“It is sheer good fortune to miss
Somebody long before they leave you”
Rishi read the dedication again. He has been re-reading more often since she
left. He has dug out this book and everything else that reminded him of her,
including himself and those around him. Although right now, caressing its purple
cover, her favourite colour, he thought of the black dress she walked in, with a
sleek paperback in her hand. A huge tote on her shoulder, the term that she
taught him, for she loved bags too. Books and Bags. Maybe boys as well, maybe
not, now he wonders, a little too late. Book in hand, not in a bag, tote, he
corrected himself, even in thoughts she teaches him. He had looked at her hands,
her long fingers, sharp, curved nails in light mauve, manicured, not in the
parlour but by herself. He came to know later, years of marriage impart these
kinds of information, too. A subtle contract of informational exchange, that
neither the pandit nor his (hers) friends informed.
Greeting him with a side hug, she sat opposite him. Placing the book in the
front and she told him about Toni Morrison- the great, as she would often call
her. The red light from the restaurant’s nameplate gave her a red aura. Her
hair, then burgundy, glistened as she moved her head in sync with her hands. He
had looked at the purple of the book, stagnant on the table, in contrast to the
shifting red of her head, reflecting the light overhead. Ignoring the glare, he
had tried to focus on her words, for it was important to remember them, to
research about them later at night and come up with his own (borrowed) opinions.
Opinions, to be shared at some point, at some other discussions with friends
(hers) who spoke about books and sometimes about boys too.
After a plate full of jeera rice, yellow daal (lentil soup), and
two plates of omelette, she had asked him about his favourite author, to gaze at
his inclination towards life and love, which he realised later. He was glad when
she asked, as he was ready with the answers. She didn’t know then; must have
understood later. After all years of marriage also unveils secrets, especially
those left unguarded, and the choice of books is one such. Chimamanda Ngozi
Adichie, he had told her, stating her full name and the books, a summary of
which he had read and prepared.
She had given him the book just after he paid the bill and she tipped the server
the exact amount, for he wouldn’t let her pay and she wouldn’t eat if she
couldn’t pay.
Reading the dedication once again, he closed the book and ran his fingers over
the rose embossed on its cover, entangled with the title Sula that ran
downwards. His life was entangled too, with the woman who melted into words,
embossing herself on the entirety of his body, top to bottom, artistic yet
stocky embossment- their relation.
This book had delighted him then, to an extent that he grinned for many days to
come. He knew then and now too that books were her ways to include him in her
world. Later, in their five years of dating and five years of marriage, she
often shared her feelings through words borrowed from authors across the world.
She would pick them, dissect their words and present them to him to tell a story
that’s personal to her.
‘Rishi Bhaiya (brother), come for lunch,’ Sunil, knocked to convey the
message from Saheb.
Sunil, his father’s driver, who stayed more inside the house than on the roads,
became a substitute after Ma’s death. Pitaji’s (father’s) convenience.
His wife’s eyesore. His informant. Although he boasted allegiance to Pitaji, it
was Rishi’s work that Sunil did willingly. Sunil was important. After all, it
was from Sunil’s driving her in and out of the book clubs he had presumed her
fondness for boys, those who spoke books. Discovery that she had denied, and he
had stood by. The discovery, that gave him adjectives- chauvinistic, regressive,
possessive, and even fanatic. That led to counter adjectives- characterless,
radical, show-off, ambitious, pseudo.
Placing the book on the windowsill, he threw a glance at the road, still devoid
of the red Polo, with a dent in the front. The red car that had once hit the
neem tree shaking not just the tree but him too, standing on the veranda and
seeing her leave. That was the first day of her new car. Two years to today. Two
weeks to the day she left. “Now I will drive wherever I want. Sunil, your spy
can’t follow me now!” she had told him the night she got the car.
#
# #
Pitaji was at the dining table, serving himself. Punctuality was something he
was born with. The family legend, although invented for the pleasure of others,
stated that Pitaji was born on the same day the doctor had said and at the exact
time, his mother had prayed for. He had cried at the right time, had learnt to
walk, and even talked in the expected year.
