Story 19: The Glass Doll - A story about love, redemption and memories that shape and never fade!

Hello listeners, this is Sara again from Kahani Suno with Kabir and Sara podcast. How are you today? I am going to try something different. I am going to go as far away as possible from Kabir's story. My story is going to be centered around emotions, not a lot of action. You know, a tear-jerker kind of stories. I know that some of you might not be big fans of it, but I think any story that could move you, move you to tears has to be a really good one, right? So I am hoping this story does that to you. This is called the glass doll and once again, it is a tear-jerker. So let's get on with it, the glass doll. Mom, please try to get rid of almost everything. The facility we are going to will allow only one suitcase and they have specific instructions. You can bring only essential items. Almost all the stuff is sorted and the estate sale starts tomorrow. If there is anything else you need to add to the sale or get rid of, please do. I wish she would stop talking. Mom, are you listening to what I am saying? I kept looking out of the window. I wished she'd leave so I could go out into the garden and pull out some weeds. I hadn't even planted the zinnias this season. The only flowers that bloomed were the perennials returning each year a little more mature than before. I admired their loyalty, but it was the annuals I looked forward to most. I left the planning that went into determining where these yearly plants went. I had to down to a science. The pansies went under the shade of the apple tree where the soil stayed cool and moist. The sunflowers, bold and unapologetic, claimed the brightest patch of sun near the fence. In the dappled light near the porch, I reserved space for the impatience and begonias. But even among the annuals, I had a favorite, the zinnias. Zinnias could go anywhere. They came in all shapes, colors and sizes and I went wild with them every single year. Their blooms were picture perfect, rounded, vibrant and cheerful. They flowered all summer long, each bloom lasting nearly weeks. Their only flaw? They didn't age or die gracefully. Long stemmed and proud, they collapsed in defeat as their one strong green stems, burdened by the weight of their blossoms, turned limp, weathered and beaten. The blooms would be the last to go. While the leaves and stems withered, the flowers would hold on. Their color and fragrance slowly fading, but never quite going away. One final day, there would be one last embrace and they would all die together, still trying to hold each other up. Someone had once suggested getting rid of them before that happened. But I couldn't do that. I wanted them to live through their entire life cycle. Why would I kill the zinnias early? There's a kind of intimacy in watching something you started go through its successes and struggles. How do you abandon something like that midway? You don't. You let them wither naturally. You let them scatter their seed. You let them die with pride, their life's work complete. Are you thinking about pulling those weeds again? Mom, don't please. I don't know how you do it or why exactly. How can you stand the feel of dirt on your hands? Ugh. I looked at her perfectly manicured hands, fake nails painted with grotesque little images, nails that made it hard for her to even text or scratch a niche. I couldn't for the life of me understand why anyone would willingly handicap themselves like that. How could I expect someone like that to understand the thrill of waging a battle with a weed as it snakes around your tender saplings trying to suck the life out of them? Sometimes you yank it out with a swift pull hoping the root doesn't snap because if it does, the weed has had the last laugh. Other times you follow its path delicately bit by bit, tugging it out slowly until one final pull shifts the soil and the smell of the earth's insides hits you. Damp, dark in the life. This is how you tend a garden allowing the plants to do what they want, removing the hindrances in their path, then sitting back as they chart their own course toward blue or doom. Much like how I had done with my children. Curiously, the sense of attachment I felt toward my zinnias was missing when it came to my progeny. You couldn't blame me, I always was partial to their annuals. Okay mom, I've gotten everything ready for the estate sale tomorrow. All that needs to be sorted is the closet in your bedroom. As I said before, please don't keep anything that isn't absolutely required. Even if it were, make sure. As my daughter, she should have known by now that nothing material was absolutely required for me to live. I was not the sort of woman who needed tangible things like gifts, journals, pictures, letters to recollect memories. I didn't need permanence in life. Neither things nor people. If I could watch something I was fond of then my children live and die every year, what use did I have for a piece of jewelry passed from my grandmother to my mother to me? I tossed the diamond brooch into the foresail section. Mom has been calling, just talk to him once, she pleaded. No, I answered simply. Mom, it's been so long, please let it go. He was young and made some mistakes, some