Page 142 - Musings 2021

17

A Ray of Hope
Shreel S Prasad

A Page from My Diary:

The rains in my city are as unpredictable as Dan Brown’s books. Once again I find myself
becoming a potential victim of the viral flu which has been rampant, courtesy - the random
moods of Zeus. Being hardly a couple of blocks away from the good ol' German Bakery, I
run the last few paces to seek shelter there, hoping that the aroma of the cakes and buns will
lift my drenched spirits. Having warmed up a lil standing beside the kitchen, I allow my
senses to roam around drinking in the details of the hustle & bustle inside the bakery.

The bag in my hand feels heavy; I now wonder if it was worth travelling all the way across
town for the handloom and handicraft exhibition when I could have easily indulged in
pleasures of the literary kind at Landmark. The longing involuntary reactions of my salivary
glands don’t help either. Realising it’s time for a distraction, I let my thoughts drift into the
past and I am taken aback when they bring forth the haunting memory of the bomb blast that
took place here 4 years ago.

The blast had shaken the very foundations of our false belief that Pune was among the safest
cities in the country. I remember being stubbornly persistent and finally being unwillingly
allowed to accompany my uncle who was needed on site for his medical services. The scene
is etched in my mind, especially the horrifying image of a young mother screaming in agony,

hugging mutilated limbs of a child to her bosom; the police trying to drag her shattered self

away but in vain, and me helplessly rooted to the spot, transfixed by the utterly broken look
in her eyes.

I am pulled back to reality by a pat on the shoulder. I mumble an apology and step aside for
the staff to go about their business. I start making my way through the crowd towards the
entrance when I catch sight of a familiar face. It’s her! I realised with a jolt. Standing on
tip-toes I see her trying to hush a bundle of arms and legs flailing about, and a young man
making desperate attempts to distract the small wonder. An understanding almost unnoticed
passes between the 2 adults as the man hands over the infant to the lady, grinning
apologetically. I am startled by the pricking sensation behind my eyes and rush outside as
tears threaten to spill over, whether from sorrow or relief, I’ll never know.

As I hurry to catch the bus home, Veronica Roth’s words echo in my mind:
“Life Damages Us, Every One.”
I start running as the bus halts at the signal.
“We Can’t Escape That Damage;”
I grab the proffered hand of a friendly stranger and mount the Volvo.
“We Can Be Mended,”
I turn around smiling, just in time to see the man and woman place a tender kiss on the baby’s
forehead.

“We Mend Each Other.”

142