Identity

‘I am so proud of you. You have topped the class in the exams. My grandson truly’ beamed Grandpa when Aryan showed him his report card. Grandma came along. When she heard the news she added ‘your father was also a topper, so was your uncle. You truly take after our side of the family. You will one day fulfill all our expectations.’ Besides being intelligent, Aryan was also a handsome looking boy and his grandparents said he was a carbon copy of his father. Not only that. He was already a junior swimming champion and would soon be on the national team.
Aryan was very happy to please his grandparents whom he loved dearly. He too felt that he had all the qualities of his father and Uncle Shyam. They were engineers earning very well. His grandfather had been a renowned lawyer and his father a scholar. Aryan had heard this so often that he felt proud to identify with a smart family and to be thought capable of adding his own accomplishments to it.
Aryan had a younger sister Tara. She was eight years old. She was a nice girl but unlike her brother she did not come first in her class. She took time to understand things. She was slow in learning but once she had learnt something she never forgot. But nobody cared about that. Being slow was unacceptable.
Aryan was 5 years older to Tara. He liked his sister but he never had the time to sit with her, play or help her with her homework. As soon as he came back from school, he got busy with his studies, after which he went off to play cricket with his friends or went cycling. Computer games took away some hours, chatting with friends some more until the day was over. Weekends were worse. Aryan had swimming classes on Saturday and then he would go to his close buddy Atul’s house for the day. On Sundays, he woke up very late, disliked anyone disturbing him and then shut the door of his room, switched on the AC and was lost to the family. While Aryan was in the 8th standard, Tara was still struggling with her second standard syllabus. Numbers scared her. Spellings terrified her. Her mother spent hours repeating the same lessons to her. Though she was the most patient among the family members, even she lost her cool sometimes. ‘how many times have I taught you the same lesson?’ she would yell at times. Then she would see Tara’s tears and feel really bad. She would give her a hug to make up for the hurt.
Grandfather and grandmother loved Tara dearly but no one said she made the family proud. When her grandparents spoke of Aryan as his father’s carbon-copy, Tara would long to know whom she looked like but she could never ask that question because she knew nobody would answer her. They would just look the other way. When the whole family went together for a function, Tara would be instructed again and again to pay attention to what people asked her and to reply correctly and not fumble. Her grandparents though usually did not let anyone come too close to Tara or ask her any questions. They did not want people to wonder why this girl was so slow in everything especially in comparison to that brilliant brother of hers. When people came home and Tara came to talk to them, her grandmother would rush there and send her away as fast as she could.
Tara felt lonely at times. In school, she had one or two friends. They helped her with studies when the teacher asked them to. But Tara had no real playmates. She could not follow games which had rules and in which one had to think and act fast. So she stayed back in class or sat alone watching the others play.
In a way it was fortunate that Tara was slow. She did not have the complicated thinking of a superfast brain and so she did not ask herself too many questions. She just accepted reality as it was. Aryan’s world was as far to her as say Mars or Jupiter.
Tara’s mother worked in a bank. Luckily it was close to their house. Only her mother’s boss and a colleague of her mother knew about Tara’s difficulties. When her mother wanted to remain in this branch because it was convenient for her, she told her boss that Tara was a special child who needed her constant attention. When she was in need of a holiday she requested her close colleague to take charge of her work also because she had some urgent meeting with Tara’s teacher. Her boss and her colleague sympathized with Tara’s mother and gladly let her have her way. To be identified as a special mother gave Tara’s mother some practical advantages. Not much really compared to being called the mother of the class topper or the swimming champ.Tara’s mother came home from work, relaxed for a while and sat down with Tara to do the day’s lessons. Teaching Tara took away so much time that as soon as it got over, her mother had to rush to the kitchen to make dinner and then it was bed time. Tara’s grandparents would talk to her when she came to them but it always ended with ‘you should do this’ ‘you should not do this’- mostly before others.

There were three bedrooms in their apartment. Until last year, Aryan and Tara shared a room. Then Aryan told his parents firmly that he needed his own space and comforts and anyways he did not wish to disturb Tara’s sleep when he sat up late. So the family did some space-juggling and the grandparents agreed to share their room with Tara. It was good that Tara had few things to crowd their room. She had no use for costly games, she did not need a TV or computer, story books scared her. The few dolls she had, had come as gifts. The sofa-cum-bed in the room became her bed. Grandmother would put a small mattress on it in the night for Tara and remove it after Tara left for school.
5 years went by swiftly. Many changes happened. Aryan was now in junior college, a real well-built young man. Grandpa had died. Grandma could not get over her grief. The very idea of being labeled a widow, even though of a renowned lawyer, made her bed-ridden. Tara’s mother had to leave her job to take care of her. The only thing that remained the same was that Tara was still lagging in her studies, though now she went to a centre where she was taught in a different way.

Now everybody was busier than before so nobody bothered about how Tara spoke to others or what others spoke of her. Least of all Tara. In the centre she found a very understanding teacher whom she instantly liked. She was in fact the first person who made life interesting for her. She helped Tara bring out all her thoughts and feelings. There were so many of them, hidden deep inside her heart! As Tara was not very good with words, her teacher taught her to paint and express all that came to her mind. She made Tara feel good about herself.

Now, it did not matter if people looked at her differently. When her mother was busy and someone came home, Tara welcomed them and made them feel at ease in her own special way.
And now it did not matter to her if her parents and grandmother did not say who Tara looked like.
Tara had built her identity from her own inner resources.

