A Slice of Life

I sit staring at the gyrating figures on the TV screen: one of the thousands of countdown shows on one of the hundreds of satellite channels. As children, we used to wait all week for the Wednesday night Chitrahar on Doordarshan. Makes no sense now. The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence, I suppose. The fence is electrified now. I’d not cross over into a dictatorial regime for anything. I’m happier in the chaos of a decadent, vibrant democracy — India.

Happy? I suppose I should be. Rosy got married two years ago. Settling down, she said. Good girl. Still makes those Sunday morning phone calls, at least. I like my daughter more nowadays, I wonder why.... She’s quite well. She has news. “Good’’ news. I hold my breath, dutifully expectant. She’s being promoted. “Oh! I see,” say I. “Aren’t you pleased, Ma?” I try to infuse some enthusiasm into my “Congratulations.” Rosy knows me too well to be deceived. “You know, Ma, I simply cannot have a baby now. You know how obsessed we are with our careers. We’ll never do justice to the child.” Her husband works from home. “Creative adviser” for something or the other. “Earns well enough,” Rosy had said evasively. I’ve learnt to be tactful, I didn’t press the point.

Rahul. My son. Computer engineer, on the H1B visa, one of the huge crowd of Indians populating the Silicon Valley. Apparently, the Indians there are a cohesive lot and the first couple of years there were a dream ride. But “All good things must come to an end,” as we would say at the end of numerous programmes in school, during the Vote of Thanks speeches. Bank balance down to rock bottom, Rahul had finally found another job. Was that a month ago? What does time matter to me? He’ll not come home for a year. Or more, probably more. Rahul had left that unsaid. The boy who used to confide in me about everything, even his love life. I’ve lost him to his job. Soon I’ll lose him to his wife. American or Chinese? The United States — the melting pot of civilisation. “All lines to the route dialled are busy. Please dial after some time.” Either that, or the answering machine. That’s what I always get. And I can’t make any sense of their time zones. I shouldn’t have been elated at the news of his imminent deportation. Am I turning into a silly old woman?

Is fifty-two old age? Physically, nothing. Except a touch of asthma — a companion throughout my life. Never was able to exert myself, in exercise or otherwise. Not many wrinkles either. Shahnaz Hussain takes good care of our skins. Despite the outré outfits and elaborate make-up. Why is the rocking chair creaking nowadays? Carrying too much weight? Mine? The chair must be growing old, like me. Old? Its older than I am, by a couple of centuries. The antique shops on Russell Street are on the verge of shutting down. No patrons. Unfortunate.

Hubby must be on his way home “hurling down the tunnel at eighty kilometres an hour to emerge into the dazzling sunshine from the bowels of the earth.” He picked it up from Virginia Woolf, I suppose. I simply fail to understand or appreciate his childhood fascination for trains. “When there’s a Mercedes-Benz on your driveway....” “That’s for your pleasure, darling,” he replies breezily. Darling! Bah!

He wants to go into the push and shove of the office-hour crowd. Still, the Metro is a lot better than those green tin boxes in Mumbai with people spilling out of them like wheat from the torn side of an overfilled jute bag. Lucky, we don’t ever have to use the suburban trains here. Pooling of resources. Energy efficiency of electric transport, depletion of fossil fuels.... How men can talk! The silliest thing was him standing at the doorway of the August Kranti Rajdhani Express and getting heat stroke, with air-conditioned comfort just a couple of steps away. Delhi at the end of May. Scalding hot. But, that’s good for the monsoons, the Geography professor used to say.

The bathroom tap has been dripping for hours now. Might as well get up and twist it shut. No Ramu to do it for me, today. “Little drops of water/ little grains of sand/ make the mighty ocean/ or the sunny land.” The nursery-school students from across the street with their lessons. Why are they so quiet today? Holiday? Must be a Thursday, then. Even the children need a five-day week these days. I love sitting in the sun, mildly warm in winter, munching soft green peas and crispy puffed rice. “...that hoard and feed and sleep and know not me.” I eat, I feed, I sleep. Am I turning into a vegetable? No, I’ve got my library for intellectual stimulation. The little cozy library I always wanted to have. The idiot box to fill my days too... the idiotic couch potato... that’s me....

That silly dream again ! Must have fallen asleep. The giant crab always attacks my side of the bed, never his, those pincers breaking my limbs, my bones cracking like potato chips. It turns into a mermaid sometimes. “An external objectification of latent marital insecurity. Is there another woman in his life?” What if there is? Why should I tell the psychiatrist? Maybe it’s her.

I can smell the rogan-josh cooking in the kitchen. But he’ll never notice it anyway. I know it. Maybe it is he who should go to the psychiatrist. I had been mentally, physically, emotionally prepared. Cold-blooded suicide. Ever heard of such a thing? And then that shabby worker jumped before the incoming train, spoiling all the fun. I’d not jump after him for anything. To be in the headline news with a bald worker? Not me! If I’m that desperate again some day... My God! People would have thought I was in love with him!

I’ll not pick up the phone. Graham Bell! May all the world’s phones ring in your grave. Especially the musical mobile phones. Vibration mode. May they tickle your wits out of you in that confined space. “Father, must I stay?” says the boy, standing on the burning deck. Must I go? Go I must. And pick up the phone. Can’t stand the noise.

Kya? Kab? When did this happen. How did he fall? Oh! ICU? Yes. Blood group B-positive. Yes, I’ll ring up his brother. He’s got the same.... No, he’s in Dubai. Send the driver to check all the blood banks.... HIV-screened, at any price.... Give me five minutes, I’ll be there. No, I’ll take a bus. Damn his blue blood! Get hold of Ramu, he’s got the same blood group. This is not the time for all that.

Must rush… He’s still my husband, after all....What will people say otherwise?