Two Women and Then, Another Two!
When Savithri had first moved into the apartment, where she was living now, Mrs.Bose, who lived in the opposite flat, had scanned her, much to Savithri’s irritation, from top to bottom. She had barged into the house, bursting with nasty curiosity, the very day Savithri had moved in, and asked all about her. Introducing herself as Mrs. Bose, the lady had pointed to the opposite flat and said she lived there with her family. Savithri guessed Mrs.Bose would be perhaps in her late-40s – a typical homemaker, with cooking, tear-jerker soaps and family being the only three items to be ticked off with a sigh of complete satisfaction in her daily existence. Attend to these and your day’s karma is done.
‘Not married?’ Mrs. Bose had posed the obvious question. The 35-year-old Savithri had worn a forced smile on her radiant face that moment and mentioned – ‘Divorced’. Mrs. Bose had grown pale and even shivered visibly as if she was having an attack. But what amused Savithri even more, in retrospect, was that the lady’s curiosity had not subsided yet – she had indeed deftly warded off any further signs of panic attack and effortlessly dropped the next question like jamuns into sugar syrup – ‘Children?’ ‘None.’ Mrs. Bose had rolled her eyes and left, and like Savithri thought, with the response weighing heavily on her chest – rock heavy. The word ‘Sinner’ had boomed and echoed through the insides of the not-so-friendly neighbour, who hadn’t even offered anything by way of courtesy.
The apartment which was part of a society that had eight such flats had yet another interesting occupant. The day following her brief interaction with Mrs. Bose, Savithri was climbing the stairs after getting back from work. Mrs. Iyer (and Savithri figured out her name thanks to the name plate), who lived downstairs, and another woman, had given her menacingly piercing looks, enough to burn down a mortal to mere ashes, well, in poetic terms. And what’s more – they had talked in such hushed tones. The gossip mills had already started working. Savithri of course hadn’t cared a damn and still didn’t. A week later, Savithri had found out that two of the eight flats were locked for whatever reasons, two more housed two young couples who lived in their own worlds and in the last one lived a certain Ms. Ruby D’Souza and her unmarried son – the only friendly souls that Savithri had seen in the entire building – so far.
***
Savithri had first run into Reema at a common friend’s book launch. They had this typical book lovers’ common talk and had exchanged numbers and
their respective blog URLs. And thus began a journey of an intellectually driven friendship. Reema realised that Savithri was captivating in a beautiful sense – hers was a story of independence – she had shown the world that she could do very well without a man in her life. Savithri had lived thus for ten years already. At 35, Reema believed, Savithri had all the maturity to take on the world that one could not find even in a 60-year-old. The icing on the cake was that both she and Savithri shared so much in common – charming personalities for one, and well, books, writing, music, wine and that unique taste for a prized independence – the drive to chart their own inspiring journeys, too featuring in that list of commons.
Reema, 28 and single, after completing her post-doctoral research in domestic violence, worked with an NGO that focused on women empowerment. Over her interactions with Reema, Savithri realised with wide-eyed wonder that she was almost looking at her younger self when speaking to Reema. While Savithri’s role as a copywriter with an ad agency fetched her the money to meet her roti-makaan-kapda motives of life, it hardly had anything to appease her intellectual hunger, to live her feministic ideology. The answer to this intellectual question came in the form of her relationship with Reema. Over days, Savithri understood that she and Reema fitted like a perfect two piece puzzle. So, when Reema had mentioned that she was looking for accommodation, Savithri had jumped in with a suggestion, a subtle request – please move in. Savithri had spoken to her landlord, promised him higher rent and won the deal.
When Reema had walked into Savithri’s housing society for the first time, she had worn a big white daisy, right above her left ear, over finely straightened hair. She was dressed in an ink blue sleeveless top and had matched it up with a floral wrap around. The street urchins round the corner didn’t miss her white stilettos and her perfect figure. Neither did Mrs.Bose and Mrs.Iyer. They had stared open mouthed at her and their mouths had grown even wider so much so that their mouths would have ripped apart at the corners, when they saw her knocking at Savithri’s door.
“That slut,” Mrs. Bose had whispered loudly, referring to the new visitor, “I am not surprised, she is Savithri’s guest.”
A few days later, when Mrs. Iyer, the faithful friend of Mrs. Bose, realised that Reema was not a visitor but was moving over to share the apartment with Savithri, she had bawled loudly. Mrs. Iyer now constantly wondered how she would protect her only son from those ‘awful ladies’ – she was trying her best to go the arranged marriage route for her son, find a bride who would be a dutiful wife, catering to the needs of her husband’s family and be someone who would duly stick to their family traditions preserved over time. Most importantly, she wanted a woman who would relieve her of her own duties and give her one or more chubby grandsons. But Mrs. Iyer panicked at the very sight and sound of the ‘ladies’ upstairs. When they walked down, she froze. When they laughed in their apartment boisterously, she trembled. And soon, she began praying to God with a shameless request – do something and get them out of here.
The young Miss. Shwetha Bose too had received her dose of threatening advice from her mother. ‘Don’t even talk to them, they will mislead you’. Honestly, Mrs. Bose needn’t have gone that far. The girl had grown up learning that women were meant to be docile and subdued and any breach of conduct would land her in utter misery. So, she, by default, began in the ‘hate those women’ mode with her first sighting of Savithri and later, Reema. And whatever she dreamt of being and couldn’t be, translated to verbal assaults on the women among her own friends. One night, the young Miss. Shwetha Bose had run to her room, shut the door, turned off the light, and in the cool darkness of the night, muttered with slight hesitation – BITCH …and had covered her mouth, shaking with guilt, lest the word would escape her mouth, penetrate the wooden door and travel out, tarnishing her good girl image….she hated her mother, the victim of the swearing, for not letting her be. Just like them.
