You Exist

I dress up. Check myself in the mirror twice, before leaving home. A spring to my step, a song on my lips, I am off to work. My radio plays the perfect songs. Twenty one new emails on the screen. I lock it & head for the canteen. To start my day with a dose of caffeine. And to catch a glimpse of you, if I am fortunate. Will you be there? Searching eyes, fluttering heart. Yes, I spot you sitting across the table. Suddenly conscious of your presence, and of mine, I cannot bring myself to look at you.  Am I in love?

As I sit there with my drink, dwindling my phone, it vibrates. A text from the Husband. The child has been dropped off to school safely. He has reached office on time. The breakfast was delicious & they finished it. And he has forgotten to give the laundry to the washer man. I call him up. Yes, he has taken his medicines on time. He will pick up the groceries on the way. And would love to have butter chicken for dinner tonight. We vouch our love for each other. And the work day starts.

The clock ticks away with print-outs, emails & phone calls. Before I realize, it is time for lunch. I call up the Husband to find out whether he had his lunch. Yes he did. And it was ‘ok’. As I gather my lunch box and head for the canteen once again, that familiar feeling of restlessness is back. Are you out there? Will you talk to me this time? Am I looking good? I run my fingers through my hair & adjust my dress. The place is almost packed to the brim but I manage to find a corner. As I delve into my chapati & dal, I furiously search for you in the crowd. There you are, at the Juice counter, ordering yourself a pineapple shake. Our eyes meet briefly. We exchange smiles. Yours courteous. Mine mixed with a blush. As if you have caught me red-handed.

I am joyful for the rest of my day. Because you noticed me? Maybe. Because you smiled at me? Can be. Well, my day at work comes to an end. On my way home, I think about you a lot. Did you actually notice me today? Why did you have juice for lunch? Does your wife not cook for you? How does she look like? Have you ever fought?

I reach home. The child runs into my arms. The house is a mess. Dinner is yet to be cooked. I tackle each of them, one after the other. By the time I finish, the Husband has come back from work. From the look on his face I gather that has had a tiring day. All freshened up, we sit down for dinner. The chicken tastes good & the conversation flows. The child has scored well in school today & the proud parents exchange meaningful glances.

Happy & spent, we retire for the day. The child dozes off to sleep. We stay awake, huddled together, gazing through the window into the vast night sky, breathing in each other’s familiar smell. We talk about how the day was. About how exhausted we are. And how much we love each other. We plan for the weekend. And for the future. We fall asleep. Together. As a family. You are forgotten.

But you exist. Unaware of my existence, or at least my feelings, you live in a parallel universe.

You make me happy. Yet, you are not a part of my happiness.

You are the hope that makes me survive through the day. You are the thought that keeps my dullness away. You bring me back the sheen that the years have taken away. You take with you the monotony that a decade of marriage has brought in. You make me feel young. You make me want to be wanted again. But no, I am not in love. Not with you.  

One Night

I can hear the faint ringing of the telephone downstairs. Startled, I get up from my bed, immediately wanting to rush down to answer the call. Fumbling in the dark for my spectacles, anxious that the telephone would stop ringing before I pick it up, breathless with all the effort of raising myself, I suddenly realise the loneliness surrounding me. I steady myself against the bedpost, slipping my feet into the soft slippers Jolly had gifted me last Pujo, drape my sari around my shoulders, adjust my spectacles, and slowly turn towards the staircase. The telephone is silent now, but I decide to climb down the stairs, and wait in the hallway, in case the caller dials again. My knee joints are paining at this sternous exercise, I can hardly see anything in the dark, and I try in vain to locate the light switch on the wall. But I am hopeful of receiving a call. The very thought that someone wants to speak to me, Supriya Dasgupta, a sixty eight year old widow, cheers up my spirits. No one bothers to gossip with me anymore, I know. It must either be a piece of news they want to pass on, or a monthly ritual, a 'how are you' call. Still, I feel happy. I have passed the age when any news, good or bad, affects me any more. I am awaiting my end. I have seen it all.

Floundering my way down, I am finally able to locate the switch, and turn on the light. The room is  flooded with a strange yellow glow, shocking me in the suddenness of its appearance. Slowly, my eyes grow accustomed to the brightness, and I position myself in the black oak arm chair by the window. This chair has been Jayanta's company ever since we moved to Purulia and he started teaching in a school. I can still see his outline imprinted on its green fabric. Invariably, every evening, before tea was served, I would find him dozing off here by this window, spectacles perched atop his forehead, a book lying open in his chest, eyes closed, lips parted, as if gaping at a distant wonderland. Ah, what a life that had been. Mornings simply breezed past, full of chaos. Shubhro and Jolly had a school bus to catch, Jayanta had to leave for work. I would get up at 5 every morning, cook and clean, and get everyone ready for the day. Utter mayhem, I would say to myself, as I looked around for their handkerchiefs, or fished out his umbrella from under the bed. 

"When will I get rid of this hectic life", I would say to myself ruefully, "not a moment of peace. It will be on my death bed that they will leave me alone." 

When the last one left the house, I would exhale in pure relief, make myself my cup of sweet milk tea, and sit down with the newspaper. Today, sitting in an empty nest,when my mornings are empty, the housemaid, Minoti's Maa, brings me my cup of sugarless green tea, I enjoy the memories of the bygone days, my days of chaos. The peace, the quiet, suddenly hurts my ears.

Filled with nostalgia, I turn around to look at  framed photographs on the walls. My eyesight fails me, and everything appears to be a mesh of gray and black. Resting my weight against the armrest, I get up, and go closer. There she is, the demure and petite 18 year old Supriya, basking in the glory of her newly married husband standing by her side! Strange, both of us have the far away look in our eyes, as if we can actually foresee the life ahead of us.  Only if we did, I wonder how our expressions would have been.

