A Lot Like Sunshine

As soon as Ona saw a "House for Rent" poster on the surface of a rust-eaten iron door, she got down from the bus. Trotting across the road gently, she pushed the iron door with whatever little vigour she was left with. Inside, there was a small garden in front of the house. Ona took a pause and grinned. She was witnessing the colourful mirabilis after a long hiatus, and she considered it as a good omen. Perhaps, it was signalling the end of her quest. Perhaps, it was giving an inkling that she would not have to struggle further in order to survive. Basking with the thought of hundred other possibilities, Ona kept on carrying herself towards the house. Each time she put a single step forward, the flowers started spilling more smiles at her.

               The house was small with two tiny rooms in the vicinity. An old lady was sprawling in an easy chair placed on the porch adjacent to the house. The summer sun was generous enough to shower her with all its resplendence, and the pale-pink wrinkled skin of the old lady visibly turned scarlet. As Ona approached her, she realized that the lady was dozing off with her spectacles on. And a freshly printed newspaper was lying on the floor. The lady was possibly making an attempt to read the newspaper but it slipped from her sleepy grasp and fell on the floor. There was a plump cat sitting on the newspaper making a scrumptious Saturday-feast with a big fish. The fresh print of the newspaper got smudged as the cat viciously licked it while scouring the fish-meat from the fish-bones. A minute later, it finished its meal and meowed for the first time. The meow woke the lady up. Ona felt awkward for being the cause of her disturbance, but tried to make an affable face and said, "Good afternoon! I had a talk with Manisha regarding paying guest accommodation." The old lady hardly paid any attention to Ona. Instead, she gave the cat a formidable stare and shouted, "Wrong paper, Kitty. You just used the wrong paper. Buzz off." After receiving a scolding, the docile cat rolled the newspaper putting all scavenges inside and left the place, gingerly carrying the roll in its mouth.

                  "Good afternoon! I'm Mrs. Grace Morrison," muttered the old lady, when Ona had her turn to get noticed. The lady continued, "Manisha left today morning. She had told me about you." Ona tried to put a smile on her otherwise inconspicuous face, albeit her heart started pounding. Finally, that inevitable moment came when she'd be asked questions, and she'd have to travel the vulnerable maze once again - whether to answer honestly about her caustic past or to camouflage it by hook or by crook. She had faced the consequences of blatantly disclosing all the truth earlier. It never did help melting anyone's heart. She knew that her truth would rather be used to scrutinize her further, jeopardizing the possibility of getting a place to live in. For last one month, she had been ransacking to get a house. Every time she had remained honest with her identity, her piteous cry for getting an accommodation had faced a cold rejection.

                    Ona mustered some courage and asked Mrs. Morrison, "Should I start staying here from today itself?" The old lady seemed quite delighted with her proposal and requested Ona to visit the backside room. While making an effort to lift herself up from the chair, Mrs. Morrison started frantically looking for her walking-stick. Agile Ona lent a helping hand in lifting her up, even though Ona's cachectic muscles were not good enough to be of any help. Mrs. Morrison gripped her walking-stick firmly and stood up saying, "Now, have you realized why I quickly agreed with your proposal to live here?" Ona turned inquisitive eyes on her. With a chuckle, Mrs. Morrison said, "You'll get to know the reason when you'd experience the increasing frailty of old age, my girl. Loneliness is a peril. Except for Kitty and my garden, I've no other interest to live my life." As they both started walking across the porch, the stick of the old lady constantly made a rhythmic tick of wood. Ona slowed down her pace and put her feet forward syncing with that rhythm.

                There was an elfin charm about Ona. With short dishevelled hair, a dirt-smeared loose t-shirt and an equally dirty stonewashed jeans, she wore a tomboyish schoolgirl look. Mrs. Morrison found her casual nonchalance a reason to open up. So she made a candid confession, "Initially, I was looking for a live-in housekeeper like Manisha, but suddenly I realized that I'm not left with much money, so I can't afford to pay anyone anymore," she laughed crinkling up her eyes, "then I thought of renting out one room to a family, so I put a `House for Rent` sticker on the main gate, but then, I had to alter my mind when I saw Manisha to leave me after getting married." Ona spontaneously said, "Yeah, I saw the poster outside." Mrs. Morrison continued, "If one has a family, she doesn't pay much attention to an outsider. The moment Manisha revealed that you're unmarried, I made my decision to choose you." Ona flaunted a triumphant smile. Suddenly Mrs. Morrison took her specs closer to her eyes and studied Ona with a vague curiosity, "How old are you? What do you do?" Ona was prepared to get grilled with all sorts of inquiries under the sun. She promptly answered, "Thirty-four. I work from home as a freelance writer." Mrs. Morrison showed a sigh of relief, "Oh great! You're just the perfect kind I've been looking for. I was looking for a writer indeed. And staying indoor is not what I get to see a lot nowadays. We can spend much time together!" Ona was overwhelmed by the old lady's simplicity. She hugged Mrs. Morrison and gave her a word of firm assurance "Sure, aunty." The chat almost came to an end when they both ended up reaching the backside room where Ona was supposed to stay. Mrs. Morrison got her leftover queries confirmed, "Ona - is that your name? Or is it Ana?" Ona confirmed the spelling, "It is O-N-A." Finally, Mrs. Morrison reverted to a serious demeanour, "Well Ona, now that you've got your room, I want you to make an advance payment within this week. And make sure you submit the photocopy of your ID proof soon. I don't want to scream in the middle of the night discovering an impostor living in my house." With a facetious smile on her lips, Ona nodded her head in an affirmative gesture, "Yeah, sure, I'll do that."

