Ajay and Imraan had been best friends since childhood, having shared everything, from their school lunches to their first sexual experiences, with different girls, of course. Now they had both gotten married, and were both successful in their chosen fields: Ajay as a wholesale dealer of consumer electronics, and Imraan as a real estate broker. They had pretty homes, prettier wives, and lots of cash. They had also started developing a slight paunch. Both said they would start working out, but they could never quite find the time. That seemed to be the one thing they always lacked - time. Nevertheless, once every few months they somehow, even if they had to cancel or postpone appointments with lucrative clients, took out time for their shared passion - biking. Both had got muscular Royal Enfield motorcycles, which they would ride out of the city to the hills or the forest, or some other remote place, and enjoy each other's company in the calmness. Over time this had become a regular feature, and their wives, and even some of their regular clients knew about this and were always sympathetic when they were requested to reschedule a meeting.
But they are not the protagonists of our story.
Mangat Ram Semwal had worked as a clerk all his life. When he died in an accident at the age of 42, he left behind his illiterate widow, Bala Devi, and two young daughters, Nisha and Disha. Fortunately for his family, he had been employed by the state government, and after his death, a meagre, but regular, family pension meant Bala Devi did not have to go and clean utensils in houses to feed her daughters, although it did mean that they could not move out of their village to the city. This was not a big problem, as there was a government run school and ration shop in the village itself, but other amenities were in the city, about 20 kilometres away. That may not seem very far, but without a means of conveyance, it was almost impossible. The only way to go to the city was by standing in the back of a pickup truck that made the trip every Sunday morning, coming back in the evening.
Adversity usually makes an individual stronger, and the same could be said of both the orphaned girls. They could afford a cheap, but decent education, and were growing up to be mature, responsible girls, who not only took great care of their mother, but also worked very hard at their studies so they could earn as soon as possible and alleviate their family from their meagre position. Their mother had instilled very good values in them, and they both had developed very high ideals, and knew they would never do anything unethical, even if they had to starve. They hardly had any time for friends, girls or boys, and whatever human bonding they needed or desired, they provided to each other. Everyone who knew them, thought highly of them, and was sure they would someday make their mother very proud.
About two years after her father passed away, Nisha, who had developed nicely into a cute, petite teenager, just past her eighteenth birthday, although she hardly realised that she was starting to attract attention from the opposite sex. Even if she had noticed, she wouldn't have cared, so focussed was she on her goals in life.
On the eve of their school's annual day, the girls returned home later than usual to see their mother lying in bed. This was unusual, as Bala Devi was a very active woman. Suspiciously, Nisha went forward and as soon as she had touched her, she discovered that she was burning up with fever. Thinking quickly, she knew there was no doctor in her village, and there wouldn't be one until noon the next day. The thought of taking her mother to the doctor in the city popped into her head, but she knew that without access to a vehicle, it would be impossible to carry her. She thought of which of her villagers had a vehicle, but nobody had a car, and her mother could not be taken on a two-wheeler. No, her mother would have to stay. She wondered if her mother could make it till the morning, but another touch of her forehead, and she quickly dismissed the idea. Without giving it another thought, she asked Trisha to get some water and a wash-cloth and put the wet cloth on her mother's forehead to make sure the fever would not affect her brain, as she decided to make the trip to the city to find a doctor, and get medicines for her mother to help her till the next morning at least. She hadn't the least idea how she would get to the city, but she did not think about it; only the image of her mother writhing in the bed floated in front of her eyes.
As her sister started pressing the wet cloth to her mother's forehead, Nisha quickly undid her hair which were in plaits, letting them fall over her shoulders, and changed into a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt and an old pair of sneakers, aware that she may have to walk long distances that day and her school uniform of a salwar kameez would impede her progress. Her clothes were worn out, but clean. She gestured to her sister, and slipped out quietly into the dark, moonless night.