Shubhro, probably a year old, wearing a girl's frock, sitting on that round  woven garden chair, his kohl lined eyes having an expression of bewilderment, his mouth twisted into an expression caught between a laughter and a bawl. We had desperately hoped for a girl child, and someone (was it Bula? Or Tutul? I can't recall) had gifted us with this frock. It is still there, wrapped up and tucked away in my cupboard, in the faint hope that my grandchildren would wear it some day. Rumi, my granddaughter, turned three last month. But I have never met her, let alone passing any gifts. When Shubhro calls me, I always ask for her, but most of the times she is either asleep, or busy somewhere else. Once, when she was in an impeccably good mood, she had called me Thammi, and had crackled with laughter at the sound of the word. Maybe she had forgotten the incident almost immediately after she let go of the receiver, but her voice, the way she called me Thammi, lingers with me still. My child, how I wish to hold her in my arms and shower you with all the love! Nah, I will definitely learn how to operate this computer now. Shubhro said I could actually see him on it, and, what more, I could even converse with him at the same time. He says it would give me a feeling that he has not gone far, that he is right in front of me, in this house. I smile at the thought. Innocent boy. Only if he knew that the day he was admitted to a fellowship program in the US, deep down in my heart I had said my goodbyes to him. I knew my little bird had wings of its own now, and it wanted to test them. Greener pastures, clearer skies, steeper mountains.
Tomorrow, I will take out Rumi's recent photographs from the trunk, and give it to Minoti's Maa for getting it framed. And I will hang it here, right next to this photograph of Shubhro. Or should I replace it with this colored frame, with Shubhro and Mili standing glued to each other, smiling and confident? Why do I hate my daughter-in-law so much? I don't know. We have never had any conflict, in fact,we seem to agree on everything. But that is probably because we have hardly stayed together. Whatever little time I have spent with her, something in me told me she is fake. Her politeness is a garb for her hidden cunningness. When she pretends to take care of every small need of Shubro, she tries to tacitly imply that she controls my son, that she is the empress now, that I have moved to the sidelines. And strangely, she seemed to have bonded very well with Jayanta, who would never stop praising her at the slightest pretext. Even Jolly was very fond of her 'Boudi'. Well, before they got married, even I had liked Mili very much. She was known to a family friend of ours. And so, when Shubhro had come back to India after 2 years, on a month long break, we happily married them off . Days had whizzed past, and before we could bat an eyelid, it was time for the newly weds to return back to their new home in America. At the airport to see them off, for the first time I felt a dull ache in my heart. Distress? Cannot be, because till then I was used to the idea of Shubhro staying far away. Jealousy? Hard to believe since he was my own son & I was happy for him.  But that day, the way Mili had waved her goodbyes, the flutter of her dupatta, the way her eyes sparkled as she went towards the lounge, her hands entangled with Shubhro's, had stung me.That feeling never went away, rather it grew over the years. I thought I would draw solace from Jolly, but that was not to be.

Jolly, ah, there she is. In her red-checked pleated skirt, sitting on Jayanta's lap. Both of them looking adoringly at each other. Every inch her father's daughter, never tired of fussing about him. "Baapi, here's your paan", "Baapi, you'll catch cold, keep the windows closed", "Baapi,  come I'll oil your hair!"
 Extremely naughty as a child, and a very difficult adolescent, she had given me nightmares. Our opinions were so opposite, that sometimes I thought that she deliberately intended to contradict everything I said, both in letter and spirit. Some days, she would behave mysteriously , fueling my suspicions that she is having an affair. At other times, she would simply clam shut, not uttering a single word throughout the day, except for answering my questions in a yes or a no. On other days, she would chat continuously about anything under the sun, even silly things like how blue is her new blue dress. In short, I failed to comprehend her. And then, the day Jayanta passed away, my twenty year old daughter suddenly grew up. Grief stricken, I had taken to bed, weeping continuously, my days passing in disillusionment. I think  I cried less because I missed him, and more because I was scared about Jolly. How would I find a groom for her? Would I be able to fund her marriage? What would become of her if I died instantly, too? And there she was, my Jolly, standing like a rock. Cremating the body, handling the incessant questions about why Shubhro could not make it to the funeral, attending a bereaved mother, answering Shubhro's frantic phone calls, worrying if everything was alright, if we were alright, telling him it was fine that he could not make it for the last rites, that we understand his predicaments about taking leave in a new job, and that she is managing things somehow. Not a single drop of tear did she shed. Not only did she become my best friend overnight, but she took charge of our lives. She helped me with the household chores, ran errands, took tuitions, finished her studies, and found a groom for herself.  And then, on the day she left for her new home in Chennai, she hugged me tightly. And cried.
 This photograph is the one I love the most. My beautiful daughter, draped in her fine red Benarasi sari, holding hands with my adoring son-in-law, Himanshu. He takes care of all her needs, she tells me, and gives her no reason to weep at all. However, when they visited me last summer, something seemed to be amiss. I have asked her so many times but she simply smiles and says, "Don't worry unnecessarily, Ma, everything is just fine. Just that you're growing old and imagining things". But I simply cannot stop myself from worrying that they don't have a baby even after 3 years of marriage. Is Himanshu having an affair with someone else? Is Jolly unable to conceive? No, I can't take this tension any more, I tell myself.

Tired, I come back and sit in the armchair. How I wish Jayanta was here with me. I would have asked him to fetch me a glass of water. A faint breeze blows in through the window, bringing with it the mild smell of Beli. The plant must be in full bloom. Tomorrow, I must ask Minoti's Maa to water it properly. He had so lovingly potted this plant, and every time it bloomed, he would be happy and child-like in his excitement. This is a scent that lingers in my nostrils every time I think of him. On our wedding night, I sat on a huge four-poster bed, in pleasant anticipation, and he strode in, the young groom, a garland around his neck, and held my hand. I made a new beginning, and this fragrance stood testimony, wishing me well.
When they took his body away, on that fateful night, they covered him in flowers. This fragrance, so known to me, so loved by me, cried with me. They have all gone, one by one. But this fragrance, the memories, the moments, the photographs, all stayed back. They humor me. They talk to me. They console me. They put me to sleep. And they don't hurt me. They are my best friends.
A loud ring. I startle again. This time, it is the doorbell. With sleepy eyes, I look out of the window, at the broad daylight. My back hurts terribly as I try to get up. Nuances of falling asleep on the armchair. I answer the door. Minoti's Maa reporting to work. Another day begins.

