The Bane of Weeds

  It was in the warm summer of 1980 when I received the first tangible reminder of the life I'd left behind. A letter from my mother.

    Dear Arvind,
         I hope you've settled down well. Is life in the States truly as easy as they say it is? I'm not so sure whether it's worth it, myself. I'd take Simmi chachi's¹ hot samosas² and masala chai³ over those fancy burgers any day.
         Anyhow, is your new job faring well? Are you eating right? I wouldn't want to see you waste your body away over the junk they call 'food' there. Also, do you think you'll be able to visit any time soon? Knowing that you're so far away can be worrisome, especially since you're alone. Of course, if your job doesn't let you, I'll understand.
         Beta⁴, some important matters have been brought up to me recently. I think it's best if we talked about it as soon as possible. The nearest Friday after you receive this letter will do. Remind me, alright?
    Love,
    Amma⁵

  The last few lines earned my derisive scorn when I'd initially read them. No doubt 'important matters' meant 'the talk'. Back home, marriage was something that happened in a boy's early twenties, after he'd gotten a stable job and a degree. Here I was, twenty-eight and financially stable, but without any strong desires to follow in that path.
  Amma's friends must've gasped in horror when they found out.
  Glimpsing through the letter again yielded a different emotion. Guilt.
  Two years had whizzed by in a blur. A tumultuous ride, if anything else. Caught up in the chaos of surviving in a new world, home had slipped my mind entirely. Calls were all I had to remind me of her.
  And all Amma had was me.
  No wonder she'd found the incentive to pick up a pen, given her hatred for writing.
  I could sense her loneliness through that piece of parchment, despite her not making an overt reference to it. It was visible in the words that were written and crossed out, along with the few lines she'd scribbled.
  So, I called. In between earfuls about how international calls were expensive ("The first Friday of every month, wasn't that the schedule?") and that I was too careless with cash ("What if I was busy?!"), I managed to get the news across.
  I was going home.
  Throughout the while I'd booked my ticket, packed my suitcase and endured the sixteen hour flight, that thought was a source of comfort and excitement. But now, standing in the terminal of Palam airport, I could only think of one thing.
  Delhi was hotter than I remembered.
  However, heat did little to dampen my enthusiasm. I briskly hailed a rickshaw, which drove me through narrow dusty lanes, by-passing or skipping most signal posts, while avoiding harrowing collisions. Was it divine intervention or the driver's honed skill, I could not say.
  Before long, I was standing in front of the house I'd missed. Much like the neighbourhood, it had withstood the test of time, bearing little to no change. Wondering if Amma's appearance had remained the same, I opened the gate.
  I didn't even have to knock.
  A blurry ball flung the door open, almost knocking me down with the force of a little tornado. The scent of almond oil invaded my nostrils.
  "I'm back," I wheezed.
  "Welcome home."
  To my relief, Amma did not ask too many questions or bring up the discussion she was anxious to talk about. After lugging me and the luggage in with the efficiency of a muscular porter, Amma and I sat together in the living room. We conversed about casual topics over a cup of tea and biscuits. Flitting from one subject to another was a comfort one couldn't afford when using the telephone.
  It was also something I'd taken for granted.
  For the next few days, I thoroughly enjoyed Amma fussing over me with home-cooked meals, sweet words and her insistence to handle all the work herself. Soon enough, I decided to lend a helping hand around the house. It was too tough to laze around while watching her toil.
  Figuring it was best to assist her with chores she now found difficult, I chose to tend to the garden.
  "Just be careful, Arvind. It's a bit overgrown."
  That was an understatement.
  The mini jungle in the backyard was no longer the immaculate bed of flowers and vegetables it once was. Creepers and climbers of all sorts had grown in a haphazard manner. Patches of dead grass and growing weeds bestrewed the ground. To top it all off, I couldn't see a single sign of the furrows which had been dug in the soil.
  I rolled up my sleeves. "Leave it to me."
  The morning sun beat down on my back as I pruned the garden. The only thing that kept my interest during the gruelling process was my own knowledge about the various plants there. It was hobby of mine, collecting random data on things that held my interest. For a short period, that had been weeds.