new bonding

Deepu was in an irritated mood। Nothing was going according to his wish। School was reopening after Xmas holidays and he had been pestered to get up early। Then his mother had not given him noodles for breakfast as promised. Instead he had to gulp down idlis which he hated. Not that staying at home was a better option. His younger brother had fought with him over a fancy ball pen and his parents had asked Deepu to behave like a responsible older brother and give Shamu the pen.Always give in!
Deepu was sick of being the older brother, that too of a fightercock like Shamu. In his 12 years of life, the happiest were the first four when he had been the only child of his parents. They were devoted to him, boasted about him to everyone. Why can parents not have just one child, he wondered. He had never asked them for a brother or a sister. He was happy with all his belongings and games, his own TV and computer. Ever since this Shamu came into his life, it was ruined. He had to share everything with his brother, including his room. Everyone was always comparing them. Deepu is average looking but Shamu has really good features. Deepu is smart but Shamu is very bright, they said. Shamu is also always smiling, always affectionate. When Deepu heard these remarks, he felt humiliated. Certainly he didn’t feel any love for his brother. People do not know how cleverly Shamu acts before them to get a good name. He keeps his true nasty self only for me, mostly in our room, spoiling my happiness, thought Deepu. If Deepu as much as touched his brother in anger, he would start howling and the parents would come running to accuse Deepu of irresponsibility. Truly he had had enough.
Deepu could not even sulk in peace. Immediately the complaints would start. ‘why are you pulling a long face? Don’t we buy you all you need? Don’t we send you to a good school? You should be thankful for all that you have got’ was his parents’ usual litany. Ufff! Deepu was sick to the core.
Both the brothers wore their uniforms, took their bags and lunch boxes and walked to the bus stop. Deepu did not even want to look at Shamu. Shamu tried to hold his brother’s hand but Deepu shrugged it away. Shamu said ‘I am sorry Deepu. Don’t be angry with me’ but Deepu just turned his face away.
Deepu had only two good friends. He would not talk to the other boys or girls. When he entered the class he saw that both his friends were absent. He felt gloomy. Now his whole day would be unhappy. He would have no one to speak to. He would have to eat his lunch alone. As he sat in his place, Deepu noticed someone new sitting in the last row. The boy must be of my age, thought Deepu. He looked a bit tense because it was his first day in this school. He looked eagerly at Deepu but Deepu just turned his face and sat in his own place. He disliked strangers.
During lunch all the children of the class rushed out in groups to eat in their favorite spots: some under the banyan tree, some in the small garden, some simply in the corridor. Deepu did not budge from his place. He did not care what the others did. Then he heard a small voice from behind. Then two voices. They were carrying on a conversation. But the voices sounded unfamiliar so Deepu turned back to see who the two boys were. To his surprise he saw there was only the new boy and no one else. He had been talking to himself. One boy as two boys. Deepu was so surprised that he forgot not to talk to a stranger. ‘whom are you talking to?’ he asked the boy. ‘I have an imaginary brother. He is a sweet boy. Whenever I am lonely, I imagine he is near me. Then I make up the conversations to feel good’ he said. Deepu was utterly surprised. ‘you mean you have no one to speak to?’ he asked. The new boy, Param, said he was his parents’ only son. His parents gave him all that he wanted but what he wanted most was a younger brother which he did not have. He wished he could share his toys, games and chocolates with a younger brother. Even if the brother was naughty, he would teach him to do things the right way. He wished he had a brother who would sleep with him in his room. He wished he had a brother with whom he would come to school and share his lunch. But Param was not miserable. He made up his brother in his imagination and was content enough with it. Maybe one day he would be lucky to get a friend who would be as dear as a brother to him.
Deepu was stunned. This was all so new to him. All these years everyone had only told him how inferior he was to his brother. Nobody had tried to make him understand the value of being an older brother.
Their conversation ended there. but Param carried on his own sweet dialogue in two different voices. Deepu listened attentively: Param asking his imaginary brother to take a bigger bite of the chocolate, param telling him that he would wait for him to finish before washing his hands. (and so on)
Deepu realised how lucky he was to be a real older brother, even to a wicked fellow like Shamu. He would learn from Param the right way of bonding with his brother.
And of course he would be Param’s new best friend.

whataworld

I am at the end of my tether. Nothing has worked for me. Why ME? When every other chap has a job and a pay, decent or indecent, why am I denied employment? An Arts graduate is not offered earth-shattering choices of career, I know, and certainly not those obscene pay packets – or are they rackets – of engineers. The brightest ones get themselves, tie and all, splashed in the front page of newspapers, if not national, at least regional ones, for the ransom companies pay to hire them. Don’t get me wrong. I have absolutely nothing against those guys, nor against their parents, who are the teeth-gritting, whip-lashing single-minded drivers behind them. As for the medicos, they are a scam apart from the rest. They have the whole sick world at their mercy and they have a contingent, yes, a whole army of chaps to collude with and wring out their capitation fees from the coughing, spluttering lot in no time. The heirs to business magnates, girls who look so like each other in their business suits and guys who put on fake modest looks for covers of business magazines do not deserve much thought. Silver spoons in a god-forsaken country, where even five fingers have nothing to dig out of an earthen bowl, are simple obscenities. No, no, I have nothing against any of the above. Right now I am in a deadly introspective mood.
With a naked B Com degree in hand, I have joined the vast ocean of Indian youth in search of a job. Everyone, from the fruit-seller’s studied-in-the-streetlight son to the class V government officer’s mediocre, unmotivated son, is a graduate on a job hunt, as clueless as an ocean wave. I sometimes envy the plumbers, carpenters and electricians whose mobile phones are forever ringing when they are at work in our house and whose numbers come switched off when we nearly die for their attention. But would I dare to train myself under one of them? I may be banished from home, if and when I do find the courage to declare the building plumber my guru! And honestly, dirty loos make me throw up. Things electrical are great when they work but they are shockingly lethal when leaky or plain scrap when out of their sockets. The din of the carpenter’s saw irritates me no end and sawdust makes me sneeze. No, I cannot aspire to any of these vocations (thankfully).

My attention has shifted from myself to that all-important yet perfectly useless piece of paper called the degree certificate. It is a key with nothing to unlock any more. An MBA is master key but by acquiring it I will only be joining yet another ocean of a slightly superior band of unemployed. I might as well save up the money and instead wish for some magic spell to breathe life into my birthday-suit degree and my good for nothing horoscope. If I could marry a tycoon’s congenitally morose daughter by making her laugh, I would have a life to live. But for that you need a caring, sponsoring father like the king in the fairy tale. Today’s tycoon could himself do with a dose of free laughter. There are those who make a stampede for computer classes, and change the course of their life like a damm(n)ed river. Many of my classmates have ended up in BPOs, with their biological clocks running anticlockwise. They have a ghostly pallor under their stubbles, unsightly paunches and dark Saturnine rings under their eyes and zilch personality of their own. I would rather sell veggies on the pavement than become a BPO zombie. Vegetable seller…hmm. The old stick-like lady whose son owns a vegetable shop is forever driving away cows and vegetable lifters. Yes, they do exist, if you did not know. She has to dispose off withered carrots at half price and balance the loss by overpricing elsewhere. Guess one is born with special crafty genes to do this kind of a juggling for survival. Blame my parents for not endowing me with those. Those who juggle jobs, landing one, losing another and eyeing a third are a modern mutated subspecies of homosapiens. I wonder how they put up with so many HR guys, those perpetual troublemakers who get trained to turn and twist your wits inside out. I would truly prefer to keep those devils at arm’s length.
I cannot philosophise on all the jobs of the world which my bare-beauty B.Com will not get me. On the other hand, I am also in an enviable vacuum where I can simply rave and rant about the unfairness of the job market, as it is called, with me fitting in nowhere. What about those umpteen possibilities you may ask…door-to-door selling, telemarketing, insurance selling and the like, ideal turf for us in the grey zone of the professional world. I once almost kicked out an encyclopedia seller who came banging on my door bang in the middle of my siesta. Marketing leaves me cold, if not frozen like a week old chicken in the freezer. Trying to stuff a product down another’s throat is a gagging crime, that’s what I feel. Those loan sharks-or are they leeches- who get hold of mobile phone numbers as if they were gold nuggets and get on a pestering exercice are horrors. If a man needs insurance cover or a loan, what the heck, he has to do the needful to get there. Like one buys himself an umbrella when it rains.
I notice with a tinge of envy the next door auntie and her husband, both former bankers, doing brisk business from home. Their clients do not ask for their degree certificates. What started as a simple help to a neighbour by way of a small lunch pack has grown into a bustling catering service. At all hours, auntie is busy washing, chopping, peeling veggies and her husband delivering lunch/dinner boxes on his motorcycle. By their own admission their profits are huge and their plans for the future as varied as their biryanis and salads. Now that’s what I call an appetizing career. When you are wanted for your service and goods, and not for your god dam certificate microscopically scanned by HR and PR and what not.
Of course I don’t picture myself in their shoes, not because there is no Midas touch auntie in the picture, but because I don’t see myself making all those countless delivery trips. Unhappy clients could raise a stinker like rotting fish which I would not like. This is the drawback of word-of-mouth advertisement. An unsatisfied palate could splutter the wrong words and scramble up a promising career.

