Kainaz

By Deeksha Sindhu

It was during the second week of January when the sun shone for the first time that year. As it perched on its throne high up and thawed all that it reigned below, a fresh breath of life encompassed all. The pansies and marigolds bloomed once again emerging renewed from their brief slumber, kaleidoscopic roses spread their sweet fragrance in all vicinity, the Mynah birds chirped all day long and the spirits and emotions of all who called Clifford Lane their home; including but not limited to the sour-faced bawarchi from number 12 and the stray tabby cat with a penchant for knocking the painstakingly maintained flower pots which lined the classy, brick walls of all the houses; were incomparably high. 

It was on days like these when Kainaz completely and irrevocably ruled the hearts and minds of all the residents of Clifford Lane. Remnants of her could be found all around the street, from the initials scratched on the sturdy Sheesham tree in the park, to the flowers she had painted on the outer walls of the watchman’s cottage, like the inscriptions commissioned by a monarch commemorating his rule. 

And the most ardent subjects of our Kainaz were indisputably, the ladies of Clifford Lane. Out came the sun and out came the infantry armed with decadent chocolates from far away hill stations, freshly fried namak paras, rich mawa cakes, and a fine assortment of biscuits, enough to feed an entire village. They stationed themselves in the copious wicker lawn chairs of number 17 right under the heavy amalta tree which looked slightly incongruous without its cloak of yellow blossoms in the winter. The tea was spiced and strong, the sugar as pristine as freshly fallen snow and the milk was clotted with cream. Mrs. Khanna of No.5 graciously produced her opulent cards with golden borders and an inlay of colours which were a source of jealousy for all the neighbourhood ladies. Thus armed and prepared, the infantry set themselves to soak in the vital sunlight and began a game of bridge.

“My dear, has the absence of sun made your brain damp? You just made us lose the hand.”

cried the deeply indignant, grey-haired, false-toothed lady.

“Is that so? Oh yes, it is. I have forgotten everything, I am afraid. It has been long since I last played and even longer since I learned.”

“Who did teach you? I am certain they will be disappointed by your current play.”

“Oh, deeply. She would refuse to talk to me for a week and then show up at the most inconvenient time possible at my doorstep wielding a deck and threatening to not leave until she made me fit again.”

“Kainaz? Our Kainaz? Did she teach you? Well, isn’t that something? Why, what a good girl she was!” They all started talking at the same time. At last, she had been brought up, a topic congenial to all present, and suddenly she was all they could talk about. Almost as if she was an invisible member at their table, passing tea and pressing snacks, while indulgently smiling and sighing all sorts of reminiscences.

Kainaz, that sweet, insolent, kind, incorrigible, honest, deceptive girl whom you could not stand nor could hate. Kainaz, whose shining eyes and twitching mouth eloquently and extensively expressed every emotion she felt, who laughed and cried with equal ferocity and could be the worst of pranksters and the most empathetic of comforters all in the spur of a moment.

“Good girl? Ha, Hardly. She used to pluck all the mulberries from my garden. Wouldn’t stop no matter how much I threatened, pleaded, or scolded her.” scorned one lady as she swept biscuit crumbs from her elegant pashmina shawl.

‘Well, yes she used to do that with my litchi fruits too. But then again, she would always bring us the guavas that grew in her home. And how delicious they were! So sweet and with pink innards too!’ This justification did not convince the lady who was now using a cheesecloth napkin to preserve the immaculate nature of her shawl. As if one good deed could make up for a bad one.

“You just have a habit of remembering the worst in everyone.” Pashmina Shawl’s neighbour dismissed her contempt with a flick of a bony hand. “I, for one, always thought she was a marvellous girl.” She enunciated each word deliberately, waiting for the attention of everyone at the table. “Remember how she started that community library by placing those cardboard boxes with their faces lying horizontally, atop each other. I remember it so clearly, her mother told me that the girl had given more than half of her books to encourage others. She even went door to door asking us to do the same.” This was testified enthusiastically by more than half of the company. Pashmina Shawl had no choice but to quell her contempt. 