Yours Truly

I don’t remember what happened that day. When I try very hard to recollect, my mind conjures up some blurry images, some grainy snippets of a very long film I seem to have forgotten. A huge ceiling fan looming large over me, a pink frock with a lot of frills, a burning sensation in my abdomen, a white uniform. But what my memory has refused to erase is the distinct feeling of wanting to scream, but not being able to. Even now, in my dreams I sometimes see a hand with a wrist watch, clasping my mouth, stifling my cries, drowning me in an ocean. I get up startled, covered in sweat, and never sleep for the rest of the night. Mother says I was raped. On my fifth birthday.

I am Shubha, now fourteen years old.  We live in the chawls of Nalasopara. My father is a photograph hanging on the walls in the single room we have. My mother is a domestic help. My brother sells lemons and oranges in the local trains. I should have been married off by now. But mother needs five thousand rupees for my dowry, which, of course, she does not have. So here I am, an extra mouth to feed in an already starving family. Thankfully, I have joined her as a domestic help, and I might soon be an extra pair of hands as well. Poor though we are, we do have a television set, complete with a Tata Sky connection. My brother says he procured it from Jalla, a guy in the locality who sells cheap second hand stuff. I believe he stole it from somewhere. It is on this television set that I heard the word rape for the first time. And I realized that what mother tells me has happened to me, is wrong, that it is a crime.

That day, someone in Mumbai had been raped in the Shakti Mills compound. Everyone on the television was angry about it. Well dressed men and women were talking animatedly, exchanging sad glances, using wild gestures. Words like brutal, human rights, violation, crime, punishment, death were used all the time. I sat glued to the screen, my mind absorbing every detail, furiously trying to figure out if that was what had happened to me as well.

When mother returned from work, I asked her.

“Mother, when I was raped, was there a furor?”

“ No. Why?”

“I saw it on TV. People are weeping, protesting on the streets, lighting candles. Didn’t they do it for me?”

Mother did not bother to answer. She busied herself in rolling out the mat and making a bed for herself.

“Did the police come? Were the culprits caught?” I asked.

Visibly irritated, mother said, “What do you think you are, eh? Some laat sahib’s daughter?  This TV is eating your head. I will ask Ganesh to remove it now!”

Her outburst confused me even more. I decided to discuss this with Meena, my only friend in the locality. She was a couple of years younger to me, and worked as a daily wage laborer in some construction site.  As I went out of the door, I looked back at mother, hoping to see an expression of pain, of a hidden shroud of mystery. But all I saw was the usual grimace and frown she wears. My questions did not hit her to create a ripple of emotion. Probably it was ok to be raped? I hurried towards Meena’s home.

“Meena, do you think it is ok to be raped?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I saw it on TV today. They say it is wrong. I do not remember what exactly happened, but I think it was similar. But mother did not seem to care much”.

“I don’t know of right or wrong”, Meena looked sad, “but I’ll tell you a secret. Promise me you won’t tell anybody?”

“Of course I won’t.”

“You know that pot-bellied contractor whom we work for? The one who has pock marks all over his face? The other day he asked me to wait back. I thought he wanted to give me some extra work. But after everyone had left, he felt me all over, took me behind the brick kilns, and raped me. I screamed, I even scratched him on the face, but he slapped me hard and said that he had paid five hundred rupees to father in return for this, and if I did not let him ‘enjoy’, he would take the money back!”

“My god! Did you come back home and tell your father? He would have surely killed him! And your brothers? They would take his eyes out I am sure!”

Meena  laughed, “Quite the contrary.  For quite some time I could not move. My entire body was aching and there was blood on my dress. After I somehow managed to limp back home, I saw them all waiting anxiously for me outside the house. At first I thought they were worried. But as soon as they saw me, they all went inside, their heads hung low, eyes downcast, except mother, who, I realized, was silently weeping. She took me inside, washed me, put on me a fresh dress, served me warm food, and cautioned me not to share this incident with anyone. That day, for the first time in my life, I tasted rice pudding. But unfortunately my mouth was bitter and it tasted like bile. If mother makes it again someday, I will surely make up this time”.

“You did not protest?”

“Like you, I did not know it was wrong. If parents are asking us to do it, it must be right. I have been doing it regularly now. Yes, it pains badly and I feel nauseated at the very thought of it, but father says that with all this money he will be able to repair the roof before monsoons. No more sleeping in a puddle”.

“But everyone is saying it is wrong and the culprits should be hanged”.

“Who everyone? The ones you see on TV? Have you ever seen them here? Do they give you food when you go to bed hungry? Go ask them for work, and they will bully you with all kinds of questions like ration card, police registration, employer’s reference. They don’t trust us. We are poor. We are the ones who do them wrong.  Rapists are supposed to thrive here, not rape victims! If we told them we have been raped, they would probably laugh their heads off”.

“But that does not take away the heinousness of the crime! I was very small then so I don’t remember the details. But I am sure it must have been gory. And I still get nightmares! Whoever did it to me must be punished!”

“Yes.  They should be hanged by their testicles. But do you know who they are? Even if you did, what if your father had sold you off to them? What if he is a member of the local mafia gang?”

I did not argue further. My head was spinning. I walked towards home.

“Be careful’, Meena called out, “and don’t think too much”.

Why shouldn't I? Am I not a citizen of this country? Those men on TV were talking about laws. Does it not apply to me? Yes, I come from the poor strata of the society. But does that take away my dignity of being a woman? When you civilized folks unite together in a protest march, do you ever think about me? About the likes of me? Staying under tarpaulin sheets barely managing to earn four square meals a day, you treat me as an untouchable. But when the carnal instinct in you arises, this is the very untouchable body you shred down to pieces, mark your animal footprints with.

