A Happy Place & Other Stories by Vineetha Mokkil

Author:Vineetha Mokkil
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FICTION
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2014-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

ORANGE COUNTY

BLUES

Dear Ama,

The villa I live in has glass walls. Not brick or solid stone like the houses we know. The walls are a special kind of skin – thin enough to let the light in, tough enough to keep the world out. All the houses in Orange County are built this way. Their reflections shimmer in the waters of a giant, egg-shaped pool (in which only the residents of Orange County are allowed to swim) on sunny days. Security is tight; the guards are always on the lookout for trespassers. If they catch anyone trying to sneak in, I’m sure they draw their guns and shoot the intruders dead. Orange County is a fortress – nobody gets in or out without permission, not even the wind and the rain.

Does this sound like a make-believe place to you? A picture I painted in brooding shades of grey? I wish … I wish this place would crumble to dust and let me come back home where the mountains loom and the breeze carries the hum of monks’ chants towards snow-capped peaks. In my dreams, I see the two of us walking down Dharamshala’s narrow, winding streets. The prayer flags flutter over our heads like rainbow-hued birds. The sun glides out from behind the clouds. The mist lifts. We head to the market, past the gates of the Dalai Lama’s temple where tourists and devotees line up, past a row of cafes teeming with the Sunday evening crowd. We take our time, stopping to chat with friends and neighbours on the way. There’s no rush; the market will stay open. After our weekly vegetable shopping is done, we drift towards old man Tsering’s momo cart. He has set up shop in a corner of the market. ‘Eat, Tashi,’ he says, giving me a toothless smile. ‘Fill your tummy, child. You’re all skin and bone.’

Was that just a dream? Then why does it feel more real to me than the life I live at the Dhawans’ glass house in Gurgaon?

This house has too many rooms. There are empty bedrooms on all three floors, high-ceilinged halls and lounges nobody bothers to step into. Babaji has the ground floor to himself. His room has a four-poster bed and a couch angled close to it for his nurse to sleep on. A stroke has left Babaji paralyzed and his right arm and leg are of no use to him. He can’t sit up straight or feed himself. His nurse helps him get around and bathes, feeds and wheels him to the park in the evenings when the weather is fine. I’ve been to the park with them a couple of times. Babaji gave me a crooked smile when we got there. I think he likes my company – must be a change from spending all his time with Rana, the morose nurse.

The floor above Babaji’s is home to his eldest son and daughter-in-law. They have a gym up there, a den to screen movies, a bar, a billiard room with a pool table and a dining room that can seat more than a dozen guests.

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