***
On a warm Friday evening, back home after a not-so-eventful day at work, Savithri sat on the plush leather sofa with her long skirt tucked neatly under her legs. Resting her chin on her knees, she lazily browsed channels on the television, waiting for Reema. Suddenly, Savithri’s gaze fell on her black personal diary thrown carelessly on the sofa. Looking at the calendar, Savithri realised that it was four months already since she had moved into the flat. And three months since she had met Reema. About a fortnight since Reema had moved into her apartment. As she sat musing, she heard the sound of Reema’s car reverse alarm. Savithri went into the kitchen to quickly make some tea for the two of them.
Reema chirpily climbed up the stairs, whistling a tune and twirling the key in one of her fingers. As she headed to her flat, she saw Mrs. Bose, Mrs. Iyer and another new woman outside Mrs. Bose’s door. And then, the twirling key set off its pivot – her finger, and flying high, landed a foot away from the women. When Reema bent down to pick the keys, she revealed ample cleavage, a colourful tatoo and a significant portion of her breasts. The three ladies gasped in horror and their lips quivered. Their faces turned pale.
When Reema walked away and shut the door behind her, Mrs. Iyer began in a low tone.
“Shameless. I can’t stand these two.”
“You know..,” Mrs. Bose spoke slowly, “I have heard some weird sounds and laughter coming out from their flat…”.
Mrs. Iyer and the new woman gasped.
“Do you mean…?” Mrs. Iyer spoke knowingly, a mix of pride and fear blossoming on her tired face – pride for the fact that she thought she guessed it, fear for the fact that she was letting a sinful thought cross her mind.
“Yes, I think so…” Mrs. Bose answered matter-of-factly, “Otherwise, why would that Savithri pinch that whore of her friend in her waist near the gate, and that too in front of the security guard? Surely, there could be a better way to laugh at a joke?”
“You never told me about this…” Mrs. Iyer began on a complaining tone.
“Ah, come on, I just forgot..” Mrs. Bose said, sounding a little irritated. “My husband saw it too from the balcony…” she continued, as if it was a very valuable piece of information.
“You must speak to the other residents… and their landlord… Think of your children!” suggested the third woman nonchalantly as if it was such an important business of hers to share a suggestion.
“We should speak to our husbands,” the other two ladies chorused. They made up their minds.
Inside, Savithri raised her porcelain tea cup in a toast. Clank, Reema joined in. ‘Cheers!’ they sang – and laughed loudly, well aware that Mrs. Bose and Mrs. Iyer would be tearing their hair apart, wondering what their ‘weird’ neighbours were now up to.
A Tale of Two Hearts
If I tell Dad about her, I imagine he would rub his beard and scratch his chin and remain thoughtful.
If I tell Mom about her, I visualise her smiling from ear to ear. She would want a photograph immediately and would die to invite her over for lunch the next day.
If I tell Sister about her, well, she would first want to know her name.
And I would tell her, Radhika. The beautiful name of an equally beautiful woman.
When I saw Radhika for the first time, I froze, quite like ice. Or put more warmly, I was paralysed with unequivocal love, love at first sight. It was a rather cinematic moment, something I had least expected to encounter in my ‘normal’ life. She was the woman who made me turn my head. She looked smart in a very traditional sort of way, dressed in a beautiful cotton saree (she continues to enthrall me with more of those and a mind-blowing collection of FabIndia Kurtas), with kohl-lined large eyes, dusky complexion, arched eyebrows, matching it all up with a stunning diamond nose ring, and terracotta jewellery. And like the men would say of women they usually eye (and like I, well, have never said, but yes, once in a while do think), I realised she had the perfect figure.
The first time I had seen her, Radhika was leaning against the slab on which the espresso coffee machine is hoisted, next to the ‘Deep Ocean’ conference room. She was drumming the paper cup in her hand with her lovely, long fingers, all beautifully ringed. She was engaged intently in conversation with Ruchi, the HR manager. I hadn’t wanted to waste even a moment following that. “Would it seem shameless to barge into a meeting informal though it was, where I would be found unnecessary?” I had thought– but love had sent logic packing into oblivion and the heart effortlessly stormed ahead of the mind. And I was prepared to take all the chance, even if it meant I would land up looking like a preposterous idiot.
So, when I casually excused myself to pick up coffee, casually said hello to Ruchi and casually asked the new lady whose name I didn’t know right then, ‘I am sorry, have we met before?’, her voice, deep and serene, the first few of her uttered words, so well-spaced, that ricocheted off my ears, left me dumbstruck; Radhika, the senior programmer, had introduced herself.
Love is magical, people. And I don’t care if you raise your finger (hopefully not the middle one – I would rather like to hope that you are just wagging your forefinger) or scorn at me or start saying, ‘look, here goes another one’. Come on! Have you ever fallen in love? Dreamt of holding her hand and walking into a beautiful sunset? Imagined marrying her, bringing a hand over her shoulder and introducing proudly to everyone as ‘my wife’? Looked forward to having a boy and a girl? Pictured yourself teasing her in your 50s and continuing to have petty fights? No, these are not stuff just movies and mushy books are made of. I mean I really pity you if you dream of these with every other hot-looking woman. What I really mean is this: when you do meet the right person, your heart cracks up, chuckles and radiates warmth. It spurs your imagination, fills you with a passionate desire.
