My sister was named after Jhumpa Lahiri, the reknowned writer, since my father was and still is an ardent fan of her writing. It is also quite significant to mention that even in one of Jhumpa lahiri's celebrated novels, called The Namesake, the father names his son as Gogol after his favorite author's surname. I believe this is what prompted my father even more to name his daughter after his favorite author.
Jhumpa, my 8 year old sister, was a very busy child. She had no time to sit. She would perennially find herself busy jumping from one corner of a sofa to the edge of another. Many of us believed, casually, that she was a boy trapped in a girl's body. At that age, one would find 'normal' girls fiddling with fancy dolls and setting up a kitchen and house with toys. At my age, which was 13 then, i believed she was some sort of a superwoman, who could even jump from one terrace to another. Atleast that's what she made me believe once. Yes, that was one more positive/negative about her. She would lie so confidently that even Christ would think thrice before doubting her. I was definitely a mere and much lesser mortal, plus i was also naturally unintelligent about most things. Though i was the elder brother, when she was around me, she would tell me more often than not on how to go about things. It was evident to all of us that she was blessed and possessed a brain with which one could call her a prodigy! It was hence, very natural for me to be the subdued sibling, more so once i started understanding her gift, and my gift-less-ness, if there's a word like that. My father doted jhumpa, needless to mention Jhumpa Lahiri, but even my sister. Not that i was not loved, but she was the apple of his eyes.It was very kind of my parents, that even after all this, i never felt neglected. Infact, with all my modesty, i had gained the maturity to understand that she is the 'one' in the family, like Morpheus from 'The Matrix' would say. Hence, even i had not attained the feeling of jealousy on her being the more loved kid. Though there was this one time, only once, when i felt that why wasn't the favorite author of my father a guy, thinking that probably then he would have named me after the author's name. My father was absoltely certain of the logic that anybody named Jhumpa cannot be ordinary, forgetting the basic biological fact that a person is what he/she is due to their genes, not because of their names. He was 'the' father, after all.
I was travelling with Jhumpa in a DTC (delhi transport cooperation) bus one afternoon back from school. This was one of those many times we had to skip our school bus while returning home due to some extra-curricular classes we had in school post school time. Our residence was around 4 - 5 bus stops away from school, which would take us around 20 minutes to travel that distance. Both of us sat together in a more or less half empty bus, trying to avoid direct sun and chosing our seats keeping in mind the mildness of the hot afternoon sun! We ended up sitting on the seats closest to the back door of the bus, which is used for commuters to board. If rules were to be followed strictly, we would have to go down right upto the mouth of the bus, opposite the driver and de-board the bus from the front door. But i presumed since the bus was half empty, there was no need to obey this so rigidly. The conductor came and i paid for a couple of tickets after he asked us our destination.
I had recently began reading Jhumpa lahiri's "Interpreter of maladies", on my father's recommendation. Although i had initially opposed saying she writes stuff for adults, my father convinced me that if i read her work genuinely, i would find enough meaning even at my age. I used to carry the book since then with me in my school bag, reading it whenever i would get free time in and after school. I took it out in the bus, the real jhumpa sitting with me gave me a look that said "you showing off!". I didn't bother about how she felt and began reading from where i had left over the previous night. Slowly but surely i got engaged with the grip and pace of the story, completely ignoring where we had reached. Jhumpa pulled my shirt to make me realise that we need to get off, as i noticed that we were not even 50 metres away from our stop. I suddenly panicked without much reason. I didn't feel there was enough time for me to keep the book back in my bag, so i kept it in my right hand, held Jhumpa's right hand with my left, and decided to get off from the back door of the bus. I noticed our bus not slowing down near the stop. I panicked more.I screamed at the driver to stop but he screamed back at me, asking why didn't we come to the front door, and now he can't stop before the next bus stop.I decided that both of us would have to jump to get off, or else we would end up getting off at a distant place from where i would be unsure on how to get back to our home. But if i would jump earlier, there was no certainty that Jhumpa would be able to jump too in time, so i asked Jhumpa to jump first, and assured her i would follow her by jumping myself. The driver and the conductor of the bus didn't seem to care and were busy gossiping amidst themselves while the bus kept moving at a decent speed. The bus crossed our stop as we kept looking and now it was now or never, as i screamed out of my lungs, JHUUUUMPAAAAA, JUUUUMMPPP!!
I woke up in a white room and white bed, my body covered with a white bed sheet. It took me around a minute to realise i was in a hospital. My mother and my father sat next to me, with visibly swollen eyes. It was apparent they had been crying for a long time. I looked around and searched for Jhumpa. My father understood whom i was looking for. Then i looked at him in his eyes, which told me everything.. I had succeeded in jumping safely. We had lost Jhumpa. The rear wheels of the bus had crushed Jhumpa to death.
It took me years to believe and realise i don't have a sister anymore. My father stopped reading altogether. I recently came across this short story by Jhumpa Lahiri, called 'Hell or Heaven'! I broke into tears, just by reading the title.