  Once Amma was done with her task of sweeping the house, she came to watch me at work. Every now and then, I'd tell her a fact about a plant I'd notice. And she, with a nod, would say that she already knew about it.
  "Did you know that the bavachi can–"
  "Help fertilise the soil? My aunt used to tell me that. Leave a few of them in."
  It was maddening.
  But when I finally laid my eyes on one plant, I knew that I found something worth sharing. Yanking it out from its roots, I drew her attention to the light purple flowers growing on it.
  "Nowadays, people are trying to use these as drugs."
  Amma shook her head with wisdom. "Pointless. It's too harmful. If anything, datura should only be used for show."
  I gave up.
  Lunch was a subdued affair. I was suffering from a sore body and bruised ego. But my mother seized the chance to broach a subject I lacked interest in.
  "So... beta, I think it's time–"
  "To repaint the house?" I interjected with forced optimism. "Absolutely. The old coating is peeling off."
  After thwarting her subsequent attempts in a similar blunt fashion, she admitted temporary defeat.
  "When are you visiting Reshma didi⁶?" she asked.
  "Maybe today? Didn't give a thought, really."
  Amma shook her head. "You should. She used to ask me about you so often."
  Reshma was one of the people I'd been close to as a child. She'd joined the colony by marrying the deceased Pranav Agarwal, a wealthy businessman. The couple had been the talk of the neighbourhood; a young college major wedding an aged divorcee caused rumours to spread like wildfire, making Reshma the prime target.
  Gold-digger, dishonour to her home, poor educated wench were the kindest of the insults whispered against Reshma. But my six year old self saw only her petite frame, soft eyes and demure smile, after she'd initiated a chat. Like the others, Amma too had been cautious, until she'd exchanged curtsies with Reshma herself. Soon enough, she was taken by the graduate's warm politeness and charm.
  Within a few more interactions, they'd built up enough trust for my mother to leave me in Reshma's care, while she left for work. After school, I'd follow Reshma chanting the mantra "Didi, didi", as she did the dishes and laundry. She didn't complain once about the added responsibility thrust upon her, and was truly dismayed when I left for boarding school two summers later.
  I rubbed my chin, reflecting over Amma's words. Perhaps it was time to visit an old friend again.
  Strolling through the neighbourhood that evening was refreshing. I observed the newly paved roads, the renovated stores, and the houses and shops, that had been constructed in my absence. My feet led me along familiar paths and turns, till I reached a large white bungalow.
  Agarwal Mansion.
  While Reshma was a source of warm emotions and fond memories, the house wasn't. Perhaps it still carried traces of its original owner, bearing a sense of palpable melancholy. Or maybe it was my inherent flair for theatrics.
  The few times I'd talked to Mr. Agarwal has made my skin crawl to this very day. The stench of smoke and spirit he emitted used to make me me retch in his presence. Reshma didi was careful to ensure that I wasn't around him alone, but that didn't lessen the oddity of the encounters I had with him.
  Once, I'd seen him standing at the door, as though waiting for someone. He didn't acknowledge my presence when I'd entered the house, but returned chatting amiably to himself.
  Another time, he'd locked himself in a room to cleanse himself of evil spirits. Word on the the street was that the man had played a practical joke. But I'd seen the sheer terror on his face, beads of sweat sliding past his temples as he fled upstairs.
  Most mysterious of all was when he spoke to me, two days before his death. He'd beckoned to no one in particular, his blood-shot eyes unseeing. His translucent skin was stretched taut against his skull; he'd become a mere shadow of himself.
  "They," he rasped, "Are after me."
    I was convinced that he'd lost his mind.
    Our neighbours believed otherwise. Reshma had established a rapport with many people around her, and those people were certain that it wasn't she who'd done wrong, but Mr. Agarwal. It had to be the effect of cigarettes and alcohol. The man clearly did not know how to handle stress. Or his relationships.
  Looking back, it was funny how quickly people shifted sides. 
  His demise by heart failure surprised no one. The funeral arrangements were simple; people gave their final respects to a man they barely knew, and life went on.
  While the Agarwal house was a dark reminder of the eccentric man's death, there was still a lady living there. As one of her first acquaintances, I couldn't let a little history spook me.
  I rapped on the giant brass knuckle.
  "Yes?"