All this brainstorming leaves me going in depressing, concentric circles. I may end up throttled when all options spiral away. It is very frustrating. I dress up and decide to go on a long drive to freshen up.

A little on the outskirts, I notice a small bright yellow house with a hand written board saying ‘astrologer’. The simplicity of the board is appealing. I decide to check it out for myself. Maybe for a tenner I could get that invisible horoscope of mine get a cosmetic make-over. Even if his predictions are as threadbare as his signboard, I can at least see how he runs his business solo. He would be dhoti clad with a simple towel by way of upper garment. He could be sporting a big red tilak on his forehead to enhance his persona. Maybe he has a caged parrot which will pick up a card for me with some prediction. As l(e)ast a creature who will not rinse my intellect and chew my brains out with questions. Why not? When Octopus Paul can predict which way football matches will go, why can’t a parrot inform me about my future? I decide to enter the place with reverence and faith. Why not try out what he prescribes? I notice a couple of other vehicles parked nearby. There is a tea stall next to the astrologer’s and that explains their presence.
As I gingerly make my way into the small entrance of the house, I am surprised to see a good number of footwear in the anteroom, if the small sit-out can be so named. A man asks me to remove mine. There is a second sit-out, or a true sit-in, where some ten people are sitting on chairs, waiting for their turns. I am asked whether I would want to communicate in English or in the vernacular. There are different waiting rooms for them.
Now I have not reckoned with so much complication. As the waiting gets desperately long, I eavesdrop on fellow-nail-gnawers. There are those who want to know if/when their daughters will get married, those racked by chronic illness and relatives of the terminally ill seeking relief from/for both, and then, my own kind, the career-disoriented. From the hushed tones it looks as if the astrologer is renowned. I may as well slog it out and see it for myself.

When my name is announced, I enter the third room. I am in for a surprise. The guy I was seeking out is a woman! A well clad, sexy, middle aged woman, with short streaked hair seated on a plush swivel chair. There is a computer before her. The sudden gust of cold makes the presence of the split-AC felt. No, she has neither a halo around her head nor a spiritual aura. On the contrary, her sharp look across her rimless glasses announce a keen business acumen. She has a male assistant with a laptop who enters my details proficiently, professionally. After hearing my job woes, the astrologeress asks me to deposit Rs 500 with the guy in a side room and to come back. She and her laptop assistant have juggled with the details I gave them about myself and when I come back for the august hearing, she says my good days are not THAT far away. I may face a few hurdles as in rejections by company HRs in the first few attempts but I should not lose hope. I should keep knocking on unresponsive doors. No, self-employment is not my calling, she has found out. And for the next three years, Saturn in a wrong inter-planetary seating arrangement blocks any possible short-cuts to prosperity like a sweepstake win. My horoscope has congenital deformities, correcting which could be possible-for a fee of course. Seeing the look of despair on my face, she nods at another assistant. He brings me a pamphlet. These are companies I could try in, she says. Tie-ups? If none of this works, she says with extra softness, do come back for the needful. Incidentally, this is a branch. For bigger woes, a visit to head-office is recommended. She will be present there tomorrow at 11 am. Can her P.A. make the appointment for me? I can deposit the fee here now itself.
As I look at her in disbelief and face her unflinching eyes, I catch sight of a prominent name-board on the opposite wall which says: Dr. Lakshmi MBA (London).

