The Clay Monster

He stepped out, triumphant having felled a Serbian giant, but a Swiss one and a bigger one at that waited for ambush. This is no alluring beginning to another middle earth story. But Roland Garros 2008 was no less. The women’s singles saw the emergence of two stars; Safina who was unseeded at the beginning of the tournament and went on to becoming the runners-up, brushing aside Maria Sharapova in the process, and Anna Ivanovic who topple quite a few greats to win the title and top the ATP rankings. Personally however, I do not find women’s tennis as attractive as the players themselves. Tennis for me has always been the men’s singles.
This year’s Roland Garros had Nadal as the pre tournament favorite, after he had won the ATP Masters. However, Federer enjoyed everyone’s support. Nadal, the king of clay was the only hurdle between the all time great and the coveted French Open title. And the hurdle had not been moved an inch for the past three years. If all went well, there would be a Nadal-Djokovic clash in the semis with Federer waiting for the victor in the finals. It takes little intelligence to guess whom Federer wanted to avoid. The Nadal-Djokovic semi final clash was luke warm as a contest. Nadal cruised through the first couple of sets, but Djokovic showed great nerve in the third, almost winning it. In the end, it was a Nadal- Federer finals yet again. Federer had not really cruised through the tournament if one looks at the score cards, but all those games were a preparation for the finals. He was trying it all out to see what worked for him. He would need all that experience.
The Finals: Nadal and Federer walk out, the audience support clearly in favor of Federer. Surprisingly, sitting on my couch I felt that the commentators too supported Federer. I just hoped Federer lived up to their expectations and made up an interesting finale. It was Nadal all through. Despite playing an aggressive game, just as what the doctor had prescribed, Federer was ousted by an unplayable Nadal. Federer committed far too many errors, probably reeling under pressure and ultimately, the final scores of 6-1, 6-3, 6-0 meant that the clay monster had crushed the Swiss giant.

…Another wet evening, and yet another stroll into the thickets. The trees were drenched and as if out of sheer envy, they shook their branches to drench me. I had folded my trousers up to the knees and splashed the muddy waters of the puddles with alacrity like we did while walking to school on wet days (read everyday). A slippery looking toad hopped over my slippers and I chased it into the wet grass lining the forest pathway. Birds had come out of shelter to look for dinner before the next shower. There seemed to be plenty; butterflies flapped on those little yellow flowers growing out of the light green grass, earthworms wriggled their way out of the soaked soil and the rhythmic screech of insects preparing themselves for their nocturnal stint had already begun.

The water had grown louder since yesterday; I no longer heard those insects. The rotten wooden bridge was still intact. Five felled pine trees lay side by side like lifeless trolls; years of lashing water having caused considerable decay in their bodies. And walking over these trolls was no joke but I loved doing it most.
One…Two…One…Two…
The logs were big and cylindrical, slippery with the overgrowth of moss and fungi on them. I would walk with both arms stretched out sideways as a balancing act, slip and fall, one leg dangling down a crevice and the other kissing a fungus, then get up and resume. One…Two…One…Two…
I would do it for hours with nothing else on my mind. As if nothing else existed, just the dead pine trees, the restless stream beneath and insects screeching the background score.

