belly was protruding out, her dupatta wrapped around her like a chrysalis Her movements were less agile and she couldn’t sweep the floors. Staring out of the windows, her eyes would glaze over like stars. Brimming up with the cries of the flesh emptied out of her womb.
He’d seen the little boy sleeping on the floor of the kitchen. His chest heaving fast, as if panting for his new- found life.
He’d wanted to touch him, but couldn’t. find a part of him in that tiny vessel. Couldn’t find a part of him anywhere. Not in the cries for ‘papa’ in the parks. Not in the unblinking gaze of infants.
Watching, as his tiny feet would totter, his pudgy arms stretched to grasp him. And the boy would get tangled in Mr. Dopyaza’a looming shadows, unable to hold onto the disappearing man.
That boy was now a man who touched Mr. Dopyaza’s feet when he came weeks ago, to bring groceries. He studied in a college in the town, his mother’s many sacrifices while he lifted bricks to pay his fees.
When their eyes met, Mr. Dopyaza had been the one to look away first.

White tendrils crept out of her bun, indicative of the time that drifted by. She hung on his walls like a painting. Unnoticed. Whose presence wasn’t acknowledged, but whose absence hung heavily in the air. A subconscious habit. He never said her name, just a few grunts and barked orders.
He thought about it today he didn’t know her name. Never asked. Never knew the name of the stream that filled the empty spaces of his life.
The fragrance of freshly baked parathas, stir-fried beans and the tang of curd tingled his nostrils. The delectable plate clattered on the table. He took a whiff and wondered how he had never enjoyed food as good as this.
The clinking of her bangles resounded in the silence.
“Suno, what is your name?”
His voice cracked around the edges. The lack of decent conversations had rusted his chords. . His voice had changed drastically from his memories sagging like his skin. Hollow like his withering body.
Her eyes widened as she took in her employer’s words. “Savita.” she replied with a shy smile, “Savita is my name.”
“The beans are soft and succulent. The parathas are crispy as I like it. Good job, Savita.” He was taken aback by the smile of the woman. He had never seen her with it around his house. He looked at his plate, his lips stretching into what he felt was an oddly familiar curve he had stopped wearing. He took a sip of water and resumed eating, ignoring the presence of another human. Savita understood it to mean that she was dismissed.
She walked back to the kitchen, her anklets thrumming.
Mr. Dopyaza finished his food in silence. Leaving the plate on the table, he washed his hands at the sink. He stuffed a newspaper in the nook of his elbow and receded into his chamber.
Walking over to the desk that he had spent his days and nights pouring over cases as a lawyer, he sat in the plush chair. The cupboard behind him had many leather-bound records, along with presents from clients. Leaning back, he glanced at his table. Amidst the bank receipts, old papers and books, he found a new addition.
A yellow envelope.
“Savita!” he shouted, “Savita!”
The sound of shuffling feet answered. Savita appeared, panting as she leaned against the wall.
“Had the postman come?” he asked, eyeing the envelope.
“No, Sahib. I found it when I came in the morning. It was stuffed under the door. I kept it in your study.” Looking down, Savita tugged at the ends of her sari, “Sahib, I forgot. I’m very sorry.”
“It’s fine. You may leave.” Sahib huffed out. Picking up the envelope, he turned it around.
Happy Birthday
Mr. Dopyaza’s breath stuttered as his brain processed the words. He had spent more than fifty years of his life without being wished once.
Who remembered him?
Perhaps, he thought, this is for someone else. Someone who shared his birthday. That gave him something which resembled heartburn. He searched for any stamp, or postage mark, but found none.
Hand delivered.
That stopped him. Someone had cared enough for him to come to his house and give it to him.
But why in the morning? Why not ring the bell? Why not try to contact him earlier?
Why now?
A million possibilities flashed across his mind. But the lawyer in him caught hold of his ankles, preventing him from flying any higher.
He walked over to the window and looked over the little town. The hay cottages peeked shyly from behind the concrete buildings. Each house had a colour of its own. The smoke rose in the distance, touching the limitless canvas with its wispy fingers. The rolling blues of the hills meshed with the azure expanse of the sky. The green blurs become more defined as one traces the path of their eyes back home. The ambassadors still ran in the streets. Bright rickshaws preen on the streets and tremble in anticipation for the next destination of its travellers, teetering on the rocky roads. The cycle bells chimed like sweet words of greetings across the street. The shops were just starting to open for the day.
He recalled the evening he had met a young woman on the same road. She was as pale as the moon, eyes alight like the evening sky. A few words, a few glances and the brush of fingers could distract him enough to forget about his dream of becoming a lawyer, of rising above the hay stacks that barely sheltered him and his family in the time of rain and recession.
Peering through the steam of piping hot tea, his eyes gently caressed her luminous form. Under the glow of the incandescent lamp, she dreamt of watching over the city skyline through glass windows that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. Of sipping white wine from flutes. Of sunglasses so big that she never saw her reflection in Mr. Dopyaza’s eyes. A friend from the city was all it took for Mr. Dopyaza to revert to sitting alone in the chai stall.
He never met the both of them ever again.
Not her. She wouldn’t have sent it.

Was it Kisan?
Having grown up in each other’s cribs, their hands were always on the shoulder of the other. The fresh blades of grass were damp, where they cradled themselves to sleep when Mr. Dopyaza’s widowed father was eaten up by the city. They had dipped their legs in the pond near Kisan’s house and savoured spicy samosas. Watching cars tread over the chaste paths of the town, they had frowned at the smoke tracks. But when Mr. Dopyaza saw Kisan loading his luggage in of one of the same cars, he didn’t run to him like he had done for his entire life.
And Mr. Dopyaza would be lying if he said that he never waited for a letter from the city, or a call at the neighbour’s house.
And that rock which anchored him had blown away like dust., lost in the smog of the city. The first blizzard, and he disappeared.
Floating through life like a detached observer, he stacked victories like burnt out matches. Empty. Useless.