prize

It was a big day for Geeta. The biggest day in her life in fact. She wished to crow from the rooftops that she had finally achieved something for herself in her 55 years of existence. Above all she wanted to tell her daughter about it.
Yes, Geeta had won a short story contest for which an amount of Rs 1000 had been announced. No one would have thought it possible. Geeta had never shown any propensity for writing and certainly not the ability or the ambition to win a prize for it. As she set the dinner table, Geeta smiled to herself wondering how she would tell the family about it. They would all ask her the details. Wiping the plates, she went over them in her mind.
It all started when her daughter Minu went to New Zealand for higher studies. Geeta had been the driving force behind the whole idea. A nature lover, Geeta had been smitten by mental pictures of New Zealand, its pristine beauty and it led her to consider it as an ideal educational destination for her daughter. Perhaps deep in her sub conscience was a glimmer of hope that some day she would get to visit the country too. She had persuaded her husband to arrange for the loan, talked to her husband’s cousin who had settled in the country and given Minu her utmost support and encouragement.
Minu had successfully completed her first year of graduation in the well known university of Auckland. Right from Minu’s first day there, through the year, Geeta had lived like in a state of trance. She had listened keenly to every description of the country, imagined campus life and pictured Minu’s friends and classmates. So intense had been her involvement that New Zealand was vividly alive to her. She could rattle off all details about the country, backed by the pictures sent by Minu.
Geeta was brimming with material and ideas and the need to process them almost hurt. Unknown to the rest of the family she joined a computer class nearby. In two months she was fairly proficient in basic computing skills. She started going to a nearby internet café and in her high-school English, she transferred to the computer all that she could remember from the previous conversation with Minu. Then she learned to use the internet and soon was exchanging e mails with her daughter. Her only request was that Minu keep this all a secret, why Geeta herself could not say.
As Geeta grew more familiar with her daughter’s life and the people in it, she began to improve it with her imagination. While doing her morning chores, she would wonder how X, Y or Z was doing in college, their dates, hoping their relationships were stable. She had encouraged Minu to experience the outdoor activities she had learnt about: Swimming with dolphins, watching whales, hiking in a national park and bird watching at a nature sanctuary. With reliable friends of course. From there to weaving them into stories was a credible enough step. Without telling Minu, she took the liberty to enhance the lives of her friends in her stories. Of course her outlook was the one with which she had grown up and with which she was living now. So her stories had a strange mix of Indian ethos in alien people. Geeta’s friend Jaya was her sole confidante. She was more educated than Geeta and her English was better. She lived in the flat just opposite to Geeta’s and they were good friends. When Jaya saw Geeta emerging from the internet café one morning at 11, she was surprised. That is what led to her being let into the secret and eventually to her editing Geeta’s stories without touching their essence. It was also Jaya who persuaded Geeta to send one of the stories for a contest announced in an English language magazine.
As soon as Geeta saw an envelope addressed to her from the magazine, she was very excited. She rushed to Jaya who opened the envelope and danced a jig holding Geeta’s hands. Her story ‘blind date’ had been selected as a winning entry for the very original effect of merging accurate details about a foreign country flavoured with a delicate Indian spirit. The congratulatory letter said the prize money of Rs 1000 would reach geeta in a week’s time.
My! That was a lot to disclose to a lot of family members! That is just those living with her. Her father in law, mother in law, her husband and two college going sons. She had carefully timed her classes and internet café outings when her parents in law rested so they had no idea about it all. Then there was Minu of course and Geeta’s father who would be happiest. While she put things away in the fridge and while she cleaned the kitchen, Geeta’s eyes shone with anticipated appreciation.
She casually put the envelope on the centre table to see whose attention it would catch. As she flitted in and out of the kitchen every ten minutes to keep her prized envelope in sight. Then her husband came. Geeta’s heart beat fast. He put on his reading glasses, he searched the newspapers, put one right on top of the envelope and got immersed in his reading. Geeta panicked when she lost sight of the envelope but she did not want to jut in when her husband was reading. In a state of anxiety she hoped he would soon finish his reading and remove the papers. That was when her mother in law called Geeta. By the time Geeta came back to the living room, all the newspapers were gone and was also gone the envelope. In utter panic, Geeta rushed to the pile of old newspapers and searched for it. It had fallen on the back side of the big heap. Geeta wiped the envelope, looked at her name on it with satisfaction and once again brought it to the living room. The males had got busy watching the World Cup Football. Passions were running high. There was no chance even a shout would register. Geeta took the envelope and put it in the kitchen shelf, a little disappointed.
The next day dawned bright. The memory of the envelope gave an extra spring to Geeta’s gait. She went about her job briskly yet again waiting for a chance to tell her family about the prize. But so self-effacing was she that talking about herself felt odd. She thought she would wait for a more relaxed time. Morning tension was hardly opportune for sharing such a momentous piece of news.
Morning changed into noon and evening and the envelope lay lifeless, gradually getting smeared in kitchen colours, soaking up a bit of oil too. In two days it had still not budged. Nor had Geeta as far as sharing the news was concerned. Then she thought she would wait till the cheque (in flesh and blood) arrived. It would be the first one ever to be issued in her name.
When Jaya saw her the next day, she asked Geeta about it and she told her she would need to open a bank account in her name to deposit the cheque. Geeta was tense.
And sure enough in three days another envelope arrived, similar to the last one, with Geeta’s name on it.
Now there was nowhere to hide. Ironically when she was at the peak of success, Geeta felt utterly diffident. She could not foresee her family’s reaction. Of course they would all be proud of her resourcefulness, of her capacity to learn computers at this age, of her innovative use of her knowledge. Chances were they would rush to call Minu then and there and share the news. She imagined the big flutter of happiness in the house. Her younger son, the favorite of his maternal grandfather, would rush to his house to announce the news. Geeta’s parents-in-law would thank the pantheon of Gods for this wonderful gift. Geeta’s husband might not exhibit too much emotion before others but in the privacy of their bedroom, he was sure to go gaga. Geeta blushed at the thought. He would then tell her that they would go to the State Bank of India the next morning and open a joint account to deposit the cheque. He would wish her more such successes. Minu would yell in joy ‘ How COULD you, mummy?’. Then she would reveal to the others how they had exchanged e-mails and the whole household would go silent in disbelief. Geeta hoped Jaya would drop in while all this was going on so that she would be spared the (happy) pain of describing it all to her later. Jaya was sure to ask her for a treat; oh oh…she better make some kheer before they all demanded it.
The next day was a Sunday. Geeta made the best kheer of her life and placed it in an attractive bowl on the breakfast table. Let it set the ball rolling, she smiled to herself. Thankfully there was no football on TV. She would be the star this morning.
She placed the envelope with the cheque next to the bowl of kheer. She wiped the plated and bowls and put the spoons on the table, eyeing the envelope every five seconds. There they come trooping, she said to herself, her heart going thump thump. Let me make a dash to the gods and make the first offering to them, rather a wholesome, nutritive, delicious thanksgiving, she chuckled.
‘Kheer, wow’ exclaimed the younger son, ‘yummy mummy’.
‘kheer on a Sunday morning. What a change from drab toast!’ commented the elder son.
‘I have diabetes and you usually do not tempt me with sweets. How come you have broken your rule?’ asked her husband.
‘kheer for breakfast would be too heavy for us. We will take a sip later’ quipped her parents-in-law.
The kheer refused to set the ball rolling, let alone kick a multilateral felicitation ceremony.
The envelope lay ignored, unsung.
The doorbell rang. Jaya made a welcome entry.
‘some kheer, Jaya’ said Geeta. She hoped her friend would cut the ribbon.
‘I have just made breakfast. Yet to have it. I won’t disturb your family. I just came to borrow a cup of sugar. Thanks’ she said.
When Geeta had lost all hope, Jaya suddenly sensed her friend’s dilemma. She saw the envelope on the breakfast table and in a flash understood the situation. She had to intervene.
‘Hey Geeta! Did you tell everyone why you have made kheer?’ she asked in a loud voice to offset the others. When everyone looked at her and then at Geeta, she picked up the envelope and took out the cheque.
‘Attention everyone, see what Geeta has won!’ she fluttered the cheque . In the pin drop silence that ensued, Geeta wished she could just vaporize into the kitchen chimney.
‘What is it?’ everyone asked in unison.
‘Geeta has won Rs 1000/- for a short story from a popular English magazine’
‘WHAT’!
As Jaya went into all the details right from the beginning, eyebrows went up. Chairs were pulled, people exited as if in a protest rally. There were murmurs, from numb to uncertain to downright outraged. That Geeta had left the house when they were resting was what struck the parents-in-law. What if one of those evil men, posing as a salesman had barged in and murdered them both? That their mother had trusted her friend more than them irked the sons more than anything else. The younger son was doubly hurt because he always shared everything with his mother and believed it was reciprocal. That his wife could pull a fast one, after so many years of utter trustworthiness jolted the husband like an earthquake.
Minu was scandalized that her mother could use all the inputs she gave to weave stories about her acquaintances and her life-and to win an illicit prize to boot. So this was her mother’s motive to send her to New Zealand!
Jaya had gone.
The bowls of kheer lay in ruins.
A sudden gust of wind threw the cheque to the ground, like a fallen hero.