“She was always an ingenious girl. Warm-hearted too, when she wanted to be.”

“That’s true enough. I haven’t seen creativity rivalling hers in all my years. She used to bombard me with all of her fanciful lands and detailed characters and elaborate plotlines whenever she saw me. Sometimes, I would get so engrossed that I would forget what I was doing and listen to her for hours. Once I ended up burning the curry I was making for some guests because she started narrating an outlandish story, about this parallel dimension in which everything seemed perfect for everyone the way it was, but it was a way they were stopped from achieving more and deluded into never wanting to either without even knowing it. The only person who realised this predicament was a young girl because no matter how hard her basketball team practised, or how well they played, they always lost the game and were always satisfied with losing it too. The odour of burnt koftas lingers in the crevices of my kitchen still.”

This resulted in a short reverie where everyone tried to think of something intellectual to say, maybe a dry observation or another rich anecdote. Everyone drew a blank and in the end, the silence was broken by the lady who was older than her house as she carefully sipped her bitter tea. 

“She did put on airs though. Did not have an iota of humbleness in her. Hubris, through and through.” “But she got better with time! It’s realisation and correction that matters, not past immaturity.” The old lady frowned, narrowing her eagle stare on the speaker of the above defence, in a way that communicated that contradiction to her statements was neither usual nor encouraged. “But she did have certain idiosyncrasies that put me off.” The latter woman hastened to rectify with a deep blush spreading over her features.

That was certainly true. Kainaz had a habit of mirroring qualities she saw or read in characters, and thought to be smart. Quotes were jotted down in a cramped hand on snowy white pages with pitch-black ink and thrown out verbatim during playground conversations. Body gestures and language were duly copied, sometimes to a slapstick effect. 

One summer, when the sun had locked everyone deep in their homes, Kainaz went to see a Shakespeare play. She didn’t understand it, and by that virtue, hated it. Her eyes glazed over and her mind went off on an unrelated tangent drawing out the possibilities of a zombie attack right then and there. But that wouldn’t do. So she bought his plays, and an expert’s guide with comprehensive notes and read Shakespeare again and again until she understood it. By the end of one month, she was fluent in Elizabethan English and enjoyed it too. Not wanting to waste all this hard work she decided to start incorporating her newfound vocabulary into everyday speech.

It started simply, with some old-age slang and phrases. When those led to awe for her smartness she decided to go a step further. She went to the grocery store and asked for a pack of eggs as if she had just walked out from a scene in Hamlet. Old Mr.Danavashi laughed till his cheeks felt sore and had tears streaming from them. He then gave her a pack of free chewing gum. Even to this day, he dissolves into fits whenever someone asks for eggs (which is fairly often), giving him a reputation of eccentricity not quite deserved.

“Airs are tame when you compare them with the other things she did. She was half wild. Went around throwing rocks on people whenever she felt like it.”

But this wasn’t completely true. Kainaz had only done that twice. 

In a street brawl between a rogue gardener and the watchman, to her utter delight, a ten-year-old Kainaz had heard language as colourful as an orchard and had been privy to a moment of sheer rage in which the gardener threw a jagged piece or rock at the watchman. No great harm was done; the inhabitants of Clifford Lane made some rather unsavoury remarks about the working class and how modern times had wrenched the good from people, the gardener left and took up a job in a circuit house in some outlandish town and spent the rest of his days doing nothing just as he wanted, and the watchman suffered a minor contusion which did not excuse him from his duty. Later on, Kainaz would paint flowers on his watch cottage walls in her brightest colours while thinking that the greatest gift had been bestowed upon her by the forces above. The child Kainaz saw throwing rocks as a fatal weapon, one to be used only in the most sacred of wars. 

