© Divya Dubey

Extract from 'Turtle Dove'

Scene one. She is six years old. It's a Sunday morning. Her mother is sitting at her antique escritoire in the study room, writing. Sheets upon sheets of her manuscript are scattered all around her-random thoughts granted a free rein. Words swarm to her like children to a birthday cake. She writes with a neat hand, her letters forming oblique sans serif slashes in an orderly series. She is a great raconteur. She is usually happy when she has produced a good chapter. She is happy today one can make out since she is smiling pleasantly. She makes herself and her family cups of cappuccino periodically. She plays with her daughter often. Mummy is always writing. Her study room with her escritoire is her little hidey-hole in the mad world she lives in.

Her daddy stands distractedly on the terrace, facing the study room. His unrestrained imagination is exploring the miracles of the universe. A hundred wild horses gallop in his mind this way and that, seeking foreign landscapes and fresh adventures. He has put up his easel and placed a blank canvas upon it. He is holding a big, fat brush by his teeth, as he blends bright yellows, reds, and blues on his palate with another, thinner one. He splashes the colours on the canvas haphazardly. To his curious daughter, they look very appealing, but she cannot identify what he's painting. She cannot identify his paintings on most occasions.

'What do you think this is, love?' he asks her fondly after completing every picture.

She stands before the completed work, finger on her chin, wondering, and says the first thing that comes into her head.

'A cloud, daddy.'

'A snake, daddy.'

'Daddy, that's me!'

And each time, daddy chuckles and claps his hand, and says, 'Yes, you're right, my darling!'

She is squatting near her mother. Her mother is concentrating hard on the narrative she is supposed to conclude within the deadline she has set for herself. Her fidgety publishers have been hankering after her. Daddy has a hard time keeping them off the phone. There are never any calls for him; only for mummy. She knows daddy is waiting. Daddy has been waiting for years.

Her mother plays no favourites. She is a well recognised figure in the industry. She has already published two successful novels, and a handful of books on poetry which have brought her critical acclaim. She always shows her trophies to her daughter with unconcealed pride, running a loving finger over their titles. Many a time she reads out aloud from them, especially when daddy is at home. She has sensed daddy stiffen when she reads them ... slowly, deliberately over and over again. Daddy has these passages by heart now. He purses his lips as she reads them again ... and again. She blows away barely noticeable dust from their surface. She hopes that one day she would be an internationally celebrated figure.

The daughter is holding one of her mother's precious sheets in her hand. She is scribbling, or pretending to scribble, aping her busy and important mother. She lolls her tongue absentmindedly as she focuses on the task. Soon, she loses interest in her tedious work and turns the sheet over for more blank space. Not finding much scope, she begins to draw images upon her mother's neat writing. Suddenly, she turns in her mother's direction, staring at her uncertainly. Her mother is still too preoccupied to notice her, so she stands up steadily on her feet, picks up the rectangular sheet and toddles over to her.

'Yes, Shinu?' Her mother says, acknowledging her presence, but still not looking in her direction.

'Mummy, what's sex?' her little voice enquires ingenuously.

Her mother pauses in the middle of an important sentence she is writing. She warily turns towards her offspring.

'Where did you hear that word, child?' she asks a trifle sharply.

'It's here ... on this page,' says her daughter, exultantly waving the piece of paper from the manuscript her mother has been scribbling upon since morning. 'S-E-X. I can read it, see?'

Her mother instantly snaps the sheet away from her.

'Shireen, this paper is not meant for you! Don't be naughty and mess up my work! I've been working really hard since morning, and I don't want anyone to spoil it all. Now, go and play, and don't ask any more stupid questions!'

Baffled, little Shireen leaves her mother's side, perplexed little droplets rolling down her cheeks. Her unsteady feet ramble away from the room, her eyes still mistily focused on her mother. Suddenly, she feels herself being lifted by her father's brawny arms. He throws her up in the air, laughing, and catches her neatly as she descends ... squealing ...protesting ...laughing.

'Wazz the matter, sweetheart?' he asks after he's carefully brought her down on the ground again.

'Mummy will not tell me what sex means,' she complains to daddy. 'She scolded me so harshly when I asked.' Then, following a second's silence she says, 'Did I say something wrong, daddy?'

Her father guffaws again. 'No, darling' he says with a smile, 'you didn't say anything wrong. Mummy's been working too hard, so she's irritable. Never mind. You'll learn some things when you are older, all right?' He winks, and takes her little hand in his own. 'Come on, we'll go for an ice cream now. Mummy's been a bad girl, so we'll not take her with us, okay?'

His daughter sniggers.

'This is between you and I,' he winks, smiling.

She will never forget the taste of the vanilla softy that day. She spends the day with her daddy on the terrace, and they smear each other's noses and cheeks with oil whites, reds, and yellows, using fat and thin brushes, roaring with laughter.

Scene two. It is her eighth birthday. Mummy and daddy have been planning a grand party as usual. For some inexplicable reason, all is not well at home these days though life appears to be more than ordinary on the outside. Mummy smiles less often now. A couple of times, Shireen has caught her shedding silent tears all alone in secluded corners. She seldom sees mummy and daddy together. They are too busy with the hurly-burly of their own professional lives. Sometimes, she is intuitively aware of their gaze upon her, when, on one of those infrequent occasions, she enjoys the luxury of their company.

Shireen's classmates have recently finished a new chapter in the English class, 'Maggie Cuts her Hair'. In the story, a little girl called Maggie is exceptionally naughty, cuts her hair ziggy-zaggy all by herself, and gets into trouble with her mother and other relatives. For sometime now, Shireen has been feeling tempted to duplicate the daredevilry at home. Just fantasising about such a daring exploit enthralls her. She empathises with Maggie like she has never empathised with any character from a book. She yearns to read more, learn more about Maggie, the audacious heroine she fervently admires. She yearns to be Maggie.

The miscellaneous guests have arrived. She has just seen mummy, in her well starched new Dhaka cotton sari, rushing to the kitchen to bring the Black Forest cake daddy's brought from the best bakery in town, and candles-eight of them in all. She can see Kala trying to find the matchbox. There it is now ...the much awaited contingent of relatives at the entrance-the pretty aunties flaunting their latest buys, the stiff-upper-lipped uncles, her assorted and gangly cousins. All her friends and their parents, and bawling siblings, have arrived too. She smiles gleefully. It is time to make her grand entry.