Breakfast with God

Farida Khala’s house was beaming with some ten-twelve happy children, enjoying a lavish breakfast in her sunny lawn. These children lived in the slum, across the residential colony where Khala lived. Every Friday, Khala organized little breakfast rendezvous for these children. Gudiya, also from the same slum would lead her friends to Khala’s big house, religiously, every Friday.

To an onlooker, Khala would seem to be a benevolent, charity loving rich old woman. Only few knew that only a year ago Khala was a very different person. It was a day during the previous monsoon that Gudiya’s and Khala’s destinies were coupled in a strange manner to bring forth a renewed understanding before Khala, about God’s works in everyone’s life.

Farida Khala was 85. Time had painted brown strokes of age on her face. Her hair had turned rough and orange from the cheap henna she used. Baby, her full time caregiver would randomly run the henna brush through Khala’s hair, which made the white and orange dry strands look as if they were yearning for some water and oil.
Her wrinkled hands trembled since she suffered from the Parkinson’s.

Farida Khala was a mother of four children, who were all settled across the length and breadth of the globe. Farida Khala stayed in her large mansion in older part of Lucknow. She could not walk very far but took small walks in the garden. Companion, she had only one; her 50 year old, full time nurse, Baby, a plump, curly haired lady who loved spending her time watching all the cookery shows on TV but hated the kitchen. Farida Khala did not bother much, as long as she had someone in the house; someone who would provide her some insipid food and water and call the doctor, if needed.

With time, Farida Khala had grown to be more and more irritable. She was irritated at almost everything. She was irritated at the cricket ball which would land into her garden from nowhere; she was irritated at the kids who came to the rescue of the ball and said, “Sorry daadi” with naughty smiles. She was irritated at the cacophony of sparrows near her window pane; she was irritated when it was too sunny or too clouded.

She, however seemed to be at utmost comfort with Baby and her ways. She did not seem to mind the sound of the television endlessly shouting at the furniture of the house nor did she mind the deafening silence Baby maintained. If Baby communicated, it was a one way communication, which was, television to Baby, that’s all. Baby’s auditory faculty was extremely well trained and verbal faculty was not used most of the time. She never missed any call from Khala but seldom said anything.

Farida Khala was so used to her loneliness that she was blatantly irritated whenever some neighbor dropped in. She only excused Philip, Baby’s middle aged nephew who visited them once in 3-4 months and slipped some cash into Baby’s palm and supplied them with sufficient stock of oats and pickled fish. The fish, Baby consumed in no time and Oats remained the staple diet of Farida Khala; who did not seem to mind even that.

Farida Khala was an ardent believer in the presence of God, which she justified by questioning Allah for the loneliness bestowed on her, for the big mansion and the silence she guarded and the youth of many of her neighbours she envied. She, like most of us, did not know what God looked like. Her God was framed within a wooden photo frame, inside which a matte cloth was decorated with the words, “Allah, meherbaan” done with a cross stitch with wool. Khala herself had made this decorative piece when three of her children went to the school and she was pregnant with her fourth. She knew, Allah was meherbaan.

But now she was not sure. So the grudging Khala spent her days in solitude while the city of Lucknow hustled and bustled outside her mansion.

It was a typical July morning, that particular day. It had rained during most of the previous night. Khala was supposed to catch the bus to Rae Bareilly, for attending her nephew’s nikaah. The bus would leave at exactly nine and Khala wanted to leave early. She would rather wait at the bus-stop than face a last minute rush.

Khala had her early morning bath and was ready to leave. She looked pretty and happy. Baby had coloured her hair quite carefully, this time.

Baby was ready too. She finished the chores and shut the windows. The wind was stronger than usual and Baby anticipated a storm. Grey clouds gathered in the sky. Baby decided that they should leave early, so she telephoned their regular taxidriver, informing that they would leave early.

Khala and Baby locked the door and were about to sit inside the taxi, when Khala’s eyes fell on a small girl, shivering and leaning on the gate. Her eyes said that she was very hungry. Her tattered clothes revealed her bony body. The sand coloured hair showed that they had not been washed since long. At the first instance, Khala’s instinct was to shoo her away but then she stopped and asked her why she was standing there, “Kya hai? Yaha kyun khadi hai?” Khala’s voice was very harsh. The girl only said, “Bhookh lagee hai” and her eyes were almost wet. “Arey, hamaare paas kaha khaanaa milega, hum baahar jaa rahe hain” Khala said in return. But it was Baby who spoke now, “Koi baat nahi, saamne waale chai kee dukaan se bread-chaai khilaa dijiye, Khala”. Farida Khala wondered why the otherwise silent Baby had to open her mouth now. But the taxidriver also agreed with Baby and nodding his red-turbaned head, he added, “Haan haan, khilaayiye, bachchi bhookhi hai, Uparwaalaa dua dega”.

It was purely out of her want to save her face that Khala bought a loaf and some tea for the girl. Along with the little girl, Khala and Baby also had some tea and offered some to the taxiwallah who thanked them happily and finished the tea in two sips from a saucer and was again ready on the steering.

Khala waited and watched the little girl, instead of rushing to the bus stand. She watched the little girl, dipping her bread into the steaming hot tea and quickly putting it ito her mouth to prevent the bread pieces from falling into the tea cup. Khala could not help but remember her youngest son who, similarly, relished his bread dipped in tea, when he was a little boy and was always clung to his Ammi.

“Kya naam hai tera?” this time Khala’s voice was soft and wet.

“Gudiya. Chai peene dijiye pehle!” the girl said sternly.

Khala let out an affectionate laugh.

Having finished the bread, Gudiya wiped her lips with her tongue making a ‘Ptchh’ sound, clearly indicating how much she had enjoyed the breakfast.

“Arey, chai kitna kam diya hai” she accused the tea-stall owner, looking at the tea-cup which was now only half full.

“Arey nahi, tere bread ne sok liya hai..” Khala explained.

They had not noticed the rain fast approaching them. Sudden sharp showers fell on them and the wind caught speed.

“Kaha rahti hai? Baarish aa gayee aur hamein bhi jaanaa hai”

“Aage jhopar-patti mein. Meri ma inta bhatti gayee hai. Main ghar jaatee hoo, daur kar chali jaayoongee” and the little girl, now satisfied, ran across the road.

Khala and Baby did not waste any time to proceed towards the bus stop. The rain made it a bit difficult for the driver to make up for the lost time.

By the time they reached the bus stand, the bus had already left.

A disheartened Khala now was very very angry. The gloom lingered throughout the day and the two ladies did not speak to each other. They seldom, anyway, spoke to each other but this time Khala’s silence disturbed Baby. No television cookery shows entered the living room that day and so the house was, all the more drowned in gloomy silence.

The next morning, as Khala sat by the window with her cup of tea, she wondered why she was so unfortunate. Why she had missed so many buses in her life.

Just then Baby entered the room and handed over the newspaper, folded near one particular news item. Baby indicated at the news-item, urging her to read it immediately.

Khala, curious, read the news, aloud. “…..The bus carrying forty passengers from Lucknow to Rae Bareilly, met with a severe road accident near Sultanpur in which 30 of the passengers lost their lives and ten others are fighting for life in the Government hospital…..”

Khala did not have the courage to read any further. Like a lightning, a frightening thought crossed her mind; what if she had not offered that unknown little girl the breakfast, what if she had reached the bus stand on time and boarded the bus!

The wooden frame on her wall seemed to look at Khala while Khala also looked at it with tears blurring her view.

Allah is truly meherbaan!