bad decisions. I kept quiet. Okay mom, I'm leaving now, reminding you about the closet again. So what? Lock the door, go to sleep, die, what? She and her damn closet. I kept things in there I couldn't throw away, not because I wanted them, but because keeping them was easier than explaining to everyone why I was discarding such precious things. Like the drutusk's shawl woven with nearly every color of the rainbow, picked up in a hurry from a street vendor during a sudden downpour on our honeymoon. I was shivering and the shawl did its job, I never used it again. I was glad I could finally discard it now, no questions asked. What did I need it for? How do you explain to people that I can still feel the prickly raindrops, tracing rivulets down my skin as I stood there, feeling more alive than I had the entire trip? I didn't need the shawl to remember the chill permeating every cell in my body. I watched my husband as he searched for shelter, cursing the sunning rain, one of life's best surprises. He refused to buy tea from the street stall and threw a fit when I did. In that moment I knew I would never quite understand the man I had married. I never did, nor did I try. There were few other things stashed in there. The blankets my babies were swaddled in when they came home from the hospital. Their names embroidered in the corners. The baby pink one had faded to a pale almost white hue. I tossed it into the discard pile. The bright blue one I held it to my face, trying to catch a trace of my boy's scent. It wasn't there, just like him. It had vanished. He had travelled far to seek the true me as he put it. I was surprised I even tried. I had long known no scent remained, a mother's never dying hope, I guess. The blue blanket joined the pink one, the two falling into each other folds effortlessly. There were other knickknacks, so many years collected from my travels, even trips to neighboring counties earned a trinket. I was surprised I even tried. I had long known no scent remained, a mother's never dying hope, I guess. As with everything else, I didn't need reminders. They went on top of the baby blankets. And then I saw it. The one thing I had been dreading. I knew it was there, but a small part of me had hoped it wasn't. Maybe someone had taken it. Maybe it had melted into oblivion. It hadn't. It was exactly where I had left it all those years ago. Pristine, beautiful, just like the day he gave it to me. Her glass eyes still held that same wide eyed naivet. Its eyes are like yours he had whispered. Yes, they had been, but not anymore. It's almost as beautiful as you are. I was never beautiful, not then, and certainly not now. And look, it's wearing your favorite colors, a baby pink dress and a bright blue brooch. I took it into my hands. I had never taken it out of the packaging, just like he hadn't. I never asked how he got it. I didn't dare to. It was expensive and back then we didn't have any money of our own. He must have saved for a long time the meager few coins we got here and there to get me such an exquisite doll. One day he simply showed it to me and said, you're like this glass doll to me. I'm going to take care of it like I would take care of you. I jumped with joy. Another day he said, my parents want me to go stay with my grandparents. They feel I'm not doing well here and want me to study there. They live in the city. I looked at him, not quite understanding. Who is going to be with me now? Who would ask how I was doing every day, sometimes more than once? Who would accompany me through the wild zinnier fields, our favorite and secret long way home at the end of the day? Who would wait at the corner of the street just to walk me to school? Who would stand there until I disappeared from you? My world felt apart that day. It never quite gathered itself again. He left me with the glass doll saying he didn't know if he could keep it safe and didn't feel right leaving it at his parents house. His name was Guru. He called me goody adding an extra D to my nickname, Guru. I called him good do our special nicknames for each other just for each other. Just for each other. I didn't know where he went. All I had was the name of the college he'd planned to attend. I couldn't quite do anything with that. The next year my parents moved to another city far far away from the city that he had moved to. I didn't take much with me, just the doll. And that's how it stayed with me. Every time I moved it came along. I packed it carefully into the one suitcase I was allowed and went out to pull weeds, ignoring the ache in my heart that had entered my life the day the doll did. That week I went from living on my own to sharing a home with many like me. People in the last stages of their lives without anyone to care for them. I did not turn back to look at what had been home for my husband and me for the past decade. He had died five years ago and from that day onward it had been a constant battle with my daughter to move somewhere safe as she put it. I was 75 years when he passed. I told her I'd do it when I turned 80. Five years seemed like enough time to adjust to the possibility. In the end it wasn't quite enough. Just as 80 years hadn't been enough. The only things I knew I would miss were my