Stair House
Tanvi was surprised that Sheel had eaten all the vegetables on his plate. He had indeed, but only because he was not paying attention. As he washed his hands and looked at himself in the mirror, his eyes glazed over again. He was thinking of when to get back to his stair house. Would she still be there?
Sheel stepped into his rubber slippers and opened the door slowly, trying to be as noiseless as possible. He tiptoed halfway up the stairs and paused to listen for any movement. There was none. As he crept along the wall and peeped around the bend, he saw a light purple sari and tanned old fingers. She was still there. Faced away from Sheel, leaning against the wall, she was looking at some black and white pictures. One of her bags was lying open on the lowest step. She had some food in it.
“Can I get my ball—?”
Sheel had startled her; the pictures fell from her left hand, and she almost lost her balance on the steps. Terrified by his own actions, Sheel ran down and vanished into the house.
As he stood shaken, bent over the seat of his sofa, he saw the inviting profile of his mother who was chopping something in the kitchen.
Should I tell her? She probably already knows. Or does she? No way, she does not. I can tell her later. Maybe.
And why did I run away from there? I was the one who frightened her. Was I being a wimp? No… just a little scared.
But why is she there? In my house?
Sheel opened the door, just enough to see through the crack. There was one of his tennis balls lying in the hallway, right next to the rangoli that Tanvi had painstakingly drawn that morning at their doorstep.
She heard me when I said ball. Is she gone? Did she put the ball here and go away to her house? Maybe she was frightened that I might bring my Mom along.
The woman pulled a banana from her bag; then, with a quick glance at Sheel’s peeking head she went back to peeling it.
Sheel gathered his courage and tried to casually re-stack his papers lying on the landing. He looked up at her. Sitting on the topmost step, she was eating her fruit. He leaned forward timidly and extended his left hand to pick up his cardboard square when she stopped chewing and turned towards him.
“I just wanted my sign,” said Sheel. She went back to eating.
He noticed a faded tattoo on her right arm. Just above her elbow was a tightly knotted band of red thread. The knot was old, worn; tiny white strands protruded from the band. She looked more aged than he had thought. Her chin jutted out prominently from below her puckered lips and tiny gashes of wrinkles were strewn all over her tanned skin; her eyes were sad and caved into a dark pocket. There were remnants of brown in her white eyebrows, and the ridge above her nose between the eyes was flat, almost non-existent. The sleeves of her orange blouse were long and three-quarters down to the crook of her elbow; the color did not match her old-fashioned chiffon sari that had some purple flowers printed on it. Sheel couldn’t figure out whether it was because of her chin or her eyes, but she had a perpetual pondering look, enhanced by shallow creases that ran across her forehead.
There was silence as Sheel started playing with his tennis ball.
“How did you know about this stair house?” he ventured, still bouncing his ball around. He turned to her. “Do a lot of people know about this place?”
She finished her banana and placed the peel next to her. Her head quivered involuntarily; she seemed ill.
“Did you bring food with you?” asked Sheel. “You know… my Mom asked me not to eat here.” The woman’s eyes were still. She lifted the peel and pushed it inside her bag.
“You can eat if you want. I won’t tell Mom.”