These kids like yellow.
Vrushank wears bright cargo pants and sis Bhoomi's T-shirt matches it exactly, as the duo clambers into an infant cousin's cot, precariously rattling it till rebuked.
Shweta, their mother, turns off the Zee Sa Re Ga Ma Challenge blaring in the background, throwing the kids a mild scolding. On cue, Bhoomi litters notebooks across the floor right in front of the television sets, and pretends to be studying. Silent as an occasionally giggling dormouse, her furtive irrepressible smirk is a dead giveaway.
The 11/7 blast trains, a year later
Vrushank stakes no such claims at sobriety, leaping onto the headrest of the sofa and grinning, as impish an expression as they come. He speaks in cryptic, smiling monosyllables, head jerking in random directions to indicate approval or annoyance. Extremely proud of the fact that he is the older child (he is 9; Bhoomi is 8; both study in Class III because he started school late) Vrushank's a happy camper as he talks about neighbourhood buddies and galli cricket.
Ramesh Shivlal Kumavat passed away last year on Terrible Tuesday, the blast at Khar felling him instantly. He left behind Shweta, a young, beleaguered widow and the kids, and while his brother Madan has moved in with Ramesh's family, sitting in their Borivali flat, they admit things are hard.
"He was the main earner," says Shweta, talking about her late husband's garment manufacturing business. "We had a nightie factory in Khar." She mentions the firm went under and believes her husband's partner did not offer support.
Today, Shweta's primary concern is paying the children's school fees. "We have to do what we have to do," says Madan, Ramesh's soft-spoken younger brother. "What can you do? You borrow money, you try and cut back on things, but there are priorities in life. In the end, we adjust."
Both mother and uncle say the kids are too young to understand. "They don't realise how big this is," Shweta says. "Yes, they miss him and they cry, but they mostly avoid talking about him. Somewhere in their heads, I don't think they know he's never coming back."
Maybe the kids just don't get the meaning of 'never.'
Bhoomi says she misses him, and hushes up for a second before breaking into a smile and normality. Vrishank pretends he doesn't understand, then flashes an inscrutable grin as he scrunches up his eyes.
His eyes glaze instantly, at the very mention of Papa. Big, expressive eyes immediately layered with thick wetness. It is a haunting sight, those moist eyes coupled with that defiant, unmoving grin, as he shakes his head and tries to change the subject. I wonder if the eyes are generally this liquid, and his mother, toying absently with the remote, almost ready to switch on the talent hunt on television, says yes, they've always been somewhat wet. "Bheegi rehti hain (they get wet)."
She smiles as she says that. With wet, unblinking eyes.
Text and photograph: Raja Sen
See also:
'Papa was the best' | 'I cry sometimes'