Abandoned.

She was born to a dead mother of one, and in a family once of four.

The skies rejoiced and it poured cats and dogs. Perhaps, the sign was brutally misread and she was chucked away. To a dustbin. For a rag picker.

She groaned all night and tears bubbled into hiccups. But Delhi was too deaf to pay head, inside the air-conditioned rooms of a typical humid June night. A few dogs sniffed but none bit. Humanity is not necessarily to be found in Humans, right?

She was supposed to die and ‘rest in peace’ (quite literally) but the sins committed in the last few births were too grave to be easily forgiven. Breathing shivered and jerked but did not stop.

Sun grew the next morning. From the usual East.
The rag picker was on duty. Earlier than usual.

The guy who managed crossing the ‘highly-under-surveillance’ border between India and Bangladesh was indeed bad at deeds but not at heart. His eyes swelled and some salty water trickled. Chills ran down his spine. Not everyone can bear the sight of an almost dead baby girl.

The decision was instantly taken and never altered. The girl now had a home.
The man who could not afford his bread would now breed an abandoned baby. A baby girl.
Savings were drained and loans taken but all medications timely met and necessities provided.

~~~

Mannat was an extremely brilliant child. ‘Child prodigy’ as the well-read quoted.
The dusky, brown-eyed was sent to a usual inferior Government school due to the obvious. Yes, she did bunk school at times faking a paining tummy; would also get after her Abbu’s life to take her along to the posh colonies where he went rag-picking but Abbu would never fulfil the desire.
Her princess would get all what she wants, sooner or later, but not THIS, Abbu used to assure himself.

Suns kept setting and bright mornings occurring, but never was a morning this bright.
Mannat was transferred to a Convent school on insistence of her teacher –who quite literally- envied the genius.

It did not take her innocent eyes to switch between questions like ‘How did I come to this world’ and ‘Abbu, will I succeed in becoming a Physicist?’’

The former questions were neatly ignored and the latter, crisply answered.

~~~



Present Day:

Mannat Khan did change her name from Mannat to Physicist Mannat Khan, and did earn enough to gift her 72 year old still-working-Abbu a mansion.
The girl, did kiss the sky.

Perhaps, far away an angry father whipped his lazy, jobless son for not being like the noble prize winner, Physicist Mannat Khan.

He cursed his stars for not blessing him with a child like Mannat.
The stars cursed back for abandoning the same a few years ago.

Breathe 'Life goes on' and survive.

Manas, 22. My brother.
My best friend, my most brutal enemy, my entertainer, my comedian, my happiness, my sadness, my evil possessive brother, my over-protective jerk, MINE.
It’s been three years now. Three long years now.

Let me begin by telling a few things about the monster.
He was the one who stood by me since I was brought to the world. Changing my diapers, cleaning my waste and feeding me milk. He is not me. A totally different person. He loves violence. He hates pink. He loves Biology. He works real hard. He is a total bore would never manage lighting up any one’s mood. He’d make me love him, even when he was all so annoying. He’d always be willing to help me out. He’d always fight with me, and get emotional points from Mumma. He’d be after my life to study. He never ‘let things be’ and always wants to ‘know’ the answer to every mystery (Perhaps, Google them and forcibly explain them to me) He’d always let me apply him lipstick and make ponies of his hair when I created a fuss out of small things and cried. He’d keep singing on his top note and makes rules like ‘no singing allowed at home’ for me. He’d always lend money to me and my friends for samosa at school. He’d always serve me food and take the larger share of maggi without any guilt. He held the power of annoying people to limits and never being sorry about it. He always loved me the most but would never accept.

10th June,2010.
We, (Mumma, HIM and me) reached the humungous building of the Manipal University. The glasses shining so bright, almost blinding our eyes. It seemed these people had a special thing for glasses. They have it all over the place. Showing it off. It also rained. So heavy, getting on my nerves. I took it as a metaphor. The Lord was also rejoicing with me. He too, was happy for my freedom. We went into the edifice, too many formalities and finally it got official; Manas Kinra was now a part of ‘Manipal College of Pharmaceutical Sciences’ and Simran Kinra was granted her long-wished liberty. We went to the beach to celebrate and the kid inside me was already planning the new map of my new room.
THAT night was the happiest of my entire, entire life.
That’s a guarantee, nothing beats that night.
Finally, I got my OWN room, my own space. One more wardrobe, all the baggy T-shirts. Topped with ‘ultimate freedom’ and the privilege of eating all the chocolates - alone.



15th July, 2010.
All the arrangements met. Packing done. Fees paid. The monster was ready to leave for his new world. My inner Goddess rejoiced and danced and singed on the top of her voice. The actor in me wrinkled the face with fake remorse and ‘pretended’ immense grief. Trying to look like ‘too sad for the loss’
We bid him a good-bye while the walls of my room waited to get scribbled with MY name. He went away. My mom’s favourite child was now 5148415113 miles away, in the hot weather of Manipal and her second favourite child, under her nose : unable to hide the glee.

2nd December, 2013.
The maggi is no more to-be-shared and fought for the larger part. The remote unarmed. Chocolates, to be savoured alone. No one questions ‘kahan ja rahi hai? Pehle mumma se phone karke pooch’
Nobody demands ‘tameez se baat karna seekho.’ No one lends money at school. No one imbibes unwanted knowledge. No one to fight with and no one to complain about. Nobody fights for the softer quilt. Nobody steals the chocolates. Nobody gives a cold look on talking to boys at school. No one listens to the dumb talks. No one gets mad for no reason. No one to pushes the swing high up in the air. No one ushers to the restroom at night. No one scolds for unnecessarily crying at mere cuts. No one to dance with in the rain. No one calls up mumma and complaints ‘yeh ladki batameezi kar rahi hai, mai maar dunga isse.’ No one insults calling ‘mattoe’ in public.

COLLEGE HAPPENED.
The unconditional love is lost. Mumma misses her child; the idiot kid misses her monster. Perhaps, what do they say?
Life goes on.