He was the man of the time, who since his birth had laid out his life in
timelines that he followed until the day his daughter-in-law left. But that was
just one day, one day in his life when he had skipped lunch and had gone to
console his son, who, to his much frustration, had sat crying by the bedside. A
weak son of chances born to a son of time. But what could he do? It was his
mother he reflected in his genes more than his father. That day he had skipped
his evening walk too as he sat thinking about the further course of action. He,
to Sunil’s surprise, had eaten in his room at night, deciding against indulging
his son anymore. His son, he decided, should now stop crying and take charge- of
his life and the wife who outsmarted him on several occasions. His
daughter-in-law had fuelled his wife too, who, for the first time in their 35
years of marriage, showed signs of revolt.
One year after Rishi’s marriage, one year after his bahu’s
(daughter-in-law’s) entry into their life, his wife, a perfect wife, abiding by
not just his rules but by those laid out by his friends and family, had
complained. When she had expressed her disappointment at having to cook every
day, he had indulged her and got a cook, too. He felt she had earned herself the
right to comfort now. He had assumed it to be a comparison with her
daughter-in-law, who not only refused to do her household duties but also
asserted herself more than his son. But as complaints grew and focus came upon
him, his stature rumbled, and so did his calm control, which he blamed his
daughter-in-law for. As the wife died, the focus on him shifted and so did his
contempt towards his son’s wife. The angst remained though.
Although he felt a need to shield his son from the glower that his radical bahu
emanated, he didn’t act upon it. A few instructions for the new husband of the
house, in the guise of suggestions, candid jokes on the role of women, and the
glory of the life of servitude that his wife led, were sprinkled here and there.
But the man of the house never interfered in matters as trivial as his son’s
inability to follow in his father’s footsteps.
As Rishi pulled the chair, his father’s gaze landed upon him. Rishi’s appearance
disappointed him. Still, in his pyjamas and vest, his son has been spending most
of his time in his room, going to the office only for a few hours a day. His son
has forgotten to live like a man! Once a sharp jawline is now covered in an
uneven beard, with few greys making Rishi look older than he was. His eyes
looked lost, and his height shortened. That is what a woman like her can do to a
man, he thought. His son had disappointed him in choosing a partner, but he had
hoped for improvement after marriage. Nothing changed in her, not even after
nights of fights that they used to hear from their room. The egoist woman of his
son’s life had refused to deflect. If his wife were alive, they would have
discussed how his son had failed in doing what all husbands could. But now he
has to save his son, bring him out of his cave, and give him a life that his
Rishi deserved.
‘It’s close to 2. Eat at least on time!’
‘Yes Pitaji’
‘Don’t look this sad. Go out with friends.’
‘Hmm..’
‘You are young. You should have fun. Don’t think about that woman.’
‘You are too good for her bhaiya,’ Sunil added while serving him.
Rishi kept quiet. He sat and ate. Although his face refused to give any
reaction, his body went against his control. The spoon in his hand trembled, no
matter how tightly he held it. Emptying the bowl of lentil soup on the rice,
mixing the bitter gourd fry, which on any other day, he would have shouted at
her for getting cooked, he ate. Gulping a spoonful of rice like a hungry dog who
is given food after a day-long wait. It wasn’t the hunger for food; it was the
craving for what he couldn’t achieve, for something he needed, something he
wanted, from someone. What this something was beyond even his comprehension.
Maybe he never dared venture into the search for this need he had. Time might
take its course and reveal the mystery. Maybe.
Finishing everything he had on his plate. He pushed it away. A sudden rage
struck him, towards the plate in front, at the dining table that has been in
this house longer than she was in his life, towards Sunil, who took charge of
everything, the entire household, who had supplied him with gossip about her and
others. He felt betrayed; betrayed by her, by his mother who died leaving him
with his father, at Pitaji, for still being in his life.
When he got up and pushed his chair, Pitjai handed him an envelope. ‘This
registry came today for you. It is from her’
#
# #
Sun has brightened the sky to a blinding white, engulfing its soft blue. Clouds
also disappeared, making the summer sky of early afternoons. Sun, although busy
above, also entered Rishi’s room through the stained glass of his room’s window.