No, don’t think I am one of those saintly heroes professing love of a divine nature. I do believe that eyes are the windows to the heart. So, my love began, so to speak, when I saw Radhika. It set off the spark to know her more. And that’s how I believe my love for her has grown. I was really intrigued – curious to know what lay beneath the woman who had indeed turned my head for the first time ever in my life. Thus began a journey of discovery, encouraged by providence that provided the right moments and opportunities to learn that I had indeed been lucky – that my love of first sight had all the reasons to turn into the love of a lifetime. As someone leading the team she is part of, I realised her grit, passion and devotion for her work and during some informal chats over coffee, learnt about her family (she lives with her mom and a pug she calls Toto!) and discovered that she also loved poetry.
Sometimes, when you are in love, you look for those really small signs of possible reciprocation. Yesterday, we had an important presentation to a client and Radhika was making it. Ok, I go all about her dressing sense again – but she had looked especially splendid yesterday morning and, how I wished I could have looked on without taking my eyes off her. But, with the CEO and the client’s team head in the same room, nothing could have risked my work life more. So, stuffing sense desperately into my head, I had tried to look ahead but heart (and knees) weakening with adoration, I stole one look at her and caught her looking at me intently. She shook her head ever so slightly, gently touching her saree, and as if responding by some program wired within my head, I nodded and gazed at her a moment longer. Oh, what a beautiful instant it was!
Last night, I decided I had to talk to her.
It’s half past six in the evening now. Today being Friday, the office is pretty much empty. IT folks live life thus, unless they have a neck-wringing deadline looming ahead. If all is chill and well, they set off to celebrate the onset of the weekend.
I observe all the action from my cubicle. Radhika is busy winding up for the day, shutting her system down and clearing her desk. I decide now is the time to speak and walk up to her place.
“Hey! Would you like a walk up in the terrace? Please. I need to talk and I would need just about ten minutes.”
Radhika hesitates.
“Please,” I insist, the desperation perhaps blatantly evident.
She nods and climbs up the stairs with me to the terrace.
*****
Up in the terrace, as we had stood watching the setting sun and the many, many vehicles departing, silence and a chilly wind whipped us hard.
Gautam spoke first. And it was a question.
“Radhika, will you marry me?”
I stood in shocked silence. The silence came with the realisation that a rehearsed response to an occurrence that was expected and thought upon in the realm of imagination, doesn’t tumble out as imagined, when the imagined instance occurred in reality.
“Gautam, what do you know about me?”
“I know you are intelligent, charming and absolutely beautiful both outside and within. What more do I need to know, Radhika?”
“You need to know, Gautam. You need to know that there’s still something you do not know about me.”
“And what is that?”
“I was married and am now divorced – a victim of a broken marriage. And it hasn’t healed yet.”
Gautam turned around, shocked.
“Yes, a marriage that lasted barely a few months. And before I even realised, it was all over. “
For some reason that I am not able to fathom, I spoke about who the man of my past was and what had happened. Gautam listened.
I realised that the revelation was barely a ripple in a seamless ocean. It hadn’t caused a stir.
Gautam looked serious but his voice was soft. “But life doesn’t end with a broken marriage, Radhika. The journey has to go on. Why don’t you think we can put a contented end to an event that gave your life nothing wholesome and believe that you can make a happy new beginning with me?”
“I can’t, Gautam.”
“But why not? Why can’t you believe in you and me?”
“Because, I think there’s no such thing as love. It’s all meaningless attraction that wanes unbearably after marriage and the heart hardens – the pain is excruciating, I know it, Gautam. So much so that the heart only longs to burst and die. Farce, that’s all it is.”
Gautam sighed and after a brief silence said, “But, my eyes don’t lie, Radhika. Neither do yours.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned and began walking.
So much had been discussed in the space of a twenty-minute conversation. A decision for a lifetime had been talked about, argued and left hanging in the air. I stayed on in the terrace for a while and left after I saw Gautam’s car leaving the premises.I watched him walk away as his handsome silhouette gradually disappeared and was replaced by steady, resounding taps of determined feet, slowly receding into footsteps echoing through the narrow pathway. He didn’t turn even once.
Tonight, it’s particularly cold, unusually so, for, the last few days have been suitably, if not exceptionally, warm. I look out from my bed into the balcony – my two little roses that bloomed yesterday dance to the wind, bathing in soothing moonlight. I sit on my bed and I feel like a child today. I want to hug my knees and think of the days when I had nothing to worry about.
Try how much ever, my mind, in strange circles, goes back again and again to what Gautam had said in the evening. Over the last six months ever since I moved into my new job, my imagination has been whirling around, like a raging storm smashing windows, pulling down curtains and turning the house into an irreparable wreck. But I have been clever. This imagination hasn’t had a chance to have any of its ways with me. I have stubbornly chased away her wild children that she sent to play games with my mind. But now, this night, two years since my marriage with Nitin fell apart, for the first time, I want to dream. I want to let myself loose and drift away like a feather led through a path pre-destined, nonetheless, still unknown to it.