gardening and cooking for myself and being by myself. And wouldn't it be expensive? The senior home does have a garden you could turn mom. We'll request a small kitchenette in your suite mom. You can be by yourself if you want mom. The home is run by Sonia auntie's cousin. She managed to get us a bit of a discount. It won't cost more than what you have already paid here. She had an answer for everything. I felt like she wanted me to move more for her sake than mine. So her mind could be addressed. She wouldn't need to check on her aging mother every day. She could rest easy knowing mom was locked up in a senior home where mom wouldn't be trudging through weeds and dirt risking a fall. When you can't get what you want one way you find another. The reason, logic, arguments and when all else fails, brute force. That's how the world worked. Sonia was my old classmate, a good friend. Many of us from the school seemed to be ending up here. I sighed. I was so not looking forward to this. I thought as I stood in front of that house. A beautiful landscape with a stunning garden I had to admit. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all. I don't know how long it was. I had lost track of time. But one day I heard a huge commotion outside. I usually didn't concern myself with anything outside my energetic field. But that day for reasons I still don't understand. I decided to look. I walked to the balcony. The independent suites overlooked the first floor lobby and open space filled with greenery under a vast glass canopy. A fountain ran continuously meant to soothe and relax. It annoyed the heck out of me. So I kept the sliding door shut. That day I opened it. Below I saw what appeared to be a new inmate surrounded by staff. He seemed agitated. The first few days were rough so for some people. For the first time in a long while I felt my heart go out to someone. The night I asked the nurse who came to see me before bedtime what the commotion had been about. Oh it's Guru. She said casually. My heart almost stopped. It had been so many years since I had heard that name. Once upon a time I had heard it all day every day for almost a decade. What about Guru? I asked carefully. Is he new? I've never heard that name before. No he's been here for a long time. I've never heard him make ruckus before. Yeah he's one of the quiet ones. Like you. She paused. Poor guy. Mental health issues you know. What do you mean? What kind of mental health issues? Oh I can't really say. I've already said too much. She just shared for me to get up. I had been growing weaker. I didn't mind people doing things for me anymore. That too had become a way of life. She changed the sheets, fluffed the pillows and made sure my food and medications were in order. Get some rest. She said. I doubted I could. Guru was a common name. It could have been anyone. But I had to know. That became my mission over the next few days. The staff didn't give out information easily. I had to ask other residents but I hardly knew anyone. I'd kept myself isolated all that time. I started attending breakfast and dinner gathering, soaping at Spatham. I didn't. Everyone wore name tags. I saw no tag with Guru on it. I did make a few acquaintances. The ladies who talked too much but none of them knew anything about him. He was a recluse just as the nurse had warned. I felt foolish. What was I thinking? That this could be my good news. Somehow ending up in the same place as me after more than half a century. I was being delusional. Still, it was an enjoyable delusion. For the first time in years, I found myself warming up to people. When you get to know someone, you realize they are not half as bad as you thought them to be. In fact, not bad at all. People in reality aren't just good or bad. They're just dealing with their own demons, mostly harmless, often kind. It depends on what you're looking for. One afternoon, when I had almost given up hope, the commotion happened again. I was in the lunch room at that time. Guru, you shouldn't be here, the nurse said gently. Give me my doll and I'll leave, he replied calmly. What doll, Guru? My glass doll, he cried. Guru, we already got you a glass doll. It's in your room. Did you break it again? Yes, that's not my glass doll. I want my glass doll. He sounded frightened as though he'd lived this moment many times before. All right, she said, we'll get you a glass doll. That seemed to calm him, but again, he was agitated. I don't want another glass doll, he said softly. Please find mine. Remember, baby pink dress, bright blue brooch. Yes, Guru, she said, we'll find it. Let's go back to your room. I couldn't move. I heard the whispers again. He broke it again? Well, they keep tricking him with these glass dolls. It works for a few days until he realizes it's not his and breaks it. So sad. They say he's in the last stages of his life at this time. I hope he finds his doll. Does he have family of his own? I don't know. His sister comes sometimes, I think, with her kids. To say that the world changed for me that day would be an understatement. It felt as though the universe had picked up a stone and hurled it straight at the glass walls I had built around myself, shattering everything I thought I knew. I wept like a