1. Second Chance

Pushpa stood by the roadside, clutching her broken chappal. She desperately wished for a safety pin or something to temporarily fix it. She had set out for a walk in her old footwear, not realizing that the strap could come off any time. Pebbles on the road jabbed painfully when she tried to walk barefoot. She had left her phone at home and couldn’t even call her nephew for help. Her shoulders slumped, and her eyes darted around the empty, unfamiliar road as she searched for help. Every evening, she would walk along the street outside her sister’s house whom she was visiting, but today she had decided to be adventurous.

A raindrop fell on her, and she looked up to see dark clouds gathering overhead.

“Madam! Do you need help?” A male voice called out from behind.

She turned to see a man leaning out of a window nearby. What help could a male stranger offer? She shook her head.

Moments later, the man stepped outside, holding an umbrella. He opened the umbrella to shield her.

Pushpa waved it off. “I don’t need it.”

“You can wait under my porch until the rain stops,” he said, pointing to his gate.

The drizzle had turned into a downpour. Her saree was already damp. Reluctantly, Pushpa followed him across the street, the umbrella over her. He towered beside her with the umbrella, his salt-and-pepper hair giving away his age.

“Are you new to the city?” he asked, offering her a wrought iron chair kept in the patio.

“It’s my first time in Bangalore, I’m visiting my sister, she lives close by, in A 23,” she said, twirling a small end of her pallu around her finger.

“Do you like Bangalore?” he asked, occupying the opposite chair.

“I haven’t seen much of the city, I only go for walks, but I love the weather here,” she said, truthfully. In the same breath, she chided herself for chatting with a stranger.

He talked about Bangalore’s chaotic traffic, increasing pollution, and its cosmopolitan culture; Pushpa responded in monosyllables. It appeared he was looking for some company.

In some time, the rain eased. When she got up to leave, he went inside and returned with a pair of wedge heels.

“My daughter left these here, they might fit you.” He had also brought a small polyethylene bag to keep her broken footwear in.

Pushpa hesitated for a moment, then tried on the sandals. They were a perfect fit.

“They look new. Are you sure I can borrow them?” she asked, overwhelmed by his kind gesture. “You don’t even know me.”

“My name is Chandra Hegde,” he said, bringing his hand forward for a handshake.

In reciprocation, she folded her hands in namaste. “I’m Mrs Pushpa Sinha. Thanks for your help, Mr Hegde. I’ll return them tomorrow.”

As she walked back to her sister’s house, she marvelled at how comfortable and stylish the heels were. Why hadn’t she ever worn high heels before? She found her sister Daman pacing outside the house, her face lined with worry. “Didi, where have you been? I was so worried. And you didn’t even take your phone?”

“I went a little too far today, on the other side of the main road,” Pushpa replied, her jaw clenched, and her face tight.

Daman’s eyes fell on Pushpa’s feet. “Whose sandals are these?”

“One Mr Hegde gave them because my chappals broke.mI couldn’t even walk,” Pushpa explained, showing her sister the polyethylene bag.

Daman’s eyes narrowed. “Who is Mr Hegde?”

“He lives at C 92.”

“Didi, Bangalore isn’t like your Nagpur. People here can take advantage of a lone woman,” Daman said, her voicemfull of concern.

Pushpa said nothing and walked to the guest room, her gaze downcast.

The following morning, she told Daman she wanted to return the footwear to Mr Hegde.

“You don’t need to go. I’ll send Anil,” Daman said, leaving for work. Anil was Daman’s teenage son. Pushpa sincerely hoped Daman remembered to tell her son.

On the weekend, Daman and her husband had hosted a get-together of friends at home. The sisters had planned a menu for twenty people, and with Pushpa’s help, Daman decided to serve Chinese cuisine for the first time.

Pushpa handled the preparations, ensuring each dish came out perfectly. Since she had arrived in Bangalore to be with her younger sister for a few months, she had taken upon herself the charge of cooking for the family. Pushpa enjoyed cooking, it relaxed her and also gave her a purpose in life. By the time Daman returned from the gym in the evening, the aroma of spices filled the kitchen. “Didi, no one can cook better than you,” Daman said, hugging her sister from behind.

“I hope your friends like the food,” Pushpa said, giving her sister a dumpling to taste.

“Of course, they will,” Daman said, going to her room to change.

As the guests arrived, Pushpa stayed in her room, the laughter from the living room subdued in the din of the TV sound. Daman wanted her to join in the party, but Pushpa preferred to stay inside. Her sister did not insist, likely knowing that she may not feel comfortable yet for which Pushpa was relieved; she didn’t have to meet her sister’s friends and potentially turn the cheery atmosphere sombre.

On Monday evening, Pushpa set out for a walk carrying a folding umbrella in her hand. It was liberating to walk alone, admiring the beautiful houses, greenery, and tall trees lining the roads. In Nagpur, she rarely went for walks.

Parimal had always preferred that she travel in their chauffeur-driven car. While returning, she decided to stop by at Mr Hegde’s house to thank him personally for his kind gesture.

Mr Hegde answered the door. “Oh, hello, Pushpa ji! Nice to see you again. Please come in.” He beamed, stepping aside to let her enter.

“I’ve come to thank you for the sandals,” Pushpa said, walking into the minimalist living room furnished with a three-seater sofa, a couple of comfortable chairs and a coffee table.

“It looks like you remembered to carry an umbrella this time,” he chuckled, pointing at the umbrella in her hand.

“Mr Hegde, I didn’t want to risk getting caught in the Bangalore rain again,” she said, lowering herself on the sofa.

“Please call me Chandra,” he said. “And it wouldn’t rain today because when you carry an umbrella, it doesn’t rain.”

He laughed again.

She smiled at this.

He mentioned he was about to make coffee for himself so he would prepare a cup for her too. She nodded eagerly. The weather was just perfect for something hot. They engaged in casual conversation while sipping coffee from tiny steel tumblers used in Karnataka.

When she asked where his wife was, he said they had separated legally fifteen years ago. Both his children—a son and a daughter were now married and settled in the US. He was a retired navy officer living alone. As he talked about his family, Pushpa didn’t miss the hint of gloom on his face that briefly appeared and then quickly disappeared.

When he asked, she shared that her husband had passed away nine months ago, and her married daughter lived in Delhi with her husband and two lovely children. “Thanks, Chandra ji for the delicious coffee. I’ll leave now,” Pushpa said, keeping the empty tumbler on the table.

She walked briskly, hoping to return before Daman got home from work. However, by the time she arrived, Daman was already there, sipping tea in the veranda.