A sense of duty





Shyam was a 8 year old boy. He lived with his mother and a four year old sister in a small house. His father had died two years ago. Shyam’s mother worked in people’s homes as domestic help to earn some money. Shyam went to a corporation school nearby. Shyam saw how hard his mother worked and he hoped to be of help to her once he grew up. For now, he took good care of his sister when his mother went to work and he studied well.
Shyam was an intelligent boy. He listened carefully to what his teachers taught. One day the science teacher spoke about the uses of plastic. When she asked the children to name things made of plastic, everyone had an answer. From colourful toys and lunch boxes to raincoats, parts of aeroplanes and computers, plastic is simply everywhere. But when the science teacher spoke about how plastic bags and plastic objects were polluting the cities, choking drains and making animals sick, the children fell silent. Shyam was distressed. Not only cities, even beaches were full of plastic bags and used plastic cups which got thrown into the sea. A huge island of plastic objects had formed right in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Plastic does not rot like wood and so it will only go on collecting.
Shyam looked around him while walking home from school and indeed he saw plastic everywhere. In a huge pile of rubbish, a cow was busy looking for food. She was biting into a plastic bag which contained thrown away food. He thought about it the whole evening. He wondered what would happen if the world got crowded with as much plastic as people. That night he had a dream that he was living in a plastic filled city. It was hot like a furnace and he could not see a single tree or even mud. There were plastic bags flying everywhere. Then, like the cow he had seen at the garbage bin, he also swallowed a plastic bag which came flying to him. He tried to scream but his voice was choked. Shyam was terrified. He woke up and ran to his mother. Thank God it was only a horrible dream. Then the cow came back to his mind. Would she not have also choked? Or would she have suffered from stomach pain and died?
Shyam saw people going into the big supermarket on their road and returning with huge plastic carry bags with the shop’s name on them. They looked good no doubt but it worried Shyam. People bought things in these bags and then just threw them away.
The next day, during craft period in school, their teacher taught the students to make carry bags from old newspaper. She showed them how to punch holes and put in handles made of used bits of rope. Shyam was excited. He made a nice big bag with a newspaper and ran home to show his mother. She was very happy to see his effort.
Shyam thought of putting the bag to use. He went to the big shop carrying it. He waited outside. When the guard got busy with a customer, Shyam quietly slipped inside the shop. He was astonished at the variety of things stacked in the supermarket. He was only used to buying things for his mother from the dusty little corner shop owned by an old man. He weighed and packed things in bits of old paper. Here everything was neatly packed in shiny plastic. People pushed carts and simply collected the things they wanted. Shyam observed them going to the counter and paying unimaginable amounts of money. A boy put all the things in a bright big plastic bag and gave it to the buyer.
Shyam waited near the counter. He looked at each customer. There were smiling women and stern-looking men. They were all well dressed. Shyam looked at himself in an old shirt. How could he talk to anyone here? Shyam felt afraid and thought he could be thrown out by the uniformed guard. He decided to quietly slip away.
Then the cow choking on plastic came before his eyes. She seemed to beg Shyam to do something for her. He decided to be brave and make an effort.
When a fat smiling old woman came to the counter with her trolley full of purchases, Shyam meekly went up to her. ‘Amma’, he said, ‘our teacher told us how harmful plastic bags are. They hurt animals and they spoil the city. They go into drains and when it rains, all roads are flooded. Amma, I have made this bag from an old newspaper,’ he held it up to her, ‘can I give it to you to put your things in?’
The lady was too astonished to reply immediately. Meanwhile the employees of the shop also heard the exchange and the manager came. ‘who are you and why are you troubling this lady?’ he asked in a gruff voice. Shyam was too frightened to answer. ‘get out’ shouted the manager, pulling Shyam by his arm.
Everyone was looking at the scene Shyam had created.
When he was almost pushed outside, the lady called. ‘One minute’ she told the manager, ‘this child is so sensible. He has a much better sense of responsibility than you and me. Here child, give me your bag. I will pay you a rupee for it.’ She took the bag from Shyam, removed her things from the plastic bag and put them into it. There was stunned silence everywhere. Shyam felt too afraid to look up. The lady came near him, lifted his chin, patted him on the shoulder and gave him a shining one rupee coin.
‘I am proud of you’ she told him, ‘make more bags for me. I will give my friends some too. Come to my house to collect old paper and bits of rope. I will get you the gum for sticking the paper. You can ask your friends to join you and all of you can earn some money while doing a wonderful social service.’
The lady asked the manager if he could keep the paper bags near the counter and let Shyam and his friends be there by turns to tell people about their effort. Those who wished could buy their bags to carry their things.
The manager agreed.
Shyam was delighted. He promised to go to the lady’s house the next day with two of his best friends. As Shyam raced home to share the news with his mother and sister, he saw a puppy trying to eat something which was tied inside a plastic bag. He shooed away the puppy, took the bag and emptied it. As the puppy came back for the slice of stale bread which had been thrown away with the plastic, Shyam felt happy that he had saved a small animal just once at least.
By
Meera Balachander
24th May 2010