I close my eyes and dream of a man on whose shoulder I lean. We look into the distance at nothing in particular – perhaps a warm sunset. My fingers are entwined in his and he says something that makes me laugh softly. He seems to respond with a smile and a soft look in his eyes. And then it gets a little wilder because my body stiffens as I imagine that we are the soft, ash-coloured incense fumes entwined in fragrance, presence and dissipation. There’s something that is exceptionally wonderful about this piece of imagination because I can’t see anyone else in that man’s place other than Gautam. It is a truth I have known from the moment I met him but have evaded helplessly out of fear – fear of a dreadful past lived together for a few months with a friend of 14 years that shockingly fell apart. Didn’t our parents think we would do so well together? Yet, possessiveness and suspicion venomously ripped the relationship apart. What if Gautam too turned out to be that way? What will I do? That fear really had messed up a conversation that would have probably taken a meaningful turn.
But now, I am determined for many a reason. For one, I intuitively believe that life is sending my way an opportunity – to bid goodbye to a forgettable past and make a new beginning – to put a fine ending to a useless chapter. More importantly, however, it’s that feeling that has crept up unconsciously into me – one that I am not able to put a finger on. It’s that feeling that made me seek him out during the client’s meeting. Why did I seek his attention? Why did his look matter to me? What is this wonderful feeling that didn’t sprout inside of me in the last two years? Suddenly, I realise that the feeling didn’t even bloom when I had decided to marry Nitin.
*****
The clock showed 11 PM and Radhika’s decision was made. She reached for her mobile phone and dialed Gautam’s number.
A ring and he picked up.
“Radhika,” he called her name, and breathing deeply, held on.
Radhika stayed silent.
“Radhika, are you alright? Have you been crying?”
Radhika touched her cheeks and realised they were wet. She didn’t even know she was crying. Where did the tears come from? Why did they come?
“Gautam… let’s get married,” was all she could say.
Gautam laughed slightly, relieved and happy, “Yes, we will.”
With that conversation, there came a happy ending to a wait and a happy beginning to a new journey. Something, Radhika and Gautam intuitively felt, as they lay on their beds watching the sky outside, was shining bright above, illuminating the way forward, and they both smiled, as they realised that it was this lovely thing called Hope.
1I Want to Fly on the Time Machine
Ma looks tired today. At least I think so – because she doesn’t seem too interested in answering me. She even told me she is tired. But I don’t understand so many things. I want to know how it all works. I like to keep asking why and what and how. I like those words. I learn so much when I talk those words to Ma.
She is putting me to sleep.
*****
Many times she is very happy, smiling and all. My five-year-old puppy dear, she says, and ruffles my hair. I like that so much. I feel so nice. She also says she is very proud of me. She says that many times. I love her because she does everything for me – brushes my teeth, gives me a bath, dresses me up, helps me with my homework, plays a lot with me, does craftwork for me, feeds me, makes my favourite pies and buys me fresh cupcakes when I want. But you know what I enjoy most – she answers my questions.
Today afternoon, Ma and I tried to read letters of the alphabet in the newspaper. I also saw some pictures in the paper. We do it every day in the afternoon, after I am back from school. She says it will help me a lot when I become big.
During some yesterday, I didn’t understand what ‘becoming big’ meant. So I asked her. She told me becoming big meant becoming like Pa and then like Grandpa – because I am a boy. After that I asked her lot of questions.
‘Is Pa big boy?’
‘No, Pa is a man. When you grow up people will call you also “man”. ‘
‘What are big girls called?’
‘Woman.’
‘Are you a woman?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you a woman from small?’
‘No, I was a girl and then I became a woman.’
And some more.
And then she said it was enough.
But I still have lot of questions about becoming big.
Some yesterday, I asked her, ‘How will I grow tall? How tall will I grow?’
Ma said if I eat food, I will grow tall. I will be so tall that Ma will lift her head to look at me. I feel so excited when I think of that. She told me I will go to bigger class (I asked her if the room will be big and she said no), she said I will learn lot of things – very ‘complicated’ – I learnt that word from Ma. She was so proud when I used it the first time.
But when will I grow so tall? When will I become big? Tomorrow? I ask her this every day. Because I am not able to understand.
Some yesterday, Ma made me stand near the wall. She took my new scale that Pa bought and said – see, you are this tall now. Then when you are eight years old, you will be this tall – the scale was up. Then ten years, still up and 15, 20…when she said 20, she said I will be really so tall.
So, when I asked her when I will be 20 – she said there’s still lot of time for that.
I didn’t understand. When time becomes 5 o’ clock? I asked her.
She didn’t say anything. She said I have to become a little big to understand Time.
I think Ma says Time always. If I want her to come and play, she says ‘Wait for Two Minutes’. Some yesterday, I asked her when it will be two minutes. She asked me to count till 120. I cried because I didn’t want to count.
She sometimes scolds me. When I ask her when it will be tomorrow morning, when I say I want tomorrow to come now only, when I ask why 11 ‘o clock is afternoon and why 2 ‘o clock is also afternoon.
She says I have to become big.
For everything she says I have to become big – to go out and play without Ma, to ride cycle without Ma, to write with pen, to carry big bag, to cook, to go to college, to be in hostel (I learnt that from Ma), to become a pilot. I also told her I want to go to office like Pa – but I also want to become a pilot – I like planes a lot. And for everything she says I have to become big.
I don’t want to be small now. I can’t do anything. I want to become biiiiig now!
Today afternoon also Ma and I tried to read letters of the alphabet in the newspaper. I also saw some pictures in the paper.
Today, I saw a very nice picture. I asked her what it is. Ma said it was a cartoon – of a Time Machine.
‘Ma’, I asked her, ‘What is a Time Machine?’
She didn’t say anything. Then she said, ‘If you sit on it, and press a switch, it will make you big or it will make you small – whichever you want.’
