Flowers on a wreath

The sun was beaming right thought the cracks in the window. Mr. Sharma tried to open his eyes, but he was too tired to get up. He closed them again tight, pulled the sheets to his face and slept off again. His sleep was disturbed once again by the chitter-chatter of people and the banging of utensils. Irritated, he got up. It was an everyday story. Charu, their care-taker, just didn’t seem to understand that they need a lot of rest at their age. Nonetheless, she was a lovely girl and did everything to keep them all very happy. Mr. Sharma was looking forward to the day as it was special; it was their new home-mate’s birthday. She had been here for a month, but she had gotten along with everyone so well that they felt she had been there forever. The thought of her bought a smile to Sharmaji’s (as she calls him) wrinkled face. He leaned forward and with weary hands picked up his glasses and carefully put them on.
He got up to do his morning ritual, tea with friends and listening to the morning news. The news was very important today as they would know who won the India v/s Australia match last night. They couldn’t watch it till the end mainly because of their health. India lost again, sighed Sharma ji, Gupta ji also looked disappointed which he showed by slurping his tea even harder. They were then joined by the ladies who had been in the kitchen helping Mrs. Mishra who insisted at making dinner for everyone for her birthday. All other ladies wanted to help her but she persisted to make it with least help from them. The ladies chit-chatted for a while about the family soap they were watching these days and the men joined in. It was one thing that everyone in Anand Nivas did together; they watched the show from 7-8 after dinner every week from Monday to Friday. It helped to keep them occupied and there were no fights over channels at least for that one hour.
Mr. Sharma got up to go to the kitchen to keep his cup, as he picked up his stick to walk. He was a not a very short man but due to age his back had bent a little. Though he was old and weary, he was fitter than most men in the house. He was also the most respected one in the house and the one who maintained the entire budget. Whatever money that the children sent to their parents was kept with Sharmaji, and used to buy all the household groceries and medicines. Some of them have been there for a long time, the oldest was Anand-bhai, who was attaining his 90s and was bed ridden most of the time. People there used to cry and miss their homes, but Mr. Sharma had never cried. He was certain that he had done all he could for his son, who in turn returned back his gratitude by keeping him away from his new bungalow and sent him money to show how he misses his father. His son came to visit him once, but Mr. Sharma refused to meet him, and he never came back. But he was always empathetic towards others when they were upset.
Mrs. Mishra was in the kitchen cooking paneer and dal for everyone. She was a good cook and was taking care of the amount of oil and masala she puts so everyone can eat it. She was a short woman with orange brown hair, due to regular use of mehendi. She had milky white skin and big brown eyes. Everyone in the home thought that she would have been very pretty in her childhood, which when someone told her she blushed. Her wrinkled skin turning a little pink was still a treat to the eyes. She was sad today as it was the first time she was spending her birthday away from her house, the house that her husband made with his mediocre salary and hard work. She did not show her sadness to anyone fearing they might feel bad as well. She also missed her deceased husband today, but she was used to living without him by now, as it had been 18 years after his death. She wrote a diary entry every day, ever since she came in the welcoming refuge of Sharmaji’s “Ajar-Ghar”; they were basically daily letters addressed to Late Mr. Mishra. Sharmaji walked into the kitchen while she was still lost in thought, and he asks in an authoritative tone, “what is for dinner?” Mrs. Mishra smiled and in a polite tone says, “Find out yourself in the evening.”
The arrangement of cake, balloons and the gift was done by Sharmaji himself, everyone kept teasing him, and later tried to help him, but he wouldn’t listen. He knew she liked black-forest cake, he had asked her that a long time back. He remembered. He also remembered the face of her speechless son when he was asked the same question. However, he was most proud of the gift he had arranged for her: a shawl. He knew she would look nice in it. She came in the room in the evening while all old people were ready to surprise her. They chanted the birthday song to a surprised and wet-faced old lady smiling from ear-to-ear. She cut the cake and loved the shawl. She wore it the entire night. The food she cooked was amazing, everyone liked it. It reminded Sharmaji of his wife’s cooking. After the dinner, most of them went back to their rooms, but the rest sat there and chatted. Sharmaji and Mrs. Mishra went out and sat in the garden outside, while Sharmaji switched on his favorite tape recorder which had old Hindi songs. Both of them sat there talking and singing along with Rafi and Lata.
It was the first time in her ‘life’ that someone planned a surprise for her, ever since Mr. Mishra passed away… the word ‘life’ took a new meaning there for her… a meaning unknown to any human outside the little world in that house. I just can’t wait to write tonight’s letter, thought Mrs. Mishra as she smoothed her hands over the embroidered borders of her new shawl.