It was a lazy Sunday afternoon in Bangalore. The sun was playing peekaboo with the marigolds on the balcony. A yellow butterfly was flitting about the flowers listlessly. An array of black ants marched up the wall of the apartment, ceremoniously. Sridhar’s gaze was fixed on the shadows on the balcony floor, formed by the clothes hanging on the cloth line. He closed his eyes and wiped an unwelcome tear that trickled down his cheek. Today was the death anniversary of his parents. It was exactly a year ago that he had lost them to COVID.
The sun slowly hid behind the clouds and the sky darkened. They too seemed to be in grief. Sridhar went to the balcony to fetch the clothes. “What a weird weather, man? It was bright and sunny just a while ago” remarked Arun, his flat mate. A sudden gush of wind swept away the dried leaves in the pots. A lock of hair flew in from the floor above and descended on Sridhar’s feet. The clothes on the line huddled together as if in fear and started tapping his face. He tried to spread them back in order. While he was busy detangling the garments, a pair of pyjamas freed itself from his clutches and took flight. “Hey!” shouted Sridhar. Of course, the cloth did not lend him an ear. Sridhar darted to the edge of the balcony and peered down. The pyjamas were lying down, staring at him from the parapet of the apartment below. “Oh, shit!!”
“What hero?” asked Arun without lifting his eyes from the iPad. “My favorite pyjamas fell down da. They’re a gift from mom.” “Seriously? Pyjamas as a gift?” said Arun covering his mouth with his palm, stifling a chuckle. Sridhar glowered at him. “How do I ask the third-floor folks to fetch my pyjamas? Bloody embarrassing!” He tried hard to retrieve the pyjamas with a pole. But they were quite out of his reach.
Sridhar went down the stairs, rehearsing the lines he intended to say. He rang the doorbell of flat #311. No one came. He pressed the bell again and waited. After an eternity, the door opened, and a face popped out. It was the loveliest face he had ever seen. Sridhar stood gaping at her. “Yes?” asked the owner of the pretty face, her annoyance quite evident in her voice. Sridhar bit his lower lip. “Hello… Hi… I. I am Sridhar” he mumbled.
“So?”
Sridhar smiled awkwardly and blurted out the tale of the flying pyjamas. “Would you mind if I come in for a moment and take my pyjamas from your balcony?” he asked apologetically. She glared at him and slammed the door shut. Sridhar stood there for a few seconds, trying to decipher what had transpired. Despite being an introvert, he had summoned all his courage to initiate a conversation with a stranger, that too, about something as awkward as pyjamas. And she just humiliated him in the blink of an eye?
“Who does she think she is?” grunted Sridhar, kicking his apartment door.
“Cool down maga!” said Arun patting his shoulder.
“I was just trying to get my pyjamas, not her father’s property!”
“These chicks are always like that… they have a fancy term for it too… mood swings!”
“Swings… my foot!” barked Sridhar.
“Leave it da… Let’s go now. Our guys have already reached Biergarten.”
“You carry on da… am not in the mood.”
“Halloo maga… are you sure?”
“Yes, da… I am fine. You carry on.”
“Hmm… alright then. C’ya!”
It was raining cats and dogs. Sridhar tossed and turned in the bed way past midnight. His fingers scrolled down a million reels and his body gradually drifted to sleep. The pyjamas were gleaming in the moonlight. “Where do you want to go, master?” they asked him. “To my parents!” he said with an indulgent smile. “Come”, beckoned the pyjamas. He sat down on them, and they set sail through the sky. Several other pyjamas were floating around, carrying their owners to destinations far and wide. Sridhar clapped his hands in joy. He was going to meet his parents, at last. The magic carpet flew high and turned around the corner. Suddenly, a head popped out from behind the lamppost. It was the head of a young lady, the most beautiful one he had ever seen. As he looked up in admiration, the head turned 360 degrees. “No!”, she yelled. Blood sputtered from her mouth, with a steady whirring sound. Sridhar woke up with a start. He was sweating profusely. He looked around. There were no pyjamas, nor heads. With half-open eyes, he picked up his phone and silenced the alarm. It was 6 am. It was still raining.
He heard some uproar outside that was louder than the rain. He got up to find out the source of the noise. As he approached the balcony, the decibel levels increased. There was complete pandemonium outside his building. He saw a sea of umbrellas below his block and an ambulance nearby. Too many panic-stricken voices were talking all at once. Four to five policemen with lathis were pushing the crowd away. The black mass of umbrellas cleared, giving way to white uniforms rushing towards the ambulance. They were carrying someone on a stretcher, soaked in blood and rain.
“Suicide case!” shouted Bhaskar-uncle from his flat. “She jumped off the balcony.”
“Who?”
“That girl in 311.”
Sridhar looked down, aghast. Her eyes stared into his soul.
He felt a sudden lump in his throat. He clutched the railing and stood there, frozen to the core. The sound of the ambulance echoed in the distance.
“You know her?” quizzed uncle. “It is some love matter only. See there… pyjamas on her balcony. Someone must have come last night.”
Sridhar felt a tremor in his heart. He looked down surreptitiously. There, on the balcony below, lay his dear pyjamas, with an innocent smile and outstretched arms.