Only two occasions came warranting such a severe action. Once on Cherry from down the street when she tried to drown the mangy stray kitten with broken teeth Kainaz had gotten fond of. And second, when that horrible Donny would not stop singing that new Bon Jovi song. She had been cured of the habit by some sharp reprimands and a smart slap on the wrist.

“You can’t forget when she brought down the jewellery stand at Dinshaw’s. Or when she snapped at Mrs. Kalal in front of everyone at that midsummer party. I didn’t think she had any malice in her before that ”

This was again slightly exaggerated. Dinshaw’s was an elegant gift shop that practically had a board screaming expensive luxury along the red one which said ‘Broken items are considered sold’. It boasted opulent eggshell and powder pink coloured walls and pastel interiors with legions of scented candles, satchels, and fancy pens. The jewellery stand was made of white metal and had necklaces and earrings dangling from it like fruits on a ripe tree. Kainaz had brought it crashing down after she accidentally backed into it while trying to stop her fractious cousin from crashing an ornate vase. The vase remained whole, none of the jewellery was damaged and the insolent cousin had the grace to look vaguely guilty. The only tangible damage was a sprain in Kainaz’s ankle. 

And in the midsummer party, the good Mrs. Kalal had proved herself to be quite a menace, with pointed remarks meant to pass over everyone’s head which were obviously understood by everyone. When Kainaz had bluntly asked her how many dull things she could say in a day, everyone had felt serene satisfaction at seeing Mrs. Kalal’s humiliated face as she tried to play it off with a sheepish smile, despite feigning outward anger.

The truth is that Kainaz’s long absence and her considerable distance from the vicinity of Clifford and its residents made her true nature and history, and that of the events she caused, become somewhat expendable- like a vaseful of wildflowers cleverly gathered and arranged, which you take the likeness of but always make slight alterations in your creation, some small, some considerable, moving a stalk from here to there, changing the colour of one flower or the design and make of the vase, till you get what you think is the best version and the original has been almost obscured from memory.

But distance also brought fondness. People feel love the most after it has left. Thoughts wander in front of the altar and hospital walls hear sincere prayers. The sun is lamented during summers and yearned for in winters. The line separating love from regret and contentment from longing is indiscernible, if it exists at all.

People feel love the most after it has departed, or in this case, its source. Kainaz’s absence had prevented her from getting entangled in the web of contempt spun by familiarity. There still were vicious barbs and taunts and jokes all at her expense, but they didn’t contain spite, only familiarity which gives the licence to use someone as your source of jest. But all her faults, which used to be dissected and discussed with relish, the dark, hurtful pronouncements about her inevitable fate as a burden, all of it got lost somewhere over time and buried by separation.

And Kainaz had many faults. The only mistake she did not make was staying on in Clifford, in the comfort and familiarity of her only home. By leaving she had aided in creating for herself a constellation of remembrance, both conscious and otherwise. 

The flowers she had painted with inexpertise and goodwill, the jamun tree she had sown which bore sickly sour fruit for periods shorter than its length during summers, the community library she had set up in the park which was still of many advantages for the edification of the neighbourhood dilettantes, the games she had contrived in her fanciful mind and taught to her friends who taught it to their siblings who taught it to their school friends who taught it to their cousins, all of these were lingering legacies bearing her name. Her life had become a cup that had overflowed and spilt into those around her.

“And where is she now? She doesn’t even write. It’s like she has forgotten all about us.” the voice betrayed a tiny hint of hurt.

“Who knows? The last time she talked to my daughter, and that was a good one year ago mind you, she had quit her paralegal job and was teaching classical piano somewhere in - I forget the place’s name. I am forgetting everything these days. It has begun to worry me a bit.”

“Why don’t you get a check-up? Go to my doctor, now she is a wonder.”

And so the conversation continued, drowning out the songs and lamentations of the birds. Laughter was carried out by the fresh breeze, the tinkling of china was as frequent as the swaying of the shrubbery, until the sunset, on the day, and on Kainaz, for the nonce.

By Deeksha Sindhu