Tini's adventure


Tini was a small squirrel. She lived on the huge tamarind tree in front of a big house. Mili and Babli were her best friends. They had lovely brown furry skins with dark stripes on them and gorgeous bushy tails. They had lived here for the last two years. They ran about the whole day, chasing each other, talking in their shrill voices. They would sit on a branch when tired or hungry and munch on delicious tamarind leaves or its tasty fruit. Their tails would stand up like question marks. Mili and Babli were happy with their life on the tree but Tini was more adventurous. She was also a little greedy. She said she wanted to go into the house and see what was in there. Her friends told her it was not safe to leave their tree and look into strange places.
But Tini was a stubborn little squirrel. She was very intelligent too. So she decided to sit on the branch closest to the house and observe the people living there. She noticed that there was a little girl who ran about in the house just like Tini in the tree. The little girl had a shrill voice too. Tini felt she could be her friend.
Rani was the little girl. She was 3 years old. She was as active and talkative as a squirrel, her grandmother said. She went to a nearby school in the morning and came home at noon. In the evening, Rani would sit in the big sit-out close to the tamarind tree and do her school work with her grandparents sitting near her. Tini would also wait for this time. She would leave her friends and come close to where Rani was sitting. Tini would observe her writing with her pencil.
One day Rani too noticed the squirrel looking at her. She jumped in excitement. Tini was a little scared. She ran away from there and in no time she was in the highest branch. But the next day she again came down and sat looking at Rani doing her homework. The third day, Rani brought a biscuit. She bit a part of it and threw one at Tini. Tini was so scared she ran away. But she came back in some time and slowly took the biscuit with her paws. Rani was excited.
Soon it became a daily happening. From eating only leaves and fruits, Tini was now used to eating unnatural food. They tasted yummy! She boasted about her new food to her friends. Then she grew more confident and one day when Rani was holding the biscuit in her hand, Tini ran up to her and snatched it from her. Rani was a little afraid but she was thrilled to have a pet squirrel. She told everyone about Tini. Soon, whenever Rani called her, the squirrel would run up to her. Then one day, when Tini saw Rani sitting on the dining table eating her food, she sprang to the window. There was a nylon mesh on the window. When Rani saw her, she called her name. Tini could not resist the temptation and she simply bit through the nylon mesh, making a big enough hole to push her slender body into the room. By then Rani was screaming and her parents, grandparents and servants all came running. Tini grew nervous in the ruckus. She climbed up a big shelf and from that safe height she looked down. Everyone was talking and shouting and staring at her. Some were shooing her away, some ran to get a stick. Tini’s heart beat fast. She was still eyeing the food on Rani’s plate. In one moment she jumped down from the shelf, grabbed a piece of roti and when everyone began chasing her, she simply ran helter-skelter in the room and then into the next room and when everyone followed her there, she hid behind a table and began eating. Very tasty, she told herself, I should come every day. This house is so interesting. It has many nice places to run and hide. I should call Mili and babli too. Meanwhile the family lost track of Tini and they thought she had run away from the back door. Tini quietly came out of her hiding place, and looked into the next room. There she saw Rani sitting on a chair with her dolls. No one else was there.
Slowly Tini crept up to Rani’s chair and from there jumped on to the table. Her eyes were twinkling with joy at being so close to Rani and she uttered a small shriek of happiness. Rani was at first scared, then she recognized Tini and with her small hands she tried to hold her. But Tini ran up the wardrobe and then she leapt over to the fan. ‘Don’t be afraid’ Rani told her ‘I won’t harm you’. Tini jumped like an athlete from the fan to Rani’s bed and in another elegant hop she was on Rani’s table. This time when Rani stroked her gently, Tini only shook her tail in joy. She had truly turned a pet squirrel. Rani began to talk to Tini as if she was a close friend. She told her about her school, about that bad girl Megha, about the chocolate she liked best. Tini listened. Suddenly someone opened the door. When Rani turned to see who it was, Tini disappeared under the bed. It was Rani’s grandmother. It was 9 o clock and time for Rani to go to sleep. Rani excitedly told ger grandmother about Tini coming to her table. Grandmother told her that she was happy but then she warned Rani to be careful. Squirrels have sharp teeth and they can bite anything. She told Rani not to give the squirrel things to eat. She explained that Nature had taught animals to search their food and it was wrong to give them food they are not meant to eat. Rani was a little disappointed to hear all this. Soon she fell asleep.
Meanwhile Tini was still under the bed. Somehow it did not feel cosy like the tamarind tree. Though Rani, her new friend was sleeping close by, she missed Mili and Babli. She missed the fresh air on the tree. She wanted to go back at once. But the air conditioner was turned on. The door was shut tight so was the window. Tini became desperate. She tried to bite the door but it was too hard. She ran here and there and she felt acutely hungry. There were neither leaves nor fruits and worst was there were no biscuits anywhere. Then she saw that the door of Rani’s wardrobe was a little open. She went there and managed to push her body into the cupboard. It was dark inside. There were clothes and books and Rani’s soft toys but no biscuits. In despair, Tini bit Rani’s costly teddy bear. Then she bit Rani’s favorite yellow frock and tore it to shreds. Then she put her nose into her school bag and bit Rani’s neat homework notebook. But Tini did not find anything to eat and she could not sleep too. The room felt cold. She felt like crying.
In this unnatural place Tini could not understand when it would be dawn. Up in her tree, it was as if Nature has put an alarm clock into her system. She and her friends would wake up exactly at 5 am but here it was all confusing. Tini thought she would die.
The next morning Rani woke up and went to the bathroom to brush her teeth. Tini watched her from a corner. The bathroom seemed like an exciting place to explore. When Rani went to the kitchen to drink her milk, Tini quickly ran into the bathroom. She found a tube of toothpaste which she bit into. It was so yummy! She ate some more, smeared some on her face and let the rest of the paste fall down on the floor. Then she bit into the soap but didn’t like the taste. She saw a bucket of water and climbed on it to see inside. She saw her reflection in the water and wondered who it was. That was when there was a loud shriek from Rani. She had opened her cupboard and seen all the havoc inside. She cried so loudly that everyone came running. They were all dismayed and began looking for the squirrel here and there. Rani’s father came with a wooden ruler and looked into the bathroom. He saw Tini sitting on top of the bucket. Whack, he hit her. Tini was frightened out of her wits. She had never been hit before. She fell plonk into the bucket of cold water. How awful it was! Rani’s father asked the servants to take the bucket out and throw the rascal squirrel out.
When Tini came out of the bucket, she was a funny sight to see. Her fur was wet and she looked like a little mouse. The usually bushy tail was like a straw stick. While Tini was trying to get to her feet Babli and Mili came there. They could not stop laughing at Tini. While they were rolling about in laughter with their eyes shut, Tini raced past them and reached the highest branch. In five minutes, she has shaken herself thoroughly and in the wonderful sunlight she was again the fluffy squirrel with the bushy tail.
‘You will never believe what a great adventure I had’ she shrieked for the whole world to hear!

talkaholic

I am at a dead loss. All because of this unstoppable jabbering machine I have for a husband. I have heard of alcoholics, shopoholics and workoholics but talkoholics? Which makes me a stoppoholic, by default. The one word which is always on my tongue is ‘enough’. But it is hardly a deterrent. So carried away is he by his own gift – rather curse – of the gab that he refuses to be even remotely remote-controlled by me. I wish I could put up a board outside our door saying ‘watch your ears’ and ‘mind your mind’.
It was my wedding day, a typical Indian arranged one. I did not know my husband from Adam so to say and he did not know me from Eve. Like the X of a quadratic equation, suspense was woven into the floral decorations of the wedding hall. My friends had raised the bars by assessing his good looks – including deep grey eyes, a perfectly sculpted nose, a very becoming stubble (so they said) and a dimple on the right cheek - and his ‘sociable’ nature. He was not stuck-up like Asha’s husband, they quipped, nor boorish like Lekha’s. He had charmed them with his smiles and easy-flowing words. They showed me visions of a lifelong fun companionship. On our first night together, I got a taste of this companionship. He started by offering me a chocolate. While I told myself ‘how romantic’, he had taken off. No, no, not anywhere physical, but on a conversational jaunt. The whole night – or so it seemed to me - as I sat dazed by his baritone stream of words, rather a verbal volcano, I grew desperate, if not for some appropriate action, at least for an appropriate pause somewhere, just to let out the much stifled yawn. But everything said that he was happy to have his own licensed audience for life. Finally shedding all inhibition, after the yawn noisily exited, I just fell asleep, right before his wide-open eyes and wider-open mouth. I must have broken the Guinness record for a bride’s sleep on her wedding night. I woke up the next morning in a daze, dreading repercussions of a vague crime I had committed; equally dreading the deep-throated day-time onslaught. To my surprise, my husband did not say a word. I had failed him as private audience-period.
Though immensely relieved, I wondered how to rectify the starting hiccups of our new relationship. If not for myself, I needed to show friends how fun-filled indeed my married life was. I tried to recollect at least bits of the topics he had hopped the whole night, err…till I had fallen asleep. Cricket, college, colleagues, cookery, Congress, curves…all starting with C? Did he go alphabetically each day? I decided to confront him with his own weapon the next night. As he sat reading a magazine on our bed, I sat near him and started with a C topic, not knowing exactly what it would do. He was polite in his answer but went right back to his reading. Serves me right, I told myself. Now I have to draw him out, but keep the reins firmly in my control. I abandoned C and decided to be more organized than he was. So I went to A. Words refused to come. I cursed myself for not ever having opened the dictionary my father had got me on a birthday. I should ask him to send it soon. Even as my husband of a day immersed himself into the business magazine (uggh…), I looked for clues to begin a methodical conversation. A for …of course, there was Africa, America, Australia, Antartica. How about honeymoon in Africa? Or migrating to Australia? Did he have relatives in America? No…nothing worked. Instead, it was total action in total silence!

Then four boys happened. Who would have thought it possible? And at such mathematically precise intervals? Between their bawls, brawls and demands, the dictionary that my father had forwarded to me was torn to shreds. There was no time or need for it any more, nor for my husband and me to miss each other, in fact no time to even know each other, except as parents of this unruly brood.

