Manisha joined the countless travelers in their wait for the ghostly blanket of Delhi’s winter fog to lift. Her father’s pet adage: man proposes fog disposes, described her situation perfectly. She picked up another newspaper and resigned herself to a long wait in the crowded airport lounge.
“I’m sure he has a hidden agenda behind his philanthropy,” Manisha said aloud, as she stared at the prominently displayed photograph in the newspaper. A local politician and a homeless man, both with frozen smiles, clutched between them a folded blanket at the entrance of a rain basera— a winter shelter.
“Why do you think so?”
Manisha turned, startled. The man in the seat behind her smiled.
She rustled the newspaper. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sick of these politicians on the prowl for a photo op.”
“You hold very strong opinions for a student.”
“I’m a journalist.”
“Hi. I’m Deepak Hassan.”
“Wow, that’s a very secular name. Hi. I’m Manisha Arora.”
“Secular?” He laughed and rose to sit beside her.
She wondered if she should find another place to sit. No point cozying up to strangers, though he looked quite harmless. “Sorry…I thought Hassan was…”
“Don’t worry. You’re not the first person to be mistaken. Hassan is a district in Karnataka where my family comes from.”
“Sorry, lots to learn. I’m on my way to Bangalore and my first job with a newspaper.” He was probably in his late thirties and just one of those software geeks. And anyway in her field she was expected to talk to strangers. “What do you do?”
“I’m an architect,” he replied.
The announcement flashed on the TV screen indicated a further delay of two hours. “I’m hungry. I’ll get some coffee and snacks.” He walked towards the crowded restaurant. She peered over his hand baggage and read the name tag: Deepak Hassan, Winter Cabin Architects. It stirred a memory and she rifled through the newspapers again. She found the heading, ‘Winter Cabin architect wins Innovative Design Award’ above a small write-up and a grainy photograph. She proceeded to read the full article.
“Am I also guilty of hidden agendas and photo ops?” Deepak was beside her again.
Manisha looked up, embarrassed. “No. Of course not! But I’m intrigued. This article says you specialize in the design of warm winter cabins and subsidize these cabins for the needy and—”
He handed her a cup of coffee and a samosa. “Please have the coffee and samosa.” His face wore a distant look as he sipped the coffee.
“Thanks.” Manisha relaxed. The fog had settled around the airport like a cloud. A few hundred strangers were suddenly ensconced in the warmth of new friendships brought on by shared discomfort. Loud conversation and the aroma of food swirled around the crowded lounge.
“Doesn’t the fog make you claustrophobic? I can’t see a thing outside.” Manisha waved her hand towards the dark windows.
“Sometimes a good fog lets you look within,” Deepak said.
Manisha shrugged. “I think I’ll have to grow older to seek wisdom that way. Right now I’m dying to see the world outside.”
“Manisha, what do you write about?”
“I love writing short stories. But I suppose for now, I’ll write whatever my editor assigns me.”
“I have a story, if you want to listen. My wife and daughter call it, ‘The magic of four blankets and a fog story.’”
“Sure, it sounds interesting.”
“There was one winter: the coldest and the warmest in this eighteen-year-old’s life. He was an only child and his parents doted on him. They were lecturers in a local college.”
“Is this somebody you knew?”
“A good journalist listens,” he said with a faint smile. “It was the summer vacation before his twelfth standard. His parents were visiting relatives for the weekend. And he tried weed—marijuana with a friend for the first time.” Deepak grew silent.
Manisha took their disposable plates and cups to the dustbin. When she returned she found him still lost in thought. Manisha shook her head. “I can’t believe you took drugs.”
“You’re very sure this is my story.”
“Isn’t it?”
“In a few weeks I was hooked. My head in a cloud, I was sure I’d kick the habit whenever I wanted. My unsuspecting parents believed my altered behavior was ‘studies related stress.’ One day—October 20th 1995 to be precise— I rode this friend’s power bike into a stationary truck and… almost died.” Deepak stretched his legs, folded his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. “My parents struggled with huge medical bills and shock as they put me on my feet again.”