‘Ma, will you buy me the Time Machine? I want to become big now!’
‘We can’t, honey! It’s just a cartoon.’
I cried, loud and loud. ‘Why? Why can’t you buy it for me?’
I threw my Thomas train and it broke.
Ma was very angry. She said she won’t talk to me.
‘You should sleep now,’ she said and put me to bed.
Ma looks tired today. At least I think so – because she doesn’t seem too interested in answering me. She even told me she is tired. But, I don’t understand so many things. I want to know how it all works. I like to keep asking why and what and how. I like those words. I learn so much when I talk those words to Ma.
She is putting me to sleep.
*****
I watch as my little one yawns, looks at me through half-closed eyes and turns around, lies on his left side, pulling my arm closer over himself. I gently pat him and in the warmth of the rug he falls asleep. His afternoon nap.
He has taken a while to fall asleep. I know thoughts rage inside his head even as he tries to sleep. I wonder though, how his thinking pattern would be – I suspect they may run in loops as he holds a part of his soft blanket between his right thumb and forefinger and keeps rubbing it.
The Time Machine is perhaps what he is thinking about.
My doll, you don’t understand what Time is and what human life is. Ageing puzzles you as much as it fills you with awe! I know it puzzles you, this enormity of things that surrounds the lives we live in this world – the complexities that the human mind has raised – a mammoth wall of conflicts, all originating from within us. Only that you still do not know a wee bit of it. For you, growing up is all about being on your own.
And you think the Time Machine will give you the answer. You jumped to that conclusion even when I gave you a not-so-complete explanation. Again, how do I explain time travel to you? 
But, little one, why do you want to grow up so fast? Trust me, life is its sweetest when we meet it slow and steady.
I don’t know how I can explain to you why it’s so wonderful to be a child – I can’t even tell you about the hardships of being an adult. It will well be beyond your comprehension. How do I make you understand the peace and calm of a child’s life?
Perhaps, my view is tinted. Perhaps, you have one little set of worries too – I know how you go berserk and chaotic when my answers do not satisfy you or when you don’t get what you want. But you still fall asleep when you want to and you forget misunderstandings so easily – isn’t that wonderful?
My dear one, someone said that the human mind always looks for greener pastures – we always long for what we don’t have. How true is that! I wish I could sit on the Time Machine too and fly away to a distant time – only that I want to go back to my younger days – of being carefree, wonderstruck, innocent and unprejudiced in learning life and its ways.
How ironical is it that you want to be transported to your adulthood – where there’s so much self-centeredness, hypocrisy, foolishness and despair! The world of adults is much like a kaleidoscope – of broken glass – together they form a tempting pattern – but as individuals – they are just that – broken, shapeless pieces! Perhaps, I was like you too when I was as small as you – hating my caterpillar self and waiting to burst forth into the world like a flamboyantly designed butterfly! The history of human nature, after all, repeats, and it is here to see.
You are blissfully asleep now and perhaps are dreaming of the Time Machine. Sleep is stinging my eyes too and soon, for all you know, I will see the same Time Machine too in a hazy dream. Ah, the workings of the human mind! And if I do, I suspect our dreams will merge and in that dream we would be flying – only that we will be spiralling away in opposite directions. Joyfully and confidently, to our own greener pastures!
Pics :
azadam - http://www.flickr.com/photos/azadam/ Andy Magee - http://www.flickr.com/photos/amagee3/
The Case of a Man and a Woman
‘Don’t play that guitar again,’ she screamed only to realize a moment later that there was after all no sound at all, except for the low whoosh of the gentle evening breeze; not even the strum of a guitar. But she had heard it just a little ago and his voice – she had heard that too. His intoxicating voice singing her favourite song, his intoxicating voice that had held the audience in trance for many years now, his intoxicating voice that made her go dizzy with love. There was no trace of that voice too.
Then why did she imagine it? She stared at her mobile phone that had not buzzed even once since morning. How much she waited to see the words, ‘Sid calling’! Or at least ‘One message received’. She stood in the balcony with a cup of coffee in her hand, the coffee getting colder by the minute. But she didn’t seem to mind; didn’t seem to really realize that the coffee was growing cold. She hated it when coffee went cold; she liked it steaming hot, just off the stove. Yet, today, it didn’t bother her; it didn’t matter to her. What ran in her mind was just this: why did she imagine she heard him play the guitar and sing to her?
She flopped into the bamboo swing that was swaying very, very gently, egged on by the breeze, and stared into the distance. Siddharth, the eminent guitarist and playback singer and she - Meera, his faithful friend, lovable lover, and wistful wife, just as he called her, had had a big fight in the morning – what would have otherwise been a peaceful and romantic Sunday morning. And if there was ever a book of firsts that she would maintain – this would go in as the first fight post marriage. What a nightmare of a beginning it had been to the day – Siddharth had yelled and walked out of the house not even looking at her face once – perhaps if he had, he would have reconsidered his decision; surely the tears that were streaming down her cheeks would have melted his heart or so she believed – that much of pity was still left in him.
Meera thought of the days when she and Siddharth were so blissfully in love. Then she had imagined a beautiful life ahead and was so desperate to tie the knot - like those fairy tale stories where she saw nothing short of a ‘happily ever after’ life post their marriage. And, that wasn’t many months back. Now, well, here she was, finding herself wandering around like a lost child, in the huge spaces of her mind.