The four of them grew up in no time and went away from home and it was back to the two of us. Looking back, I think I now know when the type II ‘talkabetes’ struck my husband. It was when the last boy left home for university in another city. Number 4 takes strongly after his father in looks and in his liveliness. He is the father’s favorite too. By then retirement looked at us from close quarters. As we settled down in our own flat, my husband let loose his tongue, like an unleashed dog. I became the official muzzle, when he is within muzzling distance that is.
Like a multi-role actor, my husband slips effortlessly into different roles. He turns engineer, teacher, tourist guide, chef, health consultant, marriage counselor and so on. His sole tool is his tongue. The beneficiaries of his self-education are the residents of our building, visiting relatives and strangers on the road, in the bus or anywhere. I think even the idols in the temples he is forever visiting are not spared.
He takes off right after breakfast. Like a doctor doing the rounds, he greets the neighbours, with a little more than a good morning. Some duck, some dodge, some dupe while some succumb to his banter. His unit of conversation is an anecdote. He can pull out short stories, novellas and more from his mind…err tongue, like a magician a rabbit…he walks down the road, enticing known and unknown humans with his (still) charming smile and then he hooks them on or is it webs them in? What does he talk? Well, anything and everything. It may be about the merciless heat one moment, about fake Godmen the next, real estate deals or lower spine surgery, the wickedness of the Chinese. A jack of all trades, is he, and master of none? Who cares? He in the least.
When we go for a drive, he is at his best, at back seat driving that is. If the car is on a smooth fast ride, his talking goes proportionately fast. Why should vehicles rush, he analyses, why is the world in such a maddening hurry? He is not at a loss at signals either, nor does he come unstuck in traffic jams. No, he is not stuck for words. The pattern changes that is all. He has the whole comatose world around us to comment upon and the driver feels doubly dumbstruck as my husband trusts him as a reliable listener and trains his cascading words on him. Today, as we drive to the hills for the week-end, I wish the poor chap good luck silently and take leave of my muzzling duties.
The four boys are now married. By coincidence all the boys have found jobs in our city and we are once more a confederation of high strung, high decibel individuals. The first brought home a slender little talkative thing, his colleague belonging to another community. My husband was instantly at ease with her and she with him. He asked her to teach him her language. And in a short time there were language classes every hour in any situation-on the dining table, in the lift, at the washing machine, accompanied by much mirth and merriment. It suited the ever-busy son fine. The second son looked up to me to find him a bride. I thought I would balance the prevailing ruckus with a silencer. So I searched high and low and found a silent, unassuming girl, who would have nothing much to say, at least nothing to enthuse my husband’s spirits. Instead he passed on his infectious communicative skills to her too. The language classes now have two students! The third son’s wife, his childhood sweetheart, has known my husband for donkey’s years. She deftly avoids him, while flashing innocent smiles at him. But it may only be a matter of time before signs up too. The last son – well it had to happen some time in such a broad-scoped family– married the wrong girl. It was almost printed in the wedding invitation that this was a mismatch. Much above us in social status, the bride thinks no end of herself. She was palmed off to us as an act of revenge, or so an afterthought suggests, by a victim of my husband’s stories. Even I got fooled by the family’s show of decency. She holds our whole family in contempt especially my husband for his friendly overtures. She is the truly stuck-up sore thumb of our family. She manages to ruin all the camaraderie and bonding among the others. Just like the wicked women in TV serials. So venomous is her tongue that when she is around everyone simply shuts up. My husband has been the last to learn that shutting up could ever be a solution to anything. Then he learnt to live the pangs of silence painfully.
You would think that I am happily relieved of my muzzling duties now that a policewoman has come home to roost. But strangely, I weep silently for my talkaholic partner. I miss his free spirit, his guileless charm, his natural friendliness. Not stuck-up like Asha’s husband or boorish like Lekha’s, not one bit.
I break into sobs, and tears flows down my cheek.
Heyyyyyyy! What is THIS?
As the car swerves wildly before hitting the median and coming to a stop, I come out of my strange daydreaming. Since when did I turn a dreamaholic? But the tears are true.
I have cast away the muzzle forever. I simply let my husband rave and rant about the wrongly built median and the crazy ways of the world to the whole listening world which has collected around us. A dream audience!

The presence
Anu felt desolate. Neither her down-to -earth, logical mind, nor her ability to learn fast had come to her rescue when she felt let down by life itself. After her third miscarriage, when it started becoming clear that she would never get a child of her own, Anu cried her heart out. Her husband was there with her, holding her hands, trying to console her. Time would heal her, he hoped.
Time flew by. Instead of giving her a healing touch, it left her more aching. Being childless is not like not being a millionaire. Millionaires don’t cross your path every day. But, wherever Anu turned to escape the deep gash in her, she saw children. Smiling children, weeping ones, chubby ones, sickly ones. But it hurt most when she saw them in relationship to their mothers. From ads on TV, magazines to reality shows, botched motherhood haunted her. Mothers carrying their little kids in uniforms to the school bus, mothers waiting at the pediatrician’s with their sick babies, mothers rushing to Parent-Teacher meets…mothers beaming alongside their children who had topped exams, mothers shopping for their children’s weddings. Mothers proudly showing off gifts from their children, mothers on long calls…the flower seller fanning her little daughter sleeping naked on the pavement, the beggar woman blackmailing the public with pathetic demands for her nursing baby…
Ten years into her marriage, Anu was still distraught. Her younger sister already had two kids, a pair of the naughtiest boys on earth, she boasted. They were brilliant too. They demanded this and that, and fulfilling those wishes had become her sister’s goal in life. Anu found it difficult to sustain conversations with her kid-centred sister. She did not even wish to meet her anytime soon. On her husband’s side, there was thankfully no one to bother her. Anu almost felt grateful that he was an only child, orphaned early in life.

