This is an excerpt from the first story in the collection, BE A SURVIVOR

The large picture window framed by blooming roses took up the entire wall. Pink button blossoms climbed both sides of the window frame and variegated florets in hues of sunny yellow, deep red, fiery orange and the lightest of blush formed the border along the bottom frame. Right in the middle of this floral trimming on the other side of the glass window pane was a wheelchair. A sky-blue bundle lay crumpled within it. A soft blue wool blanket was wrapped around a tiny birdlike figure; consisting of only skin and bones for Camellia was all of ninety-five years.

Nevertheless, she was a survivor…

The room behind her was hushed. Long ago, it would have rung with the chatter and laughter of a family. Antony D’Cruz had bought this apartment in an exclusive gated neighbourhood and his family came to live here; Camellia, his wife, with Cyrus and Tina, his two teenage children. The four of them made a carefree yet close-knit family. Then Cyrus married Rose. The gentle Goan girl added grace and beauty to the family picture. The apartment was not large; just three small bedrooms. So, the family fitted in tightly but happily. A few more months down the line, the fit became tighter with the arrival of Peter, a cherubic grandson.

Observing the contented chaos inside the apartment, an acquaintance had once remarked, ‘Don’t you all get under each other’s feet? And on each other’s nerves?’

‘No, we don’t.’ Antony had replied quietly, ‘It is good to have loved ones close by. You never know about what the future may bring. Our children may move far away. It is best to enjoy our closeness as long as we can.’

And it happened exactly as Antony had predicted.

Cyrus got a job in Dubai and took his family away. Tina married an American and moved to distant Chicago. Few more years went by. Antony and Camellia were slowly habituating themselves to connecting on phone with their children, when tragedy struck. Cyrus, Rose and Peter were killed in a car accident.

Gradually, Tina became busy with her own family and career in Chicago. She would still find time to call her parents but that was all. Distance ate up the conviviality of Antony and Camellia’s family life. Silence reigned in the once-noisy apartment as the old couple mulled over their loneliness.

Still they were survivors…

Antony had always been fond of gardening. His father’s home in Goa had a small garden where he used to potter around since he was a boy. But this upmarket apartment hung above a paved courtyard. The large picture window in their living room overlooked a narrow avenue that circumnavigated the gated neighbourhood and was used by the residents of the community. Nevertheless, Antony decided to create a rose garden. He attached a long metal basket to the outer edge of the large window and lined up flowerpots on it. He would spend his mornings busily digging and planting, weeding and cutting, grafting, pruning and watering his roses. He nurtured them as if they were his family; Cyrus, Rose, Peter and the missing Tina. Very often, he would eagerly explain to Camellia the gardening techniques he experimented with and she would try to drum up enthusiastic responses despite most of the terms going over her head. In due time the large window became a gay picture with colourful roses nodding at them.

One morning, Antony found a tiny plant sprouting in the pot of his cherished rose variant, the Black Prince. It was not a rose sapling…only a humble hibiscus. He pulled it out by its tender roots and replanted it in the soil by the side of the avenue across their apartment. It flourished there, growing strong and tall. Its roots dug deep into the soil and dark green leaves began to festoon its brown branches.

It was on a hot June dawn that Camellia awoke to discover Antony lying still and unresponsive beside her. Calmly, she had knocked on the door of the next-door neighbours… a young couple. They came over and took charge. A dazed Camellia silently sat through the tedious process of bidding farewell to her dear Antony who had already departed. Next morning, Camellia was exhausted with grief gnawing at her constantly. However, she slowly stumbled to the familiar easy chair by the window and collapsed into it. Looking tiredly through the window, she noticed the green bush across the road. That morning, it was spotted with bloody gashes; dark-red trumpets of hibiscus. For some vague reason, her heart felt lighter.

Camellia whispered to it, ‘I am a survivor…’

This picture window became her view to the world. She would sit beside it from dawn to dusk; winter, summer, spring and even in the dark nights when sleep played hide and seek. Early in the morning, she would watch the fitness maniacs jog past followed by the newspaper boys. School buses honked at the gates… harried mothers would tug at reluctant children burdened with heavy bags dragging them to the gate like lambs to slaughter. An hour later, cars would growl past, coaches make dusty halts at the community gate, motorbikes roar off taking men and women to their work cages. Peace would prevail for a while as the neighbourhood commenced its easy ramble through the day. Maids would ring bells, mistresses chat on doorsteps, vegetable vendors warble their wares. Through it all, Camellia would smile and nod conspiratorially at the hibiscus bush. It was clothed deep green in winter but pinned ruby brooches all over itself in summer. In some obscure manner, the bush became her companion just like Antony had been.

When her daily girl from the ‘Homecare for Seniors’ would arrive, Camellia was forced to leave her window and the hibiscus bush to submit to all the fussing by the girl. Freshly bathed and fed, she would go back to her watch. As the morning rolled on, housewives would stroll by shopping, chatting, laughing By noon, mothers would be dragging children homewards after plucking them off bus stands. Afternoons became drowsy and Camellia would often drop off in her chair. Evenings, she loved to observe the sun dip behind the buildings and the shadows lengthen over her hibiscus bush. Deep into the night, sometimes she would return to peep at the dark fingers her bush spread towards the moon. This hibiscus bush had become dearer to her than all of Antony’s roses still framing the window.