What was it that had changed? After all, didn’t she always think both she and Siddharth were here to break the rotten beliefs that accompanied marriage? The silly man woman differences that people spoke about with an unwanted vivacity? Philosophy irritated her to no end and today she sat thinking just about life – philosophy became the much wanted agony aunt.
Meera’s mind wandered. She suddenly wanted to be close to her mother – lie down on her lap and she wanted her father’s bear hug, which every time that she had been wrapped in, had made her feel the most secure in the entire world. And as the thoughts trickled down like little drops of rain on a glass window, fear and agony gripped her throat. She felt like she had just swallowed a glass splinter which had rammed inside her throat, ready to choke her mercilessly to death.
Slowly, the reckless mind began replaying the happenings of the morning.
‘Let’s drive down to Lonavla today,’ Meera had said, as she had drawn the pale green and yellow striped curtains apart to let the morning sun filter into the room.
Hearing no response from her better half, she had jumped on the half-asleep Siddharth and sprinkled some water from the jug on the side table, on his face. ‘Won’t you listen?’ she had giggled.
Cold annoyance – that’s what she had met with in return, followed by an enraged conversation that had left Meera bursting into tears and Siddharth storming out of the house.
———————————————-
Siddharth sat looking at the setting sun. He found the sun’s orange blissfully soothing – calming his agitated mind.
The disturbing conversation from the morning played on before his eyes for the nth time that day.
‘Meera, don’t you know how to behave?’
‘What..I mean..’, ‘I was just fooling around!’
‘Precisely..’, ‘You think you can do whatever you wish and get away with it.’
‘Now, come on, Siddharth..’, ‘I..’
Tears.
‘Now, there you go.’, ‘All you women….you always start something and get away with tears.’
‘Stop it, Siddharth. You men are so efficient in blowing up things. You are all fine before marriage..and once you have had a taste of it, you are bored…’
‘What shit! What do you expect me to say? That you early morning nagging and your silly act of throwing water on my face should be awarded hugs and kisses?’
‘Oh..so you are already tired of me? That hugs and kisses have now become privileges to be awarded? I should have known.’
‘Known what?’
‘That you are no different from another man. You don’t know what it is to love a woman.’
‘And what are you..? All but a nagging, selfish, self-absorbed woman.’
‘Just get lost, you god-damn idiot! Just get lost.’
‘Shit. I realise why people say women are a bloody pain.’
He had muttered those lines, stormed into the washroom, brushed, bathed, changed and walked out.
——————————————————————-
Meera sat and watched two little kittens playing around in the garden. She smiled unconsciously. They were cute. And the sight suddenly calmed her down.
She reflected on what had happened earlier that day – for the first time from the point of view of what she had done and not from the point of view of how Siddharth would have reacted during another time.
Perhaps she was just having fun throwing water – nothing wrong with that, she felt, the problem was with the way she had reacted. She could have probably been more patient in handling his question – ‘don’t you know how to behave?’
And then maybe, things wouldn’t have been as bad. She looked longingly at the framed photograph that was lying near the bed. Honeymoon picture. They were beaming.
————————————————————————-
Siddharth looked at his phone – he had changed it to silent mode and slipped into his back pocket in the morning and forgotten about it. He pulled it out. He looked at the wallpaper and smiled. Honeymoon picture. They were beaming.
There were five missed calls – none from Meera. In one passing second, he felt the stupidity claw at his heart. He needn’t have over reacted, needn’t have prolonged that conversation. Unnecessary words needn’t have tumbled out. All of it dawned on him this quiet moment as the birds chirped their ways back to their nests.
He dialled her number.
——————————————————————————
Meera walked up to the terrace to get some air. Her phone rang. ‘Sid Calling…’
Just as she turned, trembling, she saw him – sitting there, right in the terrace.
He looked up at her from where he sat. She walked up to him and sat next to him.
Birds dotted the darkening sky and the moon began to rise. Silence filled the space between them.
‘You were here, all day?’ she finally asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you eat?’
‘No, did you?’
‘No.’
Silence again.
‘You couldn’t even call once..’her voice trailed off.
‘Meera…’
‘I know I shouldn’t have talked that way..’,’but..’
‘I know..am..sor..’
Suddenly, she jumped over and sealed his lips with hers.
The ‘ry’ never escaped his lips.
Up in the sky, the moon beamed.
Absence
She dashed into her cubicle taking him by surprise.
‘Looking hot, eh? Even at this hour.’ He commented, ‘blue jeans, white shirt and all – doing magic!’
No response.
Just heavy breathing.
God, I need a puff now, she thought as desperation churned within, creating ripples of panic inside her.
Tough long day, no time for a break and now, rains outside. And her pack of cigarettes was empty. Fantastic on a sarcastic note, damn on a desperate note and why-oh-why on a reflective note. Thoughts raged.
‘Shameless, smoking inside the office?’ she chided him.
He raised his eyebrows in surprise.
‘So all the silence all this while was only to contemplate and say this?’
She was drumming her fingers on the work table already. She had thrown her slippers which now lay carelessly under the desk. She had both her legs up on the chair.
The clock on the desk said 11:30 PM. Not much was happening inside the office at that hour, as always - they were just around to handle any sudden ‘breaking news’. The news channel’s office was blissfully silent.
‘Do you have another one?’ she asked nonchalantly, shaking her head referring to the dwindling stick in his hand.
‘Ah, no’ he answered and then pausing a bit, added, ‘unfortunately.’ And he winked, quite unnecessarily. He gently tapped it on the ash tray, discarding the grey ash – remnants of nicotine that had done its bit for yet another addict.
