That early December morning wore a silvery-white cloak of cloudy blankets, moulding the escarpment next to his apartment into a mere paradise. It was already six but the earth still seemed comfortable on the foggy overcoat. The fleeting wind hitting his wispy hair through the window made Raghav reluctant to take bath but a dreary reminder stimulated him to hot up. It was his mother's memorial day and his memories flung him back to the days when his mother would make him hot spicy frittatas on such winter mornings. He pictured himself as a young boy intertwined in the game of catscradle in his mother's woolen balls while she knitted sweaters leaning against the French windows.
His subconscious was alarmed by a sudden knock at his door. It was Raju, the maid's son, cold and shivering, wrapped up in a frazzled shawl.
"What's the matter?" Raghav questioned looking at the dishevelled condition of the ten year old.
"Mummy is ill, so she sent me with the message that she won't be able to come for a couple of days" Raju sighed.
Approving the boy's proposal, Raghav said "Okay, tell her that I'll be out of the city for two days".
Raju shook his head ignoring any further conversation.
"And here, get her some medicines" Raghav handed him a crisp five hundred rupee note.
Raju nodded as his eyes gleamed like that of a doe's.
"Thank you, dada".
Two hours of driving continuously made him sick and dizzy but the lingering fragrance of marigold and sandalwood imbued him with a sacred, peaceful feeling. The noises made by the congregation that gathered in the hall occupied whole of the space but right there from the kitchen he heard a snivelling noise that grew louder and louder untill two arms seized him a like a jellyfish. It was Abha, his sister who wept unpleasantly at their mother's first death anniversary. Raghav pampered his dear sister like the way he used to do when she was just a toddler.
Mother's room was emptied for the guests to stay. Just a scrapped iron trunk laid there, all by itself, as lonely as father was. It had a pile of some faded clothes and worn out sweaters that belonged to Raghav and Abha when they were young. Mother had preserved every piece of their colourful childhood. Later that night Raghav fell asleep holding one of his favourite old sweaters - The vibgyor one.
Folding the newspaper between the gap of his fingers, Raghav is enjoying every slurping sip of his ginger tea which tastes different today, like the one that mother used to make. It isn't an ordinary Sunday. The amethyst sky is wearing a lining of sapphire haze. Raghav is re-living the loveliness of innocent reverberation, watching Raju walking past the alley resembling a bar of brown chocolate draped in a colourful wrapper.
"You look handsome, boy" Raghav waves his hand in air through the open French window and sings an off tune note.
"Thank you, dada", Raju enthusiastically replies and a little smile escapes his brown lips as he waves back wearing his new-old-hand-me-down vibgyor sweater.
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