Around me, rape is so common that we ourselves have stopped considering it as a crime. You, always on television with your strong viewpoints, in your starched shirt and tailored coat, with your impeccable English vocabulary, do you know me? Who will come to my rescue? I am Shubha. I am Meena. I am the hawker girl you shoo away when I board your first class compartment, I am the flower girl who taps at your window every morning begging you to take my roses, I am the eunuch who ‘blesses’ you in the traffic signal, I am the domestic help who does your dirty linen every day. I don’t know the fancy terms you use. All I know is that I, too, am a woman, I am a human. And I have my rights. I don’t want to be raped either . It pains me as well. Even I die of this brutal act. I want to breed sons who know that rape is a crime, that torture against women is a crime.

Spare us a thought. Visit our slums. Not for distributing your NGO pamphlets, no. Educate us. Empower us. Yes, it will take years and years before we join the mainstream. But is it not time you start your humble efforts? Unless you do, ‘the plight of our country’, as you lovingly call it, will never improve.

Strange Are The Ways of Love

The doorbell rings. "Mamma returned from work", exclaims five-year old Gunugun, jumping with excitement. Jatin finishes typing the message on his mobile, gets up and opens the door. There, standing in front of him, is Seema, his thirty-year old wife, drenched in sweat, panting, exhausted, her hands full of grocery bags, looking everything but attractive. "Oh, they are so heavy. You should have given me a call. I would have come down & got them", Jatin says, almost immediately disappearing into the kitchen to dump the bags.  Seema smiles. In the twelve years of their marriage, she knows him well enough to understand that he doesn't mean an ounce of what he said. Another one of the politically correct responses for a dutiful husband. Before she can ponder on the thought, Gungun comes rushing into her arms, filling her heart with content and joy. For a few moments, Seema forgets about everything else in this world. The microwave goes off in a loud beep, and Jatin emerges from the kitchen, steaming cup of coffee in his hand. "Here, your coffee", he says, and places it on the table. No smiles are exchanged, no eyes are locked, no customary 'how was your day' is asked. It all seems to be a game of ticking the invisible checklist of dutifulness & responsibility.

Jatin returns to the spot on the sofa where he had been lying all this while, his eyes oscillating between the two screens, television & his mobile phone. He smiles at a message he has just received, prompt to type out a response. Gungun, her initial excitement having worn off, delves into her coloring books, and forgets about her surroundings. In the same room, Seema sits in the chair next to Jatin, watching a sports channel which does not interest her, eager to talk to Jatin, to tell him how her day went, to start a conversation. 

"What did you do after coming back from work?"  

"Nothing. Just the normal".

"Did you finish your lunch? How was it?"

"Ok".

"You know, I dealt with a new case today. Very interesting".

Jatin does not respond. Muttering something inaudible, he smiles, a far away look in his eyes. He has not heard what Seema just said. He is reliving some happy moment of which Seema is not a part. He chooses to shut her out.

She gives another try, "You think I should change my haristyle?"

"Your choice. Please don't ask me", he replies curtly.

Seema gets up, the fatigue and tiredness taking its toll. Of late, she finds herself totally unwanted in this household. Even in happy moments, Jatin praises her with statements like, "You do all the work and let me be a lazy husband", or, "You work so hard". She goes into the shower. As the cold water trickles down her head and on to her body, she weeps. What has become of her? How did she land herself in this mess? 

                                       ..........................................................................................

Thirteen years ago, they had met, Seema and Jatin. He was unemployed, she was a bright student with a promising career. Unsure of his future, but absolutely sure of hers, they had embarked on a voyage of romance, and had sailed the world of fantasy and promise with rose-tinted glasses. They had engaged in furious discussions on all topics under the sun, satiating each other's emotional, physical and intellectual hunger. Oblivious to the heeds of their parents that they were a total mismatch, they married, and laughed at every one who dared to point out that they were so improbable together. The first few years were hunky dory, and then, with age, they matured, they settled, they started a family, and they changed.

Struggling hard to maintain a balance between her job, her baby and her household, Seema lost out on all her passions. Always keen to dress well, she wore whatever she could get hold of in the mornings, returning home late in the evening with all the wind blown out of her. An avid reader, well abreast of all current affairs, she did not get the time to touch the newspaper, except to fold it neatly and keep it in the rack. Her only reads were during her train travels to work and back. A mother now, she used up all her remaining energy to take care of her child. For Jatin, lest he should think she is neglecting him, she dutifully took care of all his  physical needs, whether or not she wanted it, and tried to ease out his burden as much as possible. All the while, Seema thought she is doing exactly what an ideal woman should do - sacrificing her life for the sake of her family, doing household chores, running errands, working, and taking care of the baby. She would yearn for the intellectual sessions she had with Jatin, often reminiscing the old days, but she always seemed to have her hands full.

A few years later years, after Gungun grew up and started school, when she approached her husband, she realized he had moved far away. He had changed. He no longer shared things with her. He dwelt in a world of his own, where Seema was just the old worn out armchair, where you like to sit and rock yourself to sleep, because its familiarity comforts you, which you would probably never replace, but which does not attract you any more.

The initial realization had shaken the ground beneath her feet, and she had cried herself dry every day at night, unable to understand how to deal with the matter.
"You don't love me anymore, do you?"
Initially, Jatin had been able to convince her that he did love her, that she was foolish enough to ask such questions, and that he just drew himself into a shell at times, nothing to worry about. But as days went past, her search for re-assurances were answered by the 'don't start it again now's, or, even worse, total ignorance, of her questions, of her tears, of her presence.

They hardly spent any time together, thanks to their odd working hours. But they had always found out ways to talk, to communicate, to spend quality moments together. Now, whatever odd hours they were under the same roof, Jatin would spend fingering either his mobile phone or the remote control, and Seema would spend it with Gungun. Restless, she would be anxious to start a conversation with him, but cringed inwardly every time she summoned his curt responses and blank stares. He would smile at the messages he received, but when he looked up to see Seema, his smile would fade & the serious look would re-appear.