She looked longingly at the ash tray and then frowned, looking his way.
He shrugged.
‘Damn, this addiction gives me the shivers,’ she sighed.
‘Fear is such a bad thing, you know,’ he chipped in matter-of-factly, ‘it takes you nowhere.’
She stared hard. She hated philosophy without a solution.
She stood up and opened her mouth to say something and then quickly changed her mind. No point talking.
She collapsed into her chair and stretching her legs, picked up the single post-it note on her table and began rolling it till it looked and felt like a fine stick of cigar. Slowly, she held it between her clumsily shaking fingers and placed it on her quivering, red lips. She then closed her eyes. It felt weird like crazy but she was learning to cope with the absence of her dear, dreadful stick. A beginning, perhaps, to move on.
The Letter
One day, Ranjani decides to write a letter.
She does.
A week later, Preeti receives it.
On a lazy Tuesday afternoon, just as Preeti returns to her hostel, a letter awaits her at the waiting room.
A letter?
From Ranjani.
She tries to tear the envelope with trembling fingers; trembling – not so much out of anxiety but out of a curiosity mixed with excitement. At other times, this is not a feeling that really went well with her, so much so that she would have preferred anxiety to this weird mix – but today, this feeling makes her feel a certain warmth inside, after a while.
Inside, there are a few ruled long sheets and Preeti knows that Ranjani would have torn them off some old notebook that would be one of those preserved with utmost care inside the old wooden cupboard in one of the bedrooms back home.
The letter is written in black ink and Ranjani’s handwriting is impeccable. Preeti wonders how Ranjani manages to maintain such a perfectly spaced, neatly curved handwriting when all she can manage is to barely scribble legibly – when mechanical keyboards have begun to define her written identity – nothing that logically sets her apart in a world full of computer-typing clones.
And then, she begins to read the letter dated 15th March 2004. Beads of sweat erupt out of nowhere, lining her perfectly shaped eyebrows. She swallows that unwanted feeling creeping up her throat and waiting to find a voice through her. No, she wouldn’t let it come out.
Dear Preeti,
Hope all is well with you. You didn’t expect this letter, did you? After all, I never even let a word out about it when we spoke over the phone. No, honestly, this letter wasn’t planned. It took birth out of a certain urge to speak – pen down things without having to resort to the use of the spoken word. I sometimes hate to talk, you know – the capacity to express myself best happens only when I write and so here I am.
Fifteen years it has been, Preeti, and what happened back then, on the same day – this day, remains fresh in my memory and vivid in my eyes. Time rolls on but the memory of that day is somehow stuck to my mind – like a stubborn piece of lousy bubble-gum that fails to get off the wall, thanks to some equally lousy guy who has stuck it with a god-damned, despicable, a corrupted-soul attitude.
Fifteen years it has been since Amma left us, Preeti, and even as experience and responsibility have hardened me, as I think sometimes, hardened me like a piece of clay deprived of the much needed moisture, today is one of those days where I am completely my vulnerable, childish self – just as I was the day our neighbour, Ravi Uncle, fetched me back from school saying nothing but this – something went wrong at home. I was twelve and you were six.
And I can’t take the scene off my eyes – Amma lying down without talking, motionless, her eyes closed and … no, I can’t even write about it, Preeti. It fills me with a horrible, very eerie sort of isolation – as if I am chained to darkness with ropes of suffering and despair – perspiring intensely – and no, the tension doesn’t ebb out even a bit with all the sweating. This, Preeti, is my constant nightmare – the one I wake up with in the dead of the night, only realising through teary eyes that the reality is even more unbearable than the nightmare itself. A life without Amma. One that feels incomplete even after all these years. And why not, when she spread her roots to form the base of all our lives – the very foundation on which the entire household was carrying on with its middle-class life.
I remember a month after she died of a sudden attack – Appa, Thatha, you and I went down to the market – in one small measure to restore normalcy to our lives, although in retrospect, I still feel we have only been trying all these years. So the day I speak of, you, who kept asking where Amma had gone, and I, who only half-understood what really had happened, stood in front of a sweet shop there gazing longingly at the laddoos. I suddenly remembered Amma – what lovely sweets she would make for us every other day – that we would come running back from school in anticipation – the feeling as sweet as the sweets she made.
Certain images from the past simply don’t get off my memory. They are stamped in my mind. I bent down and asked you – ‘Preeti, don’t you feel like holding Amma’s hand now, feeling her palm – feeling her physically and basking in the warmth of her breath as you hug her? I so feel like having it for a moment now – feeling her presence physically.’ I didn’t even realise that you were after all a child that you wouldn’t even comprehend the helplessness and craving that weighed those few sentences. And all you said in return with innocence that can never be mimicked was ‘Akka, Amma has gone to Chitti’s house. She will come back soon. No?’
I remember hugging you and crying loudly oblivious to all the watchful eyes as Appa and Thatha came rushing from the next shop. I sobbed the entire day and you didn’t even know what all the fuss was about. That was the day Appa spoke to me – of how life had to go on and how Amma would continue to live around us as soft memories, making her presence felt like the gentle wind that would seep into our house (and still does) through the windows all through the day.
You, as you grew up, realised Amma’s absence as a reality to be accepted and lived with – an uncomfortable truth nudging you, poking at your aching, longing heart – no, she wasn’t going to come back; when your repeated question met with the same answer, your childish heart slowly transformed and you realised with a brutal numbness that stormed your heart – she isn’t going to come back.