Manisha looked around the lounge. What stories lay behind the unassuming faces? “Yes, go on. I’m glad this story has a happy ending. Your award is proof.”
“My parents had to get back to work. Most of their savings and leave had gone into the two operations to save my legs. They took on extra exam duties at the University that December. I was off drugs, but wasn’t to be trusted alone at home. The only place that would have me, no questions asked, was my grandparents’ house in Hassan—‘obscure-god-forsaken-dump’ in my teenage lingo.”
Deepak folded his arms across his chest. “I was cold, really, really cold that night. After an interminably long train and bullock cart ride we reached the village enveloped by the fog which rose from the river Hemavathi. I didn’t care. I would have walked into a black hole willingly. My parents returned to Bangalore the same day. That night I lay awake for a long time on a thin mattress on the floor hypnotized by the patter of raindrops on the roof tiles. Cold draughts of icy air and rain sneaked in through cracks and loose tiles. Outside the wind moaned as it rushed through the trees. I shivered—both from the withdrawal effects and a terrible fear that seeped from my heart to my skin. I stared at a bleak future.”
Manisha felt the world around her grow silent. “And then?”
“The next morning I woke up and struggled to sit. I felt like I’d slipped under a warm rock. My two uncles and grandparents had put their thick blankets over me. Four patched blankets had cocooned me on the coldest night of my life. I felt an immense gratitude I was inept at expressing. They were all bustling around. Thankfully, they were people of few words. They never asked me what I’d done or why. I sat in the kitchen, mesmerized by the glowing firewood in the kitchen stove. I’d never tasted anything as heavenly as the jaggery flavored hot coffee and buttery ragi rotis as in that smoky warm kitchen. Mornings and nights we sat around the wood stove in the kitchen which also served as a fireplace. Every day I watched the sun rise over the river, and the fog in my head lifted a little. What a fool I’d been to play at the edge of a precipice.”
“How long did you stay?”
“I extended my fortnight stay to a month.” Deepak stood up and stared at the huge windows. The ghostly silhouettes of the planes on the tarmac were barely visible. “Having nothing better to do, I hung around the house and noted improvements it needed. I repeatedly walked the entire length and breadth of the village and studied decrepit buildings and made notes. Did you know these picture-post-card scenes of villages and mountains actually hide immense hardships? That’s what I saw when the fog in my head lifted. Red-tiled cottages with curly smoke rising from cute chimneys, emerald green fields, and peaceful cattle grazing in meadows…every single scene had people toiling hard in the background. On the day I was to leave, I proudly handed my suggestions for improvement to my uncle. He gave it a thorough read and thrust it back into my hands saying, ‘Why don’t you do it yourself?’”
“You got home, aced the final exams and got to study architecture?” Manisha asked.
“You’re an optimist.” Deepak laughed. “Actually, nothing so spectacular happened. I passed the final exams. It took a couple of attempts before I cleared the entrance and earned a government seat to study architecture.”
“Did you make those improvements in your grandparents’ cottage?” Manisha felt a warm glow of anticipation.
“Yes, I did—my first and most successful project. My parents live there now.” Deepak collected his hand baggage as the announcement to board the flight came on.
“Yippee, the fog has lifted.” Manisha jumped up, picked her bags and joined him in the queue that had already formed. “Thanks for sharing. Now I know whom to ask when I want a warm winter cabin.”
“Sure. Good luck with the job, Manisha.” Deepak entered the plane, found his seat and waved to her.
The plane gained height and the clouds obscured the view. Manisha closed her eyes and dreamed of picture-post-card villages.
*********
This story was shortlisted for the final round of #AWinterInStoryland Story Writing Contest. Read other shortlisted entries here.
Being a contest entry, this story has been posted without any edits.