My Swing

By Priya Ranganathan

Darkness and the surround-sound of ABBA singing ‘Dancing Queen’ make me cover my eyes and ears before any memories can leak out to be lost in the void of loss. Swinging out higher and higher, so high that the little girl on the red slats has a ceiling of stars one moment and a ceiling of graying cement the next; faster and faster and so gracefully so that the little girl on the red slats has a fan blowing the refreshing coolness on her face one moment and then the trees and night breeze waft that warm coolness over her. It’s a cycle, a cycle that should never have ended, but time snapped the chains and cracked the red slats until they shrunk away from the bright eyes of the girl.

My beloved swing hides under the brown and blue bed in the third bedroom, hidden from childish eyes gleaming in delight and loving pats. It has been chased there by time, and it lies there licking its wounds in solemn gloom.

I did not know it lay there for a year. When I heard we had moved from the bustling concrete wilderness that is Girgaon, to the green, northern suburb of Goregaon, aptly named the “white beautiful village,” I was stabbed by daggers of icy fear. My swing, where had they put my swing? Oh yes, I knew it had belonged to my mother and her sisters before me, and to my grandfather before that, but I still placed full claim on my inheritance- that noble red swing that always welcomed me to India and clung to strands of my hair when it was time to go. That was the swing I fell asleep on as a baby, and that swing rocked me to sleep every summer. Every summer, that is, until we moved.

Upon reaching Goregaon, I swept through the house, barely oohing and aahing over the changes, the smaller, cleaner rooms, the compact bathrooms, the lack of rats. I only noticed what was lacking: the swing-room, and its occupant, the swing.

“Where is the swing, Grandma?” I asked my grandmother.

“Don’t worry, we brought it here,” she comforted me. I did not wait to hear any more. I rushed to the balcony in the master bedroom, the most conceivable place to hang a swing, but all I saw was the swing-chair, the tiny, much less exciting, version of our big beautiful red swing. I shoved it with all my might, disgusted. Where was it?

“I couldn’t find it!” I wailed, returning to the hall. My grandmother raised her eyebrows.

“Did you look under the bed?” she asked.

That struck me as odd. Under the bed? But a swing was meant to be hung from the ceiling, to be used to rock children to sleep, to dry their tears in the winds that it stirred up, not to be stashed under a bed like a useless box! I whirled through each bedroom, pulling up the sheets to peer under each bed. Finally, I found what I was looking for under the brown and blue bed in the last bedroom. And the sight hurt.

My poor swing, fallen from glory, lay cloaked in darkness and layers of dust. I stretched out my hand and tentatively touched its dull red body.

A shiver ran through me. Was this my swing, or simply a useless copy of it, waiting to shred my last strands of hope? I caught hold of the metal loop that had once attached to a chain, and tugged. It scraped against my knee as it came out slowly, my most coveted possession.

It was the same, except for the dust of course. I swiped my hand across the slats, and burnished red shone through, as powerful and bright as the sunset over the mountains. The red of blood. And wasn’t it blood that had linked me to the swing in the first place? My mother’s blood, my grandfather’s blood in my veins had granted me rights to this swing. I balanced one end of its wood on my thigh and rubbed it briskly. Everywhere my hand struck, red burst through, colouring the room, cleaving the shadows in two. My swing was returning to life.

I breathed on it to warm it, willing my hands and heart to bring it back. The red slats felt smooth under my palms; I stroked them and remembered a time when I had fallen asleep in its comforting grasp. I kissed the brown stain on the crimson wood, remembering the time I had swung so high that I had found myself hovering outside the balcony, over the bright lights of the street. Aladdin’s magic carpet, returned to life.

It deserved to swing again. It deserved to feel the hands of children running over it, to hear their voices echoing wonder as they assessed its grand size, to feel the warmth of love, the love I had poured into it. It didn’t deserve to lie forgotten beneath a rickety bed, only touched by ants, cockroaches, and the occasional wandering pigeon.

My grandfather was in the balcony, mending a hole in a woven basket, when I found him. “Grandfather, can we hang up the swing again?” I asked. He glanced up, bushy eyebrows raising.

“Where is the space for such a large swing?” he inquired, gesturing at the small apartment with his broad hands. “But now that you mention it, I was planning on calling in a carpenter. He can cut the swing into two smaller swings, and one can go to your house and the other to your cousins’ house. That’s a good idea, don’t you think?”

I was aghast. My face drained of colour, and I felt my legs tremble in a sudden onslaught of weakness. Chopping my swing into two parts? But…but the spirit of the swing would be broken! It was meant to be a grand swing, with a large, comfortable seat where children could play at many different pretend-play games, not a meager imitation of its former glory! I turned and stumbled out of the room, panicking.

My mother found me on the broad windowsill, leaning against the cool tiles with a furrowed brow. “What happened to you?” she enquired curiously. “You look ill.”

“Mummy, Grandfather wants to chop our swing in half and give half of it away to my cousins!”

My mother pursed up her lips, but said, “Well, the swing isn’t really being used now, dear. It hasn’t been used in a very long time. Perhaps cutting it in half and giving it to two houses where it will be loved and used is the kindest thing we can do for it.”

“But, Mummy, this is the swing you grew up sitting on, playing on, sleeping on! How can you advocate this?” I demanded.

She placed a gentle hand on my head. “If you really feel so strongly about it, I’ll tell your grandparents to let it rest under the bed for a few more years. But, dearest, remember that the reason I am even considering letting the swing be chopped into two halves is because I love it so much and it has given me so much joy and comfort all these years. It ought to have the chance to be loved and used again, don’t you think?”

I didn’t want to agree with her, but I knew that the swing would be better put to use and far more loved if it was not stuffed under a dusty old bed. But my cousins had never felt an attachment to that swing the way I had. They were born after the swing was dismantled and placed under the bed. I had grown up swinging on it, being rocked to sleep on it, eating meals on it, playing imaginary games on it. My red swing had shaped me, had played a role in developing my identity, and I couldn’t bear the thought of giving it up.

My mother, as though sensing my turmoil, smiled. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We will ask your grandfather to get the swing hung up in the lobby of the apartment building. Let the building children use it, swing on it. One day, when you have a house of your own, the swing can be taken down and you can put it up in your home, for you and your children to use. Does that sound like a good plan?”

Her words washed over me like a soothing balm. “So no one will chop it?”

She shook her head. “No one.”

I sighed, clasping my hands to my chest. “In that case, I’m more than happy with this idea. Let’s go and tell Grandfather and Grandmother before the carpenter arrives!” Hand-in-hand, Mummy and I hastened out of the room to catch my grandparents.

Beneath the creaky bed, my scarlet swing seemed to sigh in relief.

By Priya Ranganathan