And then another breeze brought her in the sticky heat of the summer. She was the colour of honey, eyes like the sky at dusk .. She had worn a simple blue sari, though a rich trader’s ring crested her finger. Though pain was splattered across her face, her spine was straight and rigid.
Her little daughter stood by her, eyes downcast.
The heavy shackles of black beads she wore around her neck came off. The blue and black reminders on her skin evaporated like the summers. Days crept by and he felt the chill in his chambers disappear as he held her daughter in his lap as his own. Laughing with the beauty in front of him. Two empty cups of tea where the files should be. And he wished to relive old dreams.

One day, the tea turned cold.
Addition of another migrant family to the overcrowded cities could break those left behind. And he hadn’t known what to expect anymore.
Even now, he didn’t expect anything.

But that boy he wanted to call his own came to mind. Dark like burnt raisins, his emaciated body had called out to him. Waiting tables at the dhaba, the boy was an orphan. Slipping bits of rotis and biscuits to him, Mr. Dopyaza ate there only so he could watch the boy’s joy. One day, he had slipped a few notes to the boy for school.
And when he didn’t see the boy at the dhaba the next day, he was buoyant. But when the store owner grumbled about a boy running to the city with two months’ worth salary without working for even a week, Mr. Dopyaza lost to the city again.
Cities have always stolen from him . But he knew it weren’t those tall buildings and levelled roads. It was the greed. It was the weakness of his bonds.
But somewhere in the crevices of his worn and weary memory, he remembered her. Gudiya.
Those cream crackers they had shared on the front porch. Her frail fingers separated the cracker to get to the cream. Leaning back in his basket chair, he would peer out at the street. The little girl rested her head on the limb of the chair, crumbs in her handkerchief. The silence would wrap around them like a blanket. She would call him- Chacha. An endearing preface, before she described the arguments in her house. How the doors would bang as if jumping out of their hinges. How the silence was consumed by whispered obscenities.
And Mr. Dopyaza had plenty of what she needed. Silence.
An unspoken promise was what they had. That at the rise of dusk, when the people returned home they would return to each other and. Find solace in the quiet.
And one day, when evening descended upon the town, Mr. Dopyaza waited alone. A platter of biscuits on his lap.
The empty house two streets down spoke volumes.
And after that, nobody saw Mr. Dopyaza unless summoned.

After all these years of solitude, Mr. Dopyaza felt exhausted remembering those moments of unbridled companionship. And he didn’t know who could have sent the letter.
In his deliberations, he couldn’t open the letter. Hadn’t touched it even. Hadn’t realized that the stars were peeking through window, their eyes glittering with sorrow. Savita came in again to cook dinner.
“Sahib, you didn’t eat lunch?”
Mr. Dopyaza looked at the old woman and wondered how time passed by when one was stuck in the maze of his own world. He didn’t say anything.
“Sahib, are you all right?” Savita asked as she came inside his chamber.
“I just don’t feel like eating.” He looked at his palms, wet with nervousness.
“Why Sahib?” Savita came closer and when her eyes fell on the envelope.
“The letter, Sahib. Is it worrying you?” Savita picked it off the table. “Sahib, don’t you want to know what is inside?”
The old man stared helplessly at Savita.
“I’m scared to harbour too much hope. It has always crushed me.” His eyes glazed over, the hollows under them edging out.
“How would you know if you don’t take the leap? “
With trembling hands, she tore open the envelope and took out the letter. Keeping it on Sahib’s lap, her fingers trembled. Fisting them together, she walked out of the room.
Mr. Dopyaza looked at the letter, folded neatly. His trembling hands opened it. It was addressed to him.
So it was for him after all. He didn’t know how he would have felt if it wasn’t for him. Relief, devastation? He would never know.
And so, he took the leap.

Savita was dicing the onion as she heard Mr. Dopyaza coming through the door. She dragged out her folding chair and laid it out for him.
“You know, I have a grandson.” Mr. Dopyaza stared dreamily into space. “Not my blood though.”
Savita looked at the stove where the water was boiling.
“She was a girl who shared biscuits with me in the evening to escape the fights, the shouts in her house. How ironic you know. I wanted to escape the silence, and she the noise. Then suddenly, she disappeared. Her parents changed towns, or so I heard. The city has maddened many, destroyed many”.
“Her parents married her off before she could finish her studies. Her husband drove her out of the slums, unaware of the bud in her womb. And she watered the blossoming plant, remaining thirsty herself. She laboured till she couldn’t help but collapsed so that her son could have the life he deserved. The little boy grew up to be a great young man who when he knew about the story of his mother’s life, wanted to change it, who wished to let her mother meet a man she considered her father.”
Taking a deep breath, he continued. “He came to meet me a few weeks ago.”
Savita wished that Sahib understood that the onion got her eyes red, that the tears were due to the chopped pink vegetable on the platter.
“I always thought where my lovely companion would be. Who was the blossom in my winter, the daughter I never had?”
Savita couldn’t hold the knife much longer. Her sobs filled in the silence.
“You never told me you brought the letter, Gudiya.”



Sahib- Sir
Gudiya- Doll
Suno- Listen
Tava- Frying pan
Salwar Kameez and Dupatta - Clothes