Sleepless / I

A series of 6 short stories, sleepless explores memories from childhood through the musings of a woman who is coming to terms with growing up and growing old.

It’s 3:00 am and a deathly stillness has taken over the city. I’m not sure what has woken me up. I have always been a sound sleeper, but off late I seem to wake at the faintest sound. Is it age or something else?

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I could tell it was really late at night; somewhere between 3:00 & 3:15 am. I didn’t need to look at the clock. I had begun to recognize the sounds of the night and it definitely sounded like 3:00 am – the quietest time; when even the wildest parties have died a natural death. The time when the city finally goes to sleep – no cars, no security guard whistling away and if you’re lucky then no dog or cat fights.

A friend in school had called it the hour of the devil and had warned me to not go wandering around the house in the middle of the night. “That’s when Mohini wakes up,” she had whispered mysteriously making me shiver. For those of you who don’t know, Mohini is the quintessential Indian ghost, one that has given me nightmares for a majority of my teenage years. Clad in white (can be a saree, gown or sack like bag; details depend on the storyteller), with long black hair, white eyes and  ashen skin, her feet are turned 180 degrees leaving footprints which are backwards. She lives on a Peepal tree and comes out to haunt unsuspecting students in hostels, pedestrians, workers living in makeshift tarpaulin tents, drivers (cars and trucks alike), people walking on lonely and deserted roads in the middle of the night and teenagers having a sleepover. She has a specific way of getting your attention – a gentle cluck and then your name, again and again. If you turn around and look at her, then there is no saving you. The stories range from being possessed, mysterious disappearances, and haunting to gruesome deaths. But tonight, I knew it wasn’t Mohini.

I turned, adjusted my pillow and tried to fall back to sleep. Something had startled me again. Loud sounds from the road, the wind or a dream; I wasn’t entirely sure. The room was a little stuffy. The chill of winter hadn’t entirely gone. Summer was another month away. It was cold under the fan and warm without it. We hadn’t put nets on the window so I couldn’t open them to let in some fresh air; another pending task which had been put aside.

I was parched. I may or may not have managed my 2 litre water intake that day. I took a large gulp from my bottle and stumbled to the bathroom. I had left the exhaust fan on again. I sat on the pot for a while, listening to the gentle hum of the exhaust, making a mental note to switch it off, while enjoying the small joys of relieving a bursting bladder.

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I realized it was a full moon night. The room was filled with silver beams floating gently through the curtains made brighter by a single florescent white street light. Our large window was placed perfectly in the centre of the room overlooking a jackfruit tree. It was a rare treat for a house which was “not park facing” in Delhi to have a green view, away from the prying eyes of neighbours and other sleepless souls who wandered around on their terraces at night. But somehow we had not accounted for the streetlight, so the curtains remained drawn.

I could see my daughters small body stretched peacefully (and horizontally) across the bed. In my absence she had readjusted her sleeping position and stretched luxuriously across my little space on the bed. Half curled half sprawled next to her was my husband – snoring gently; unmoving, unaware. I watched them both for a while; their gentle breathing; their different tempos; occasionally stirring to find a cool spot on the mattress. We had outgrown our queen size bed. It wouldn’t be long before my daughter would want her own bed. I was not sure if I was ready for the space and the opportunity for intimacy again. We had adjusted our lives into the demands of parenthood, putting our relationship on hold. I had promised myself that being a mother would be one facet of who I was and that I would not let it take over me. But it did – with a ferocity that I hadn’t seen coming. It had wrapped itself around me like a soft blanket. I was comfortable and didn’t want to get out of it, just yet.

Not wanting to wake my daughter up, I gently moved her legs and adjusted myself in the space that was left on the edge of the bed.

I tossed and turned for a while, but couldn’t get rid of the nagging feeling that had settled at the base of my neck. What had woken me up this time? It was the 6th night in a row. I could usually fall back asleep easily. My daughter’s gentle rhythm always calmed me down. But off late, nothing seemed to ease my nerves. I had been on edge all week, waking up groggy, irritable and restless. I resisted the urge to check my phone.

A dog howled somewhere. My daughter turned and planted both her legs on top of mine and snuggled in. My back ached. I considered walking around the house for a while. It was going to be long night.