                  It was quite a large room with a single bed covered by a floral-print sheet, one window facing the backyard, and a dilapidated wooden dressing table with a cracked mirror. Ona approached the mirror and caught a glimpse of her reflection. She visibly lost half of her weight and her tattered t-shirt was hanging loose. She meticulously studied the walls and the ceiling. Those were all painted in different shades of yellow. Had it been two years ago, Ona would have hated such a gaudy colour. Now, any colour would just make her day. Two years spent in a colourless-unfathomable abyss made her unflinching in the face of all adverse colours, be it merely the colour of those walls or the colour of other bigger barriers in life like hatred or injustice.

                  She quickly threw her large duffle bag on the floor and could not restrain herself from jumping on the snug bed. It was time to feel the fluffy foam mattress right after two years. Nevertheless, she could not lie down for long. Her shoulders started aching. There were two pancake-thin pillows lying in one corner of the bed. She grabbed those, made a pile and propped up her head on it. In last one month after emancipation, Ona realized that incarceration had not only left a scar on her psyche but also had left a concomitant effect on her body. Two years of huddled sleep on a bare floor made it difficult for her muscles to get rid of the accustomed austerity.

"Onaaaa… Come here!" the voice of Mrs. Morrison screamed out, shrill. Ona leaped from the bed, opened the duffle bag, pulled out her purse and hurriedly approached the other room.

"Here you go," said Ona handing over the cheque and the copy of her passport to Mrs. Morrison. After a quick glance at the cheque, Mrs. Morrison asked her whether she was done with lunch or not. "No aunty. I'm coming straight from Colaba. I left in the morning after having breakfast. Now, feeling peckish," revealed

Ona, with an unabashed smile. "Colaba? That's quite far from here!" Mrs. Morrison looked up at Ona, cocking her eyebrows. "Yes. I was staying there in one of my buddies' house. She's leaving India soon and before that, she wants to sell her house. So she was in a hurry to push me out," Ona's face showed a lost, forlorn look. "So your friend was a saviour of yours. What say?" asked Mrs. Morrison, almost sounding like Hercule Poirot. Ona sensed a chill crawling down her spine as she mulled over Mrs. Morrison's words. Was the old lady aware beforehand how Yukta had helped her? What if she'd come to know about Ona's prison-episode someday? Where would she go to live if abandoned by Mrs. Morrison? A multitude of questions started swirling around her cerebrum. "Oh yes perhaps… like Manisha was yours!" Ona replied, masking her fear with an apparent bonhomie and an effulgent smile.

             Mrs. Morrison entered the kitchen and came out with ubiquitous chapatti, palatable egg curry and two large bowls of steaming hot soup. While munching the meal, their course of conversation took an interesting turn. "Manisha was no saviour of mine, but you can become one!" said Mrs. Morrison, with terse finality. Ona mused in silence. Suddenly, a beam of afternoon sunlight filled the room with warmth, and the glossy paper-scrolls of origami dangling from the ceiling started throwing sparkles over the walls. Ona discovered a framed photo of a charming young man, stuck on one of the walls. And a couple of shrivelled balloons were hanging from different corners of that photo-frame. Before Ona could quench her curiosity about that framed person's identity, Mrs. Morrison interrupted her with an intriguing question, "What do you actually write?"

The crux of that question, with hindsight, had the following twisted backdrop stapled to it.

Ona had worked as an engineer for almost a decade before the calamity of imprisonment devastated her fate. Staying behind the bars, she jostled her way to help hundreds of illiterate under trial inmates, who had been vying to file their petitions since long. When those inmates lost all hope after facing the petulance of some money-minded churlish lawyers, Ona went through their cases and devoted herself in writing writ-petitions on behalf of them. Hence, on a rudimentary level, that was the weird way how her unpaid writing career initially evolved. After emancipation, she stood alone - jobless, parentless, human relationships all faded out. The only known countenance upon which her eye rested, was Yukta, a prison-reform activist. With an urge to restart earning a livelihood, Ona sought help from Yukta. Yukta, who had previously worked as an online content writer for several years, suggested Ona that she should try it, and made her sign up for various freelancing websites. With the slightest struggle, Ona earned thirty thousand bucks at the end of the month. Precisely, that was the moment when she designated herself as a professional 'writer'.