Seema started remaining extremely unhappy, more so because she could not place a finger at the underlying reason of her distress. Jatin did everything a husband should do, and at the facade of their relationship everything was alright, to the extent that people might envy them for their prosperity and well-being. But her instincts told her he was moving away, that something was not right. Having lost all ways to communicate with him, she would take out her bitterness and frustration on every possible reason she could get, never short of mincing words and hurling insults. Jatin, on the other hand, was as composed as ever, maintaining his calm, making Seema feel like a patient with psychotic disorder. He would never initiate a fight himself, preferring to make a straight face and assume an air of annoyance if he was displeased with her. She, on the other hand, would fight with him for unnecessary reasons, unable to tell him exactly what she felt, at the same time feeling sure he knew exactly what she felt. To add to her remorse, Jatin would never react, and after every fight he would explain to her how she had reacted like a madman, how it was all her fault, how she overreacted. In short, her nerves were a wreck.

This took an immense toll on Seema's health. She became absent-minded, getting off at wrong stations, exiting through the wrong gates, forgetting to collect the change from shopkeepers. She felt extreme fatigue followed by a sudden rush of anxiety, a increased palpitation of heartbeats, edgy, always at the verge of tears.

One day, when Jatin was taking a bath, curiosity took the better of her, and she picked up his mobile phone. Preening through his messages, she realized that he was particularly close to a girl called Antara, and from the pictures she had posted, she looked like a girl in her early twenties. So she was right! There was someone else in his life. She decided to ask him.

For the first time in their married life, Jatin reacted. "Get lost", he screamed.
"No I will not. Tell me who she is".
"You pervert, you think I am sleeping with her? She is so much younger to me! She is like my sister!"
"Yes, right. You message your sister all throughout the day."
Everything fell in place like a jigsaw puzzle, why he looked lost and far away, why he always fiddled with the phone, why he talked to himself and smiled.
"Look, I am not having an illicit affair with her ok?"
"That is not the only form of infidelity. You do not necessarily have to sleep with somebody to cheat on your spouse. You share your emotional space, your time, and your thoughts, which belong to your wife, with someone else. What do you say to that?"
"Stop this bullshit philosophy of yours. Yes, I adore her. I like her. I enjoy having discussions with her. She has strong opinions on everything. She knows so much of current affairs. And you? I can't carry out a proper conversation with you without having a friction."
"Yes, right. After I wasted my whole life on you, left behind a prosperous career to raise your family, now I have become a shallow mediocre."
"Yes, you have. You bore me. There are limited topics we can talk about. And accept it, with age some things change. This is one of them."

And so, it had ended. For long nights, Seema had speculated a divorce, dreamt of starting her life anew, but the thoughts of Gungun had held her back. An only child, her parents already dead, she had no support to lean back on. And society? Yes, single mothers were not uncommon anymore, but the strong feelings of aversion had been only replaced  with an equally strong feeling of pity. Everyone would be interested in the break-up story, sounding the 'oohs' and 'aahs' at the correct places, only to go back to their group and sigh, "Poor girl", or "My God, so much shit happens with people, so depressing". Definitely not her destiny, Seema thought. She made up her mind. For the sake of her child, she will carry on.

At this delicate and fragile juncture of life, she met Ashutosh.

One day, while leaving office, she bumped into him at the lift. They were classmates in college, never exchanging anything more than pleasantries. But recently, he had joined the same company Seema worked in. Both delighted to find an old acquaintance, their friendship evolved almost as soon as they met, and Seema found a ready distraction. He made her laugh, discussed things with her, gave her all the attention and importance she craved for. He listened to her, argued with her, and  heard her out without ever judging whether she was right or wrong. In short, Ashutosh gave Seema everything she hopelessly wanted from Jatin. She felt beautiful again. She bought new clothes, applied kohl to her eyes, and looked forward to come to work. And the days, suddenly not unhappy any more, flew past.

                                            ..................................................................................

Standing under the shower, Seema suddenly shivers. She turns off the tap and stands upright. Silent, naked, thoughtful. Lying side by side, in front of her, are the scattered fragments of a once colorful relationship, and a relationship glistening with the rays of hope, smelling of the newness, brimming with life. She does not necessarily have to choose, both of them can be hers, one would nurse her wounds, the other would give her fresh wounds to heal. Or, she can get out of the shower, go straight to Jatin and tell him that it is all over.  No, she has not fallen in love with Ashutosh. But he has taught her to love herself again, to believe in her prowess, to believe that she is still loved by others, that someone still finds her attractive, and that she is still intelligent and bright. That is is something more than a mother. That she is a woman. But she cannot do either. Why? Because she still loves Jatin. She still believes that she can gather the pieces fallen apart, re-build the crumbling walls, and restore the faded colors of a beautiful life they had promised to give each other. Strange are the ways of love, they say.

"Mumma, how long will you take", screams Gungun, "come out fast, I finished my painting and I want you to give me a star!"
"Yes, two minutes dear", Seema smiles, grabs her bathrobe and steps out.

                                               ....................................................................................

Sarita: A Solitary Friend

Sarita knew her friend would not turn up. Yet, she was here, sitting in this upmarket coffee joint, on a lazy Sunday afternoon, waiting for Mayura. Once again, she picked up the menu. In the past one hour, she had studied this laminated sheet of paper so many times that she could rattle off what every item on each platter cost, and was sure she could now draw its blue and white emblem with her eyes closed.

She looked around her. Studying people had never been her forte. In fact, of late, she hated crowded places. But she had come here because she knew Mayura loved the Blueberry muffins they served. Mayura had discovered this place during their college days, and they had all thronged the tables here every Saturday and Sunday, chatting loudly over plates of muffins and samosas, filling this place with their laughter and liveliness. Of course, back then, this place was not as fanciful as it has now become. The interiors were a plain whitewash of yellow, the tables mundane, with simple checkered tablecloths. Years went by, the decor changed. Graffiti filled up the walls, the place grew bigger, adjacent shops were acquired. People changed. The waiters, the cashier, the visitors, the friends. Her friends? Sarita sighed. She delved into her bag and pulled out a tissue paper. She has started using the lemon scented ones recently, and as she wiped her face, the wispy smell tingled her senses. She relaxed a little. She is 35, already at the verge of what magazine columns called a 'midlife', and even in this cool November weather, when she felt herself slightly perspiring, she reminded herself to fix an appointment with the doctor.