After a while, the easy chair was replaced by a wheelchair. The daily girl had to take on more housework. After cleaning, washing and cooking, when she left for the day, Camellia would be happily alone in her quiet house again. She would curl up inside herself. All her conversations were in her head. However, there were times when a strong urge to hear her own voice would overwhelm her. Then she would talk to the hibiscus bush…her friend.

‘I am a survivor, you know…,’ Camellia would tell it.

Early on a summer morning, Camellia noticed a new actor on the world stage outside her window. He was a tall, bald man in a kurta-pyjama. She noticed him approaching her hibiscus bush. Even as she frowned trying to remember who he was, the man casually plucked two full-blown red flowers from the bush. Camellia gasped, how dare he? From her bush? Nonchalantly, the man walked off towards the stairs that climbed above her apartment.

Then she remembered the daily girl telling her about the new tenants who had moved in above her home. ‘Bengalis…’she had sniffed, ‘…they eat fish. The whole passage upstairs smells. It floats downwards even to the front door here…’

But why did he take flowers from my bush? Camellia was nonplussed. Nobody had ever plucked flowers from it. Not even the neighbourhood children. The red trumpet blossoms would wither, fall off and carpet the ground beneath. Every day the bush would replace the fallen flowers by unfurling fresh blooms.

Soon, this abuse became a usual morning occurrence. The man would appear with a basket, pluck as many flowers as he could reach and carry them home. Camellia was agitated.

‘Why does he pluck the flowers?’ she asked the daily girl.

‘I think these Bengalis offer hibiscus flowers to some Goddess that they worship,’ the girl replied, vigorously shaking out and folding the bed clothes.

‘But why does he take my flowers?’ moaned Camellia.

‘Does he pluck your roses, Ma’am?’ the girl asked, concern wrinkling her brow.

Camellia shook her head miserably. How can I explain to her why the hibiscus flowers are more precious to me than the roses? I don’t know myself…

Every morning Camellia would dread the man’s arrival. He was always in a kurta-pyjama ensemble; white pyjamas with a blue, orange or brown kurta. At first, he would only pick the blooms within his reach. When the bush could not replenish them as fast as he tore them off, he began to pull down the higher branches and pick the flowers off from them. His consistent rape denuded the bush. Slowly, no more flowers brightened its green foliage. Camellia became more and more disturbed as days went by. A slow fire began to flicker inside her. Anger flashed like lightening whenever she saw this ruination repeating itself right in front of her eyes. She wanted to fly at the man, scratch his face and violently push him and his basket to the ground. Her fingers would tighten on the wheelchair handles, her bony arms tremble as rage filled her chest to bursting but she could do nothing…nothing at all to prevent this daily catastrophe.

One balmy morning, it was hot and stuffy in the apartment. The man had just committed his crime and left. By now the hibiscus bush did not show a single bloom for the man had even begun to pluck the tender new buds from it. The daily girl noticed Camellia’s pale face and suggested they go out for some fresh air. She tucked the soft blanket around the old lady’s small frame and wheeled her out on the path. People who passed them smiled at Camellia; some stopped to speak to her, but Camellia was too listless to respond and soon they passed on.

Suddenly, fingers softly brushed against Camellia’s cheek. She raised a hand to her face and encountered smooth, crisp leaves. She looked up, right into the emerald branches of the hibiscus bush that spread like a canopy above her. Its twiggy fingers were caressing her gently. A slight flurry made the leaves bend down towards Camellia as if entreating her.

‘Be a survivor…’ she whispered to them. ‘Whatever you do…be a survivor.’

The daily girl pushed the wheelchair ahead and the bush was left behind.

Next morning, Camellia woke up later than usual. She had slept well during the night. As she wheeled herself to the window, she told herself, ‘At least, that monster man of a rapist would have come and gone by now. Thank God, today I will be spared the horrifying sight.’

However, when she peered through the window, her gaze was riveted by a rippling crowd on the road passing her apartment. Unfortunately, they blocked her view of the bush and Camellia sighed. Most of the people gathered outside were residents of their gated community. They seemed unusually excited. By what? Camellia craned her neck to see more. All of them seemed to be looking downwards at some object which Camellia could not see. She knit her brows wondering what it was all about, when the mass shifted, and a khaki-clad uniformed man came through. He had an air of authority and waved the curious onlookers back. When they had stepped away, Camellia noticed a pair of legs flat on the ground; white pyjama-clad legs. Her gaze moved further…the kurta was blue…it was the bald rapist lying supine under the hibiscus bush. He didn’t seem to be breathing.

Inspector Hegde looked down at the body. From the information proffered to him by the animated residents, the victim was a tenant living in the apartment on the first floor just opposite. Apparently, his wife and he had moved in only three months ago. Nobody really knew much about the couple other than they were from Kolkata. The Inspector bent down. A series of tiny punctures were visible on the palm of his right hand. A long line of these holes climbed his forearm and also appeared around his throat. A few were on his face, too. They were like pinholes made by a thickish pin and deep enough to ooze out blood that had dried around each perforation. Only the one in the centre of his throat, more or less on the location of the epiglottis, close to the trachea was a larger hole; as if somebody had dug the pin in and twisted it around.