  A middle-aged woman opened the door, taking me by surprise. Similar to Amma, her face was lined with wrinkles, and her hair was streaked with bits of grey.
  In that moment, I saw just how much I'd missed out on for the sake of education. She was no longer the youthful woman in my memories, but she still possessed a meek attitude — her head was bowed, and she wore the same modest smile.
  "It's Arvind, Reshma didi. It's been a while."
  Her jaw dropped. "You're all grown up!"
  I chuckled.
  "Excuse my silliness! But time passes by so fast!" Reshma blurted, faded cheeks turning pink. Before I could dole out an appropriate answer, she rushed on. "Where are my manners? Come in!"
  The interior of the house was a stark contrast from what it once was. The walls were coated in a bright hue of pale yellow. The furniture in the living room seemed richer; perhaps it had been replaced. Apart from a portrait of Mr. Agarwal hung from a nail on the wall, there were no signs to show he had lived here. Were it not for the woman in front of me, I would've doubted my recollections.
  "Have a seat, Arvind," Reshma cooed, gesturing to the cushioned teak sofa. "I'll get you some chai."
  Ah... a common starting point to most rambling conversations in existence. Tea. Served even in the hottest of months, the most humid of seasons — a ritual followed without reason, without fail.
  My answer wasn't really necessary. In India, one doesn't say 'no' to an offer of tea. Reshma walked down the hallway and turned left. If memory served right, that was the kitchen.
  The antique grandfather clock ticked away seconds, each one making my palms sweat. I had no excuse to explain my crass behavior, having not properly exchanged pleasantries in... a decade? Cheeks burning, I tried to reason with myself. I had spoken to Reshma didi in the streets when she went shopping, and during the functions I attended. It was this house, the experiences I had here, that drove me away. I was just... a frightened kid.
  Getting to my feet, I rubbed my sweaty palms against the fabric of my jeans. I paced around in an attempt to soothe the restlessness I felt. The clock continued ticking. I carried on pacing. Humming sounds emanated from the kitchen. But the uneasiness did not fade away.
  Left with nothing but my own thoughts in the living room, I sneaked outside through the side door for some fresh air.
  In front of me laid a beautiful stretch of greenery, one I recognized as Reshma's garden. People said that it was something she'd created all by herself, right after moving in with Mr. Agarwal. I could recall her tending to the garden as well. There was one time I saw her with a basket, collecting vegetables to cook dinner. Cabbage, most likely.
  "Reshma didi, do you still grow cabbage?" I yelled.
  There was a pause. "I never did, Arvind," echoed a faint voice within the walls. Then, a laugh. "I'm the old crone, but you've got the bad memory."
  I frowned. The mind wasn't an accurate source of information regarding past events, but I felt confused. The image flashed in my mind; a basket crafted from twisted twine, with tufts of fresh leaves hanging over its edges.
  It was too vivid to be fake.
  With a chortle that came out as a choke, I responded. "Ah... children forget stuff like that. But didn't you grow some vegetables in that corner? I think... it was garden peas? Or brinjals?"
  I heard the splash of running water, followed by the rustle of a cloth. Short quick steps resounded against the tiled floor. In an instant, Reshma was standing next to me. "Now, which corner were you talking about?"
  I lifted an uncertain finger. "There."
  She laughed again. "Wrong again. I did try growing tomatoes, but they simply withered away."
  I gazed at her dainty form, baffled now more than ever. Was I just imagining things?
  I closed my eyes, trying to recall more of that image. The corner with a few young plants, Reshma hovering above them, the basket on her arm, and then. . .
  A sickening shade of lilac.
  My blood ran cold.
  All of a sudden, my feet were glued to the ground. I froze, acutely aware of my heart hammering against my rib cage.
  "Well then, tea's ready. Are you coming?"
  With every ounce of nerve I possessed, I turned to face her. Dark eyes bored straight into mine, as her lips curved into a familiar upward tilt.
  A shiver ran down my spine. Swallowing the bile rising in my throat, I inhaled a deep breath.
  "Yes. Of course."

1. Chachi - Aunt
2. Samosa - A fried dish with savoury filling
3. Chai - Tea
4. Beta - Son
5. Amma - Endearment for one's own mother
6. Didi - Elder sister