Outside it, stood the neem tree, the one she hit with her car, the one she loved
to sit and watch. On rainy days, she used to stand by the window and look at its
leaves hustling with drops of water. Sometimes she would extend her arms to feel
a drop or two. Rishi would sit and look at her, her careful play with the rain,
her admiration for nature, yet a decided aloofness towards it too. She would
keep most things to herself, speaking more undersized than required, unless
about a limited topic of her interests, and sometimes would let herself slip,
especially when alone with nature or the idea of it. A rainy morning was one
such occasion. So Rishi would make himself invisible. Quietly sitting in one
corner, he would observe her, trying to solve the mystery that she was. She
intrigued him.
A
faint chirping of birds also reached him, but the sounds within his head
silenced them.
What would have she written? Has she agreed to come back? Is she willing to
apologise? What if she is again planning to work? Will she undermine me? She
can. But she shouldn’t. It wasn’t my mistake. Was it? I am her husband. I should
be the one deciding. Her life affected me, too. Was I insecure? No, she was
wrong to shout. I guess she was.
Questions popped, and answers intervened. Questions, some of which had been
there but never so apparent, for he didn’t have time for them. Job and friends
(her) kept him busy (on his toes). He had to perform and fit in, to burst out
and then apologise, to hide and emerge, to pride and refute. It had been hectic
for him as well. He, in fact, had been scared of the answers these questions
might bring.
Sitting at the edge of his bed, curdled up with his hands over his knees, Rishi
was staring at the envelope. It perturbed him. All he needed was the courage to
read her letter, to face her for the first time and maybe for the last time.
Fear of losing hope, of facing reality, stopped him from tearing apart its thin
border.
Outside his room, Pitaji was asking Sunil to make masala tea for his friends. He
could hear the loud greetings with a joke or two. Pitjai, popular amongst his
friends, often hosted gatherings, more so after Rishi’s mother’s death. His
jovial hosting and his comfortable pride complimented his stout personality,
giving his arrogance a refined touch. For a good hour or two, they would talk
about everything, from current affairs, and pensions to property rates, from
days of their childhood to their grandchildren. Today they started their
discussion with the topic of children. They had come to inquire about the latest
update about their house, Rishi guessed.
‘How is she? Any calls from her side?’
‘She will call. Where will she go? Even today’s women need husbands’
‘Our Rishi is a golden boy
‘Yes, he is earning so much. This family is so good. No mother-in-law troubles.’
‘But hitting is not good. Rishi should control his anger.’
‘That happened only once. My son would never do such things.’
‘True. These radical girls don’t value what they have.’
On any other day, Rishi wouldn’t have bothered with their discussion. He knew
they wished good for him, but today their dissection of his life bothered him.
It was as if he was being peeled in public, with each person taking a layer of
his life and examining it, discarding it with a judgement or accolade. With each
of their questions, he also questioned her. With each of their opinions, he
formed an expectation from his life and hers too. As he heard them more, he
decided to ask for what he felt he deserved. A husband should, no matter how
fragile, his ego must be satisfied too. He wished her to see his aching heart
and bandage it with apologies for challenging him and his worth.
Getting up from his bed, he went towards the balcony. He opened the door,
allowing the gush of a warm breeze in. The air, with a light scent of marigolds,
brushed against his cheeks and went inside the room. With the envelope in his
hand, he sat on the cane chair by the side of the high railing. He looked at the
open sky, an uninterrupted view. A scorching Sun was yet to show its full
potential with no clouds to disturb it. Under the sky lay the road, devoid of
the red car he wished to see. On, the side of the road stood a small temple by
the Banyan tree. A girl of almost ten years kneeled in front to light a lamp. At
the end of the road, behind the white and grey towers of three-storey buildings,
he could see a dome of a mosque. On the opposite side stood a row of auto
rickshaws, waiting for the day to begin while the cars ran past them. Outside, a
normal day had begun, but within his life, the time had frozen to the day she
left.
Mustering the courage from a spry road and permanency from a warm Sun, he raised
the trembling envelope to his eye level and opened it, hoping for it to unclog
the stagnation he sat in.