That yellow and white frock

A month-old bride, I was soaking up some sun in one of the winter afternoons at my in-laws’ place. I counted the score my bat earned each time it hit the ball that belonged to my husband’s nephew. A moment arrived when the ball could no longer escape the force I was hitting it with. More than its having fallen on the mound of the plot next to our house, the fact that two tiny bodies had grabbed it became the reason for my worry. I stood in front of the one whose palms had tightly held the bright pink-colored object I had so badly wanted. My determination to retrieve it loosened a bit at the sight of the size of this snatcher. He wouldn’t be any older than two and a half years. I saw the gleam and excitement with which this toddler’s eyes were shining. Pure joy was spread across his and there was a smile exchange with a similarly sized companion standing a meter away - happiness, the tacit possibility of their found treasure. I exhibit the reason I extended my right hand and interrupted that sweet smile of their irreproachable act. 

The two palms holding the ball at the center of the belly suddenly shifted the maximum they could, at the side of his waist. A decline of the left-right swiping head accompanied. I don’t remember if the arrival of their scolding mother or my constant requests had fetched me the ball. I also wasn’t sure how much of my promise that soon I will buy them another one, were they able to understand. Not soon but several days from then, I bought a bright neon green ball to the exact place which their mom had shown me as their home. A synthetic black colored floral printed cloth tied across the entrance as a curtain- a space- and then- the room which housed a strength of two-three children, her, and her then absent husband. 

The walls, the furniture, the objects as if all colored in the same color of gloom, greyness, dirt, poverty. Though I remember milk boiling in a vessel. 

That lady was frail, always clad in a saree. I gave the tiny boy the ball- a promise I had made to myself more than the mother. I give the ball and in return, I express my desire to paint her. I had needed families, children, mothers, and personal setups. I expected my gift to have at least fetched me that right. I didn’t hurry even after her consenting. For several days, I painted her eldest daughter along with the other ones in the vicinity. The children would know how to freeze and look at me in the eye. Sometimes they would come in clothes that I had wanted to paint a bit more, capture and reproduce a bit more. I would finish, ask their name, and put it on the right corner of the sheet. I started to know the little one’s elder sister in a new light-her identity as the one who often wears this yellow and white frock.  They would say pooja in unison after I had drawn her- perhaps a little bit more when she wore that yellow and white frock. 

Perhaps, it was a donated one- the yellow part with its slanted laces falling loose on her trunk indicated. The yellow end of the sleeves covering more than her elbows indicated. The whiteness of the white had long disappeared into the pale dullness it had now permanently embraced. The frills and lace had also become softer. The hair was a centimeter longer than shaved and the feet had visible coatings of the soil her running bare feet had affixed upon portions of themselves. The photo where her feet artistically spread out like a fan, clearly shows the contrast. The black round of the eyes is still big enough to hide the white and tell- the maturing is still away. Those big round eyes and the puffy sleeves- your image had me wanting to make a doll of this doll. 

“Sister, I would like to paint you one day”

“I would also sit with my mom”

What more could I ask for? She was ready to adorn my frame before I asked for it. Her mum and I agreed for the next Sunday. My priorities to be present with her at our decided moment got replaced by my need to be in bed. ….. My entire family had contracted covid. We heard of illness from all - the families- the relatives- the houses next doors, the locality, and the localities further away. I couldn’t go. Didn’t bother to go. Sometimes, just the thought that it will be spread in the houses of these women and children as well, flashed through my head. Glimpses of that printed curtain, glimpses of those soiled belongings, those bleak grey interiors, that thin body clad in saree, that face of the mother of three- I will paint you all one day. That yellow and white frock- I would stitch fabrics on clay to make a doll of you one day. Maybe I gift it to you. But why should I spoil you with a flavor you never tasted? Why should I disclose that I can animate you? You already have yourself. Let me gift you to me.

I sniff with my eyes inside the walls of a slum hut of the locality I return to, after three months. “Now I am entering their homes. Soon I will click images of that one in her frock from all the angles”

“Didi, Pooja’s mom died.” It took me at least ten seconds to convert that name to a visual that I could identify. That yellow and white frock was Pooja.- Her mother had died. The boy who had wanted the ball, his mother had died. The girl who wore that frock, her mother had died.

There was no mother to be painted. There were no children of hers to be painted. Their house was abandoned, and their father had taken them somewhere I didn’t know.