Merian

Merian DeSilva gazed at her graying self in the mirror. She soothed the grey tufts that framed her wrinkling façade dragging the golden comb down the thinning cascade as if trying to paint them back to their Barbie doll like self; as if trying to miraculously transform the face in the mirror, to something forty years younger. She tried it everyday, since she had turned old. The golden magic wand never worked. And she was in no condition to start looking for the fountain of youth; so she went on with life as it was. And life did grant Merian her share of joy, be it in the form of her new recipe of chocolate pie or the first fruit on her mango tree.
She had woken up early today and was done with the morning chores. Today was special, not because it was Sunday; she was growing older by another year today. “Sixty-five!”, she concluded after some math on her fingers. Her memory had not yet failed her, just that she no longer bothered to keep a count of her age. Years passed, and all that remained was a hope. She was awoken from her thoughts by a tap on the door. It was Anita. Anita was not very different from Merian herself; about the same age and similar memoirs to haunt. Merian at times wondered how beautiful Anita would have looked in her youth. “A princess”, she would say at times to a blushing Anita. Anita did not have a photograph of her younger self, so it was all left to Merian’s imagination to flatter her.
“So where”s my cake?”,Merian asked candidly, as Anita proceeded to hug her. She knew there was a cake waiting for her as usual. All she wanted to know if it was chocolate or pineapple.
“Your chocolate cake is waiting in the hall with all the others”; Anita pulled Merian out of her room.
The Happy Birthday song followed amidst some mild clapping, not quite resembling the hullabaloo of a birthday celebration, but befitting inmates of Asha Niketan, the old age home - Merian’s home, since the past one and a half decades. She hugged everyone in the hall as they exchanged bites from their slices of cake with hers. She had tears in her eyes. She had not wanted to celebrate her sixty fifth birthday here. She had not wanted to celebrate any of her last fifteen birthdays here. She went back to her room and pulled out the old silverfish-nibbled photograph from the old rusted steel trunk. She had not wiped her tears; they would flow even if she did. She caressed the black and white faces in the photograph, then pressed it close to her bosom and wept aloud.
Merian DeSilva, the dance teacher was quite well known among the communities in Panjim, who wanted their children to be involved in extracurricular activities. That is how she earned a living for herself and her son, Soham ever since Mr.DeSilva passed away. Soham was fifteen then. She was no expert dancer herself, having lost the practice and the dancer’s body after marriage. But , she was a good teacher, nevertheless. She never wanted the premature death of her husband to change the life of her child. She always made him feel that all was well, though the financial setback was tough to tackle at times. She drowned all her pain and strife in her silent soliloquies. She found her haven in the little joys of her son, his aspirations and his success.
One morning, Soham rushed into the house with a piece of paper in hand and read out –
“Dear Mr.Soham DeSilva,
The English department of the University of Lancashire is pleased to inform you that you have been selected for our special programme as had been advertised. You have also been granted a complete scholarship based on…..”
“Ma, so what do you think?”, Soham asked with a proud smile on his lips, his arms folded tight.
Ma did hear it; it meant Soham was going away. Soham looked at her face and knew it all.
“Don’t worry Ma. It will be just for three years.”
Ma smiled. Soham did not quite understand whether the smile was in agreement or a sarcastic reply to the ‘Don’t worry. .’. Whatever it was, Soham left for England the following week and his mother began her three year wait. It had been five years since his father passed away and they had learnt to live without him. Soham wanted a comfortable life for his mother, one in which she would not have to take dance classes any more. A degree in England would do him a world of good on returning back to India. There was a dearth of English teachers in the universities here and he had always felt it during his education. All good things call for a sacrifice; well, this time it was his mother making one, by letting go of him.
Merian got on with her life and her dance classes. Soham would send a letter or two every month and she would reply back. At times, Soham would call up a PCO in the locality, where Merian would be waiting to hear her son’s voice. Two and a half years went by the same way.
“I’m almost done. A couple of months and I’ll be back.”
“Two months”, Merian thought. She made sweets for all her dance students that day. She knew that two months would pass in a jiffy. She marked the calendar hanging from the dilapidated wall of her one room home. Every morning, the calendar would be the first thing she would look at. She saw May change to June and June to July until -
“…Ma, guess what? I ‘m coming next week. I’m coming home. Woohoo!” Merian had never imagined that this would be the last time she heard her son.
The following night, a neighbor rushed into her house, gasping. “Merian behan, have you heard the news? There has been a shootout in Soham’s college. They are showing it in BBC. An English student apparently went bizarre. They are saying that an Indian too has died in the incident though…”
……………………………………………………………..

Merian cajoled the faces of her husband and son in the photograph again. The photograph went blur behind the curtain of tears as she heard a soft whisper in her ears, “Happy Birthday Ma!”.