Finding Herself

Old Delhi Architecture

It was July, and I was sitting on the white rug in our room. Coloring in my sheets, I looked up towards the bed to see Mira still sleeping. I let out a loud sigh, letting her know that I disapprove of her sleeping in till 11. Her response to me was a shift in her position.

We have shared a room ever since we were children, and she being the elder one, always gave me my space and the freedom. I guess I sensed that, and in return did the same to her. So even when we shifted to dad’s ancestral haveli this year, we were happy together and thus got the biggest room. With the arched windows equally diving the room into two parts, we took our sides and I placed the white rug we bought from Delhi right in the center. It acts as a silent partition line, showing a visitor a stark contrast between the two sides.

We are Indians, but Mira is a true one. Bright colors, stitched patterns, bangles, jhumkas, sterling jewelery, and juttis. Strangely, her side also smells of jasmine. I, however, dived fully into minimalism and for some reason, black and white are the only colors that appeal me. Mira doesn’t feel those are colors. But dear God, doesn’t she love that white rug.

And it is all because of that damned Kabir. A week in Old Delhi was all it took. I wanted to explore the city, and Mira  wanted to shop. It was decided that our Aunt’s haveli in Chandini Chowk was the best place to stay. After all, the doors of the house spilled right on to the street. The smell was exotic, the streets were narrow and the people were innumerable. My hands were itching to click photos and I dragged Mira to the shops on day one itself. It was 6 in the evening, and the sight was beautiful.

A little over an hour later, with my memory card full, and my sister’s hand full of shopping bags, we were leaving for back home when she came across a shop of fabric. I don’t know if the bright colors caught her attention, or the guy with the black kurta selling his day’s objective did. But I have never seen her stop and stand in the middle like senseless fool, as if she had finally found her place to be. He noticed too. But before he could say anything, I had pulled her away. 

Old Delhi Architecture
Inner Lanes of The Old Delhi Market

“Are you mad? Staring at the guy like that”, I screamed at her. She kicked off her slippers at the raised threshold of the room and ran to her bed. It matched the room’s enigmatic feeling, looking old in every sense of its existence. The creaky wood didn’t stop her from jumping onto it. “I don’t know why I stopped. His voice was.. Something.”

I rolled my eyes. Trust Mira to be dramatic. If it were up to her, she would be living in the 60’s, waiting for her prince at the window and looking out for him in distress. I sketched a bit, and had switched off the lights. But I hadn’t  known about the tumultuous experience the following days would have unfolded for us. Every morning at 6, Mira would be out in the maze of the streets. And I knew were to find her. 

I was worried. She knows nothing about him, yet she sits at the back of his cycle going on a city tour as if they have known each other forever. I could not be blamed for my rude behavior towards him, but his smile after he dropped her home seemed to seek an approval from me, and that he cannot achieve easily. Kabir runs his father’s family business of fabric in the market, but he is a Fine Arts student. He paints, she sighed deeply and dreamily. And I failed to see what all this meant because just the next we had to leave. “We exchanged numbers. He will come visit me in Jaipur, he promised.”

At times, I think my elder sister has a bigger and easier heart than a clear head, and that pains me to no extent. Bitterly, we said our goodbyes to Chandini Chowk and Kabir, and that was that. Fast forward to today, and Mira slops around the house, checks her phone thousand times, goes to post man to enquire and wipes away hundred tears  at night. Angry at her nonsensical behavior, I face away from her bed, but my heart softens and I go hug her. Through that common window, we look outside and gaze at the clear sky with shining stars. This will repeat for days to come, and the rug will be a constant reminder of Kabir and his memories, for it was a gift from him that Mira cherished.

August bought monsoons and it bought another gift. Sitting on the swinging sofa in our courtyard, I was lost in my sheets and pens. Eyes darting back and forth, I had taken the mean project of sketching my house that day. My pen stopped when I started to draw a young man in my sheet at the door. My breath stopped and I looked up suddenly. I threw my things and before he could even utter a word, I ran up towards our room, swearing at the number of high steps someone thought would be appropriate to include in the haveli. I pushed open the door to our room and Mira looked at me with the eagerness of hearing the news she always was waiting to listen. “Kabir”,  I spat out. She got up calmly, wrapped her fuchsia dupatta around her neck, adorned jhumkas in her ears, and put on a bindi. 

Then she ran. She ran but her hand touched ever so lightly every element that came in her path. Out wooden door, and the blue wooden railing. The white net curtains felt her touch, and the strong pillars were graced by her arms. Our renovated flooring was gladly helping her prance towards the old stairs, and she glided down them looking ever so graceful. The courtyard seemed to light up and the swing became still. The house had stopped functioning, suddenly. 

“Kabir”,  she whispered. “Mira.” 

He stepped forward and touched her cheek. She let out a sigh so deep and grateful, it felt as if  she was forbidden to breathe until she met him again. Breathe she did, and so did the house. The wind was blowing again, my hair was all over the place and tangled, just as my tears were. Mira had found herself.