Get Milk and Eggs - The message was curt.
I was returning home from work when my wife sent this text. I was tired and in no mood to run errands but I didn’t want to return home empty-handed. I also picked up a Cigarette Pack, and a pack of Altoids - a mild pick me up for myself. I was not a regular smoker by any measure and wasn’t sure why I did it, but I had picked it up. Obviously my wife knew nothing of my smoking habit. There were a lot of things she didn’t know about me. I don’t know why people think its a good idea to share everything with their partner. A few days ago, I was scrolling through my Instagram when I came across a video where the influencer was saying that she and her partner were each other’s best friends. I had barfed audibly, much to the chagrin of my wife.
I had reached the fag end of a long-winding Self-Checkout counter, cradling all the items in my arms because I had not grabbed a shopping cart when I entered Target. I noticed a bush of hair making its way in between the aisles of the next Checkout counter. I saw it talk to someone at the end of the line and make its way back. It went back and forth a couple of times. It kept me entertained. It wasn’t until that head changed lanes did I notice some familiarity.
Did I know her from somewhere ?
Where had I seen this before ? Did she always have hair like this ?
Neelambari ?
Neelambari!
Obviously, Neelambari was not her actual name. It was Sana, or Sanya or something that started with ‘S’. What was she doing here, in Arkansas ? In the middle of nowhere. Didn’t she live in California ? Or Colorado or soe place cool. Neelambari and I had studied in the same school. She was a year ahead of me, and at that time was the it girl.
During a school play, she had played the role of Neelambari, a mythical goddess who was revered in local foklore. Her performance was lauded by many, and the name of Neelambari stuck. I still have visuals of the play fresh in my memory and Neelambari’s performance, especially her performance- the ease with which she emoted her expressions, her easy gazelle like movements, so light in her feet! And her piercing blue eyes. It felt like she was talking right to me, even though she was on stage.
I looked in the direction again, wanting to strike up a conversation with her.
She looked very different now. Age had taken a toll on her, or maybe it was living in the States. Her face had matured, it no longer had the child-like innocence that I had in my memory. What was I going to say to her ?
“Hey Neelambari, you probably don’t remember me but I studied in the same school as you. Everybody knew who you were, I still remember your performance as Neelambari. Haha, see in my head, your name stuck has stuck as Neelambari itself.”
Yeah, this was easy. I thought to myself.
I walked past a display of mirrors, and grew conscious of my own reflection. It was quite evident that I hadn't bothered to shave that week; my beard appeared unkempt and scruffy. The dark circles around my eyes had deepened as the day wore on. My belly, too, had notably expanded, making matters worse under the constraint of my T-shirt that used to fit comfortably a few years ago.
I stopped at my track. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea.
I walk up to her, and lean in, “Hi” I tell her in an audible voice.
She turns around to smile at me, and I notice strands of grey hair peaking out from the temples of her forehead. She gives me a hesitant smile, and replies with a small voice, Hi, she says.
“I think we went to the same school - Bharti VidyaMandir, Lakshmipur.” I add, I wanted to give her enough context so that I didn’t come off as creep.
“Oh yeah!” Her face registers a sense of familiarity.
“I was a couple of years your junior". She crinkles her eyebrows together, trying to remember me.
I still remember you as Neelambari”, I add a small Haha at the end of that sentence.
On hearing this, she eases up a little, “Ohhhhhh, yeah!,” she says and mild embarrassment crosses her face.
“I am sorry, And, you are…?” she trails, unable to place me.
“Vishal” I reply and extend my right hand, mostly out of habit.
When we shook hands, I noticed that her hands were incredibly soft, the softest I had ever felt. Maybe she didn’t do a lot of household chores, she was Neelambari after all, and Goddesses weren’t known to do a whole lot of chores.
“So you live here now?” she asks me, making small talk, feigning interest in my life.
“Yes. I and my wife.” I reply as I lift my cradle of stuff resting in my arms.
“We live by Orchard Boulevard, its by the next Exit”. I complete that sentence as if when I invite her to visit, she would know where I lived.
She smiles, and proceeds to make some more small talk with me. I am mesmerized in her presence, the same radiance emitting from her, as it did many years ago, from stage. We continue to engage in small talk for some time, she tells me about moving to US, and specifically here to Arkansas. She tells me that her husband was Staff Engineer at Ceiphel, a Biomedical company with its headquarters here in Arkansas. She shows me pictures of her 3 year old son. I peppered my responses with polite adjectives here and there.
A voice calls out to her from the shadows behind her, and she gestures that she has to go.
“Okay, “ she turns around, “Will see you around”, she says, before walking away.
Her smile. Same as Neelambari’s. It had stood the test of time.
“Bye Neelambari”, I call out absentmindedly.
She turns around, and looks at me with her deep blue eyes, “Its Shwetha”, she hisses without blinking.
After she leaves, I absentmindedly check out my stuff as well, and make my way to my car. It was unusually cold for Arkansas that evening, a chilly wind refusing to bow down, and playing a light whistle. My car was the only one in the Parking Lot, and stood in the middle of an eerie fog.
I settle inside my car, the steering is cold as steel. I turn on the heater, and rub my hands aggressively to warm them up. As I wait for the car to heat up a little, I whip out my phone and search for on Facebook.
“Shwet-
—a Srinivas” it reads, “Legacy page” it says.
A chill goes down my spine. No. It can’t be.
My fingers scroll past the feed to hurriedly, unable to comprehend what I was seeing. I find condolence messages in hundreds. The same face, the same person.
A description reads :
“The Srinivas family are deeply mourning the loss of their daughter, Shwetha, their Son-In-Law, Ram, and their grandson, Pranav in a car accident. They shall remain in our hearts forever”.