“I WANT TO WALK AGAIN”
The afternoon is still. And so is Surekha Sikri’s suburban home. I’m asked to wait in the drawing room as she’s readying herself inside. A soft conversation from the room inside breaks the silence. “Khichdi khaa lijiye na,” a young voice urges her gently. “Pure ghee daala ke nahin?” asks a voice firm and familiar. “Main khud khaaongi,” she further insists. Soon I’m ushered inside. I walk in with trepidation – part of it from being in awe of her talent, part of it from not wanting to burden someone convalescing after a stroke early last year.
She’s seated on a chair, with a table attached on which is placed a warm bowl of the rice concoction. Her grey tresses drop in curls, still moist after the wash. What’s arresting are her -rimmed eyes, reflecting the fire of an ongoing battle. She gives a shy smile, her dark eyes betraying the excitement. They’re the prisms of her soul.