baby. I didn't know when I had last cried. Years of anguish and self-loathing poured out with those tears. I had thought I was easy to forget, easy to get over, easy to lose. That day all of it shattered. Guru, my Guru, had never forgotten me. He had never gotten over me. He had lost me, yes, but he had remained loyal to my memory. The world suddenly felt kinder. My daughter came to visit that day. Are you okay, Ma? She asked. You look pale. She was arranging the zinnias she brought every week in the glassways. I looked at her, my beautiful, beautiful daughter. No matter how I behaved, what I said or didn't say, she came every week, called every day, brought me home cooked food just the way I liked it. The zinnias I loved so dearly, she got them every time she came. She was just like the perennial palaans, always returning. I'm okay darling, I said. She looked up, startled. It had been a long time since I had used words of endearment. I walked towards her. She turned, a turly flabbergasted. I hugged her and cried. She held me tighter. Mom, oh mom, she whispered. I love you so much, mom. I love you too, dear, I said. I'm so sorry I've been so hard on you. Don't say that, mom. Life has been hard on you. You did momlessly well. If I could be half the mother you have been to my kids, I would be a great mom. You're the most wonderful mother I know. Not only that, you're a great daughter, a wonderful sister and above all, one of the best human beings I know, I told her truthfully. She burst into tears like a release finally when people recognize you for who you are. Mom, she said softly. He called again. Will you talk to him? Yes, I said, please, letting her go. Hello. I heard my son's voice after so many years and even forgotten the sound of his voice. My throat choked. I could not get the hello out. Mom, I could sense and imagine his vidyed relief. I'm sorry, mom. I'm so, so sorry. I could have handled it better, he said, as his voice trailed off. All of us could have handled it better, I said to him. Finally, I had found my voice. No excuses, mom. I was just very young. Are you happy, dear? I asked. Yes, mom, I'm very happy. In the end, that is all that matters, isn't it? That the choices our children make work out for them. Working out for us parents or anyone else is never the point. Let the seed fly wherever it wants to, where it feels like it can anchor itself, grow roots and reach for the skies. We are anyway going to wither away, just like the zinnias, right? He promised to visit. I asked both my children for forgiveness. I forgave both of them. I forgave their father for being my husband. I understood him a lot better now. He was a simple man. He could never figure me out. My strangeness frightened him. His normalcy intimidated me. He was like steady soil and I was like the shifting wind. Each had its own way and purpose, but could never quite stay together without destroying the other. It was neither my fault nor his completely. But to our credit, we had made the best of a hopeless situation and managed to stay together for almost 50 years. That would not have been possible without his love and my devotion to him. I wish I had just kept the shawl. I had been cold so many times that the shawl would have come in handy. Instead, I had rejected it so badly, just like I had rejected him. Forgive me, dear. I forgave Guru for leaving abruptly. I understood now that he had been a kid completely dependent on his parents for survival. What else did I expect out of him? That he rebelled against the world and declared his endowing love for me? I went, forgive me, Guru. The hardest past was forgiving myself. For all the bad judgment calls I had made against my husband, my kids and Guru, it had cost me my happiness and my joy. I wish I had gone easy on myself and had not based my life on someone else's acceptance or rejection of me. I forgive myself, I said, with tears in my eyes. A few days later, I heard whispers again. Guru wasn't doing well. That night might be his last. They were asking for people to keep vigil. His family wasn't around. I volunteered. That night, I walked into his room with the doll in my hands. I had finally taken her out of the packaging. His eyes were closed. I placed the doll gently beside him. His eyes opened a little and he looked at me. I searched his face for recognition. There was none. I held the doll up to him. Tears rolled down his cheeks. I love you, Guru. I said, holding his hand. His hand was as cold as the glass of the doll I held. Goody, he whispered, barely audible. His breath was raspy. I couldn't quite breathe well myself. I put my head on his shoulder with the doll cradle between the both of us. We couldn't be together in life. I could not complain, however. At least we were together in death, trying to hold up each other like our beloved Zinnius. The end. Well, I want you. This is going to be a tear-jerker, even I'm getting emotional at the end. I hope you like the story, The Glass Doll. I would love to hear your feedback. Sarah at KahaniSuno.com. And until next time, I'm signing off. Have a great day ahead. And I'm sure Kabir will be back with another one of his stories very soon. And until that time, goodbye listeners and have a great day ahead. Thank you.