fiction first draft: age of play

She was named after my mother. Three years old and pleasantly shy – she had her confident brown eyes.

Her mother’s hand rested gently on her light curls as she stood timidly by the door. “Do you remember your grandfather, Riya?” Pratima said, softly.

She cocked her head to one side, her ear brushing against her lacy collar. She hadn’t seen me for a year and a half.

I hesitated for a second, and then stretched my arms wide. And the girl ran into them, laughing, as if she’d known me for years.

Pratima smiled quietly and disappeared beyond my doorway.

“Do you like it here, Riya?” I asked. “Up in the mountains?”

“Yes, Dadu.” Her voice was young – and her words clear and distinct – unusual for her age.

“You don’t feel lonely? I know you don’t really have anyone to play with here.”

“No,” she said, bright eyes traveling quickly to look into my own, a little perplexed. “It isn’t lonely. There’s the rose garden – ”

And then, in the same distinct clear voice, she said – “And there’s always Adi. He plays with me. So do Ashok and the other Riya.”

I blinked. Breathing fast, I looked at her innocent eyes. Was she playing with me?

“What names did you say?” I asked, gripping her arms tighter than I should have.

She looked away, a little frightened. “Ashok, Riya and… and.. Adi.”

I slumped back onto my pillow. Ashok was my father’s name, Riya – my mother. They’d died years before Riya was born. And Adi was my son. Pratima’s older brother who’d left us at the age of four and a month.

“You… played with them?“

Little Riya laughed. “The other Riya told me stories about the stars. Adi, Ashok and I played pretend.”

“How do they look?” I asked, weakly.

Riya turned towards the window and a smile spread across her face. “Adi’s calling me to play now.”

She bent over and kissed my cheek. Then, in a whirl of white lace, she skipped out of the room.

I turned slowly to look at the window. Sunlight poured through the empty archway, lighting up my little lonely room.

______________

My wife died that year. Always shut up in my little room overlooking her rose garden and the hill slopes beyond, I waited. Pratima came to visit in summer. We’d talk now and then over the telephone – and there’d be a few letters. But the post was slow here and Pratima never had much to say. Riya was growing older – she didn’t like lace anymore.

A year since I’d seen them last, Pratima and Riya stood at my door, looking uncertainly at me. Riya’s eyes were different now – older. Stronger.

I sat up, just as before, and held out my arms welcomingly to her. And just as before, she smiled – perhaps a little quieter this time – and rushed into them.

Pratima left quietly.

I waited till she was gone and leaned forward excitedly. I had been waiting so long.

“Riya – do you see them now? Ashok, Riya and little Adi?”

The girl flinched – and drew back sharply.

“And Dida? Do you see Dida?” I asked, eagerly.

Riya’s eyes grew puzzled, and … afraid. “Dadu, what are you saying?”

I searched in vain for that gaiety in her eyes – the confident friendly assurance that I’d seen before.

She drew back slowly from my bed. “Who are all those people?” she whispered.

And then, even softer, she said – “Dida died last year, Dadu! Don’t you remember? How can she be here?”

I stared at her – my arms going limp – my eyes clouding over. “You…don’t see them?”

She looked at the door wildly. “Ma’s calling me, Dadu. I have to go.”

And she backed away towards the doorway, keeping her fearful gaze on me. Then she was gone.

My wife tightened her grip on my hand from her stand by the side of my bed as I watched the girl leave. And little Adi just stood at the foot of my bed and smiled mischievously at me.