It all started with Gandhari's marriage. Bhakti was next. Before Sarita realized, everyone was gone. Honeymooning, making families, settling down, searing kids. She was left out alone. To attend everyone's marriages, and now kids' birthday parties. Of course, they all caught up once in a while, over the phone, on family occasions, but they hardly ever came to this cafeteria again, to share their lives over a piece of baked bread.

For a while, even Sarita was preoccupied with untangling the mesh of life. She was in a relationship with Pritam. They met at a social gathering, right after college, and before she knew it, Sarita was falling headlong in love  with him. A whirlwind romance followed with vows of undying love and promises of dying together hand-in-hand, Within a year, Pritam got a job offer in England, Each shed tears at the painful parting, and made promises of waiting for each other till Pritam came back to India. A few days before Pritam was to board his flight, Sarita's father passed away in a sudden cardiac arrest. She was so numb with shock, her grief was so raw, that when Pritam came to hug her goodbye, she did not react at all. The only thought on her mind was, how would she fend for herself and her mother, now that her father was gone? A couple of months later, when she had somewhat come to terms with the sudden demise, she wrote to Pritam. He never responded. She lost him. Their undying love died abruptly.

Sarita was very happy when she joined the same company where Mayura worked. In fact, when  Mayura called her up to say that there is a vacancy for an accountant in her office, Sarita was more excited about being in close proximity with a dear friend, than she was with the prospect of having a salary hike. It just seemed like yesterday, Sarita sighed.  Idly, she punched the button of the cellphone. 3:45pm. Very unlikely that Mayura would show up. She would rather text an apology, how her son suddenly scraped his knee, or how Upen planned a sudden movie, and, of course, how she would meet her in office tomorrow, and how they would grab a cup of tea at the cafeteria where she would explain everything. Sarita cringed even at the thought of having another discussion with Mayura. Of late, their relation had become estranged. She had become this agony aunt who was supposed to listen to all the woes her friend had, and any advice doled out would be fended with the standard reply, 'Forget it, you would never know, you haven't even married.' Suddenly, Sarita was an encroachment into everyone's space, which all seemed to be fiercely guarding. Every invitation she attended meant she would be introduced to 'mature' men, men with increasing waistlines and receding hairlines, who were supposedly doing well enough in their respective careers to marry a 35-year old spinster, and she was expected to pounce on this opportunity, fall in love instantly, and announce her marriage the very next day. And, of course, be obliged to her such dutiful friends!

Sarita was so lost in her own thoughts that for a while she did not hear her mobile phone beeping violently on the table. Wryly, she opened the message, the sordid thoughts still hanging thick in the air. 'Will reach in 10 minutes. Bye.' Her heart started to flutter. Ten minute and Mayura would be here. Then what? She had completely forgotten the reason why she had summoned Mayura here in this cafeteria! How would she muster up all the courage to tell her best friend that her husband was making sexual advances towards her? Mayura would be completely broken. No, Sarita would have to deal with it tactfully and delicately.

That ugly Sunday morning was still vivid in her mind, when Mayura had come home after delivering her baby, and Sarita had gone visiting. Upen had asked her to come upstairs to help him sort the medical bills for filing the compensation claim. Not doubting his intentions, she had followed. Once alone, he had forced himself on her, almost crushing her against the wall. Caught unawares, it had taken a while for her to respond. This brief delay had been an encouragement for Upen & and only when had she threatened him with calling Mayura and the neighbors with her shouts that he let her go. Flushed, disheveled, and at the verge of tears, she rushed downstairs, to Mayura's room, looking for support, for a shoulder to cry on. But Mayura was too preoccupied with the baby, and on seeing Sarita's sorrowful state, her only remark had been, 'Don't worry dear, very soon even you will sear a baby.' Sarita could still feel the sting she had felt that day, the heat of that insult warm enough to redden her ears even today.

Upen did not give up, though. She devised all possible means to keep distance - not visiting Mayura's home even once after that untoward incident, checking every guest list in advance to make sure she did not attend the same functions he did, making sure that she and Mayura did not leave from office at the same time, in case Upen had come to pick her up. Strangely, the more she tried to avoid him, the more she ran into him at every nook and corner of her social life, and each time he seemed bolder, and more aggressive. In fact, of late, even Sarita could feel her self-defense crumbling. On nights when loneliness loomed large, her in-satiated physical desires tempted her to take up the bait, to sail the crests of the tide,  and return ashore completely washed in pleasure. But then, the guilt of cheating on her best friend would take over, and she would spend the rest of the night tossing and turning in bed, till she heard the ugly loudness of her alarm clock, announcing that yet another day has arrived, another pitiful day in the life of an aging spinster.

Of late, Mayura had developed this habit of praising her 'loving' husband at the slightest pretext, letting Sarita know how lucky she was, and not forgetting to add that Sarita was missing out on all the goodness of life by not marrying. Did she sense something? Did she spend sleepless nights as well? Suddenly, Sarita realized she was perspiring heavily. She got up and went to the washroom, sprinkled some cool water on her face and neck, providing an instant relief to her senses. She came back to the table, drank some water, asked for the waiter, and placed an order for 2 cups of Mochachhino. Mayura would be here any moment now.

Sarita would tell Mayura everything, and, with a secret malignant glee, would watch her expression as the 'lucky' wife gulped down the information that her 'beloved' husband was desperate to mate a woman who is nothing but the subject of pity in her life. Mayura would surely weep herself dry, and call up all her friends to tell them of this misfortune, and Sarita could not help but grin at the thought of all these 'happily married' women huddled close together, shocked at the thought of their unwanted friend being capable of attracting anybody on earth, least of all their husbands. All of them would furiously work their minds on all the parties and get-togethers where they had seen Sarita with their husbands together, preening information from their distant and fading memories, to conclude whether their husbands had been attracted to Sarita or not. Some would be glad that they are not in Mayura's shoes, some would start doubting their husbands, and one or two would use up their extra fragment of imagination to believe that their husbands had not gone to work at all, and that Sarita was actually sleeping with their husbands right at that moment, somewhere in a hotel room. But all of them would conclude that while they wasted their time educating Sarita on the happiness of conjugal bliss, their husbands had been devouring her. Like every other discussion they had with Sarita, even this one would end in a pitiful note, only this time Sarita would be on the other side of the table.