"Well aunty, I weave contents. The contents conjure up a wide range of grotesque ideas conveyed by my array of grotesque clients," replied Ona, after breathing a theatrical sigh. "Rubbish! I want you to become a raconteur, my girl, not just a writer. I'll give you my old diary to have a look at my series of anecdotes. Let's see, if you can edit my work and mould them into a captivating book," said Mrs. Morrison, devouring the egg yolk in a greedy gulp. Her words came as a big surprise to Ona. She asked, "Do you write too?" "I used to, but I never thought of publishing my life. I've always shied away from divulging my stories to anyone, but now, I want my stories to be heard," Mrs. Morrison opened her mouth to unleash her desire as if there had been something clandestine in her life. "Do you think it's too late now?" she asked, this time opening her mouth to divulge a single edentulous area surrounded by a set of thirty-one mottled teeth. Ona smiled, "No matter your age, it takes a lot of guts to tell all your stories to people. I guess, more than me, you'll be able to decide which story to keep and which one to crop out. So, you'd be a better editor than mine." "I want to keep everything real and unedited,"

Mrs. Morrison came with a stern warning, "you can only trifle with the minor details, but you've to make sure that you'd keep the substantial narratives intact." Ona agreed to her proposal. They finished lunch and parted ways to their respective rooms. After partaking of the bounty of a full-fledged meal, Ona quickly succumbed to a nap.

              The evening passed by quite imperceptibly, as Mrs. Morrison became busy with rummaging through her antique bookshelf. Finally, she discovered her large dust-covered diary and pulled it out from the shelf. She recalled how endearing that bookshelf had been to Mr. Morrison, and how he had used to tease her for her fastidious cleaning habits. Many a time, she thought how proud Mr. Morrison would be of her if he were alive today to see that she was on the way to publish a book for him. As time made her more forgetful of everything that had happened in the past, resuscitating the blurry-old memories now did not make her burst into tears anymore. But in the end, every time she tried to cobweb her conscience with the gratuitous threads of 'forgetfulness', she cried inside with a regret that she could not save Mr. Morrison's life, even though he had saved hers.

             Mrs. Morrison was jolted back to reality from her hazy maze of memories, when Ona woke up and stepped into her room, asking for the dinner. Dinner held a little conversation as both were in favour of watching a soap on TV. However, Mrs. Morrison did not forget to hand in the diary to Ona, before she was leaving the room.

              As soon as Ona started flipping through the old yellow pages of the diary, she decided to finish going through it within one night, skipping her sleep. The pages were written in a crabbed hand, perhaps in haste, but no matter how difficult it appeared, Ona became adamant to decipher every word. It was the early night when the sweet fragrance of night-blooming mirabilis was flowing in her room from the backyard, and she got engrossed in the tale of romance between Mr. and Mrs. Morrison. Gradually, as the night turned denser and heavier with the rustling of night creatures and the hum of the night insects, the latter narratives turned ghastly. After reaching almost half the diary, just when she felt something grisly was afoot, one word just stupefied Ona: "Murder"! Ona kept on reading all the sentences twice, thrice or even more times, before the emotion shrouded behind each and every word sank in. She realized how similar Mr. Morrison's fate had been with her own fate. A spur-of-the-moment's anger towards someone else's hatred or cruelty had made both of them the worst victims of the travesty of justice.

          
             The Sunday sun arose next morning, with a flurry of clouds muffled around him. Mrs. Morrison was sleeping like a log. She opened her bleary eyes when the cat, all seven pounds of squirming flesh, climbed onto her belly. Squinting into the sunlight streaming in from the open window, she discovered that she was now the weary possessor of a pounding headache, and at some point, had managed to lose both a tooth and a spouse. Never in her entire life, she had ever sensed the absence of her lost tooth, but losing her better half had been literally like living with the worse half of her own self. Had she not been blessed with a husband like Mr. Morrison, she would have become a victim of rape. The molester could do nothing more than uprooting one tooth of her. Mr. Morrison had saved the dignity of his wedded wife in the most chivalrous way by killing the demon like Lord Ram had killed Ravan to rescue Sita in the 'Ramayana'. She could never forget the last time she had visited the prison to claim the body of her deceased husband. Mr. Morrison, whom the entire society stigmatized only as a criminal with a record of second-degree murder, had undergone a cold, unceremonious burial. Without a grudge, the chivalrous man was still flaunting a chaste smile pasted to his face, peeping from the framed photo placed on the wall.

"Get down from my belly, Kitty" chided Mrs. Morrison, grabbing the tail of her feral cat. Kitty jumped off her belly and sat on the bed, wobbling its furry tail.

                Ona entered her room bearing a tray comprising tea and cookies. She had been feeling an urge to share her past with Mrs. Morrison since the time she had finished reading the diary. Before she could open her mouth, she was asked, "Wasn't my story more miserable than yours?" Ona kept her head bowed down. Mrs. Morrison smiled, "You're more than just a single mistake you've committed in life." Ona smiled wide open, a lot like sunshine.