The Homing Pigeons... Read Online Free Page A

How do I care? I am still only thirty-one.
    I cross four doors on my way to the stairs that lead down to the dining room. Only a few close relatives remain. Vimal’s elder brother is sitting at the head of the table. He assumes the role of the head of the household. It’s funny how he has suddenly stepped up to that role when I never saw him when Vimal was alive. Breakfast is served – a lavish spread with at least twenty dishes to choose from. A five star hotel would’ve been proud of this spread. Yet, they find faults – “The Bhatura’s have too much oil”, “The Paranthas don’t have enough filling”.
    Relatives are like that; they can never be happy. One part of me wants to kick them out of the house, but another part of me, the gentler and more patient part calms me down, “They are going to go in any case, and this might be the last time you’ll ever see them.”
    Meera and I haven’t had the conversation yet, but it is an unsaid understanding that I will need to move out of this house. I suspect that it won’t be long before she brings that conversation up.
    The waiters bring in a fresh round of Bhatura’s and leave them on the massive dining table. The dining table can seat sixteen, and even then it doesn’t fill the room. The room was designed for the Nawabs to hold extravagant feasts and even with the nineteen men and women who sit in the room today, it looks bare. Till about a year ago, there were three people who would sit on this massive table, almost like mice in a grain store. Soon, there will be no one. The house will be locked up unless Meera chooses to rent it out or sell it.
    Vimal bought it just after our marriage from a struggling Nawab. The Nawabs are infamous for maintaining a lavish lifestyle. His days of royalty were over when the palatial building had been sold at a pittance. Vimal was stingy but he never lost a bargain. Even after the makeover to remove the signs of decay, there is always a leak somewhere that reminds me of the neglect this mansion has seen.
    The relatives make a beeline to their waiting cars. I am not fond of them but out of courtesy, I go down to the porch to see them off. I have to see them leave through the tall gates to believe that they will not come back. They’ve been around for nearly a week and I am at wit’s end in trying to keep them amused. Today, my nightmare will end.
    It is bright, sunny and pleasant as the early days of winter are. I call out to Ghanshyam, the servant, who scurries over. He looks hassled and I can empathize with him. He has been as traumatized by the relatives as I have been.
    “Ghanshyam Bhaiya, chai,” I say to him. He nods and rushes back to heed my command. They make me feel like a tyrant who will whiplash them if they don’t run away when I ask for something. I sit on the wrought iron chair on the lawns, trying to relax my frayed nerves in the warmth of the mid-day sun.
    From where I sit, I look at the house that is at least a hundred years old. The architecture is fabulous and looks even more beautiful by night when the light strings that adorn the house are lit. It is quite a sight but it took a fortune to cover the mansion and the lawns with lights. I hate this extravagance for it is so unnecessary. Yes, I can afford it, but somehow my middle class upbringing refuses to understand. At heart, I am still the poor three-year-old girl, who was happy to wear a new dress. I can’t forget those days, for they are too severely etched in my memory. It was one of those rare occasions that I had worn new clothes: A soft, pink frock that had small red flowers on it. Even though the heavy sweater was going to cover the flowers, I loved it. My mother had worked by night to have it ready for today. I was turning three and there were preparations for a birthday party. As it turned out, the party was really an overstatement. It was a small event that had four children if you didn’t count my brothers, who were five and seven. There