Sarita paused in her thoughts, shocked at the magnitude of her hatred. Where would this end? Should she really tell Mayura all this? Happily married, with a beautiful child, she lives in her own world of sunshine, rains and rainbows. Sarita does not belong there, true. She has a different world of her own, where autumns are long and spring is a memory. But what would she gain by bursting this happy bubble around her friend? A momentary feeling of revenge. Her ecosystem would still remain the same, but Mayura's would be totally shattered. Maybe, Mayura would know what kind of man she is living with, drawing solace from the fact that it might as well have been any other girl instead of Sarita. But what good would come out of it? There would be nasty fights, endless trauma, and in the end Upen would pretend to apologize and Mayura would pretend to forget the episode.

Sarita picks up her mobile phone and texts Mauyra: 'Sorry. Some urgent work came up. Leaving early. See you in office tomorrow.' Collecting her bag, she prepares to leave, smiling at the thought that the next time her friends sit down to discuss her dooming life, they would not see her invisible magic wand, which can hurtle her 'Cinderella' head-along, right from the castle and straight into the step-mother's home.

A Weekend To Remember

When the drone of the clicking keyboard becomes unbearable, when my overworked body fails to raise itself from bed one morning, when my mind refuses to think about the obvious, when my heart aches to cast away into oblivion, I decide to go absconding somewhere deep in the jungle. To splash some green over my blues. And so, I head for Panshet, a largely unexplored tourist destination near Mumbai.

As I drive across the city, the Maximum City, the only view it offers me is stacks and stacks of matchbox apartments, in all shapes and sizes. The billboards and hoardings add an occasional splash of color, and announce yet another upcoming housing project, yet another ‘city within a city’. Ironically, all of them claim to be in the midst of some ‘green’, with a waterfall and some unknown migratory bird looming large in the foreground. Well, so much so for the urban slums. I speed away, the dullness in my heart suddenly unbearable.

It takes a good two hours’ drive to spot the first blooms of green. Not the dry, rusty shade that my mind had grown accustomed to. But the fresh, full and vibrant shade which would hit any city dweller right on the face, which makes me squint at the suddenness, as I get down and breathe deep, filling my lungs with pure, unpolluted air.

With my navigator as the only aid for direction, I lose my way. Strangely, I do not panic. My mind tells me, I have no office to reach on time. No client emails to respond to. I have all the liberty to get lost for a while, and enjoy the watercourse running parallel to the road. All I need to do is call up the resort where I have booked my stay, and I will get directions alright. But is this not what I exactly wanted to do? To break free from the routine and surrender myself to an uncertainty?

Not for long, though. A navigator coupled with well-placed sign boards at every turning, I reach my destination before noon. A beautiful resort, I must say. An air of laziness all around. No holidaying tourists nudging and shoving and pushing and jostling. It seemed like I had the whole resort to myself, complete with wild shrubs, most of them blooming. After checking in, and having some refreshments, I decide to explore the boundaries. Stone steps are aplenty here, dividing and uniting this huge mansion at the same time. Reminds me of my childhood summer vacations at my grandfather's place, days when I would smell adventure at every possible rooftop, feel spooky spirits at every old staircase, and imagine a secret treasure in anything that was locked, be it a wooden chest or a cellar full of old utensils. Mission accomplished, I come back to my room, too carried away by the powerful whiff of nostalgia that hit me. Tired, I order a cup of 'masala chai' as I slide open the balcony door and step out. Into the blinding beauty of the afternoon sun. And I am left dumbfounded! My mind had prepared itself for some balmy wind and, maybe, overlooking into a garden with a rusty, creaking swing. But not a breathtaking view of a clear sky reflecting itself in the sparkling waters of a vast lake, with undulating mountains dotting its outer edges at some places, while at some places the lake just expanded into the horizon, so that the water and the sky took the same shade of blue. In contrast, the mountains had different hues of green, and matching patches of pale yellow and earthy brown, covering their surface. A frame straight out of a child's drawing book.

I come down in the garden and take the steps leading to the lake,formed by placing together some big-sized pebbles, and dip my feet in the cool, clear water. I can easily spot the flora and fauna underneath, and the occasional small carp who probably strayed from its group to visit the excited feet wading in its homeland. I fancy myself peeking into a water kingdom, where deep down, a king must be living peacefully in his huge palace, made up of small stones and decorated with algae, a beautiful queen in tow, mermaids hovering everywhere to serve him. Maybe, these polished pebbles covered with green moss, below my feet, are the sentry check-posts, to keep an eye on all the curious intruders who might want to enter their kingdom? I splash some water on my face.

As the day comes to a slow end and the yellow sun wears an orange costume, I experience a sunset in this sleepy little hamlet where even darkness unravels itself slowly, yawning and stretching. Here, the sun is a  true lover of the earth. It spreads all its hues on the grand canopy, adding a Midas touch to everything visible, waltzing with trees, kissing the ripples in the water, mating with the mountains. Before bidding adieu for the day. Before promising to come back again.

Night sets in to reveal a canopy of stars studded across the smooth veil of the universe. A chilly breeze reminds us that winter is about to set in. The resort is now a desolate island, the stairs an unexplored alleyway. A cold mist hangs in the air. Dim lights filtering through the lattices, on to the gardens, throwing haphazard shadows all over, gives me an eerie sensation of being in a haunted castle. Beauty of the forbidden, majesty of the unknown.