Anu’s husband, a well-qualified executive in a company, was her sole support. He was as heart-broken as Anu was when the verdict was out. He had known loneliness from point-blank range and had wished to have a fulfilling family of his own. Unlike Anu, however, he came to terms quickly with his reality and found ways to compensate the barrenness. He gave Anu his best: as a spouse, a friend and an anchor. He was never harsh, ever receptive and inventive in showing his affection. He thought of surprise week end getaways, candle-light dinners, treks, adventure sports. He ordered whatever was new; he kept the apartment looking forever fresh with changed decors, the latest fittings and plants. He encouraged her to read, shared his knowledge and shared her house work. If there was any virgin territory between them it was in the most delicious curry she made – he said it was best left as her mysterious speciality – and the vaster domain of his speciality: investments and finances. She shrugged away when he tried to educate her in those. She found him sexier with expertise beyond her grasp.
Twenty years into their marriage, Anu was marginally better. All those repeated one-sided takes of hers on motherhood had helped her heal. For all her bragging about her children, her sister murmured copiously about her husband. He didn’t bother to help the kids with homework, he never attended their school functions. He complained of the disorder in the house and held the mother responsible. Anu listened in silence but now she knew where her trump card was. She had an exemplary husband and holding on to him was her route to salvation. They would live like two peas in a pod, or like two humans held tight by an emotional rubber-band. Her husband welcomed the embrace.
Then Anu thought of making the embrace fool-proof. She asked her husband to resign the job and start a consultancy at home. They were well off, had decent savings, a farm-house and of course no daughters to marry off or sons to educate. Their apartment was large enough to accommodate an office and they would be with each other 24x7. The gnawing anxiety she felt when he was late would go. Her husband thought of the idea and what it would mean. He could not aspire to the highest posts which were but a few years away from reach. Missed perks and travels were comparatively minor losses. Starting a consultancy needed expertise and lots of self-confidence. Finding and nurturing a clientele was a challenge. He thought about it, welcomed it as another opportunity to paint life in the colours and desires of his wife.
In six months he was a success. In between her housework Anu would peep into his office, with a glass of fruit juice, a crunchy snack and a naughty little hug. Or she would come in with a flask of steaming coffee and pour it in two mugs which snuggled close to each other. She glowed with pride at the prosperous look of the place. After all even the wall hangings and flower vases were her choice. He was only too glad to see her aglow with love and contentment.
And then one day she came. A young woman, in her early thirties. A consultancy cannot of course say ‘for male clients only’. Anu saw her husband open the door. Anu saw an elegantly dressed woman with neatly trimmed short hair, a trendy bag in hand. Anu saw her husband smile at the lady. Anu froze in the middle of the tune she was humming.
It seemed like hours when finally the wafting perfume faded.
Anu waited with a fast beating heart for her husband to come for lunch. He came, ate as heartily as he always did, helped put away the dishes, paid her compliments, sat next to her on the sofa and fed her dessert. Anu remained silent. He shut shop as usual at 7 and was by her side, looking for his cup of tea.
After many years, Anu was in turmoil again. She did not know what to make of the visitor. The newness of the situation gnawed into her. A typical feminine insecurity overcame her. Her husband’s silence aggravated it.
Then during dinner Anu asked him who the woman was. He said cheerfully that she was Rima a very knowledgeable, well-qualified financial expert. She had heard of his consultancy through friends and had come to check it out for herself. Rima had sounded impressed by his work.
Anu grew restless. Neither her husband’s nearness nor his embrace removed her uneasiness. She hoped this learned woman would leave them alone after the compliments she had paid her husband.
But in the following weeks, the fragrance of the heady perfume only grew more familiar. Anu even dreaded the sound of the lift door opening. There were discussions and more discussions. Rima smiled at Anu, spoke to her gently, she appreciated the coffee Anu made.
As the crisis deepened within her, Anu had nowhere to turn to. She could not stretch her hand for her husband to hold. He spoke of Rima with respect. Her knowledge and work ethics were impeccable. She had the instinct for making the right contacts. Their association promised to bring his consultancy good name and good money. One day Rima could want to become a partner too, he said.
Anu cursed the day she had asked him to resign his job. If he had female friends, at least they had not been within her view. Their perfumes hadn’t lingered in her nose and mind, driving her frantic. Anu wished she had let her husband educate her in the subject. She could have been his working partner too. What was she to do? As ignorant about business as about motherhood, Anu wondered if professional closeness could mutate into something malignant. Tied in knots, her stomach brewing a soup of butterflies and fear hammering her mind, Anu gave herself a month to think it all out. This was the first time in her married life that she was keeping a problem to herself and she could not predict if she had the ability to solve it by herself. If she continued to be miserable, she would ask her husband to tell Rima he could not associate with her. Anu knew he would not refuse her request. This extreme possibility quietened Anu’s mind somewhat. She decided to live out her insecurity and hurts during the month without running away from them or feeling victimized.
Anu did not talk to her husband any more about Rima. If he referred to her in the course of a conversation, she listened carefully but did not react.
And then, on one of the many sleepless nights, Anu found her way. Like at the last step of a steep climb, she willed herself to let go of her crippling emotions. It felt lonely up there. Then she unfurled her plan to herself, slowly, syllable by syllable. ‘If Rima is so amazingly knowledgeable, good for her. If her association with my husband promises to work wonders for him, good for him. All these years he has given me his very best, without a thought for himself. It is my turn now. The niceties of motherhood and the intricate realities of investments might have eluded me but surely I am qualified enough to recognise magnanimity and give some back’
She would make adjustments. She would make more space for him; no, it would not be difficult, it would be like removing some furniture in the living room for more freedom. Or was it the other way round? Moving some furniture to accommodate one more? Whatever…’More coffee for Rima too’, Anu tried to force a wry smile.
‘She makes great coffee’ smiled Rima to herself. ‘the guy is a gold mine waiting to be explored. Even at 50-50, we could simply have a ball for life. Let me give it a month to formally propose partnership.’
‘I am lucky Rima came my way. My, is she passion-driven in her work! It is exciting to think where we could reach. Let me give it a month to give it all a final touch’, thinks he.
Like an ant staggering out of a spoonful of water, Anu recovers in a month’s time. Or maybe she has resigned herself to the inevitable.
The next morning Anu wakes up to a new consciousness. The butterfly storm has subsided, the head feels uncluttered. She is once more able to hum a tune without breaking down midway. She will make extra strong coffee today without any bitterness in her. As she makes her routine cleaning round of the office, she stops every two minutes. She is able to spray the delicate pine-scented room freshner after a month, while having her little chat with the Laughing Budha. She has brought a few coloured flowers to place at his feet. She touches with the utmost gentleness the new soft money plant leaf climbing up the window, and opens the curtains wide. She is Anu reborn. ‘this is not only an office, it is a place which breathes and lives love. And the presence of love allows no room for insecuirty. I was foolish to go through all those awful emotions. In fact Rima’s coming has like cleared my mind of all the misgivings and complexes of all these years. I should thank her.’
Her husband has been building castles in his own private pockets of air. Sipping coffee opposite Rima, in a moment of relaxation amid hectic business talks, he thinks: The way things promise to go, I will have to find newer tax-evading techniques- Jokes apart, I wonder what I will do with the extra roll of wealth. All for Anu of course. I should plan a real grand surprise for our next wedding anniversary, like say…a round-the-world cruise on a luxury liner or a polar expedition. Cover her in what’s the name…Swarovski crystals…or…maybe Rima can give me some good clues about the latest jewellery. She has great taste.’ Incidentally the coffee is tasting real great too and …the familiar fragrance in the room is reminding him of a missing presence. A touch, a glance, a peel of laughter. ‘I will make up for it on the cruise’ he promises his slightly flustered self.
.
While delicately sipping the best cup of Fresh and Ground filter coffee yet, Rima lets her eyes wander around. For all the brisk business which is happening in the office, there is a presence here which wafts along with the coffee vapours. The fragrance of pine, new to her, disturbs her slightly. She gazes at the single life-size picture of a couple in a fisherman’s boat on a calm river. He is oaring. She is throwing a handful of water at him. Her eyes are dancing with joy. He looks totally enchanted. The setting sun in the background makes it a striking picture.
As Rima looks around some more, she feels the presence everywhere. She can even hear The laughing Budha’s side splitting laughter. The Feng shui bamboos, the bright red and gold wind chimes, a well-opened window with a lovely view outside, curtains of sheer white lace, small memorabilia from many voyages arranged tastefully, a delicately embroidered table cloth on a side table with…two identical coffee mugs with ‘Mickey and Minnie’ written on them, a suggestive single seater wicker swing…things you don’t find in an investment firm or a consultancy office. So carried away had she been by business prospects that she had missed it all. How could she?
It’s never too late to learn, Rima tells herself. This place speaks of an investment I have never known.
It’s time to quit.