And so we grew up. Appa went to work. He took care of us. He taught me, the elder one, the nuances of middle class existence – budget, plan, feel the shortage and pressing need for a few tens even, at the end of a month. All that subtly indicated that I had to move on to bigger things – fill a certain gap. And then there were some of the things we learnt on our own – comparing grocery and vegetable prices across shops, taking care to reach that fine balance between the money we paid and the quality we got in return, for Appa was so particular that we never compromised on our quality of life just for the sake of a few notes of money.
This middle class existence is such a strange life, isn’t it? God sent us down with such a crooked destiny – we are born with so many desires and aspirations but He just didn’t give us enough money to meet them comfortably. We are neither here nor there, forever struggling to just jump over the borderline to the other side of well-being-ness. We are educated – so we are always left wondering why our education wouldn’t fetch us a better way of life, a more sophisticated lifestyle. For most of us, the educated middle class, luck is probably our biggest bet. It either catapults us to bigger things or puts us firmly in our place – making us the ‘forever-aspiring’ group of people, living on staunch budgets and with perpetually creased foreheads. I am not saying this isn’t true with the poor or the filthy rich – everyone tries to better their standard of living. But this is perhaps most apt a feature of the educated middle class because for most of us, it’s education that is our tool for living life in a way our parents never did – we fall back on it like a life jacket.
It’s one thing to say that more money only spells trouble – it’s a Pandora’s Box – bringing into this world all sorts of vice and contempt. It’s another thing to be hardworking and educated and still spend years of your life together, trying to mend broken taps with a tight knot of an overused cloth, carefully break years of savings to repaint the peeling walls of your ancestral home and counting every penny with a weird tension prior to festive season. It’s one thing, yes, to enjoy the delights of a visit to a restaurant once in a while or feel the silkiness of a pricey ice cream. It’s another thing to breathe easy and see if you can build a house or buy a car without disturbing your normal life way too much.
I worry about Appa a lot these days, Preeti. Years of constant working and planning things to get us the best have cost him his health and not to mention, his peace of mind. After all, the balancing factor of his life was gone long before he could even find his ground. I know he struggles with her absence even now, Preeti, only that he is not vocal or expressive about it. He lets it be or at least pretends to let it be. And for a few years now, I am thinking he has to get what he deserves. A comfortable retired life that he can spend doing what he holds close to his heart.
He wants me to get married – 27 you are, he tells me; it’s one of those few issues where he actually expresses himself and I see the worry creeping up his face. Appa, I tell him, don’t worry – there’s still time. He shakes his head and says nothing more than this: if your mother had been around, she wouldn’t have let it be this way. I can only hold his hand in reassurance. I don’t want to tell him that I have other plans – that his English-Literature, post-graduate, assistant-lecturer, elder daughter, is working hard to save up her hard-earned money – she dreams of getting him a house and also giving him a comfortable retirement corpus. She knows he is tired – he has repaid her education loan and is half way through repaying her sister’s.
The other day I ran into Saras, Ravi Uncle’s son at the temple. He wanted me to come and take a look at his newly constructed flat. I wasn’t sure if I should go. But their family has been too kind – so, I went. Oh, I don’t know if I should even write this. But I think I should get over the fact that you are a child. You are grown up and I don’t even think I can share this with anyone else. The day I had been to his house, he asked me this as we stood near the French window –
‘I think we should have a wind chime here, what do you think?’
I smiled.
‘Why are you asking me? If you like it, I think you should.’
‘No, I want to know what you think. After all you are going to live here with me.’
I thought my breathing just stopped. I turned away from him.
And soon I felt his breath on my neck and I was, I don’t know, I was flummoxed. I wanted to say something but I landed up saying something else as he gently turned me around to face him. I asked him, ‘What took you so long to say this?’
I didn’t even realise I spoke that, Preeti. I think love overtook sense and rationality. I knew I had always liked him but moments like these leave you spellbound – I realised how a moment of love is something that cannot be masked, especially when you have carried it within your heart all along. I know I am head over heels in love with Saras and I can’t marry anyone else. He says he wants to get married immediately and he has assured me a thousand times that he and I will take care of Appa and you – after all we are going to be in Madras only. But I have told him of my single biggest dream – and what Amma once told me – that a daughter is no different from a son and she has every right to do what she wants to do for her parents, just as a son would want to. So, Saras waits patiently.
I have spoken enough, isn’t it – taking at least twenty minutes of your time? Get going with your work, sweetie.
Madras is blistering hot as always – Appa and I look forward to your vacations when you will be back with us. All the best with your campus interviews. Appa sends his wishes too. Do your best and keep the faith. You deserve the best and it will happen to you. I miss you dearly.
Affectionately,
Ranjani
Preeti folds the letter and lets out a deep sigh and her eyes grow moist. She thinks of her father and recalls her mother’s face, as she had seen it last, of course all but a vague memory now and then thinks of Ranjani – her sister. And that’s when she cries. And for the first time, a truth she had long known but had remained buried deep inside surfaces – that her sister through all the years had been what she wanted of a mother and that Ranjani deserved the best in life just as their father did. And she was going to make it happen for her sister.
She decides she won’t call now. She hopes she can call them in the evening after the interview is done and the final list is out and say, ‘Ranju Akka, we did it. I got the job. And now we will make Amma’s dream come true, together.’ and then sense the comforting silence and deep sigh that will come from the other side. That, Preeti thinks, will be the moment of her lifetime.
(Source: sparkthemagazine.com)