 

Next morning, I decide to visit the local temple nearby. What I gather from the local guide at the resort is that it will be quite a climb up the steep mountains. Armed with an adequate supply of drinking water, I hitch hike my way to the temple top. On the way I come across a group of local women, daily wage laborers probably, who are amused at the sight of a huffing and puffing stranger on their homeland, to whom climbing up the rocks is a daily affair. When the temple finally comes in sight, the artificiality surrounding it is stark and unreal. A place of worship which is not easily accessible is supposed to be either so pious that it attracts devotees from across the globe, or so historic and of archaeological significance that it crumbles to touch. This temple of 'Nilkantheshwar' is neither of them. A huge brick-lain complex scattered with simple figurines made of clay, painted with colors so bright that they almost dazzle with their fluorescence. But as I go nearer, I am mesmerized by the stories they depict. Someone here wants me to know about  the 'Puranas', wants me to recall the stories I read in my 'Amar Chitra Katha' and my 'Panchatantra'. Everything that I behold in front of me is suddenly significant. Ancient tales retold, not with the sophistication of the artisans of Ellora, but with the simplicity of a common man, who wanted to enact on his canvas every story that he had learned. A structure does not have to be tattered and old to be splendid. It does not need to have a mention in the textbooks to be historic. A piece of art is a piece of art nonetheless. A temple which does not claim to be built by the Mauryan dynasty, where the deity does not claim to be a 'Svayambhu', a temple which is just a place of worship. Here devotees do not stand in a long queue to get a glimpse of the god, but here god exists nonetheless. Here shopkeepers do not follow you everywhere to make sure you buy offerings for the God, but where you have a humble lime water vendor who knows people will be thirsty and exhausted from the climb, and will need a refreshment before they meet the deity himself.

After offering my prayers to the Lord, as I drive back to the city, I cross a cremation ground, with nothing to mark its identity except for a sudden patch of land which is devoid of grass and a few spots of gray ash here and there. Even inside the heart of the jungle, resides the inevitable truth. The great leveler of mankind. 

Next comes the biggest surprise of the journey. As I leave the forest behind, the shrubs on one side of the road start thinning out and a sudden patch of open sea appears on the roadside, spreading out its arms in welcome. I halt, and run for the shore, only to realise that we have been following each other on our tracks for quite sometime. I had failed to look beyond the tall grass, and the rolled-up windows did not let in the roar of the waves. I feel the wind in my hair, under my armpits, behind my legs. Am I flying? No, but I am free. A strange feeling of happiness creeps in, childlike. I giggle to myself, for no apparent reason. Suddenly, I am an innocent soul.

After I had gazed at the vastness to my heart's content, and gulped in as much air as my lungs would allow, I look around to see the mankind spilled all around the coastline. Cheerful couples with bawling babies, flustered mothers trying to manage kids running into water, cozy lovers, noisy families of every constitution, all bite into a piece of happiness. Gleefully flash their teeth for cameras. Flaunt their moment of pleasure. Such is the effect of the sea. Water being splashed everywhere. Into faces, on clothes, on people, in the air. In refreshment, as a play sport, as a solitary amusement. Sea, the magic potion for our nerves.

Slowly, with reluctant steps, I get back into the car and drive towards the city. The invisible artisan slowly paints a shade of dull gray, one coat at a time, over the landscape. With every stroke, the green underneath fades away, till at one time any such color seems like a faraway spec in the horizon, a remote possibility and wishful thinking of what could have been. Barren lands, highways, flyovers. Honking horns and smoke emissions. Impatient people and Sunday crowd. A rude welcome back. To a life where green is the backdrop of a photograph framed on the mantle, but a rare sight in the daily routine.

Ganpati Bappa Morya!!

This Ganesh Chaturthi, as we welcome the Lord into our homes, bleat drums, make Modaks, light lamps and sing hymns, I look up towards the pink hued, calm and enduring deity, the familiarity of the face as striking as the personal connect I feel with Him. He is with me all throughout my days and nights, in mu curses when things go wrong, in my thanksgivings when things are right, in my bribes when I expect Him to turn things my way, in my pain when I am sick, in my joy when I am joyful.

I grew up with Him in my coloring books, my first memory of Him clad in a red Dhoti and golden crown still vividly etched in my mind. He was the logo on the mustard oil tins which Ma would use, and I hated discarding Him away after the oil was used up. In my drawing classes, He was the easiest being I could draw and sketch with my pencil, always eager to give his belly that extra bulge, and his ears the fanning shape. He is still the most lovable part of my Durga Pujo memories at Dadabhai’s place, where, the moment we set our foot in the house, we cousins would rush to Durgamondir get a glimpse of which color costume He is wearing. A favorite amongst us, we would love to hear his stories over and over again, how He took a full circle around His Mother and declared that He has traversed the whole universe, how He came to have an elephant’s head, how He has ‘Kola Bou’ as a wife.

As I moved into adulthood, He accompanied me, a constant companion. Any kind of trouble, it does not last forever. Days go by and aches heal themselves. But I love to think He is out there somewhere, holding that invisible thread for me, so that I tip over so low that I smell the earth, yet suddenly I bounce back, steady on my feet again. With Him, I am confident that no matter what comes, He will pull me out and I will sail through. Now a mother, He is the best bedtime story I tell my daughter. To her, He is ‘Gampta Papa’, the hero on Cartoon Network who can kill ‘Rakshasas’ with a single blow, his mouse equally important with its red jacket and golden trims.

As I pray to Him, a part of this huge crowd of worshipers and devotees, in a Sarvajanik Puja Mandap, not even for once do I feel that I share Him with others. My Ganpati Bappa is so distinctly individual to me, to my world. I seek his blessings and turn to leave, when I notice the other fellow worshipers standing in the queue. The same gleam in their eyes, the same emotion in their folded hands, the same respect in their demeanor. I realize, to each one of us, Lord Ganesha is our own, the very lovable companion who knows exactly what we are going through. Each one of us look up to him, and He assures us, our troubles will pass away.

This Ganesh Chaturthi, I bow my head to this divine being who is mine and our at the same time. Ganpati Bappa Morya!!