Gāyathri watched her grandfather walk down the pathway and open the gate. The well-oiled hinges would swing silently, yet as was his wont, he slowly pushed the iron frame and slipped through, closing it behind him. A man of rigid habits. She kept watching him till he disappeared into the faint darkness. Sixty-five years old, his head greyed completely, his back bent with years of digging and skin that had been burnt from countless hours spent in the sun. Still, he had a brisk gait.

Rain or shine, birth or death, her grandfather would leave for the nursery at the crack of dawn. Nothing stopped him from looking after his beloved plants, not even the death of his daughter.

Maybe it was not hard for him; he had never approved a daughter's choice of a man twenty-five years her senior.

From downstairs, familiar sounds echoed, her aunt would have woken up. Yet another person who was starting the daily routine, setting the milk to boil for coffee, make preparations for the morning meal; as though nothing had happened. That everything was normal and death had not stolen away her sister in law and best friend.

But it must be easy for her; her aunt had never liked her friend who had seduced a man so above their social status.

The rap on the terrace door, soft and hesitant; her uncle must have woken up too. She did not answer, there was nothing to say and she hoped he would leave. It would be morning soon and he would be on his way to the nursery too, as was his daily routine. Yet another person who seemed unaffected by the death of his sister.

He would not find it difficult, he had never forgiven his sister for marrying their employer, even though it was so many years ago.

Gāyathri ached. For that normalcy, when things were as they were a few weeks ago. Disapproval, dislike, disappointment; nothing mattered, when her parents were around. It was just two weeks ago that they were one happy family, argumentative yes, but happy. Today it was all gone. Those arguments, those happy moments, the teasing and the laughter, the tears and disagreements, all gone.

Only the sounds remained.

Even in the darkness and silence, those sounds echoed in her head; the clanging of metal, the shattering of glass and the squeal of tyres. Regret gnawed at her; it was too late to take back those words, impossible to turn the clock back.

And there were nightmares when she completed her rant, '...I wish you would stop fighting and leave me alone.'

Squeezing her eyes tighter did not make those words fade away nor cause those images to disappear. Rather, unshed tears filled her eyes, leaving a fiery pricking behind. She did not want to think about anything but that her mind insisted on traversing into the past, to replay the events of that fateful day.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

"Naana, I want at least a dozen dresses and matching jewellery too. Not gold, those fancy ones will do."

She could not see her father but knew that he was smiling at her demands, there were few things he would not do for her, but then her mother had to intervene, "Gaayu, there is no need to buy so many dresses. When will you even wear all of them?"

And without waiting for Gāythri's response, her mother turned to her father, "And why do you want to buy so many dresses for her? I have bought her one dress and now"—

"Come on, she is my daughter too. And it is her eighteenth birthday, a special one; she will finally be an adult. It is an occasion to celebrate in a big way."

"So we travel to the city to buy her dresses? Rajahmundry is a town compared to Hyderabad. This would not be the case if we stayed together in Hyderabad. But no, your family has an issue with me, and you, being the ever-dutiful son, will not give me my place in your house."

Gāyathri lapsed into a sullen silence rather than protest. And soon her parents, as usual, would be in a vehement discussion, she did not care to know about the topic, it did not matter what the starting point was. Inevitably it would turn into the perpetual blame session.

In a desperate bid to veer the conversation away from the imminent argument, Gāyathri interrupted, "Naana, can I really buy as many dresses as I want? I would like a pair of shoes too. Those delicate-looking high heeled ones?"

"Ammadu, we will buy half a dozen then. One pair for each of the dresses you get. Your eighteenth birthday is."—

—"still six weeks away. You do not plan to make an exception and come down for this birthday, at least. It is as you said 'a special occasion'. Maybe for a change, you could be with her on that day."

So much for her efforts, her mother would just never let go, the fact that her father was never present on her birthdays always left her mother angry and bitter. Gāyathri knew a little and understood a bit more but she resented her mother's constant harping on that fact. She knew there was another woman in her father's life and a son too, that family stayed in Hyderabad. She resented those unknown persons as much as her mother did; they had been accepted by her grandparents because that woman was wealthy and from a approved lineage.

Her mother, on the other hand, was a gardener's daughter and hence deserved to be treated like the dirt they believed she was. She also resented having to share her father but then she adored him too much to express her resentment. All the weekends were for her, most of them at least, for at times work kept him away. And after he had retired, he spent a couple of weeks at a stretch. But it would never be enough.

And then her mother was right, he would never be with them on her birthdays. As a child, it did not matter as they always celebrated her birthday as per the Hindu calendar but as she grew older and watched her friends in school, his absence was noticeable. And he would never say why, he just asked them to accept that one little thing.

It was not a little thing but she accepted it, unlike her mother. Who was now taking this as yet another chance to bemoan her fate and berate the other woman. She tried to switch off but could hear snatches of their whispered but angry exchanges.

"I did not mean that. I just"—

"Please, you never mean what you say, that much is true. How long are we going to continue like this? Even though that nagging shrew is not around, she still can ensure that I do not take my place"—

"Lakshmi, you know that it is not like that. I just"—

"Excuses and more excuses. I am tired. Cannot you"—

Gāyathri stared out of the window, trying to shut out the voices of her parents, as she watched the green trees whiz by. It was too much to hope that this time things would be different; that this time her parents would rather talk to her instead of fighting with each other. It was surprising; they spent their time talking over the phone when apart, all-loving and understanding. That happiness echoed when her father came down to their village, almost every weekend. The initial hours would be wonderful, joy and laughter abounding as her mother cooked her father's favourite dishes and she spent all the time she could talking to him.

Yet, those moments never lasted. Sooner or later, old arguments would surface. As would her perpetual silent wishes. That her parents talk to each other. That she have a full family. She had her maternal family but it grated to not be accepted by her father's family. That there would be no stale arguments about 'her' and 'them'. It did matter that her father had to divide his time, she missed not having her father around all the time, but she had long accepted that it was the way things were. If only her parents did too. She hated that the time they spent together was wasted in the pointless blaming game.

Anger built up as the euphoria of the shopping trip faded away and she screamed, "Please, for once could the two of you stop fighting? You make me mad, I just wish..."

Whatever she wanted to say was cut off as tyres screeched and her mother screamed. The car twisted and in shocked silence, Gāyathri slipped into an endless fall that spun to darkness. When she finally regained consciousness and learnt what had happened, she wished she had not awoken.

'It was a miracle,' they said, 'that she had lived.'

She disagreed, she thought it was a curse to be alive.