Scent of a Jasmine

Damodar Phendse’s son and daughter-in-law help him relive the past as they care for him in his tiny, central Mumbai chawl overflowing with the scents and memories of bygone days.

Damodar Phendse closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let the sweet scent of jasmine engulf him. Winter sunlight twinkling through the leaves caressed his face. His mind drifted to when his wife, Sujata, ran her fingers through the jasmine vine in the balcony of their one-room chawl and closed her eyes to enter a world far, far away from the chaos of Mumbai’s Ramgarh basti and P D Mello road.

The small cutting she had picked up from the flower market kachra had grown into a vibrant vine covering the entire metal grill of their tiny balcony. The small flower pot had been replaced by successively larger ones until there was standing room for only one person. Their laundry and cleaning supplies were stuffed in a bucket hung from the ceiling by a rope, pulley, and hook. The neighbors had laughed at them for wasting so much precious space on a plant.

Fifty years had gone by since Sujata came into the house as a young bride. She cooked, cleaned, washed clothes, raised their two sons, took care of Damodar’s parents, decorated the walls with pictures of gods, put up curtains, and lit up their home with her laughter and music from her beloved radio. She had filled their lives with the light of her twinkling eyes and the gentle strength of her indomitable will.

Damodar could almost smell the delicate chai she made. He could almost feel the rustling of her bangles and the whisper of her light footsteps kissing the stone floor. He could almost hear her soft voice saying ‘cha’ as she put a half-filled glass down by his side.

“Baba! Baba! Open the door!” Damodar heard a voice call out as the knocking on the door grew louder, more insistent.

“I am coming,” Damodar called. He walked slowly to the door, leaving his memories behind.

“Are you all right? Why are you not answering your mobile?” His son, Dilip, burst out with relief as Damodar opened the door.

“I don’t know where I put it. It was here only five minutes ago.” Damodar replied.

“Amar and I have been calling you for three days! Are you OK? Have you eaten anything?”

“You boys worry too much,” Damodar said reassuringly, “I am OK. Nothing is wrong with me.”

“Nothing is wrong. The neighbors haven’t seen you for a week. Where have you been?!”

“Don’t you have to go to work today?” Damodar asked.

“My inspector put me on traffic duty at Fountain for a few days so that I could come and find you. I have to report back to Sitladevi signal in two days.” Dilip replied. He took a deep breath, “we are all worried, Baba,” he said softly.

“Do you want something to eat?” Damodar asked.

“I have to get back to duty. Come to Fountain at 10 tomorrow morning. We will be waiting for you. We have to decide who will take care of you.”

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me,” Damodar bristled, “nothing is wrong with me. I can take care of myself.”

“Please come tomorrow,” Dilip pleaded, “we can all talk. Amar has already changed his route. He is now delivering dabbas in the CST area. He and Rupa can come to live with you. Yeto Baba, I will see you tomorrow morning.”

Damodar’s head reeled as watched his son go down the corridor. He shut the door and leaned back to look at his room. Everything was as it had been when Sujata was alive. The curtain dividing the room for their two boys, their study table and plastic chairs, calendar pictures of gods on the walls, swastik design on the doorway, family photos, the gas stove they were so proud of, his mother’s brass water pot, the jasmine…

What if his daughter-in-law, Rupa, did not like washing clothes in the kitchen? What if she did not like the pictures on the walls? What if she did not want to give up so much precious space to a plant?

“There is nothing wrong with me,” Damodar gritted his teeth and muttered to himself, “I will tell them I am not leaving my house and I don’t need anyone to stay with me. You are listening, no,” he said looking at a smiling Sujata in the photo frame with a garland around it. “Don’t worry, nothing will change while I am alive. I won’t let it happen.”

Damodar spent the rest of the day cleaning up. He cleaned all the dirty dishes. He washed all the dirty clothes, even the curtains, tablecloth, and bedsheets. He swept and swabbed the cold stone floor. He picked up the fallen jasmine flowers and leaves muttering to himself, “I am fine. I don’t need anyone to take care of me. I have lived alone for almost ten years now. I will not let them remove the jasmine vine. No one can touch that. Not Dilip, not Amar, not Rupa.”

He saw Dilip making Amar and Rupa pose for a photo when he reached Fountain. “You brought up our boys well, Sujata.” Damodar smiled to himself, “you must be so happy to see them together.”

Damodar was tired when he returned home. It had been a long time since he walked so much. Amar and Dilip fed him and helped him into bed.

Muffled whispers and the hiss of the stove woke him the next morning. As he drifted in and out of sleep, he could hear Amar folding up their bed behind the curtain. The winter sunlight warmed his face with its gentle touch. The shadow of a hand caressed the jasmine flowers. He heard a deep breath taking in its sweet smell. Hushed whispers and muted laughter swirled around him. The delicate smell of fresh chai filled the air. Damodar heard the rustling of bangles as light footsteps kissed the stone floor.

A half-filled glass appeared by his side. A soft voice whispered, “Baba, cha.”