Diya

We sit there watching a man die. When I left the house this morning, all I wanted was one hour alone to think. I thought I had problems. Nothing compared to the problems I have now. Here I am, watching a man die and waiting for my own death.

The old lady wipes his face. ‘I’m tired,’ she says. ‘I’m tired of this hate and anger. This has become such an angry world. So ready to kill.’

She looks at me and Kabir. ‘You have to change things. You have to find a way to stop this. All this anger over religion. All this fighting.’

‘We can’t change anything,’ I say. ‘What can we do?’ I hate it when old people turn to us and say it’s up to us to change the world. They screwed it up. And we are supposed to clean up the mess?

My answer makes her really angry. ‘If young people say they can do nothing, who is left?’ She grabs my arm fiercely. ‘You have to try. You must try and try and never give up. You can make the difference.’

I don’t see how I can make any difference. But then Kabir speaks up.

‘You must become the change you want to see in the world,’ Kabir says softly.

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘That’s right. That is it exactly.’

She looks down at the dying man who has his head in her lap. ‘That’s what I tried to be. If I was lonely, I went out and talked to other people who looked lonely. If I was sad, I went out and tried to make someone happy.’

Her voice is soft. ‘It has been so many years since I was loved. They all died. My husband. My children. All my relatives, one by one. But I just found new things to love. I have a cat. I feed seven dogs on the street.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘They really love me, those dogs.’

She sighs. ‘I can’t afford to feed them. Not on the little bit of money that I have. So I steal. I don’t do it for myself. I don’t mind going hungry. But I want to feed my dogs and cat.’

Kabir says, ‘You’re not a thief. And you’re the bravest person I know.’

She smiles at him. ‘Thank you.’

She takes my hand between her soft creased ones, and then Kabir’s. She holds them tight. ‘You must stay alive,’ she says, ‘and then you must make that life count.’ There we are with our hands joined in hers. I avoid looking at him.

My life has never counted. I’ve always been just a pawn that my father used in all his grand plans. No one has ever asked me what I want. And I have never been able to change anything in my world. But that old woman makes me want to try.

‘I will try,’ I say.

‘Yes,’ says Kabir. ‘I’ll try.’

His hand is very warm. It makes me nervous. She lets our hands go and I pull mine back, trying not to make it look like I’m doing it too quickly.

‘Is there anything else we can do for him?’ she asks.

‘No,’ says Kabir.

‘Then both of you go back and sit down. I don’t want you to get in trouble. Just go.’

I put my arms around the old lady. ‘I don’t even know your name,’ I say.

‘Sharmila,’ she says. ‘Not that I ever was. My husband said I was badly named. He used to call me Jhansi ki Rani.’

Kabir kneels there, looking awkward. The old lady reaches out and pulls both of us into an embrace. She holds us close. We awkwardly bang shoulders, heads. We both pull back hurriedly when she lets us go.

As we crawl back to our places, the old woman is singing. A simple lullaby that a mother would sing to a child. Her voice cracks and wavers. But to me it is the sound of love.